Catholic, Evil, and Dead - After the Apocalypse

1981's The Evil Dead is the perfect allegory for what it feels like to be Catholic in the post-abuse revelations landscape. Who would've thought.

I watched the first film for the first time on the business end of 20 years just recently. A lot had happened since then, not least of which was both the 2002 expose by the Boston Globe, the 2009 CICA report in Ireland, and the 2018 grand jury report in Pennsylvania. At the time that the Boston Globe reports began to enter into the mainstream I was a young adult volunteer in a high school ministry and by the time the 2018 report hit I had already spent several years as a director for parish youth programs. Until the 2018 report I had thought the worst was behind us. I was wrong.

For those unfamiliar with the Evil Dead, it is a highly influential gorefest where a small group of college students are assailed by the forces of darkness in one unrelenting night in a derelict cabin in the woods. Innocent young adults will be unrecognizable by the end, either by death, distortion or design. Even the film's sole remaining hero will never be the same again.

To be a Catholic who remains in the Church after learning so much about how certain priests and their leaders have devastated the lives of children has been a complete horrorshow. We find ourselves alone in a cabin breathing in evil's noxious fumes. 

In the film, the terror is preceded by normalcy. People are hanging out with every day worries just hoping to live their life. It's a quiet take on that period of time when you're a young adult and there isn't much to worry about other than hanging out effectively. It's trial adulthood, not the kind where you can no longer move back in with your parents or where bills are easily ignored. There are no children to raise and relationships aren't terribly serious. It's where Ashley "Ash" Williams and his friends can joke around in a yellow 1973 Oldsmobile Delta. an old car, some good friends, and a night of drinking are the only things that deserve the moment's thoughts.

But then the evil manifests, prompted in the cabin in the woods by a tape recorder playing recitations of an old book, a fictionalized version of the kind you'd find in those ancient Mesopotamian religions. This is the Sumerian stuff that predates the Bible and where the eldest of foreboding evil is first told of.

It was so hard to read stories of priests that go back to when Bing Crosby would wear the collar, doing things that no self-respecting Sumerian demon would dream of doing. First the stories came from somewhere else. Then they involved priests in our diocese. Then from our own parish and -oh God- from people we KNEW. They absolved our sins and consecrated the Eucharist. Could it have happened here? It could. It did.

Suddenly, the Church no longer feels animated by any Spiritus Sanctus but by something else. They're arguing in the pews. I'm suspicious. Nothing feels right.

But I don't run.I stay. 

I stay for the same reason that those gore-y horror movies still somehow manage to remain at least somewhat moralistic because it's in touching on one abhorrent form of metaphysical evil that it's converse is powerfully asserted. Why do people like the story of a good exorcism? Because in a roundabout way it confirms faith. There IS something out there and if it exists then so do grace and salvation.

In a Church overrun by demons a halo can be made out from the periphery. We are repulsed at the demons in the cabin and that disgust is a reminder that all is NOT well but MUST be. Things must be made aright.

And what of that interior experience? It cannot be explained. How is Ash going to leave the cabin and explain what happened? How will he explain the horror without seeming to be complicit? In the sequel series Ash vs. the Evil Dead we learn that back home nobody believed Ash, that in truth he is not guilty for the battle for his own soul. It was not him. Yet to the eyes of everyone around him, his presence in the cabin means that he partook of the dark sacrament and that the evil came from within. He is complicit with devils and demons. If he wasn't than he would have never been in that cabin to begin with.

Ash is no saint and neither am I but as an adult I've only known the Church in a sex abuse crisis involving children. I have 3 children. As a parish worker I've worked with what seems like thousands of children and their families. Each of those parents have had to internalize what they've seen and read in their own way. They've had to reckon the horror their own way. When they tell their neighbors and co-workers where they go on a Sunday morning, they are like Ash explaining the horror in the cabin and somehow sharing in unearned blame. 

In this, they bear witness. They bear the burden of affiliation. Is this martyrdom? Is it payment for the sins of others? Who knows. 

Ash leaves the cabin and is attacked one last time by the evil. It is for sequels to let us know if he survived. After the sustained horror of the first film, the viewer might not have the stomach to go on to part 2. May we never encounter this kind of evil ever again.

A Pregnant Prophet: On the Visitation

Communication is the key to any relationship. One of the strange things about getting older is how your spheres of communication alter. When you’re younger you communicate with your parents primarily until you enter school, then the focus shifts to your friends. In the teenage years communication between kids and parents can fall apart. Maybe that shifts as you get older. When you date, your communication focuses on your significant other. If you get married and have kids, you find that you communicate mainly with your family and your friends progressively less, until your own kids get older. Then the cycle continues.

I think the concept of communication is a great way to tackle the story of Mary’s visitation to her cousin Elizabeth. Let’s try to see the story through that lens and see where it leads us.

The beginning of the story is marked by poor communication. In the first annunciation story of the Gospel, the angel Gabriel appears to Zechariah to let him know that his wife would bear John the Baptist. “Both of them were righteous before God, living blamelessly according to the commandments and regulations of the Lord” (Luke 1:6). Zachariah’s name comes from the Hebrew zachar and means “whom Yahweh remembers”. This seems a little ironic given that this blameless couple seem forgotten by God in one regard: they have no children. Children are a sign of divine favor and part of a life of blessing.

Zachariah is a priest and in our scene is serving in the holy place of the Temple. Most priests served in the Temple for two weeks usually twice a year (occasionally a third time).  He is right in the Temple, just outside of the Holy of Holies. There Gabriel appears to him, by the altar of incense. This appearance fills Zechariah with fear, perhaps noting now the reality of the One Whom he serves. Imagine being at Mass and suddenly Jesus appears to you. Maybe you’d be excited but chances are you might freak out as well. We expect Him to be there but we’d also be in wonder if we saw Him in the flesh.

Gabriel’s message is similar to the one we hear him give to Mary. Zachariah’s wife will conceive and bear a son named John. “You will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great in the sight of the Lord.” In what might seem like a strange addition, Gabriel tells Zachariah that “He must never drink wine or strong drink” which seems to designate that he is to be a nazirite, a person who has professed vows to the Lord for what is normally a fixed period of time and who would allow their hair to grow out. This seems in line with the wooly appearance of John that we see later in the Gospel. This son of Zachariah will fulfill a special purpose in the divine plan: “He will turn many of the people of Israel to the Lord their God. With the spirit and power of Elijah he will go before him, to turn the hearts of parents to their children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the righteous. To make ready a people prepared for the Lord.”  This fact is recognized by Jesus in another Gospel when he is confronted with the scribes’ assertion that “Elijah must come first”, the 9^th century BCE Israelite prophet who had long since died. Jesus confirms that this happened with the coming of John (Mark 9:13).

Now you might think that this might be a classic example of divine communication. In fact, when Mary receives her annunciation, her response is “I am the handmaid of the Lord, let it be done to me according to your word.” The setup is perfect, holy place, righteous priest, vision of an angel and a message of glad tidings. Zechariah, however, responds doubtfully “How will I know that this is so? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years” (Luke 1:18). There is subtle but decisive difference in his reply compared with Mary’s “how can this be, since I am a virgin?” (1:34). Zachariah is looking for a sign when the appearance of Gabriel should be sign enough. Gabriel then declares that while he has been sent to bring Zachariah good news, because he did not believe Gabriel he would be struck mute until the events would occur.

There’s something very striking about the image of a priest left mute in the sanctuary of the holy Temple. Just like that he can no longer communicate. There have been times in my life while I’ve been rendered speechless, normally in the presence of something that is either so awesome or so stupid that I was at a loss for words. This was different. Zachariah would no longer be able to communicate with his fellow priests. He could no longer communicate with his wife. He could not recite his prayers, especially the all-important “shema y’israel”. He was present but cut off. It was in this broken state that he went home to his wife, lay with her, and she conceived John.

This is the immediate context of Mary’s annunciation and her all-encompassing “yes” to the divine plan. It’s also the context of the Visitation, the scene were looking at today.

The story begins with communication. Mary enters the home of Elizabeth and calls out to her before they see each other. She enters Elizabeth’s home freely, as you would enter the home of a dear friend or family member. No need to knock, no ringing the bell. Maybe she comes in with confidence. Maybe it’s to echo the tidings of great joy that have already been delivered by the angel. Hey Elizabeth, great news!

The call receives a response not from Elizabeth but from the unborn child in her womb: “When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb.” Consider the intimacy that implies between mother and child. The ears of the mother hear the greeting but the child deep in her womb is stirred by it. From the ear of the mother to the heart of the child. Then Elizabeth’s words: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.” If this were a stage, there would be two people before us but four would be on stage. The fruit of both of their wombs are entwined in the embrace of their mothers. The scene resonates with a later one when Jesus is baptized by John in the Jordan River. In that moment Jesus is revealed by His Father as his Beloved Son, with whom He is well pleased (3:22).” In his turning within his mother’s womb, we see the beginning of a little prophet and that vocation begins with the eyes and ears of his mother.

I wonder if in that moment Mary felt the first relief she felt since getting the big news. She was the unmarried pregnant virgin from Nazareth who faced a death sentence for adultery.  We know Mary’s a little different, that she believes the message of Gabriel. But there’s a moment in every pregnancy when the idea of being pregnant turns into the deep realization that a child is coming and demands to be welcomed. Mary had to face her annunciation having to believe that this would work out. She knew that there were problems she had to face and at the beginning she must’ve felt those challenges palpably. In the presence of her cousin Elizabeth they could both begin to dream and hope for the children they were bearing. Would they be friendly with one another? What kind of personalities would they have? Would they ever wear matching outfits? What would they be like when they got older? And what was God’s plan in all of this?

These moments of joy are important because both children would live scandalously short lives. To recall the stage metaphor, towards the end of the story Mary would stand alone as the solitary actor on stage. Both of their children would be executed. For today this needs to be good news and Mary must have recalled the moment when she first got the news of John’s death. Time works differently when you have children and it’s nothing to remember their birth as though it were yesterday, even decades after the fact. Mary must’ve recalled the scene, what the weather was like, how things felt that day she burst into Elizabeth’s home in earnest. On the day of John’s death she must have felt that it was not all that long ago that she heard Elizabeth tell her that her son literally leaped in her womb at the sound of her coming. They must have told the story countless times at family dinners, with both cousins listening with the mix of embarrassment and specialness that comes from hearing stories of yourself as a baby.

On this day it’s about the “good news” because ultimately the coming of children is good news. With all of the stress and preparation something wonderful remains even in the face of sleepless nights and crying fits. Babies are a great thing.

I talk as though Zechariah was not present at this meeting but a line from Elizabeth makes me question that. “And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord” (1:45). I wonder if she is side-eying the mute Zachariah at this moment, mute because of his unbelief. “At least someone here believed!” Cue Zachariah rolling his eyes because it’s not like he could say anything back to her!

Here, in the text, Mary bursts into song. This song is known to us as the Magnificat and we should take a few moments and reflect on it. First, the occasion and Elizabeth’s words to Mary spur the song on. Our Visitation has inspired something great. I think this Magnificat can radically alter our image of Mary. Because take a minute and think of your image of Mary. I can’t help but picture her as stoic, beautiful, young, and, and I’m not sure why, I tend to picture her as quiet. Here, however, Mary is decidedly not quiet. No other figure in this Gospel will speak as much and as long as she does here save for her son and for the restored Zachariah some verses ahead of this. Mary has something to say. If I were to compare her to any other speaking figure in the Bible, it would be one of the Old Testament prophets. I think Mary is a prophet here. Let’s take a look.

“My soul magnifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my savior”

Mary presents herself as an amplifier for the Lord. It’s beyond what we would hope to be. After all, how can we magnify God? God is already so immense, so all-encompassing. Mary dares say she magnifies that! Her spirit rejoices in God her savior. The word “savior” or “soter” in the original Greek is notable because it’s only used one other time in the Gospel, when the angels announce to the shepherds the coming of the “savior” who is the Messiah… “to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” (Luke 2:11 NRS). Her message becomes Christological, acknowledging the God whose will it was to ordain her as mother of the Messiah and the little savior within her womb.

“for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.”

Mary’s words echo the words another famous biblical mother, Hannah, who conceived her child Samuel despite her barrenness as a sign of the Lord’s favor. “O LORD of hosts, if only you will look on the misery of your servant, and remember me, and not forget your servant” (1 Samuel 1:11). Her Mary remembers the fundamental relationship of humanity to God. When we commune with God we are in an unequal relationship to Him. What are we if not his meager creations? His love elevates us and yet we are what we are. We may be lowly servants but he adores His lowly servants as His own sons and daughters.

In a touching scene in the second book of Samuel, an embattled and greatly humiliated King David is harangued by a man named Shimei. Instead of acting with vengeance at his insults, he tells his companions “It may be that the LORD will look on my distress, and the LORD will repay me with good for this cursing of me today” (2 Samuel 16:12). When we are humbled we hope that the Lord would respond to us with pity.

“Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.”

We read this knowing full well that we continue to acknowledge Mary as blessed. Mary owns the word “blessed” not as a title of greatness but as an acknowledgement of God’s good work in her life. Any why is she blessed? Because the Almighty has done great things for her. In the Old Testament He is the God “who is partial and takes no bribe, who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and who loves the strangers, providing them good and clothing” (Deuteronomy 10:17-18). He is a giving God and notice that the things that God gives us are the basic needs of life that we are often tempted to attribute to our own providence. Mary is not speaking just of her pregnancy. She is giving gratitude for her whole life, including this moment of company with her cousin. She acknowledges God, that “holy is His name.” As the Psalms say “Holy and awesome is his name” (Psalm 111:9). Her words echo the commandment to not take the name of the Lord in vain because to do that is to compromise our ability to see God in His fundamental nature as “gift” and “presence”. She sees God clearly in exalting His name.

“His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.”

Fear never ceases to seem like a strange word to use for God but as it says in Proverbs, “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom, and the knowledge of the Holy One is insight” (Pro 9:10 NRS).  In Hebrew, the word is yārē’ and in this context in can mean two things. One is a reverence and awe for the Almighty. This kind of reverence requires a certain mustering up of the recognition of who God is and who we are, much like we did when we considered the lowliness of His servant. God created not only us, but all of existence out of nothing. The most amazing and majestic things visible to our eyes are but faint echoes of his own divine nature. We lose our breath at a mountain or canyon and yet God created all of that and the space between. We have to recover a sense of our own place in the cosmos and the cosmos’ own place as creation beholden to Him. The other sense of “fear of the Lord” is the religious practice of the people of Israel. In worship the cosmos is reordered towards Him. It in worshipping God with the fullness of awe that we are able to receive His mercy, because how can we receive mercy if we do not acknowledge who we really are before God? How can we be opened up to mercy if we do not see Him as the only one who can bestow it to us?

“He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.”

We have already acknowledged God as mighty but here we see God at odds with those who cannot fear the Lord. If “fear of the Lord” puts God at the center of the universe, it is the proud who put themselves at its center. Pride is the ultimate foe of the life of faith. In Proverbs we hear that “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall” (Pro 16:18 NRS). Traditionally it was pride that was the sin of Lucifer when he rebelled against God and his angels. “Non serviam”, “I will not serve”. What is this nature of the violent reordering of the cosmic order, where God is ripped out of the center and man placed in the middle? There is chaos. They are “scattered” “in the thoughts of their hearts”. This passage is reminder that even we are capable of this kind of pride by reordering nature and the fruit of that work is to be scattered.

“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly;
he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.”

God is the vindicator of the poor. His nature is to lift up the lowly and make all things just. That is why the Kingdom of God is oriented towards justice, to take the unfairness of this world and set things right. When the powerful are brought down from the thrones and the lowly are lifted up, all are equal. As David says to God, “You deliver a humble people, but your eyes are upon the haughty to bring them down” (2 Samuel 22:28). From Job, “he sets on high those who are lowly, and those who mourn are lifted to safety.” I believe that here we see Mary at her most prophetic. The prophets and the Torah are concerned with the widow, the orphan, and the resident alien who lives among the people. These are the most vulnerable members of society. When those who are full in their belly horde the plenty, our faith expressly hopes that which rightfully belongs to the poor is restored to them so that all may eat. We often lose this sense of our faith in our own comforts but Mary was herself a peasant who undoubtedly knew want, hunger, and vulnerability. She would remain in that state throughout her life, even as an aged widow, a plight that her Son answers from the cross when he places her in the care of the Beloved Disciple.

“He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy,
according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever”.

Here again we see the concept of God’s remembrance, much like the zachar of Zachariah’s name. In the Old Testament, not only is it hope that God would remember the Covenant, it was a creed. It is not God who forgets us but rather we who forget Him. Israel’s woes come from forgetting their covenant with God. Mary is sure of God’s mercy. God would have things no other way. After all He cannot forget. Every fall and failure of humanity bears within it the promise that God will never forget us. Our pain and despair and the injustices we face are not lost on Him. He will remember His Covenant with us and He will act. We are assured of this. “You will show faithfulness to Jacob and unswerving loyalty to Abraham, as you have sworn to our ancestors from the days of old” (Micah 7:20).

Here we reenter the narrative to learn that “Mary remained with her about three months and then returned to her home.” Mary, like her Son, came not to be served but to serve. She is the “handmaiden of the Lord”. John was born, Zechariah’s speech was restored to him, and Mary would begin to prepare for her own nativity story. Here lets take some time to reflect, to allow the power of this Visitation wash over us. We have to recover the faith of Mary and Elizabeth in hearing what God is saying to us and communicating it with one another, to rejoice at His good work and to hope to experience His goodness in our days.

When Jesus Rebukes a Perfectly Reasonable Question

In Mark's Gospel (4:35-41), Jesus is travelling by boat with his companions when they hit a storm. His shipmates wake up a sleeping Jesus and rebuke him, terrified at the scene (and, presumably, their impending deaths). Jesus wakes up, yells at the storm and, after the storm immediately stops, then yells at them. They are left shocked by the whole thing.

The words of his shipmates seem perfectly reasonable to me given the circumstances: "Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?" The waves are slamming the boat around and it's taking on water. According to the narrative thus far, the most they know about Jesus is that he works strange, powerful miracles, that he teaches and that he tells stories. Moreover, they are on that boat at Jesus' own request ("Let us go across to the other side"). 

I understand this passage as a church worker who, like many church workers, felt a strong sense of "call" towards my life's current direction. Hardship and crosses are presumed to be part of the package but Jesus' companions will hear no mention of any crosses for another 4 chapters. They are only going on what they've experienced so far: this man who has healed those who can't be healed and who has explained faith in understandable stories rather than apodictic dogmas is now leading his friends into danger. We are so used to the happy ending of this particular story that we forget the terror of the storm. At the end, Jesus is compassionate, furious mystery. They wake Jesus up assuming that he will react one way. He complicates their presumptions by taking a different approach. The new formula works as they are drawn into contemplation.

There's a danger into tying up the bits of the Gospel into neat little boxes. I have to admit that I feel myself disquieted about as often as I am comforted. Bibles are dangerous things when they are wielded like weapons by the self-assured. But they have they have the ability to absolutely devastate a complacent, presumptuous soul. So to say the story is simply about a lack of faith seems, to me, to be only part of the story. Surely it is about faith and the arc of chapter 4 of Mark's Gospel has Jesus teaching on not just faith but complicated faith, mysterious faith, or even adulterated faith. 

4.2ff is the parable of the sower where seed is scattered on different kinds of ground. How it takes root depends on the precondition of the ground just like the raw material of our lives and experiences all receive the grace of faith differently. For some, that faith is most fruitful but for others the seed is the handmaiden of hostile ground. It will only do so much. I assume that Jesus told the story so that his listeners who aspire to best prepare their hearts so faith is fruitful and is thus able to make a difference in the lives of others. He presents these differing states of the heart as matters of fact and the listener is left to gauge the relationship between the state of their hearts and the faith aching to take root within them. By 4:31-32 we see that kind of faith he is talking about is most little, leaving the matter of our own hearts paramount. It's frightening to think how much of the battle is waged within our own hearts.

And so when the companions address Jesus as "teacher" before rebuking him, I think of the teaching that immediately preceded this scene. They had just heard Jesus' teaching and I had just read it. Suddenly, this storm will reveal as much about the companions as it will about Jesus' command over nature. They don't know what to do with a sleeping Jesus in the midst of a storm. Neither do I. Fear and faith are at opposing sides of the battlefield in our heart. The fear is reasonable. It is instinctual. It is survival. And yet the Lord teaches me that it's also adulterating my heart. He expects me to respond to a sleeping Jesus in a deadly storm robed in the trust that He is watchful even as He slumbers.

Moreover, he will simply not answer my perfectly reasonable questions, just as he bypassed theirs. Just like them, he will respond to my questions (which have their own implied accusations) with his own questions (which have their own implied accusations as well). Perhaps he will reveal my not mustering that modicum of faith by accusing me of no faith at all. 

And perhaps the experience will not leave me rejected or dejected but in awe of holy mystery, that it was not about me in the sense of my survival but still about me in that it was about me at the depths of my being. I have seen miracles, after all, and his trust has been mightily earned.

 

Failing Spectacularly - Becoming Charles Kingsley

In the history of great debates, the one between Charles Kingsley and John Henry Newman looms large over most. What began as a fairly flippant dismissal of Newman by Kingsley for his conversion to Catholicism quickly led to one of the great defenses of one's character ever witnessed in Western literature, culminating in Newman's book the Apologia Pro Vita Sua.

With what appeared to be little forethought, Kingsley accused Newman's capability of telling the truth or at least of truly understanding his own actions. Newman (who would eventually be made a Cardinal of the Church) had spent years agonizing over this conversion and well understood that leaving the established Church of England would be viewed by many not only as apostasy but treason. Such is the case when membership in an established national religion is a compulsory part of civic life.

Deep down, Newman was relieved for the opportunity to tell his side of the story, even though the attack on his character pained him so. His defense was so thorough, so masterful and so surgical that Kingsley went down in history as having been thoroughly humiliated by his errors.

And yet, what of Mr. Kingsley?

Kingsley's errors occasioned one of the great texts in the English language. In a way he was a fox walking into a bear trap, who would be pitied in his total dismantling if his intentions were not so malicious. The trap was designed for the moment of ensnarement and yet may have never been sprung at all had it been simply left alone. 

And yet, what of Mr. Kingsley? A man who is remembered for useful carelessness and error even though he was himself a brilliant man. He became an perpetual avatar for the modern spirit being ever at odds with Christian orthodoxy. There are still those who are cheering at this match that is relived anew anytime a copy of the Apologia is opened.

Then what of you and I?

How would we feel knowing that our work and ideas were only useful errors? Would it matter to us? Should it matter to us? Charles Kingsley was certainly sincere. He was passionate and he was a patriot. He cared for modern man and the spirit of the age.

But would we want to be Charles Kingsley? At some point he had to have known that he was in way over his head, deep in that haze of desperation that comes when one's first argument failed to persuade by bravado or wit. Newman reached beyond style into the substance of what Kingsley wrote of him, wrenched it, and laid its shallow essence bare.

Some months ago I jumped into an online argument with someone who saw that behind the stylistic gymnastics of what I wrote was a simple factual error, an error of history, that was more than a simple mistake. It revealed how little I knew of what I was talking about. I was Charles Kingsley.

Before that, endless conversations and arguments about music, about obscure metal bands or pastoral English folk music that were truly little more to me than trivia alive within snobby music magazines. I was Charles Kingsley.

Earliest on of all, sitting at a table in an Olive Garden with my father and his elderly physicist friend, arguing on the existence of God, surrounded by family and physicians. I'm 12, maybe 13. My father's friend is a scientist and he doesn't believe in God. I get heated. I get passionate. I don't know why. My sensibilities are offended and I can't explain what I'm feeling inside. I start arguing and I try to shush my father. The physicist is calm and composed and that, along with age and wisdom, serve only as markers of our total opposition. Eventually I am quieted. Internally I am disquieted, and ashamed, and humiliated. I am Charles Kingsley.

To be Charles Kingsley is an opportunity to be wrong and fail spectacularly. At that moment, you may stay or you may grow. To follow in his path is to forever be the contrasted and bested, proud of pride and little else. Of course, you can learn and move on.

Either way you will be useful, to others or to yourself.

When your Church is the object of lulz

The Vatican released guidelines on the use of gluten in communion hosts.

From an "insider" this wasn't new or surprising. These really aren't new guidelines and they've been how things are for the parishes I've worked for. There has to be the presence of some gluten in the hosts. I'll give my brief take on why in a second.

For me, the real interesting thing is to see what happens when this kind of news hits the wire. Somehow it's deemed worthy of public interest, right at the crossroads of growing instances of gluten allergies, the public perception of Catholic culture and the perceived tension between reason and belief. In other words, are the really arguing about what kind of bread you can use for an antiquated ritual that most of society actively avoids?

The above screenshot is a sampling of reactions from Facebook, where most people selected the "ha ha" response and clarified that reaction in the comments. It's a joke...unless of course you happen to believe it.

It's a window into what constitutes culturally acceptable forms of cultural and religious mockery.

It's an unwillingness to not understand a culture on its own terms, something we're asked to do everywhere else in the world.

It's inadmissible evidence when someone cries "global Christian persecution" in those places that have more to face than cruel but often inoccuous Internet snark as we do here. We'll likely be fine but the people who we try to advocate for will suffer for the last acceptable cultural prejudice in the West.

It's a problem because if we're trying to teach other to be respectful even in our disagreements, then it has to count for everyone.

As to why I think the guideline regarding gluten free hosts is fair, I think there are a host of considerations.

Here's one: the "Incarnational", the nexus point of Christian reflection. The Incarnation is the belief that in Christ, the holy and eternal deity took on human flesh in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. Eternity entered history. The sacramental life of the Church is entwined with what Jesus did at a particular time and place in history. Those actions were received by His apostles and perpetuated by them in their successors. There is a clear continuity of practice in our traditions and that helps us maintain our identity.

The use of bread in the Last Supper ties us to that historical moment and, in turn, ties into the Passover celebration of the people of Israel, which was the backdrop of the Last Supper. It ties the universal celebration of the Catholic Mass to our origins, a span of approximately 3,600 years.

Modern culture and modern art rely on traditional symbol systems and often subvert them. But while most traditions that survive may reinterpret signs, they rarely substitute them. The principal behind the bread isn't just bread. It's solidarity and and tradition.

What if someone feels excluded from the Mass by not receiving the host? Here, there are guides who can see the opportunity for growth. The point of the Communion Rite is intimacy with God. That's what the sacraments exist for. It's an expression of solidarity with God and with others. Here, there are people who can help widen our perspective. I think of Simone Weil, who refused baptism throughout her life as an expression of her own unworthiness and as a way to express solidarity with the marginalized so beloved by Jesus. Or St. Mark Ji Tianxiang who, though unable to receive the sacraments for reasons beyond his control, showed great love and reverence for Christ's Presence in the Eucharist precisely through his not being able to receive.

There are certainly more than these but it brings up a final point: we do not know how to talk meaningfully about religion in public discourse.

Secular culture cannot understand a spirituality that transcends our own immediate experiences. The cultural aspects and it's impact on presumed secular values are what tend to matter most.

Christians, in particular, struggle to speak as to be understood. We tend to have a tin ear as to how what we say and how we speak is received by the larger culture. When we are not understood we are too quick to shuffle that misunderstanding into a persecution narrative. Over time we communicate in our own cliches and fail to check our own presumptions. We figure that he battle is won by lingo or sharp rhetoric. We want "likes" from the likeminded rather than the understanding of someone unlike ourselves.

We also struggle to want to understand the culture instead of declaring it irredeemable and hopeless, something that's indispensable if we want to open up our doors to it and they to us.

A Clumsy Good Friday

So how are you supposed to "do" Good Friday properly?

I'm Catholic so I have a wealth of prescribed devotional practices ready to go: no meat today, one full meal, Stations of the cross, acts of sacrifice and penance...

...they're all good and they all "work" but lately this is what I've been doing.

I just think of how I handled the deaths of the people I love the most and I kind of go from there.

So so how does Jesus fit into that?

I believe that the historical figure of Jesus was the actual Son of God. I believe that He was the Almighty reaching into His creation and working with us directly. The stuff He taught is how I try to live my life. Some of it throws me into a paradox loop and I get confused. All of it strikes this chord that I honestly believe is the resonance point of being and existence. It just hits this frequency like that note that can shatter glass.

With that, I feel very close to Him (as do about 2 billion other Christians). I feel that in Him I know and am known by God. My "relationship" with Him isn't like my relationship to my family so conversations seem a little one sided until these moments where my own awareness and my known-ness is very powerful that it takes me out of regular life. Devotional practices might enhance it but there's a point where can distract me a little too. It's like all of those prayers and devotions serve to draw you into they mystery and aren't ends to themselves but can draw you back in when you get lazy or lost.

But Good Fridays are a bit different than remembering the death days of people I've loved. The latter is always weird and morbid and I honestly don't even like to do that anymore. With Good Friday I already know the ending. It's part of the basic statements of belief recited by Christians for centuries: "on the third day He rose again from the dead".

So on Good Friday I mourn something that I know will be okay. Maybe it seems weird but it's basically the plot of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead in John's Gospel. Jesus knows Lazarus is dead, knows that He is going to bring him back to life, and yet goes to His tomb in sadness, agitation, and tears. Then He raises Lazarus from the dead.

But I'm not just entering a time of symbolic mourning. I'm also reflecting on the depth of a sacrifice made on my behalf. And like most kinds of important things that have been done for me, I want to find a way to say thanks or sorry or both. So I'm either left doing something prescribed or try to put it in my own words or express it my own kind of way (which, no matter how you slice it, will probably be a little hamhanded, much like a marriage proposal or asking someone to be in a band...scripted or not it's almost best to just go for it and not overthink it).

So, how do I "do" Good Friday?

I think of getting the bad news of a loved one's death. You can sit and think about it and just sort of exist until you have to make plans. Mourning for someone who is a close family member might mean funeral plans and taking your suit to the dry cleaners. But what if someone is taking care of that stuff? Do you go to work? Is it inappropriate to put a movie on? What if you're really bummed out and it helps to get your mind off of things?

Do you say special prescribed prayers for them? What if you don't feel up for it? Can you just make things up in your head?

And if you believe you still have that connection with that loves one after death? Do you talk to them all rosy and piously? Or do you keep the conversation going like before? Or are you just talking to yourself?

A note on how the Apostles dealt with Jesus from His crucifixion onward:

A lot of people who comment on such things point out the strangeness on the response of Jesus' disciples to Him after the Resurrection: "they worshipped but some of them doubted". I think that's a perfectly reasonable response to something so inexplicable: your friend died and was buried but is alive again now and He's God. They based their whole lives on the experience of Jesus rising from the dead so clearly they weren't conflicted on the reality of it. But it's a bit much to sit with and make sense of.

...

For me, Good Friday won't seem be utterly different than coping with any other profound tragedy as a parent:

-my kids will get up
-I'll feed them
-I'll try to explain how important the day is
-they'll want to watch tv
-they'll fight over what to watch
-I'll contemplate whether or not I should even let them watch anything at all because it's Good Friday
-I'll remember that they're still little and might compromise by having them watch the Miracle Maker or something
-I might have to switch to Thor if that goes badly
-I'll do some work
-I'll reflect on God's great love for me
-I'll make lunch
-tbd

Hopefully I'm living in gratitude and with the awareness of all that God has done for me and my family, finding solace in knowing that His willingness to suffer is an expression of solidarity with my own suffering, and who transforms all death and suffering in reconciling the world to Himself. There's truth and peace and purpose just a few days from any cross and the Good Fridays of this life are there to remind us to hang on just a little while longer.

The 1989 Batman.

There is so much that the 1989 Batman gets right that in a glut of quarterly-released comic book-related movies it almost seems dated and quaint.

I guess I have a couple of nitpicks like the fact that the city scenes occupy the same city block throughout the movie: Monarch Theatre, City Hall, a storefront simply titled "Hotel", the Museum...all occupy the space of a high school track. Axis Chemicals isn't far away. Neither is the Cathedral.

Also, Batman gets ready to tell Vicki Vale that he's Batman because of a single date and a shared special something. It's like the plot of Sixteen Candles.

But that's really it. It gets so much right and it's so cool. How this movie stays so cool after almost 30 years can only be explained by one of two things: 1) it's enduring value in establishing rarely surpassed norms or 2) the almost shameful sheen I've let accumulate on anything that I connected to as a child that keeps edging out anything that could possibly take its place and viciously confirms my own hardened pre-critical aesthetic.

Or it might be a little bit of both. I don't know. but if I were to apply a little bit of criticism it'd be this:

-it strikes a real balance between Tim Burton's eccentricities, fan service and embodying the guts of practically ancient characters while still establishing itself as its own thing. That's a hard thing to accomplish but here it is almost 30 years later and it's a benchmark.

-Jack Nicholson can't help being Jack Nicholson in any movie he's in. The Shining and Chinatown are more Jack Nicholson in a costume that him hiding behind a character. But here it's a real meld. The Joker becomes Jack Nicholson.

-I didn't realize how much of a hill Michael Keaton had to climb in being a comedian being cast as a superhero (especially after the precedent set by Christopher Reeves) until much later in life but he pulled it off. He's strangely the most grounded character. Alfred, Comissioner Gordon, Harvey Dent, Eckhart, and all of the zoot-suited henchmen from the beginning of the movie are cigar-chomping over-actors out of a Howard Hawks movie. But man does he bring it down to earth, even when he's wearing the big rubber suit.

-The Joker brings a terrifying sadism to his crimes. There are moments when it becomes scary because it starts hopping into reality. Yesterday was the first time in 28 years that I noticed that his Smilex compound came from a shelved military nerve gas experiment. I used to think the photos he cut up were just out of enjoyment. But those photos were of something horrifically real being reappropriated for his own homicidal art project. The Joker is a mix of an inborn, independent, free-flowing evil and mankind's collective capacity for evil: weaponry, chemical manipulation, creating a market for passively-observed destructive art. Again, these themes emerge naturally in the way Jack Nicholson absorbs and amalgamates those themes.

- Any film (superhero or otherwise) that deals with big themes and big relationships will suffer from the compression of time that any two hour film has to accept in order to be marketable. In a movie like this, different factors compete to reconcile with believability. Big clown balloons and cigar-chomping want to play up the kitsch. A pilgrimage to a tragic past and dinner in the kitchen want to keep things relatable.

Netflix's Daredevil was a good example of how longform storytelling can make an honest attempt to make these kind of stories a little more relatable. Criticisms aside there, it's able to achieve more realistic human relationship development than 2008's The Dark Knight possibly could. That movie's great and all but watching the effect that Bruce Wayne's relationship to Rachel had on him in 2012's The Dark Knight Rises is simply unrealistic. A couple of hours would've afforded the opportunity to see that relationship as something more than a really sweet crush on a childhood friend that ended tragically.

-The 1989 Batman changed my life.