Queenship of Mary

One week after the Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Roman Catholics celebrate the Memorial of the Queenship of Mary. From a Catholic perspective, there are four major Church teachings about the Blessed Virgin: Immaculate Conception, Perpetual Virginity, Assumption, Queenship. As the Virgin's Assumption is the fourth Glorious Mystery of the Rosary, Mary's Coronation as Queen of Heaven is the fifth and final Glorious mystery. The fruit of that mystery is trust in the Blessed Mother's intercession.

It's nice that this year that both Mary's Assumption and her Queenship fall on Saturdays. Traditionally, Saturdays are a day of the week devoted to Mary. And so, when not superseded by a mandatory memorial, feast, or solemnity, the Common of the Blessed Virgin Mary can be prayed on Saturdays.

When one considers the multitude of factors that contribute to the decline of faith and religious practice, it's reasonable to see the decline in devotion to Mary as one factor. Practices like praying the Rosary daily and making frequent recourse to Mary by praying the Memorare are two of the most widespread Marian devotions.

Far from being a meek and unobtrusive figure, Mary should be seen as brave and bold, perhaps a bit brash. I am puzzled that whenever her Magnificat is the Gospel reading, the preaching rarely focuses on its prophetic message:

He has shown the strength of his arm.
He has scattered the proud in their conceit.
He has cast down the mighty from their thrones
and has lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things
and the rich he has sent away empty

Mary is on the side of the lowly, the poor, the oppressed, the outcast. As a Jewish woman, one who turned up unexpectedly pregnant, in a conquered society, she understands, experientially, what this means.

Pope Francis's devotion to the Blessed Virgin reflects all this. Before and after each of his Apostolic trips, the Holy Father goes to the Basilica of Saint Mary Major. There before Our Lady, Salus Populi Romani (i.e., Protectress of the Roman People), he asks her intercession for the success of his journey. After his trip, he returns to thank her, usually bringing her flowers. All Roman Catholics, along with all Christians in communion with Rome, constitute the Roman people.

So, beginning today, make recourse to the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary, trust her with your concerns and petitions. The easiest way to do this by praying the Rosary- start with the Glorious mysteries. Learn the Angelus and the Memorare.

"There'll be days/When I'll stray"

The connections my mind makes when I pay attention kind of astound me. I mean "astound" both in the sense of thinking "That's weird" and in the sense of being amazed at gaining some insight.

Last Sunday, as I drove home from church listening to the radio, Depeche Mode's "Strangelove" came across the airwaves. It was struck by the song's opening verse:

There'll be times
When my crimes
Will seem almost unforgivable
I give in to sin
Because you have to make this life livable

"I give in to sin because you have to make this life livable." I sort of meditated on this the rest of the day. When it comes to sin, it almost goes without saying that there are sins and then there are sins. This at the heart of the mortal/venial distinction. I like the distinction Dietrich Bonhöffer made: "It is not the sins of weakness, but the sins of strength that matter." I take "matter" in this context to mean those sins about which one should be concerned, contrite, and strive, with God's help, not to commit again, very grave failure to love one's neighbor.

In my extended lectio on this short sentence from "Strangelove," I was thinking about sins of weakness. It is perhaps through certain sins of weakness one might seek some solace and comfort, even as one recognizes that the comfort and solace will be short-lived.

Depiction of the Holy of Holies in the Second Temple

On Monday I read this excerpt from Pope Francis's Sunday Angelus:

Each one of us has our own story and it is not always a clean story…Many times it is a difficult story, with a lot of pain, many misfortunes and many sins. What do I do with my story? Do I hide it? No! We must bring it before the Lord

And, again, on Monday in a book of essays that look at the Jewish Bible through the lens psychoanalysis, The Murmuring Deep: Reflections on the Biblical Unconscious, by Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg, in an essay on Abraham, "The Vale of Soul-Making," I read something about the rabbinic commentators' insistence that Abraham, during his years of inquiry and movement toward the one, true, God while living in Ur of Chaldees, participated in pagan worship, that is, the worship of idols.

Commenting on God's disposition towards Abraham's early idolatry, Gottlieb Zornberg summarizes it nicely:

So God reassures Abraham: "Yours is the dew of youth: your youthful sins acted like dew- they roused you to search for God. They spoke to you through promise and frustration, they suggested love and beauty. Having done this work they vanished (165)

This caused me to realize that those youthful sins may not have yet done their work in rousing me to search for God.

Later in the same essay, Gottlieb Zornberg discusses what it might mean for Abraham to be a blessing to God, something God asks of him (Gen 12:2). She makes the observation, which I think wholly accurate- something I addressed in great detail in my doctoral dissertation- "God, it seems, needs human blessing" (167). But what does it mean to bless God?

"...to realize the godly in the world is to bless God" (italics mine- 167). What is it to realize the godly in the world? "The blessing of God," Gottlieb Zornberg continues "is that God should rejoice in his work (ibid). She then turns to a passage of the Talmud she calls "haunting," in which God asks the high priest Ishmael, one of the last high priests of the Second Temple period, to bless him. Ishmael replies: "May it be Your will that Your compassion prevail over Your other attributes" (167). She then concludes" "To be a source of blessing to God comes to mean to help God achieve His compassionate self" (167).

To say that Jews are older siblings to us Christians is more than just a throw-away line uttered at a time of violent antisemitism.

As you might guess, this week's traditio is Depeche Mode's "Strangelove."

Year A Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: Isa 56:1.6-7; Ps 67:2-3.5-6.8; Rom 11:13-15.29-32; Matt 15:21-28

Today’s readings have a singular theme: welcoming the stranger. It is no exaggeration to state that nothing is more biblical than welcoming the stranger. This injunction appears from the opening pages of the Sacred Scriptures to the last pages.

It was Jesus himself who said: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”¹ The inspired author of the Letter the Hebrews urged early Christians “not to neglect hospitality” because by extending hospitality to all “some have unknowingly entertained angels.”² In his Regula, or Rule, Saint Benedict instructs the brothers: “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ…”³

God often reminded his Chosen People, Israel, to welcome the stranger among them and to treat foreigners in their midst justly: “You shall not oppress a resident alien; you well know how it feels to be an alien, since you were once aliens yourselves in the land of Egypt.”⁴

In our uniquely Christian scriptures, we are reminded that before putting on Christ we “were ‘no people’ but now you are God’s people; you “had not received mercy” but now you have received mercy.”⁵ In other words, as Gentiles on whom God has taken mercy through Christ, the Canaanite woman is us. Who are we, then, not to extend the mercy we have received to others?

God has only ever extended one covenant to humanity: “You will be my people and I will be your God.”⁶ Through Jesus Christ, this covenant is open to all. What it means to be God’s people is to keep God’s commandments.

What does God command? “You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind” and “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”⁷ This prompts the question, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus’s most famous answer to this question, found in Saint Luke’s Gospel, is the Parable of the Good Samaritan. In its essence, the Law is but the means to the end of loving God with your whole being by loving your neighbor as you love yourself.

“If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ but hates his brother,” we read elsewhere in the New Testament, “he is a liar; for whoever does not love a brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen. This is the commandment we have from him: whoever loves God must also love his brother.”⁸

Christ and the Woman of Canaan, by Peter Lastman, 1617

The Samaritan’s neighbor was the robbed and beaten Jew who likely despised him and of whom the Samaritan was likely not a priori very fond. Your neighbor is the one who needs your help. As Christians, we are to “make” ourselves a neighbor to those in need.

We cannot succumb to what Pope Francis has identified as a culture of indifference. Indifference to the plight of those who flee war, persecution, corruption, lack of education, etc. Nor can we participate in what the Holy Father has dubbed a throw-away culture, one in which even human beings are expendable.

In our American context, we must distinguish patriotism from nationalism. Because U.S. citizenship is not rooted in blood and soil, ours is a nation of immigrants, the proverbial melting pot. This diversity contributes to our country’s greatness. Nationalism, which often manifests as racism and xenophobia, is, therefore, antithetical to U.S. patriotism.

Our commitment to follow Christ trumps all other loyalties. Christianity is either universal or it is nothing. In free societies, Christians are to pursue the common good of everyone. It has been observed that a nation’s greatness is best measured by how it treats its weakest members. If we take the scriptures seriously, let alone claim to be a Christian nation, our greatness is also measured by how, not whether, we welcome those who seek entry.

This is beautifully expressed in words from Emma Lazarus’s poem, The New Colossus. This poem was engraved on a bronze plaque and attached to the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty in 1903. The poet places these words on the lips of “A mighty woman with a torch”-

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”⁹

Monsignor Luigi Giussani, in a passionate speech delivered in Saint Peter’s Square, perhaps taking his cue from today’s Gospel, insisted: “The true protagonist of history is the beggar: Christ who begs for man’s heart, and man’s heart that begs for Christ.” Christ begs for your heart through the person in need, through the immigrant and the refugee, many of whom are our sisters and brothers in Christ.

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1 Matthew 25:35.^↩
2 Hebrews 13:2.^↩
3 Rule of Saint Benedict, 53:1.^↩
4 Exodus 23:9.^↩
5 1 Peter 2:10.^↩
6 Jeremiah 30:22..^↩
7 Matthew 27:37.39; Deuteronomy 6:5; Leviticus 19:18.^↩
8 1 John 4:20-21.^↩
9 The New Colossus.^↩

Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary

It would seem strange not to post something for the Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Like yesterday, I don't have a distinct idea to communicate. So, this is a sort of free-form post- gonzo diaconal blogging.

Again, without bragging, I am one of those Catholics who prays the Rosary every day. I usually pray it during my morning walk. Since my wife often accompanies me on this morning excursions, we frequently pray it together, out loud, as we walk. Of course, living in Utah, this sometimes prompts odd glances from our fellow walkers.

Whenever someone asks me prayers, most often I immediately offer a Memorare for the specific intention. When warranted, I incorporate this intention into my Rosary intentions. In short, I find that entrusting these things to our Blessed Mother is a good way to go.

Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Guido Reni, 1637

I have my own order in which I pray the mysteries of the Blessed Virgin's Rosary throughout the week: Monday- Joyful; Tuesday- Luminous; Wednesday- Sorrowful; Thursday- Glorious; Friday- Sorrowful; Saturday- mysteries of my choosing; Sunday- Glorious. During the Octaves of Easter & Christmas, I pray the Glorious & Joyful mysteries respectively each day. On Saturdays of Advent & Christmas, I pray the Joyful mysteries. On the Saturdays of Lent, I go with the Sorrowful mysteries. Saturdays of Easter, I pray the Glorious mysteries. I also alter my routine to pray mysteries most suited to a particular solemnity or feast.

Today, for example, I will pray the Glorious mysteries. The fourth Glorious mystery is Mary's bodily assumption into heaven. The fruit of this mystery is the grace of a happy death.

When praying the Sorrowful mysteries by myself, I pray an Act Contrition before each Our Father. When praying the Glorious mysteries, I add a Memorare before the Our Father after the fifth mystery, which is the Blessed Virgin's coronation as Queen of Heaven, the fruit of which is trust in her intercession.

Mary's assumption is a glimpse of the glory God has in store for us, a result of Christ's resurrection. The Solemnity of the Blessed Virgin Mary- known as her "Dormition" among many Eastern Christians- is one of those observances that pre-dates the Church's fracture. This makes it a day of Christian unity. As Mater ecclesiae, I am certain this makes her very happy.

Those Christians who do not hyper-venerate Mary are, well, peculiar. Even the major reformers (i.e., Luther, Calvin, and Cranmer) venerated the Blessed Virgin even while seeking t curb what they viewed as excesses in Marian devotion. Hyper-veneration of the Blessed Virgin Mary is a hallmark of an Apostolic Church.

Late summer ennui

You don't have to read my blog to know that 2020 is a strange year. For me, one of the strangest aspects of this strange year is the flow of time. By that, I mean how my days and weeks are now divided up. Like many people, the flow of my life has changed. Unlike most people, I have managed to actually become busier. I don't say this to brag. On the contrary, I am kind of ashamed to admit it. As a result, I am frequently struck by waves of tiredness. My fatigue is off-set by my restlessness. In other words, I find it hard to take a nap, sit still, focus, read, etc. My ennui does not flow from doing nothing to do but having too much to do.

Saint Maximilian Kolbe, OFM Conv

In this same vein, while I am loath to blog about blogging, I found it difficult to post something today. But I am not doing it out of a sense of obligation (if you could see the number of readers these daze, you'd grasp this easily). I am doing it because, as I have often stated, blogging has proven a useful vehicle for me over the past fifteen years.

Yes, fifteen years! Actually, Monday, 16 August, will mark the date when, sixteen years ago, I first posted on this blog. I initially dubbed this endeavor Scott Dodge for Nobody. It wasn't until the following July that I began blogging regularly. From that time and for the next several years, I blogged compulsively about anything and everything. If I had any shame, I'd go back a delete a lot of posts that I now find embarrassing. But I like seeing where I came from. Maybe this is because it isn't possible to see where I am going. The present is always that point of tension between the past and the future.

No sooner do I set aside a day to just rest than I am hit with a raft of new things to do. In the middle of all this, I remain aware of how much suffering is happening. Of that fact that so many people lost their jobs as the result of government-ordered shutdowns. I am highly aware that with the Senate now on break while unemployment is slated to run-out for many people and local and state governments proving largely indifferent to their plight that we're in a bad place. As do so many, I feel very helpless in the face of all this. Don't get me wrong. The pandemic is real and doing what is necessary to keep people safe is hugely important. But... anyway... a little venting is good, I suppose. I worry about the future, not my future so much but the future. I'm afraid we're on the doorstep of dystopia.

I nearly always feel this way in mid-August, which is the hottest time of the year where I live. I must have reverse seasonal affective disorder because I feel more down in the heat than I do during the cold, dark months of winter. If sunlight and heat act as natural disinfectants they also seem to strip away the dirt from the lens of my heart.

Far from being hopeless, I think now more than ever the Gospel matters. I think Pope Francis was correct when he asserted that revolutionary ideologies succeed in many majority Christian countries because the Church has not served, cared for, or acted in solidarity with the poor. At the end of the day, the Gospel, too, is revolutionary- but only if we live it. Living the Gospel is no easy task. The Gospel calls for solidarity, not acquiescence to what is self-evidently unjust.

By solidarity, I mean something along the lines of what Saint Maximilian Kolbe, whose feast day is today, did in the concentration camp. He offered his life to spare the life of a Jewish man who had a family. Like Saint Oscar Romero before he became Archbishop of San Salvador, there wasn't much in Kolbe's background that would lead one to predict this astounding act of selflessness. This gives me hope both for myself and for the world.

This is one of those posts that doesn't have neat, tidy conclusion. Since it is Friday, I offer as our traditio School of Fish singing "Three Strange Days" for these strange times.

Saint Lawrence, deacon and martyr

I can hardly lay claim to the blog title "Catholic Deacon" and fail to post something on today's Feast of Saint Lawrence. Lawrence was one of the seven deacons of the Church of Rome in the mid-third century. During this time, the Church lived under the relatively constant threat of persecution by the empire (how far we've come but how far we've regressed!). It appears that Lawrence was the chief deacon of Rome, something like the archdeacon- an office that does not exist today in the Roman Catholic Church.

Like his bishop, Pope Saint Sixtus II, and his six fellow deacons, Lawrence was martyred by the imperial power under the Emperor Valerian. Like many early martyrs, there are several stories told about Lawrence's martyrdom. Some of them might even be true. True or not, the purpose of such stories is not necessarily to accurately convey what happened but to focus our attention on what it means to follow Christ. According to these accounts, the manner of his death was being roasted alive on an iron grill.

As chief deacon, he was steward of the Church's worldly goods. Along with his fellow deacons, he had charge of the poor and the infirm. The immediate cause of Lawrence's arrest was his refusal to turn over what wealth the Church had to the imperial authorities. Instead, as one story goes, when asked to take agents of the state to the treasures of the Church, Lawrence brought them to a group of the poor and the infirm, insisting these men, women, and children were the Church's treasure.

The Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence, by Hipólito de Rioja, 17th century

Over the centuries of the Church, Lawrence has had a large cultus. One of Rome's Papal Basilicas in San Lorenzo fuori le mura (i.e., Saint Lawrence outside the Walls). Interred in this basilica in addition to Lawrence are Pope Pius IX, Pope Hilarius, Alcide de Gaspari, along with relics of Saint Stephen, one of the first deacons and Christian proto-martyr.

Father, you called Saint Lawrence to serve you by love
and crowned his life with glorious martyrdom.
Help us to be like him in loving you and doing your work.
Grant this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
one God for ever and ever

Year A Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Readings: 1 Kgs 19:9a.11-13a; Ps 85:9-14; Rom 9:1-5; Mt 14:22-23

As we endure life’s storms and waves, trying to “be good,” to be kind to others, to do the right thing, often at personal cost, it can seem that the harder we try the more difficult life becomes. Because of this, all of us, at one time or another, ask: Just what does God expect of me? Today’s readings suggest that this is perhaps the wrong question. Instead, maybe we should ask, Just what do I expect of God?

Today’s readings challenge our expectations of God. In our first reading, the fact that Elijah goes to Mount Horeb, the mountain on which God gave Israel the Torah in Deuteronomy, likely indicates the prophet presumed his experience of God would be similarly extraordinary.¹ But no! It was in the “tiny whispering” that God spoke to the prophet.

This reading from 1 Kings stands in stark contrast to our reading from Matthew, which features several extraordinary things. In considering today's Gospel, however, we must be cautious not to trivialize this narrative.

One way to trivialize this episode is by viewing Peter’s apparent lack of faith with a smug sense of our own superiority. After all, one would think that after seeing Jesus perform so many miracles, Peter would have trusted Jesus’s power to support him across the water. I would not have doubted!

It is one thing to observe divine power from a safe distance, it is quite another to experience it first-hand by stepping out into the storm. If we are honest, most of us would prefer to remain in the boat and have Jesus tow us safely onto the nearest shore.

A more compassionate reading of this story reveals that Peter is courageous by asking Jesus for the ability to walk across the stormy sea and having the faith to leave the boat. What is most important and what we run the risk of missing is Peter, even as he falters, does not lack faith. As he sinks, Peter cries, “Lord, save me!” This is an act of faith. And “immediately” Jesus stretches out his hand and catches Peter.²

One of the worst aspects of our contemporary American culture is our literal-mindedness. When it comes to the Scriptures, this means we often lack the imagination to interrogate the text in a way that matters. For example, if you read the Book of Jonah and come away asking whether a person can survive for three days inside a large fish, it’s safe to say you have missed the point entirely.

The question that today’s Gospel prompts is not “Did this really happen?” The salient query is, “What does this mean in terms of my Christian life?” The best way to derive meaning from this passage is by reading it metaphorically. Otherwise, there is nothing more to the story than what Jesus may have done a long time ago in far-off Galilee. We must never reduce faith to a historical curiosity.

Often it can seem like Jesus is off on some mountain or way up in the sky when you are in the thick of a storm. Notably, Jesus does not appear until “the fourth watch.” The fourth watch is just before dawn. Hence, the disciples had been struggling all night in the stormy sea. It is natural, as we go through the storms of life, to ask Jesus: “What took you so long?”

It seems pretty clear that the message from this deeply visual incident is not another demonstration of Jesus’s power. Instead, it shows us how God works. Peter represents each of us. Maybe Peter's faltering walk that is not the lesson. If we listen closely, we can hear Jesus tell Peter- and us- with a gentle smile, as he brings him to the safety of the boat- an image of the Church: “You are not yet what you will be. I love you and will never allow you to sink. Trust in me.”

Another insight is that it is not Jesus’s purpose to be “Mr. Fix It.” After all, it is Peter who sets out across a stormy sea. His intended destination is Jesus, who beckons him, just as he calls each one of us. Take note: Jesus does not beckon from the safety of the shore or from up above the stormy sea. He is in the storm with us to the end, which proves to be the beginning. Jesus is God-made-human, not a Deus ex machina. As a friend reminded me recently after a rough day: “Holiness is in the struggle.”

Jesus gains power by going off to pray. There is a link between Jesus’s prayer and his power to overcome the storm. And so, we might well ask ourselves, would some of the storms I experience rage less if I put time aside for prayer? When life comes at you fast and hard prayer may seem like a waste of time. We hear voices shouting from the gales: “Don't just stand there! Do something!” But, as Elijah learned, there is another voice, a tiny whispering one, that tells us, “Do not be afraid.”⁴

Having considered the question, “What can we expect of God?,” let’s return to the question, “What does God expect of us?” God expects us to realize that it is through life’s storms that Jesus summons us and draws close to us. When we heed this call, we move beyond our too often closed-in selves into the chaos we fear will overwhelm us. My dear friends in Christ, especially in these perilous times, let us venture forth to Jesus across the stormy waters of life, over the waves of our fear and self-doubt. In this Eucharist Jesus calls us to himself, saying “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid.”⁵

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1 Deuteronomy 1:6.^↩
2 Matthew 14:30-31.^↩
3 Matthew 14:25.^↩
4 Matthew 14:27.^↩
5 Matthew 14:27.^↩