The Gift of Believing

From The Gift of Believing, by Gordon Atkinson:

The ancient Greek of the New Testament uses the same word for believe and for trust, though English breaks the concept into a pair of more specific ideas. Belief is the more joyous of the two, the more mystical, the more childlike, and the one that is least in our control. A person believes in something or she does not. There’s really not much you can do about it one way or the other.

Trust is the element that is more or less up to us. Trusting involves the will and the willingness to give oneself to the possibility that something wonderful might be true.

Trust comes as easily to me as belief comes to some of my friends. There is a wild element in my soul that longs to trust and to make myself vulnerable to a higher power. I want so badly for God to be real that I am willing to wager the wounds of disappointment against the possibility of God’s existence. Trust is the gift that I am able to offer to God—trust in a spiritual path and a spiritual community. It is trust that calls me to bow my head with pilgrims across the ages and to submit myself to their ancient wisdom and timeless ways.

Believing, on the other hand, is something I cannot control. I cannot drive away the fleshly and agnostic presence that lives in the basement of my soul. It comes up the stairs every once in a while to rattle cupboards and slam doors like a philosophical poltergeist. The only thing I can do is cling to my cross and Bible, squeezing my eyes shut like a child while my lips move with whispered prayers and I wait for it to go back to its home down below.

I have no desire to claim doubt as some sort of virtue, a sign of depth or intelligence. I think of doubt not as something you have, but as something you have not. Doubt is an absence, just as cold is the absence of heat. Yet I am not ashamed of my doubts, for they are only an empty place wanting to be filled, a reminder that grace must be sufficient for me.

Sometimes I gaze with longing upon the people for whom belief is natural and easy. They seem to walk the earth in the very presence of the Divine, as certain of God’s existence as of their own. I look at them like a puppy watching his master, my head cocked to one side and my tail thumping with pleasure.

God has never demanded constant belief from me, which would be cruel, like punishing a dyslexic child for reading slowly or scorning a clumsy boy for not being able to dribble a basketball. Instead God has accepted my trust and the giving of my life. And these two together might rightly be called faith.

But I have experienced moments of belief along the way, moments that were a delight to my soul. Moments like the one with the Saint John’s Bible.

I think belief is a mysterious gift from God. It comes in moments when I see beauty and in moments when my guard is down. Belief cannot be bought. It cannot be owned. It cannot be scheduled. It can only be received and enjoyed. For reasons unknown to me, I am given just enough belief to sustain my barest need and to keep me searching and hoping for more.

Father Reese ousted from America magazine

New York Times:

The Rev. Thomas Reese, an American Jesuit who is a frequent television commentator on Roman Catholic issues, resigned Friday under orders from the Vatican as editor of the Catholic magazine America because he had published articles critical of church positions, according to several Catholic officials in the United States...

"I'd think of him as sort of a mainstream liberal," said Philip Lawler, the editor of Catholic World News. "I think he's been reasonably politic."

The scary part for me is that Reese is so diplomatic. He is by no means a radical. The Church seems to be condemning freedom of speech.

AndrewSullivan.com points us to an excerpt from an interview Father Reese gave to NBC News' Meet the Press:

Are we going to take it a step further and really listen to the laity when it comes to issues that are quite central to the church, even in terms of governance and in terms of church teaching and practice, to really consult with the laity and really listen to them?

I think that's so important, as Peggy Steinfels said. You know, the--even if the new pope continues and takes a position that people might disagree with, if people feel that he has listened to them and that the bishops and the hierarchy are listening to them and taking their concerns seriously, I think that makes all the difference in the world.

Does that sound like a radical? It apparently does to the Church hierarchy. In Ordinatio Sacerdotalis, John Paul II made clear that he did not want dialogue around the issue of women's ordination:

at the present time in some places it is nonetheless considered still open to debate...

I declare that the Church has no authority whatsoever to confer priestly ordination on women and that this judgment is to be definitively held by all the Church's faithful.

Not only did the Holy Father tell us "No," he told us to stop discussing it! Historically, this is consistent with the way the Church deals with unwanted dialogue. Masses were originally held in Latin because it was the common language of the people. It was not until the Protestant Reformation, that the Church mandated that all Masses must be held in Latin. This was to prevent differences from place to place from leading to new breakouts of denominations. But when the crisis was over, they didn't lift this decree. Masses all over the world were in Latin until Vatican II!

When the Jansen heresies began, and people began to believe that they didn't receive the whole Christ unless they'd received both the bread and the wine, the Church responded by mandating that the congregation were only allowed to receive under one species, to clarify its position that either the bread or the wine were the whole Christ. Even today, now that we are allowed to receive both species, when was the last time you actually did receive both?

Both of these examples are extremely reactionary ways of dealing with a problem. Can't the Church trust its members to be able to think about and speak about issues for themselves? Wasn't that what Vatican II was all about?

Sister Joan Chittister wrote the following in the National Catholic Reporter about Voice of the Faithful:

I’m never sure about how to respond when people ask me what I think about Voice of the Faithful. The fact is that I admire this group. But they confuse me. They have shown courage, integrity and control in the midst of great upheaval, deep pain and an incredible amount of shock.

When people were shocked at the rising tide of adult survivors of clerical sex abuse in childhood, even inclined to be disbelieving of the survivors, Voice of the Faithful stayed faithful and insisted that the survivors be seen, heard and attended to.

When people were shocked at the legal maneuverings of a church whose record for social compassion and public ministry to the oppressed stands with the best of them, Voice of the Faithful continued to pledge support for those ministries even while withholding funds they feared would be used for hush money.

When people were shocked at Vatican statements about the whole hoary mess being nothing but a media attack on the Catholic church, Voice of the Faithful held firm, demanded accountability from church officials, claimed a place for the faithful in the process and determined not to mix particular issues with their overall political purposes. They will not, they say, espouse any particular change in church policy: not the ordination of married men, not the ordination of women, not the question of liturgical norms. Not anything particular.

They are neither conservative nor liberal, they say. They are simply looking for a way for both conservatives and liberals to take their proper places in the experience that is church. Which translated means, it seems, to be consulted, to be included, to be part of the decision-making process of a church in process in a world in flux. While I myself try to avoid terms like conservative and liberal because of their power to label, stereotype, divide and categorize, I nevertheless get the point: We should all be heard.

We should all count in the process of determining what the Holy Spirit is really doing in the church. We should all be part of the discernment of the “particular” spirits, which Voice of the Faithful as a group is not espousing one way or the other.

But, admire them as I do, that’s exactly where they confuse me. Do they really believe that they are agenda-free? Do they really think that they are independent of issues? Or is such a statement simply a kind of ecclesiastical guarantee of quality: We don’t stand for any particular issue -- like those other people do -- so you don’t need to be afraid that joining us will compromise your faith.

I can’t help asking myself if these people are this disingenuous or this holy? How can anyone possibly think that what Voice of the Faithful asserts they are about to do -- give a voice to the faithful in the machinations of the Roman Catholic church -- is not the single major determining issue in the church today?

Bigger than Luther’s commitment to the use of the vernacular in the reading of scripture, greater than Bartolomé de las Casas’ commitment to the full humanity of Indians, bigger even on a daily basis than the implications of Galileo’s commitment to the notion that the sun, not the Earth, was the center of the universe, shocking as that was to the sensibilities of “man, God’s highest creature.”

The truth is that to aspire to give lay people a “voice” in the ongoing development and direction of the church stands for the biggest issue of them all: It stands for declericalization. And declericalization is the foundation for the renewal of the church. If the church is declericalized -- if the laity really begins to be included in the theological debates, the canonical processes, the synodal decisions of the Roman Catholic church -- every issue on the planet will become grist for its mill. The gospel of Jesus’ walk from Galilee to Jerusalem, curing lepers, healing paralytics, raising women from the dead, will live again.

Do they not realize that by concentrating on lay participation rather than on specific theological issues, they are really striking at the core of church development and power? They are targeting the biggest issue of them all, authority.

Clearly, whether they know it or not, Voice of the Faithful is definitely not issue-free. And, whether they realize it or not, their audacity is shaking the foundations of an imperial church that, until this time, has seldom felt the need to explain anything, let alone ask questions of anyone other than those in their own inner circles. Sensus fidelium or no sensus fidelium.

Before this is over, thanks to Voice of the Faithful, issues like a married priesthood, the ordination of women, the use of inclusive pronouns in scripture and the choice of postures during the canon of the Mass will seem to be exactly what they are -- very, very minor. That’s why I admire them: They are into the biggest issue of them all.

Did Jesus know he was God?

Did Jesus know he was God? It's not a question I've given a lot of thought to. These days, I'm more occupied with the more basic questions as to the existence of God at all. But reading Catholic Q&A by John J. Dietzen last night, this question really struck me. Probably one day in Grade 2, it was one of the questions I plagued my poor mother with. "But did he, Mum? Even when he was a kid? Even when he was a baby? Or did he figure it out? Did Mary know he was God? Did she tell him?" Childhood faith is so true, so sure, so taken-for-granted. Of course there is a God. Of course Jesus was God. And a man. But did Jesus know he was God? That's the question of a faithful child, secure in her faith and eager to know more.

Jesus was both God and man. This is one of the mysteries of our faith. It is also one of the reasons why atheist philosopher Kai Nelson believes the Christian God concept to be so incomprehensible as to be meaningless. If something is self-contradictory, Nelson would argue, it could not possibly be true. God is infinite, humanity is not. Jesus is supposed to be both God and man, not a hybrid of each. He is not half-man, half-God, but fully both. Fully God. And fully human.

If he were just God in a man's body, he would be perfect, free from temptation, unable to sin. His struggles would have meant nothing, his sacrifice would not have been redemptive for us. But he was tempted. He could have sinned. He was man, with all the same temptations that we have.

If he were just a man with God's powers to do miracles, he would not have been God. God had to sacrifice Himself, in the form of His son, in order to redeem us. If he were only a man with God’s powers, he would not have been the sacrificial lamb of God. He had to be God for his sacrifice to take on its power of redemption.

Christian faith is based on the concept that he was both God and man. It means that he experienced all of the same things we do. He brought God closer to us. He brought God into the world of man (and woman). He experienced all of the problems, temptations, and doubt that we experience. And he overcame these, as the most perfect example of sainthood, an example for us to follow.

And when I think about this question, of whether or not Jesus knew he was God, I must remember that Jesus was subject to all of the same temptations and doubts that I am. I think, therefore, that Jesus must have at sometimes known that he was God, and that he must have doubted it at times too.

Mary and Joseph must have talked to him about the circumstances surrounding his birth. But remarkable as they were, I’m not sure that they knew that he was God. If Jesus was as human as the rest of us (and not just God in a man’s body), then he must not have been born knowing of his own divinity. A baby just wouldn’t have this kind of cognition. So he must have learned it. The Fifth Joyful Mystery of the rosary tells us that Jesus was separated from his parents at the Passover feast in Jerusalem. “And it came to pass, that after three days they found him in the temple, sitting in the midst of the doctors, both hearing them, and asking them questions" (Luke 2:46 - KJV). This implies that he did not know everything, since he was not preaching to them, but listening. “And he said unto them, How is it that ye sought me? wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" (Luke 2:49 - KJV). Perhaps the divine nature of Jesus knew that he was God, yet the human nature of Jesus did not.

"And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man" (Luke 2:52 – KJV). Jesus could not have known everything. He must have learned, just as every other human does. Can you imagine what an inner struggle it must have been to have your divine side telling you that you were God, while your human side had to fight the normal human doubts?

This makes Jesus seem very knowable to me. If he had doubts as I have doubts, how much more difficult must they have been to overcome. Because not only would he have doubted whether or not God existed, but he would have doubted whether or not he was part of that God. How much easier it would have been for him to follow his doubts instead of choosing the path of faith. What an example of faith for the rest of us.

I thought this was such a striking thought. Thinking about Jesus and his humanity in this way, thinking about his doubts, made me feel so much closer to him. What a merciful God ours is, to have made Himself one of us, to put himself through everything that we go through in this world, and to suffer what he did, so that we might be redeemed.