MY
I'm changing tack here, slightly. Most of the time, when I try and write something here, I do what I can to make it personal, relatable, entertaining, and drawing from the ways I've been edified in seminary. This is another short, two-page paper that I wrote... and it's not particularly relatable, or entertaining. It's an example of another way seminary is stretching me; I was very focused on using technical and precise language concerning some deep subjects. When a professor allows it, however, I push to make my writing well-grounded in the assigned source material, but less about regurgitating facts about philosophies and more reflective. St. Augustine, who is a hero of mine and who happens to feature in this short paper, is a writer who exemplifies this approach.
The paper is about Husserl, a phenomenologist philosopher who influenced Pope St. John Paul II's philosophy. I hope you press the "read more" button and take a gander at this bite-sized piece of my homework. I hope you'll overlook the big words to recognize why seminarians have to study philosophy. Even when it is necessarily (or unnecessarily) complex and verbose, authentic philosophy in the Catholic tradition (as opposed to modernistic interpretations, is about things that really matter and about beliefs that create and animate issues today. It's about what it means to be human, to be happy, to know, to believe, and to be. Even when it's impersonal, it's an appeal to the person.
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Every once in a while I like to post a short essay or something I've worked on for class. One of my more rigorous courses this year is Modern Philosophy. We're diving into the idea of modernity, or the cultural worldview. In this particular essay, I bring up Descartes, one of the most famous modern philosophers, and one who believed that he could build up an entire scientifically verifiable philosophy by throwing away everything the past provided, and by ignoring our five senses, which he believes could be a demonic deception, and that we should base everything we believe on one principle: "I think, therefore I am." G.K. Chesterton, a brilliant philosopher, a faithful Catholic, and a figure stalwartly opposed to the evils of modernity, writes the following in his essay "The Suicide of Thought." A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly the part he ought not to assert--himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt--the Divine Reason. Huxley preached a humility content to learn from Nature. But the new sceptic is so humble that he doubts if he can even learn. Thus we should be wrong if we had said hastily that there is no humility typical of our time. The truth is that there is a real humility typical of our time; but it so happens that it is practically a more poisonous humility than the wildest prostrations of the ascetic. The old humility was a spur that prevented a man from stopping; not a nail in his boot that prevented him from going on. For the old humility made a man doubtful about his efforts, which might make him work harder. But the new humility makes a man doubtful about his aims, which will make him stop working altogether. If you're interested in reading my brief commentary, click "Read More"
I didn't exactly have the easiest time in seminary when I first arrived. Like many guys, I was fresh out of high school. It was my first time living outside of the home. The rule of life is strict, the schedule is tight, and the days are long. I remember looking to the older, more experienced seminarians for good role-models, and being surprised and disturbed by how bitter some of them had become after years in seminary. COVID lockdowns were tough on them, so I can't really blame them, but they weren't the older brother figures I needed at the time. I had to wonder whether I was just fated to become that grizzled, sad, and joyless. I thank God for the good friendships I made that year. Turns out there were many guys who held on to their joy, I just had to look for them. Some of them have gone of to other seminaries, others have discerned out, and some of them have been ordained. Now I'm in their shoes. Now I'm the older, more experienced seminarian, and I wonder what freshman John Paul would think of me now, as I see the same needs and dreams in the eyes of this year's new seminarians. Many of these new seminarians are young. Some of them can come across immaturely to those of us who've been walking the walk and talking the talk for years. But I can't help but love them like an older brother when I see their joy, their sincerity, their awe for the parts of seminary life that I've started to take for granted, and the innocence with which they hear God's call. So that's me getting a little sentimental. Here's a slideshow of some of the adventures I had over the summer. I have more homework, more essays, and more responsibilities than ever, but I hope to jump back into my regular rhythm of writing and reflecting in posts every week. I've served more funerals in the last couple months than I have in the last couple years. I guess death is on my mind. It's hard to process internal grief and the feelings of loss we experience when someone we know and love dies. I never realized I would struggle with watching grief.
The other day I was serving a funeral of an elderly man, who lived a long, full life, and was beloved by his children, grandchildren, and the entire extended family. There were dozens and dozens of family members at the funeral, Catholics and Non-Catholics alike, and I could scarcely find a dry eye in the building. I felt strangely disconnected. As an Altar server, I worked with the priests and funeral directors to keep the funeral ceremony flowing smoothly, so I didn't have an opportunity to offer condolences to the family. While the eulogy was being said and heartfelt memories of a good and Godly man were being recounted, I was focused on getting the charcoals lit for the final commendation. While the family was sharing grief and consolation with each other at the reception, I wolfed down a small plate before I had to run off and do communion calls. Some time before that, I served the opposite sort of funeral. The man who passed was clearly a very faithful man, but I never met him. His wife seemed very shaken up. The scattering of family members weren't even close to churchgoing. They seemed empty. Sad. Lost. Again, I never even saw the body, never met the family, and was too occupied to really process what was happening. It's hard to put the feelings into words - almost as though I wanted to be sad, I felt all the sadness around me, and I saw grieving, hurting people, but there was nothing I could do about it except prevent any liturgical hiccups from being distracting. I don't think I wrapped my head around the sheer number of funerals a priest attends when I first applied for seminary. It's a symptom of the superhuman calling of the priesthood. God knows the pain of the grieving. For those who are open to His love, he is with them and touching their hearts. He is compassionate. As I attend funerals like these, I'm overwhelmed by the limitations of my humanity. As a human being, I feel disconnected from these people - the literal opposite of feeling compassion. This is a common problem... a fear, even, that many seminarians bring up to their formators. What do I do or even say at a funeral? How on earth am I supposed to preach to the grieving one day? The answer that every priest gives is "the grace of ordination." God provides the grace, and through ordination, makes the priest a vessel for God's compassion. My pastor passed away a few days ago. He's been my pastor for most of my life - since my first communion, from when I first started serving until now, several years into seminary. Returning to my home parish will not be the same without him. While I still have some grief of my own to process, the thing that touched my heart the most was how packed the church was. The main church was full and spilling out, almost filling the hall, even. He touched a lot of lives over fifty years as a priest. I can barely imagine being a priest, let alone being a priest for fifty years... but his life and the lives of the priests around me are testaments of the grace of God, turning ordinary men into instruments of God's supernatural compassion. "Behold the Heart which has so loved men that it has spared nothing, even to exhausting and consuming Itself, in order to testify Its love… I ask of you that the Friday after the Octave of Corpus Christi be set apart for a special Feast to honor My Heart, by communicating on that day, and making reparation to It by a solemn act, in order to make amends for the indignities which It has received during the time It has been exposed on the altars. I promise you that My Heart shall expand Itself to shed in abundance the influence of Its Divine Love upon those who shall thus honor It, and cause It to be honored." (Jesus to St. Margaret Mary Alacoque) The Sacred Heart has been on my mind lately. Sure, June is a month traditionally devoted to the Sacred Heart, but it's been more real to me this month than in Junes past. Maybe it's all the Sacred Heart themed images, prayers, and devotions floating around. Maybe it's the research I've done - I'm making a scapular, so I'm slowly teaching myself to embroider. Maybe it's just the ministry I'm doing that's influencing my reflection. I'm shadowing the Priest for communion calls to nursing homes, funerals, house blessings, and visits to the homebound. Maybe it's the Holy Spirit inspiring and directing my prayer. When God selected David to be king of Israel, he proclaimed through the prophet Samuel, "the Lord has sought out a man after his own heart" (1 Samuel 13:14). The longer I spend in seminary, and the more I strive to be a man after God's own heart (only by His grace), the more I see pain in the world. I don't know many of the folks that I'm ministering to this summer... not yet, at least. I don't know the people who died and whose funerals I serve, or their families who are visibly grieving. I don't know what the elderly and the infirmed were like when they were healthy - I've only seen them in pain and as shells of their former selves. All I know is "we have not a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sinning. " (Hebrews 4:15). I know we have a God who loves us and who is with us in the midst of our suffering. Although I've never met these people, I recognize Christ in them. The month of the Sacred Heart is a sad month, in many ways. It always hurts to see someone we love suffer. It's painful to witness the suffering of Christ in his faithful, and to witness the many ways that He is grieved by the sins of the world... and by my sins and failings. "Compassion," literally translated, means "suffering with." It is painful to look at the Heart of Christ with compassion and to share in His immeasurable suffering. But I love Him too much to not keep company with Him, and with His faithful. Nothing says, "Welcome to the Seminarian's office" quite like a cassock hanging on the door. It also functions as soundproofing when I play music while I work. More importantly, the cassock, surplice, and fascia are deeply symbolic of what it means to be a priest and of the lifestyle I live as a seminarian - aspiring towards the priesthood. Pictures of each vestment described in the slideshow above.
Before vesting, the priest, deacon, or seminarian washes his hands. This has nothing to do with COVID (it was around long before then), nor with some sort of ritualistic, man-made necessity. We are asked, not required, to enter into a sequence of prayers while vesting. There's a prayer associated with every vestment. When we wash our hands, we remember our baptisms and we ask God to purify our hearts and intentions. "Cleanse my hands, O Lord, from all stain, that, pure in mind and body, I may be worthy to serve thee." The cassock is the long black robe traditionally associated with the priesthood. Robes are usually a symbol of an office. Think about a judge's robe - it symbolizes the job. For a priest, it's more than a job. It means putting on Christ - assuming the way his identity was changed at his ordination. He is in persona Christi (in the person of Christ), and every part of the cassock symbolizes that. It's black, the color of death, because the priest dies to himself when he puts on Christ. It traditionally has 33 buttons going down the center - one for every year of Jesus' life. It'll often have five decorative buttons on each cuff - each one a reminder of Christ's wounds which the priest shares. Christ is the totality of the Priest's possessions. "O Lord, the portion of my inheritance and my chalice, You are He who will restore my inheritance." The fascia is the vestment I knew the least about going into seminary, and the one I appreciate most having been in seminary. It's a cincture, a belt of sorts (but typically worn just above the belly button), and it's symbolic of chastity and other promises. Religious wear three knots in their cinctures to represent their religious vows. The priest wears one to symbolize his promise of celibacy, a promise that I haven't taken yet but one that I'm living out daily. Cassocks also look much better with a fascia, but I digress. "Gird me, O Lord, with the girdle of purity and quench in me the fire of concupiscence, that the grace of temperance and chastity may abide in me." The surplice originally comes from the alb, which originally comes from the baptismal garment. Scripture talks about this kind of garment often. Angels are depicted wearing something like it. The redeemed in the book of Revelation have washed their garments white in the blood of the Lamb. It's a symbol of holiness, purity, and God's redeeming power in the life of the wearer. While the cassock and fascia are worn by the priest daily, the surplice is only worn for the liturgies: the only reason the priest, seminarian, or anyone, is fit to serve God is that God is the one renewing and sanctifying their life. "Invest me, O Lord, as a new man, who was created by God in justice and the holiness of truth." I don't want to talk about the contentions surrounding altar servers - whether young men and young women should be allowed to serve, or whether altar servers are fundamentally distracting - but it would be disingenuous of me to talk about the beauty and significance of these vestments and not talk about altar serving. These are priestly vestments. They symbolize the baptismal identity of the wearer - all the baptized called to be alter Christus (another Christ), all of us are called to die to self, and we are all called to wash our garments in Christ's mercy. They also point toward the priesthood and the priestly life. The practice of serving at the altar, of being so close to the Eucharistic sacrifice, and of vesting, were so formative for me as a young man. I don't think I'd be in seminary today if I didn't serve. It's so important for me that everyone who sees or wears these vestments knows their significance and is pointed back to Christ in and through them. Maybe that's a post for another time... Parish life is very different from seminary life. You might say, "Hold on, isn't seminary supposed to prepare you for life in a parish?" And you'd be right. I'm sure after more time in seminary, and when I'm closer to ordination, I'll be better prepared. But seminary is designed after a monastic schedule - it's designed to teach you to pray, work, and live in community. It's not designed after a parish schedule. I'm in Athens, Ohio, for the summer, staying with two priests who juggle several churches and Ohio University campus ministry. I'm used to praying the Mass. I'm not used to praying five Masses a weekend.
Dedicated, focused, liturgical prayer is physically and mentally draining. "My sacrifice - a contrite spirit. A heart, contrite and humbled, You will not spurn." The priest urges us to "lift up your hearts" and "we lift them up to the Lord." In the Mass we unite ourselves to the one sacrifice of Christ, and in the Mass we die with Him. I usually feel it midway through the Eucharistic prayer of my second mass on a Sunday. My attention is slipping. Reverent posture is getting pretty uncomfortable. The significance of the presence of God isn't the first thing on my mind anymore. By the end of the third mass, I can only hope that training and practice are preventing me from becoming a distraction, and that the symbolic nature of the liturgy points back to God in a way that my disposition can't. In parish life, one priest covering multiple Sunday masses is often an unavoidable necessity, even if it would be more prayerful for the priest (and his seminarian shadow) to celebrate only one. One time, during a live-in discernment retreat at the Josephinum, one of the guests we were hosting collapsed in one of the pub's armchairs and said, "How are you guys still awake? You wake up before dawn to pray, and then you have classes and meetings nonstop through the day, Holy Hour in the evening, and yet you're still cheerful and socializing in the pub late into the evening with us? How do you do this day after day if I'm tired after only a couple days?" None of us had a good answer for him. Frankly, I don't think I knew how I did it. It's a stressful schedule for sure, but it's also a schedule that's natural to the state of life God has called me to live. God is a good Father, and he doesn't ever give us a task without giving us the tools to complete it. To plagiarize St. Paul, "God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your strength, but with the temptation will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it." (1 Corinthians 10:13) I was in a car with the pastor after a long First Communion Mass, a reception, and another Mass. I really wanted to ask him how he does it. How he stays prayerful after hours of liturgies. How he keeps the sacred special even though it's such a prevalent part of his life. How he remembers that every Host really is the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Jesus Christ after distributing to the 500th person that day. Suddenly, I remembered my interaction with that live in guest, and I immediately knew what the pastor's response would be. "I can do all things in Him who strengthens me." (Philippians 4:13) Sacramentals are a strange thing for a priest to tackle. On one hand, a priest regularly ministers to people who have an unvirtuous use of sacramentals. There's two extremes here. Some people have little to no interaction with sacramentals. They're clearly missing out. The Rosary is one of the most powerful prayers a person can pray. The Miraculous Medal is thus named because so many miracles are associated with it. Wearing a Crucifix is a perpetual reminder of the sacrifice of Christ, the source of our life. A wedding ring is a sacramental of the sacrament of marriage. Just because you can be validly married without them doesn't diminish the cultural and personal significance they hold.
At the same time, sacramentals can't be the entirety of a person's prayer life. They're signs - they aren't powerful because of what they are but because of what they represent - what (or rather who) they point to. Many holy priests have said that they believe it's far better to be devoted to the richness and symbolism of only a few sacramentals than to overindulge and fail to meditate on the significance of the devotionals. I'm engaging the first part of that process, finding a few sacramentals to really devote myself to and embrace the charism of. The rosary is on the top of that list. So is the brown scapular - something I've worn for as long as I can remember, but never contemplated the significance of, or even knew there were prayers attached to. As a Catholic young adult, let alone a seminarian, I'm trying to build my own spirituality and relationship with the Lord. Sacramentals are like the recreational activities a family does together. They don't comprise the relationship, but participating in them strengthens the bonds of love. The reason I thought to write about this topic is this powerful sacramental I just discovered: the St. Joseph Cincture. My seminary is named after St. Joseph. He was the image of God the Father to Jesus - who better to imitate as I aspire to be an image of the Father to His Church? He married the Blessed Mother knowing that she was to remain a virgin - who better to imitate as I desire celibate fatherhood? Cinctures are ropes worn like belts around the waist. They symbolize chastity. Priests wear them at mass and pray vesting prayers asking for the continual grace of celibate chastity. Religious wear them with their habits and the knots in them represent the vows they take. The St. Joseph cincture is a long cotton cord with seven knots tied into it, symbolizing the Seven Sorrows and Joys of St. Joseph. Everything I know about this devotion comes from the internet, so here's an article with some information about the history and graces associated with the cincture. If you are a young man desiring the grace of chastity, a devotion to St. Joseph, and a growth in spirituality (or know a young man who could use these graces), consider making or getting a St. Joseph cincture. I can't put the graces I've experienced through it into words, but I will say that St. Joseph and his virtues have been present in my life in a new way since wearing the cincture and praying the prayers attached to it. It also looks cool. It definitely helps that I feel like an undercover monk while wearing it... Big brother is watching. The security checkpoint is always swamped at 2:30 in the afternoon, but this time, there seems to be a holdup. The plastic detector has been shrieking like a banshee ever since this one little boy stepped into the scanner's radius. He claims innocence. They always do. Why is he so hesitant to empty his pockets? A sharp nudge from a guard's baton is enough for him to reach his grubby hands into his tiny pockets to pull out the contraband. Tiny. Colorful. Plastic. Lego bricks.
While an article claiming the LEGO Company is secretly 1984's Big Brother would be entertaining, albeit farfetched, this post is a story from my time at my apostolic assignment: Run the Race (https://www.brianmuhafoundation.org/). We teach underprivileged kids about the faith, while playing with them, supporting them, and enforcing discipline when necessary, in the hopes of instilling virtue in them. One such travail occurred this past thursday. The little boys, ages 6-9, really like playing with Lego. Anytime they're released for recess or play time, they run straight for the Lego bricks, dragging me in tow. I don't mind. I remember how much I enjoyed Lego and they're so refreshingly imaginative at that age, even when their stories and role-play reveal some of the difficult struggles they experience in their broken homes. Recently, however, some of us volunteers have noticed them putting Lego figures or builds in their pockets, forgetting, or maybe "forgetting" that they're there, bringing them home, and not bringing them back. Since this was a widespread enough issue, Rachel, the founder and principal of Run the Race, decided we should address this as a whole community during lunch, for both the older and younger kids. The reaction of the younger kids was predictable. Some denied it, but confessed with a little prodding. Rachel made sure to encourage them to share, but affirmed their desire to not lose the little figures when other kids would take them and told them they could put their favorite figures and builds in a safe space in the school, with one of the adults to "guard" them. They're still learning and it's important for us to be gentle and merciful with them. They're going through a lot. None of us expected the reaction of the older kids. Rachel asked the whole group what sort of things they could do to solve this problem. She was clearly hoping they'd suggest virtues. "Focus on sharing. Check your pockets at the end of the day, without being asked." Instead, they jumped straight into the open arms of fascism. First, they suggested that right before our closing prayer, the volunteers would go to each of the younger kids and ask them to empty their pockets. Rachel said, "Well, I really want to trust each and every one of you. I'd hope you'd check your pockets on your own." Another one pipes up and suggests we take a complete and detailed inventory of the (couple thousand) Lego pieces that have been donated to the center, and count every piece at the end of the day to see if any are missing. "Are you volunteering?" Rachel asked. Another one asked whether they make scanners that can detect Lego pieces. We could scan everybody right before they exit. If it beeps, we know that they're taking Lego pieces. You know, like an airport security checkpoint. Or, as Rachel and I noted, like a Tyrannical Dystopian Lego Police State. Big Brother is watching. Although this might seem like an extreme example, the actions of children can tell us a lot about the human instincts and tendencies that subconsciously govern adult behavior. Today's culture is permeated with examples of these kinds of solutions to humanities problems. If man is fallen, let's regulate the devil out of it. Rules are necessary things. Dangerous drugs, for example, should be illegal. But the ultimate solution to our country's drug epidemic is not going to be more fines or more scrutinous policing of drug hotspots. The solution is virtue. The solution to sin is Christ. In Psalm 119:11, the psalmist exclaims, "I have laid up thy word in my heart, that I might not sin against thee." How can one avoid sin? By creating a dwelling for the Word of God, Jesus Christ, in one's heart. Virtue is the process of building Holy Habits that dispose us to the good and away from evil. It is Christ's response to our concupiscence, where by grace and our response to grace, we turn our hearts to Christ and toward goodness. It's more than just external rules, it's an internal reality made by seeking Christ again and again. It's possible for someone to be good simply by following the law, but it is grace flowing from a relationship with Christ that animates the Christian life. In Philippians 4:8-9, 13, Paul says "Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, do; and the God of peace will be with you... I can do all things in Him who strengthens me." I'd be very happy if the kids at Run the Race grow up to be law-abiding citizens. I'd be ecstatic if they can pull themselves out of the economical and moral slums they've inherited. I'd be truly joyful if our witness of the Christian life is imitated by them, and if a relationship with the God of Peace strengthens them, so that they move beyond laws and toward the font of Goodness out of love for Him. Here's a project I just picked up, a throwback from last summer. I found this copy of "Priest's New Ritual" while taking inventory of an old church building in Carrollton, OH that's preparing for demolition. The pastor let me keep it. It's in pretty rough condition, but what do you expect from an 80 year-old book surrounded by rubble and black mold?
I've been doing some primitive archival work on it. I have some archival and PH-neutral PVA glue, so I'm supporting the binding and gluing the cover back together. It was in pieces when I found it. My hope is that one day I'll be able to use it. It's perfectly pocket sized, but it contains every blessing a priest might need in Latin and English. If I can stabilize it, I might be able to carry it around in a cassock pocket as a priest. I've been reflecting a lot about the idea of the priest as custodian of the traditions and history of the Church. We live in a turbulent culture, both because technology seems to be changing faster than humans learn how to use it responsibly, and also because fallen humans make fallen decisions. The diocesan priest chooses a seemingly "unchanging" life. He celebrates the same mass celebrated by saints going back two thousand years, wears vestments that are the descendants of Aaron's wardrobe, and his most important work - the mass - is done by candlelight. In an era of screens, he turns to books. He will likely live and die in the same area - his diocese. A priest's "remote work" option is called missionary work, not working from home. In his book Orthodoxy, Chesterton calls tradition the "democracy of the dead." He says "tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about." Call me romantic, but I love the story. I love the idea of being one more link in the grand tapestry of church history, one more storyteller in the oral tradition testifying to God's work in Creation, one more Saint who sanctified his time with timeless words; words sanctified by saints upon saints praying them with tender devotion to God. I realize that there's something archaic and almost outdated about trying to restore this book. I could save space and have the whole thing on my phone. The prayers themselves, while not invalidated, have been replaced with newer, less redundant, more bare-bones editions. These older prayers read poetically, unconventionally, and anything but colloquially. Nonetheless, I'm captivated by the romanticism of uniting my prayers with the beauty of history and with the simplicity of one day being "just another priest" who got to use this little book of blessings. |
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