"I just...DO things..."

This is a scene from the movie The Dark Knight. I don't think it's a great movie, but the Joker is a compelling character. The background for this scene is: the Joker had arranged for Harvey Dent (the guy in the hospital bed, now Two-Face) and his fiance, Rachel, to be trapped in two different buildings rigged to explode. While incarcerated, Joker tells Batman where each of them is, but with only enough time to save one of them. Though Bruce Wayne also loves Rachel, Batman chooses to save Dent, because he believes that Dent (a public figure) is capable of bringing order and justice into Gotham City, thus making his (Batman's) role unneccessary. Well, Rachel dies, and Batman does save Dent's life, but unfortunately not without horrible disfiguration to his face--as well as, it turns out, to his soul. Joker escapes and finds Dent, ultimately recruiting him as a fellow "agent of chaos."

In some ways, Joker reminds me of Gregory, the red-headed anarchist poet in The Man Who Was Thursday. When asked what his ultimate goal is, Gregory answers, "To destroy God!" or something like that. Joker has this difference with Gregory: he does not wish to kill Batman, who is supposed to represent an incorruptible goodness, or at least an immovable code. If Batman were dead, what would Joker have to do? Those of us who follow St. Augustine know that evil is a privation, and not a entity in itself, and it cannot exist without Good. Those of us who have read Milton know also that there's nothing to do in hell, nothing to destroy, nothing onto which a thoroughly corrupted thing may latch itself and tear. So Satan finds Paradise.

Joker is disarming. He says that all the order one may conceive is just a conception by someone or other that happens to be more powerful than you, and by rejecting that order, you may be as powerful, at least in thought, as God. "Better to reign in hell..." and so on. But Joker, I think, is even more depraved than Milton's Satan. In Milton, Satan is a prince. But the Joker does not care for reigning anywhere at all. You might say he is an egalitarian. He doesn't even care if he lives or dies--in this movie, he stares death straight in the face at least three times and is energized by it, by his own defiance of it. Because death is also, "part of the plan." There is no prize to win or lose for him; there is only doing things. And when one believes in nothing, the only thing to do is find people who do believe, and figure them out, and latch on, and destroy their faith. That's the thing. Joker doesn't care if people survive any more than he cares if he survives. Like he says to Dent, "It's nothing personal." And it isn't. The Joker does not hate Dent, nor did he hate Rachel. I wouldn't even call him bloodthirsty--he just despises their faith.

His effect on Harvey Dent is tragic. In Dent's adherence to Joker's creedlessness, he loses the ability to make assessments of good or evil, and justice is doled out at the flip of a coin, because it's the only thing that's "fair." Neither actions nor motivations have any meaning for him any longer, and whether you see the handsome side of his face or the rotting side is simply a matter of chance. Of course, he's ugly either way now.

The movie itself falls victim to this. In the end, it is decided that Dent's misdeeds should be pinned on Batman, because it gives people an ordered illusion--a "beneficent deception" I've heard it called--that makes it easier to get along in the world. The Joker's response to this would be, "See! It's just another scheme," and he would probably try to get the truth out.

Isn't it strange that at this point I am comforted by one of St. Thomas Aquinas's proofs for God's existence? It's the one about possible and necessary existence. Nothing we have experienced or known in creation is necessary. It might have been, and it might not have been. This is where Joker stops. He is obsessed and intoxicated by the might-not-have-been-ness of everything, which is why he loves "dynamite, and gun powder, and gasoline." Fire and ruin. But though it may have existed in a form other than it does, stuff does exist, and it cannot be accounted for by a series of infinite causes. At some point, causation itself is caused by something that necessarily is. I suspect that even were he to meet the Must Be, the Joker would be unable to see it as such. So he would go where Satan goes--to the fire that he loves best.

Dick Keyes: my old mentor

Doesn't seem like I've had a lot of time to write for the past few days, though really I think that's a good thing. Tonight after work I went to meet with a priest for spiritual direction--not that he is my spiritual director. I've been trying to get me one o' those for almost a year now, but I keep bouncing around and getting responses like, "Hmmmmm...I don't know..." When I made the appointment with this one, he said, "Hmmm. Yes, well I think I can tide you over till you find the real thing." So funny. Am I that difficult?

Anyway, it was a good meeting overall, with one of the greatest endings ever: "I hate to cut this short, but I've got a potato in the oven." Nothing so good for deflating pride as watching the balance of a man's interest tip in favor of a baking root. The meeting left me drained (in a good way), and now I find myself feeling encouraged but intellectually a bit blank. And nostalgic.

I often miss my old "spiritual director." He wouldn't have used that term. At the L'Abri in Southborough, if you stay there more than a week, you're given a "tutor," someone who meets with you around once a week and talks with you about whatever you're working on, and he assigns a study regimine for use until the next time you meet. This regimine is not always...uh...strictly adhered to. My tutor was the guy who ran the place. That's right, the head honcho. His name is Dick Keyes, almost certainly the most intelligent and articulate man I've ever known, as well as one of the kindest and most solicitous for one's spiritual well-being. And quick. I remember once, after one of his lectures (we had open lectures on Friday nights), a man with a grudge against the church (this is not the Catholic Church; Dick is an evangelical Protestant) stood up and ranted about how he thought the church was bogus. Dick sat there and listened to everything--aggressive and passive-agressive--with a look of such calm and yet such serious concentration and concern that I am amazed the man was not disarmed simply by that. When the man got finished and sat down, heaving, Dick thanked him and literally organized the man's tirade into points for him and answered every single objection, without a single note of triumph or superiority in his voice. I've never seen anything like it.

I could go on all day with stories about Dick Keyes. I also do a mean Dick Keyes impersonation--I mean, I met with the man once a week for at least an hour, and I worked with him every day. We got to be very good friends. I was in his son's wedding as a groomsman (I'm also friends with his son), and the night after the wedding, he invited me up to his house to talk about my becoming Catholic--I wasn't Catholic yet, but I was heading in that direction. Needless to say, I was very nervous. It wasn't like we hadn't disagreed before. He is Yankee through and through, and my very first conversation with the man was about the (so called) Civil War, about which we have a very marked difference of opinion. But this was different. This was a conversation with a man that I revered, and I was about to tell him that much of what he teaches and believes is fundamentally wrong. Not that I planned on arguing. It was just inevitably implied with the direction I was taking. The first thing he said to me was, "What's this I hear about you becoming Catholic?" Gulp. It looks threatening on the screen, but Dick is not hostile; he really wanted to know. The response I made was easily the most difficult of my life, and I nearly broke down a couple of times. L'Abri had become a second home to me, and this was my formal break--it was, in fact, the last real conversation I had with my mentor as a mentee. It was like the moment I realized I could beat up my dad. Not that Dick couldn't have debated me and won. Probably could have. I am no debator. But there he was, looking at me like he looked at the man going on a tirade (I was not tirading, though), except when I was done, he didn't have anything to say. Ah! Dick always had something to say to me! In our talks: some advice to give, some direction, some encouragement--and it was never cheap or mushy--and I realized he wouldn't do that ever again. It was very painful. We talked about other things after that, small things, plans and so on, but I didn't have my mentor any more. Haven't had one since, really. I'm trying, but it's difficult not to think of my first and best master. It's like going on a date after a spouse has died--you feel unfaithful. I guess it's good, then, that the goal is God, and not "relationships," though God is good enough to give us those as well. It's just...sometimes He takes them back. "Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: as it hath pleased the Lord so is it done: blessed be the name of the Lord."

P.S. For more pictures of Dick Keyes and the Southborough L'Abri (and some of me), go here.

Catholic Code

Today in the bustle at work, a woman came in wearing a saint medal, and after we concluded our business, I asked, "Who've you got there on your medal?" "Oh...it's St. Bernadette. It's my confirmation name." "I see. St. Bernadette. Mine's St. Monica." She looked at me, pleasantly surprised, and said, "St. Monica?" I said, "Yes, it was a bit awkward when I was confirmed a few years ago...being presented to the priest as 'Monica' but I got over it." "I bet it was awkward. Why did you choose Monica?" "Many reasons. One of which was I figured if God could save a man like St. Augustine, then even I stood a chance, and if St. Monica was willing to hound God and her son until he was safe, then it would be a good idea to have such an advocate as she. I need hounding." "That makes sense." So, we spoke together this way for a few minutes, and in parting she said, "Well...I'm glad you're Monica." "And I'm glad you're Bernadette."

After she left, I looked around and realized I was being stared at by my fellow-workers. Truth be told, they looked a bit stupid--they had just witnessed their own language do things they never dreamed it was capable of, like when you see a contortionist do things with her body that should be painful, all with a smile. Also, they're used to my rants and religio-philosophical asides, but they are not used to them being accepted by others as a normal thing--how fitting, then, that Bernadette and I were talking about Confirmation. It was a moment of confirmation for them that this Catholic stuff exists outside of Monica Man's head, that it's not all part of a monologue that they happen in on at various times. There is action, and there are interlocutors.

Well, I used that opportunity, let me tell you. There were, as I said, strange looks, and these were followed by questions in semi-hostile (but really playfully so) tones with various mild oaths thrown in. No need to reapeat them. But I got to talk a little about St. Monica, which led naturally to St. Augustine, which led naturally to Christ, Who always seems a hop-skip-jump away. I have long ceased to understand why some (some) Protestants think that Catholics get "hung up" on  saints, because that is precisely what we do not do. We swing on 'em, like monkey bars, and the goal is always the other side. Hopefully some of the people there came a little closer to understanding that. But more importantly, I hope that in a couple of them particularly, there was some desire awoken for more than beer in the evenings...I mean, a desire for better beer, if nothing else. That Bud Lite stuff just ain't the stuff.

I'm not exactly what you'd call an evangelist. I have not that burning desire for souls for Christ that some have--my "methods" are soft, and my assumption is that this Catholicism stuff is true, and the truth will out. It's natural for me to think of this kind of thing in a way that it isn't for most people, and I think it has a kind of shock value when it comes up in normal conversation, which is why I was grateful for Bernadette. But really it comes out anyway. My tone is light (too light sometimes, no doubt) and matter-of-fact, which I think also has some shock value. I don't think my friends at work are shocked at me--they know the kinds of things I'm going to say and are used to my comments on the dissolution of the Roman Empire or Saint So-and-so, like I might be commenting on the weather. We laugh about it. No, they are shocked that they can understand what I'm saying, and my own assumption that they can and should understand it. Again, they witness their language performing odd capers and twists. They hear me speaking in code, but it's not a new language altogether. More like a crossword puzzle, and they find they can work it out.

He's at it AGAIN

I like this guy Vianini. He sort of looks like my (mostly) Italian grandfather, who died when I was six. I don't think my grandfather was a tenor, though, and I know he wasn't Catholic. Italian and Protestant? What? Well, nobody's perfect.

But here's Vianini doing his pulsing again. I'm trying to figure out if it's systematic in some way, but I need real expertise. VA made some comments in my previous post which make sense, and I wanted to point out some other examples of what I'm talking about. Bear with me.

He pulses two "beats" (again, I don't know the terminology) on dulcedo, starting at 0:16--dulce-e-do

He does it again at ergo, starting around 0:54--ergo-o

Iesum at 1:14--Iesu-um

Part of the "o" at o dulcis

And again at Maria at the end--Mar-i-i-a... Of course, he's doing it throughout, here and there, but these are the ones that stick out to me the most.

And yet there are extended notes also. Maybe he's pulsing every individual punctum (there's the word I was looking for), and the ones with little dots or lines above them he's extending as a continuous note. I know not. I need VA or the choirmaster to tell me what's what, not to mention I'd probably need to be looking at the music...not to mention I'd have to be able to read the music...aaaand we're back to needing VA and the choirmaster.

One more thing. I mentioned in the previous post that when he moves up or down from a note, he doesn't slide, but he doesn't exactly jump, either. The word I use is pulse; I'm sure it has some technical name. Maybe it's "sing" or something complicated like that. Anyway, I love the way he does it at clemens (1:34): cleme-ens. Maybe there's nothing systematic about it at all; maybe he's just feelin the vibe, man.

Signum Magnum...my favorite introit

This one's for the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. I sing it all the time. Calms me down. I sing it much lower, of course.

Signum magnum apparuit in caelo
Mulier amicta sole et luna sub pedibus eius
Et in capite eius corona stellarum duodecim
Cantate Domino canticum novum
Quia mirabilia fecit
Signum magnum...

Small update: I've noticed something that this guy Vianini does with his choir that we don't do in ours is that he gets them to pulse the notes (I don't know the technical terms) rather than extend them into one sound. So for example, with the word fecit we would sing feeeeeci-it in my choir. But in this one they sing it fe-e-e-ci-it. Even when they go up and down, it's less of a slide through the notes and more of a pulse to each note.

God-Man takes a beating

The other day I was given the opportunity to have a conversation with someone at work about the breakdown of Roman jurisdiction in (what became) Europe after the 5th century. Is that where I take all my conversations? Yes, yes it is. I break it down Roman style: slow and steady with the occasional mad barbaric rush. From that it turned into a conversation about law and property, and I told him that property is a metaphysical idea. After explaining the meaning of the word metaphysical, I told him (with some intensity) the only thing keeping me from overpowering him right then and there and taking all his stuff was a web of ideas and faith--my own and those of society--that, or it might have simply been he didn't have anything I happened to want at the time. There was no physical barrier of any kind, and I have had my share of triumphs on the Field of Mars. So there.

Belief in God is something that holds me back. It's the primary thing, technically. One can't get behind Him and push Him around. But there are other things as well, like a love of and respect for life and unbroken bones and things. All connected, but distinguishably separate, which is why I can tolerate living in the same society as someone like my friend, who also respects his unbroken bones (still a metaphysical idea) but who has no belief in God. It is so strange that the key thing is left out, and yet all the other stuff matters--which came first, God or the bones of Man? I mean, it ain't a riddle. You can't leave Him out forever, of course. Has anyone ever read Genesis 3 and realized that every single thing the serpent says will happen does? At first, anyway. "You shall not die the death." They don't. "Your eyes shall be opened." They were (v. 7). "You shall be as Gods, knowing good and evil." God agrees (v. 22). Did I just say you couldn't get behind God and push Him around? I did, yes. Yet here He is echoing Satan. Adam and Eve have also left out the key thing, and still they live, still their eyes are opened, still they are as gods. To modify a phrase from C. S. Lewis, this is the horror that cannot be, yet somehow is.

Ultimately, disagreeing with someone on anything of any importance means a fight, as our barbaric forbears in Gaul or Germania or wherever knew. You might avoid the topic or the person, because God has provided us with space; or you might "learn to live together," because God has given us other stuff to believe in and agree about...a mercy, no doubt, even though it makes things complicated. Intellectually, fights are easier, and the world will end in a fight of some kind, all debates settled, regardless of what T. S. Eliot says. It's either us or God taking the beating...but God figured out a way to do both.

The most difficult part of our Lord's Passion for me to imagine is when He is stricken, and His beard is pulled, and He is jeered at to prophesy who hit Him. And again. Prophesy! And again. Prophesy! I've taken a beating before, but not like that, and not from a man I knew I could beat, or from one who jeered at me. The thought rankles. But He has taken the beating, and He had already prophesied. On Monday our Gospel reading was from St. John, where Jesus says, "He that seeth me seeth the Father also." Properly speaking God the Father does not of course suffer, but there is a thread of "taking it" from the devil (again, God echoes him, which is nearly unimaginable to me, but there it is) and from us woven through the time from Adam until now. He doesn't have to allow that for any reason except His own love, but grant that, and it often means He lets us win, which is why Jesus can say to Pilate, "Thou shouldst not have any power against me unless it were given thee from above." Indeed. He should not and would not have power, but he does.

I am often amazed when I get away with things...that is to say, I'm surprised I'm not dead. I really have come out of the confessional and thought, "Another close one! I can't believe I made it!" Such strange things God allows to exist together, such good ideas marred by leaving Him out of the picture, such evil allowed to continue in His creation. But thinking of all this makes it more bearable, somehow, to live in the same world as a person who doesn't believe in God, but who does believe his own bones are sacred.

Cop Out

That's what this post is going to be. I am bushed today--"excuses, excuses" I know--because in my particular line of work, summer is the busiest time of the year, and I'm running around constantly doing things I don't like, which is draining. Well, it's not completely true to say I don't like what I do. It's complicated. Nevermind, it's not important.

What is important is the Blessed Virgin Mary. Some time ago my friend Sally wrote what she calls a little primer on Marian doctrine and devotion. Sally says she's linked to this so many times that it's a little embarrassing, but I haven't linked to it at all, not even one time, except that one time one sentence ago. This is for all my Protestant friends and family that read this blog who may have been confused by my own attempts to explain Marian devotion. Or perhaps it might just be good not to hear my particular brand of ranting. Not that Sally's ranting. It's just good to hear other people, and Sally tackles it in a way that I do not (and cannot, in some ways). Maybe it can stir some more dialogue amongst us; we can have a common reference. Anyway, friends, if you've got questions, you've got my e-mail; and if you've got objections, I've had them, too; and if you've got something snarky to say, I've got a knuckle-sandwich with your name on it.

You know, actually that does remind me of an historical anecdote. Once, when St. Ignatius was travelling, he met a Muslim who did not believe in the perpetual virginity of Mary, and they debated. Eventually, the Muslim rode off. You've got to know that at this point in the Saint's life, he was only sort of "half there" as far as his conversion was concerned. Saint Ignatius had been a war hero, and chivalry (long dead, really, though the spirit remained) was hot in him. He couldn't have a Muslim dishonoring Mary like that! I'll let his biographer speak a bit: "He [St. Ignatius] was sorely troubled as he thought over the conduct of his fellow-traveller, and felt that he had but poorly acquitted himself of his duty of honoring the Mother of God. The longer his mind thought upon the matter, the more his soul was filled with indignation against himself for having allowed the Saracen to speak as he had done of the Blessed Virgin, and for the lack of courage he fancied he had shown in not at once resenting the insult. He consequently felt impelled by a strong impulse to hasten after him and slay the miscreant [what a great phrase] for the insulting language he had used." A different time. Well, St. Ignatius didn't kill the Saracen, in case you're wondering. His life is well worth reading, if ever you have the inclination. But just you think about that when you're reading Sally's stuff. Think long and hard.