Receive and profess

Say someone wants to resist this.  He thinks, for example, he may go as far as believing that his child exists, but not so far as to believe anything beyond the immediately obvious exists.

Notice – this man still does not understand Plantinga.  It’s not that God is another, or a higher kind of belief.  Plantinga is saying that just as you know who your children are – just so can we know God lives.  

And I say:  This is how I believe in God.  It is just immediately obvious to me, just as my environment is because it resides in my field of vision.  I am not blind – I can see.

Nevertheless, let us indulge this objection.  Say that such a man stops short of believing in God because he has got the idea that God cannot be believed in such an immediate and obvious way.  His sensus divinitatis is broken.

In this case, we will need to persuade him in another way.  We must proceed to the mind.

The Great Things of the Gospel

The argument proceeds thus:  You see a truck coming down the road, and you immediately and unreflectively believe there is a truck coming down the road.  You do not have to debate it with yourself, you do not furnish an argument or even a single intermediate thought.  You go straight from seeing to believing, because this is a properly basic belief, delivered by your senses.

Similarly, when one hears of the greatness of God, detects a purpose behind certain occurrences, or learns of salvation by the suffering and death of Jesus Christ, he might (quite rationally) go straight from hearing to believing, because this is a properly basic belief, delivered by the sensus divinitatis.  

Now, the objection is that many do not reach this conclusion, therefore it is not an authentic way of knowing God.

First, the objection assumes that God would not or could not, nevertheless, instill a sensus divinitatis.  But we have already seen that God could; as to whether He would, that may be more than we can claim without some higher testimony.

Very well, but it may be a faulty function, some cognitive faculty is broken.  

This, of course, assumes that the claims of the Gospel are false, rather than true.  They may be false – but then it is astonishing how many people, across the globe and throughout time, have accepted them as true.  There develops a stark line over which people sort themselves, between those who think rightly (not believing) and those who are delusional (believing).

Or, if they really are true, and the opposite conclusion is reached.  That is, those who believe are the rational ones, whose sensus divinitatis is working properly.  And it would turn out that those who do not believe are lacking, that they are cognitively deficient.  Of course this is not an epithet – it must be applied to one side or the other, depending on the truth of the matter.

The appeal to the soul is this:  What is your honest, naked response to the Creed?  What does your soul say, when you hear such things as…

I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth…

I believe in Jesus Christ, the only begotten son of God…God from God, light from light, true God from true God…

For us men* and our salvation, he came down from Heaven…for our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate, suffered death, and was buried.  On the third day, he rose again…

I confess one baptism for the forgiveness of sins, and I look forward to the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come.

Perhaps nothing.  We do not need to put on as though something is true when it does not seem so.

But if your soul whispers, or says something; if you notice a tremor of hope, a first pang of joy; if, though weary, your soul nevertheless is roused by such simple, unadorned sentences – well maybe your sense of the divine is delivering properly basic beliefs after all.

I confess, I am more reliably moved to tears by the Creed than by any song, than by any direct appeal to my emotions.  Any given Sunday I will begin reciting the Creed and be unable to finish.  Consider the conjunction of “…born of the Father before all ages…” and “…he was conceived of the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, and became man.”  

You and I are men.  Think how maligned masculinity is, our very nature is, in our days.  Think how awful some men have been; think what flaws and evils we ourselves are guilty of.

Why would a perfect God deign to join us?  Why would he take on this corruptible nature, doomed to derision and failure, capable of inflicting pain and being afflicted?  Why come down from a high place, from glory, and offer up His life for humiliation and death?

Of course the heart and the soul are distinct but not unconnected.  And so my soul delivers these beliefs to my heart, and my heart is crushed.  This is the measure of His love, that God would become man, that He would give up the perfection of all things to know our imperfection, our vulnerability, our miserable condition.  He could have spoken redemption, but he let it be bled out of him instead.

And like a stone of great worth, it is only one way to look at the love of God; turn it just a little, and another brilliant facet casts a new light.

*This, of course, is meant to refer to men and women.  The ancients did not share our scruples with language.

The Sense of the Divine

Here, Plantinga makes an unusual move, and it will seem all the more suspect because we are skimming over his argument.  Still, I will attempt to explain and keep my steps in full view.

He first proposes that we assume God exists.  (Some would object, but this objection is juvenile.  It is a hypothetical, not something which must be accepted after the argument is over).

He then draws on a classical understanding of God, which says that God is omniscient, all-powerful, and all the rest.  This is really all one statement (“Assume God exists”), but I amplify it in order to make the next point clearer.

If God exists, then He could reasonably have put within us a cognitive faculty (like memory, like our senses) which delivers knowledge of the divine.   That is, of Himself.

The point is easily made with an author and her story.  An author – in the context of her story – is much like God, who knows everything that can be known and is powerful enough to do anything that can be done.  She, almost by default, makes it so that her characters learn about the world through their senses and through their memories, and so on.  She could easily put within them another cognitive faculty:  The ability to recognize her, as she affects the story or decides to appear within it.

Now, this may or may not be good storytelling, but that doesn’t matter.  It is plain to see that it can be done.  Likewise for God, in our world.

This faculty Plantinga calls the sensus divinitatis, or the sense of the divine.  

This is the all-too-brief, painfully truncated version of Plantinga’s argument:  While we can offer arguments for God’s existence, they are not necessary.  As it turns out, our minds can have direct knowledge of God, and of the truth of the Gospels, through our sense of the divine.

What, exactly, is our appeal to the soul?

Cognitive Faculties

In every case, our properly basic beliefs are delivered to us through the use of our cognitive faculties.  In the examples above, the beliefs that “I hold a book in my hands” and “My daughter has called my name” are delivered through the senses.

That’s just as a start.  The belief that “My daughter has called my name” also depends on the cognitive faculty of memory.  

That is, we assume that our memories are generally reliable, even if they are not always perfect on the details.  We assume this to the degree that we do not even question it.  “I was alive ten years ago” seems obviously true to us, and thus, it is properly basic.

Likewise, you believe from the past – and by no other proof – that your daughter is your daughter.  You have a memory of the day she was born, of the day she came home, of her earliest days.  It is this continuity of memory which causes you to believe she is your daughter.*

Let us have the quintessential demonstration of our reliance on memory:  How would you prove that the Universe did not come into existence five minutes ago, with all of the appearances of being 13.8 billion years old?  How would you prove that you were alive more than 5 minutes ago, if I simply say that all of those pictures, records, and memories were fabricated and planted to make you believe you were alive more than 5 minutes ago?

It is not something you can prove, unless you accept that the memory is reliable, and delivers properly basic beliefs.  Then again, like doubting everything, you can try to wrestle your shadow here, and make-believe that the past is real without relying your memory.  Take it up with Bertrand Russell.

*One might object that a birth certificate, or a DNA test, would also prove this.  First of all, such things would only be further demonstrations of Plantinga’s point.  If we know, from a DNA test, that this is your daughter – how do we know that?  Can’t a DNA test be faked?  Aren’t the fundamental assumptions of science just more properly basic beliefs?

The point here, of course, is that this is the ordinary way we know such things, and this way of knowing is near-universally believed.  The reason is that it is properly basic.

Properly Basic

A philosopher named Alvin Plantinga develops the notion of warranted beliefs over a three-book series, culminating in Warranted Christian Belief.  His goal, very briefly, was to establish how we know the things we know, and what counts for certain knowledge.

One of his central concepts is that of a “properly basic belief.”  This is a kind of belief which everyone understands, and very few think much about.

Consider the medium through which you are reading these words; say it is through a book.  Upon recognition of the book, you immediately and unreflectively believe that there is, in fact, a book in your possession.  Say you heard your daughter calling your name:  As soon as the sound reached your ears, and the message reached your mind, you would immediately and unreflectively believe that she had spoken your name.

These things seem obvious, which is the point – such beliefs Plantinga regards as properly basic, because they are the fundamental beliefs of our existence.  In these instances, we simply trust the deliverances of our senses without a second thought – in fact, without a first thought, which is what makes them basic.

What is the expected objection here?  Well, it is possible that there really isn’t a book in your hands, after all!  Likewise, how do we know your daughter is not a figment of your imagination?  What if we’re all in the Matrix, and none of this actually is real?

On the one hand, if you want to doubt absolutely everything, have at it!  But you will only be left with your own existence, and it seems irrational to believe that you exist alone, that absolutely everything else around you is simply imagined by you.  (This could be demonstrated at length, but I will presume we share a position against such a view).

On the other, once Neo breaks out of the Matrix – how does he know he’s out?  

Well, by his senses and other properly basic beliefs.  All in all, he forms all of his beliefs in essentially the same way he did while in the Matrix.  In fact, his basic beliefs were required in order to break out of the Matrix!

It occurs to me that this is like the law of noncontradiction.  The law is so fundamental that when you set out to prove it false, you realize that you can only do so by assuming it true.  The dog catches his tail, but he cannot consume himself.

From the proof of the heart we move to the proof of the soul.

As such, it must be borne in mind:  The proof of the heart appeals directly to the heart.  It is not meant to convince the mind.  Likewise, you may find yourself objecting to this proof of the soul.  But who is objecting, your mind or your soul?

Let us work carefully.  First, this is an argument developed in the mind, but it is based on an appeal to the soul (or so say I).  Therefore, it may be engaged in two ways:  First, rationally.  Is the explanation coherent?  Are any logical fallacies committed?  Are any facts misstated or erroneous?

The second is by the soul itself.  That is, you may not find any fault with the argument, except that it does not seem to convince your soul.  (Indeed, that is already accounted for).  Somehow, though you can imagine it seeming true to someone else, it does not seem true to you.

Very well.  As to the mind, objections have been made to this argument, and answered.  In any event, though the argument is not mine, it seems eminently reasonable to me.  Any error is likely to be mine in the retelling.

As to the soul, I cannot do any more than appeal.  Indeed, it seems that God Himself has left our souls to us, free from any worldly power.  That being the case, I would commend to you a penetrating search.  Let the immediate objections rest for a moment, and look yourself:  Does anything I am saying reach you, make contact with your soul?  Can you remember a time before when it did?

Whatever you find, turn it over, examine it.  Even think of it as someone else, so that you can be as objective as possible.  Let us see what we find.

About 9 years ago, Marcy and I adopted a dog which had been found wandering the streets of Rainelle, WV.  We were set on adopting a lab, and we preferred a younger dog to an older one.

Two dogs grabbed our attention, and so we took each one for a walk and spent some time in a room playing with them.  Russ may remember:  I was actually inclined toward the 8 month old female lab, which earned a sweet name that I have now forgotten.  She was more affectionate, more pleased to see us.

The 4 month old male dog was a bit aloof, if you ask me.  He seemed to be about his own business, and it was incidental that anyone else was in the room with him.  On our walk, he held his head up in an almost regal pose, perhaps wondering how he would ever return to his kingdom in Rainelle.

But Marcy preferred the male dog, and when we returned for a second visit (and to make a decision), the female dog revealed herself to be irritable, bordering on lashing out.  We planned on having kids (HA!) so this was simply unacceptable.  That’s how it happened that we adopted Daniel Thomas, better known as Danny.

From hours of reading and research, I learned that puppies – and adopted dogs – can suffer emotional anxiety in a new home.  It was recommended that the new dog sleep at the owners’ bedside, and so I leashed Danny to the foot of our bed and held my hand down to comfort him through the night.

In fact, Danny went with us everywhere.  I was already in construction then, so I did what many contractors do, and brought him along to the work site.  My day job was amenable to having him in the office – a converted home, anyway – and so he came along there, too.  This made pretty quick work of housetraining him, though he was a smart dog anyway.  He also caught on to sitting, laying, and heeling, which in total was about all we needed from him.

Not that he always listened.  It was, to the very end of his life, impossible to get him to sit still when guests arrived.  Each person was an enemy at the gate, until the gate opened – then they were long lost members of the pack, finally come home.

There’s also a reason the stereotype exists of a contractor bringing his dog everywhere – they make excellent company.  A dog is always on the lookout for food and danger, and a man can’t help appreciating that.  When neither is afoot, a dog is always ready to play, and men are especially suited for playing with dogs.

Truly, Danny was a dog who belonged in West Virginia.  I can remember his boundless energy, his frustration at being leashed.  Because when you let him loose – the very ground lit up beneath him.  You could almost see the tips of the grass singed by his blazing speed.  I remember taking him into some tall grass one day, and he, by the enormity of his exuberance, bent the reeds and stalks in wide orbits, just cut through it like a howling wind.

We took him on all of our trips and on long walks and everyone came to appreciate the black lab mutt who could run like a deer.

One story especially worth mentioning comes from a day visiting Luke and Keveney and their black lab, Sally.  Danny and Sally were great friends, and one day we were all on the the porch when Sally and Danny started barking at the end of the clearing into the woods.  They were deep barks, meant to scare off whatever they saw in the forest.  So Luke got up to check it out, and as he approached the woods, it became obvious that he couldn’t see any danger.

So he began to creep to the edge of the clearing with exaggerated, high steps, which convinced both dogs to proceed with caution.  Suddenly Luke turned and cried out in a panic, and both dogs bolted like the devil himself was in those woods.  Probably the best laugh I ever had in West Virginia.

I can’t remember for sure, but I think it occurred to me to let Danny stay in WV when we decided to move back to Illinois.  I’ve always thought it was something of a tragedy that he should be crammed into suburban life when he had only known the wild and wonderful lands of Appalachia.  In fact, in the last months of his life, I seriously contemplated bringing him back and letting him loose.  Near certain death, I’m sure, but glorious until the final moments.  And he died anyway.

Nevertheless, he came with us, and there was much to love.  First, like Amelia in WV, he was the first to welcome each of our kids home after their births.  We always made a point to bring home a blanket the child had slept in, and let Danny smell it and get accustomed to it.  The next day, he would recognize the scent when a new baby came home, and it was he welcoming the child, rather than an imposition on him to accept a stranger.

Though no dog could be as patient as Jack, he was nevertheless patient with all kinds of petting, eye gouging, rough handling, and attempted pony rides.  He could often be found kissing the children, especially as babies, and occasionally snuggling with them.  There’s not much cuter than a dog resting his head on a child’s chest.

We went on countless walks and hikes, and the older girls even had turns at the leash…though he did drag Amelia at least a couple of times in pursuit of a squirrel.

But that’s something.  I will forever recommend to any would-be parents that they adopt a dog first.  For better or for worse – for the dog – you can scarcely hope to learn more about yourself, and yourself as a caretaker, than by caring for a puppy.  They are excellent instructors in patience, attitude, and empathy.

In the later years, Danny suffered occasional seizures, which would give him a sense of vertigo and send him tumbling to the ground.  In spite of this, he would scramble to his feet over and over until he found us, when at length we could restrain his panic until he was calm and oriented again.  They were nasty things, those seizures, and he bore them heroically.

Again, it does something to you as a caretaker to enter into that situation.  I want to live smoothly, happily, efficiently; a seizure is somewhere on the opposite end of that spectrum.  It compels empathy, it forces one to come to grips with the imbalances of life.  Even in the suburbs, there is chaos – it’s just framed differently.

Because his knee was going bad, and we didn’t share as many walks, those seizures became the predominant form of bonding.  I would never have wished them upon him, but given that they occurred, I took the opportunity to express compassion for him.

Marcy says she knew the end was near on the last day.  There was something about his demeanor – at one point he seemed to nip at Charlie (probably because he was provoked, but maybe not).  He also carried himself with a certain melancholy, which prompted Marcy to check on him more frequently than usual.  She says he first laid by each of the kids’ rooms, then by her side of the bed, and finally by my side, where he died.

I was at work at the time, but I wish I had been there to reach out my hand to comfort him, like the day we brought him home.

Children would write letters to CS Lewis, mainly because of the Narnia series, and in one of those a child asked about pets going to Heaven.  Lewis pointed out that there was no word on this from Scripture, but that – and I paraphrase – if you’ve ever looked deeply into the eyes of a beloved animal who is taken in as a pet, you feel certain there is something behind those eyes which will live forever.

Stella is still an infant, and the twins don’t really know what happened, but Amelia and Ruth do.  Amelia was deeply moved by Danny’s death, and Ruth was inspired to music-making with her mother as they memorialized Danny.  She did not promise that Danny was in Heaven, but did say that God will do whatever is best for Danny, and that cannot fail to be true.

I’m not sure anyone who has met our second eldest has managed to forget her.  I like to say that I’ve never met anyone like her, and it’s still true.

Ruth is a child who has seemed to love life from birth; one assumes she was not unhappy in the womb, either.  For most of her life, she has run, nearly at a dead sprint, everywhere she wants to go.  When we have gone on walks, she runs.  Her wavy blond hair bobs behind her, and if I know anything about running, I’d say she has excellent form.

She was already trying to turn cartwheels…well, I’m not sure if anyone ever told her what one was.  I would not be surprised if she had invented them for herself.  All I can positively say is that, when she struggled at first to get them right, I gave her a little coaching.

A little.  I am not a gymnast, or a gymnastics coach.  I can’t do a cartwheel myself.  But a few words from an amateur about how to push and propel her body, and she was doing them end-over-end.  A complete natural.*

Ruth’s affections are over-the-top, and she was often in time-out for nearly smothering her siblings.  She has unbelievably good comic timing, bringing me to tears a number of times.  Ruth has made up languages and wants to know all about bodies and is very savvy about social cues…when she wants to be.

I could say as much as I want, but it is nothing like a few minutes of Ruth in her full strength.  Her presence is such strong stuff, her energy so potent, that many have come away amused, thrilled…

And they expect trouble for us, her parents.  She is the quintessential willful, wild child.  Ruth broke her leg when she was two, and while the doctor set up her cast, I said, “Is it ok if she walks on this?”

He was puzzled at first, then understood my meaning, and waved it off, “Oh, she won’t be able to walk with this cast on.”

“Well,” I insisted, “If she does manage it, is that ok, or should we prevent her from doing it?”

“With the way I’m setting it,” he said, with a hint of condescension, “she won’t be able to walk on it.”

Somewhere around her four-week appointment, I brought her in, and he watched her shuffling around the exam room…walking on the cast.  He was in disbelief, and told me we had to prevent her from walking on it, because it could mess up her gait.

Having known Ruth for two years, I was so completely nonplussed by this development that I did not bother telling the doctor, “Told you so.”

It’s easy to see why others are impressed – well, overwhelmed! – by Ruth.  She is a cyclone of enthusiasm, a three foot tall force of nature.  She will leap onto your lap without warning, ask some intimate question about your body or your relations, then pull you three directions to play cards, dress up, and do cartwheels, all at once if possible.

You will say something surprised you, or hurt, or that you need a break, and she will let up for all of three seconds.  Maybe.  But whatever you say, short of absolutely putting your foot down, she will not stop.  And even then, she will negotiate.

One hardly knows what to do with her.  One only expects that she will flit and flutter and positively burst in all directions at once, and naturally that gets more serious the older she becomes.  Naturally, eventually, that becomes actual trouble.

I utterly reject this conclusion.  I spit it out for the lukewarm drivel that it is.

First – Have you ever been called, “stubborn as a mule?”  Some mules have been dubbed, “stubborn as Ed.”

Where our guests are too polite or too timid to drop the hammer, I have few qualms.  Where Ruth pushes, I am all but immovable.  Where she might burst, I de-fuse.  Where she is sophisticated in her appeals, insistent on her intentions – I cut her designs at the root, and leave them stacked for the fire.

If she is a cyclone, I am the deluge, a 1,000 year flood.  (A father ought to loom large).

Second – why all this talk, anyway?  Do you think I boast?  Do you think I compare my strength with a child and thus exalt myself?

God love you, no.  I am about the serious, absurd, disruptive, epoch-making work of forming a Saint.  It is not about me at all, except that God has seen fit to give me the task.

And He has given it to you, too.

But think about Ruth – she really could be a wild child, no?  How if I simply threw up my hands, and no one loomed large in her life?  What then?

The very thought disgusts me.  Honestly, somebody bury me alive if I display such cowardice.  But first give me a chance, and simply slap me across the face.

No – I see St. Ruth, not Ruth the wild child.  I see the eternal youth of God in her uncontrollable enthusiasm.  I see the perceptiveness of the Oracle in her understanding of social cues and in her moral compass.  I see St. Teresa of Avila, chiding God Almighty, in her easy chiding of adults and parents alike.

I see the hope of ages, light in darkness.  I see the blistering, unrelenting love of Christ in her smothering kisses.

Think she is uncontrollable?  Cause her the least part of scandal, and watch what I do.  They’ll cast Jason Statham in the title role.**

I’ve told her, as we’ve told all our kids, that our goal is that they should be Saints.  I don’t know if she invented it, or if I did, but one day she declared that she would become “St. Ruthie the Silly.”

Amelia, her practical older sister, objected that this was not how Saints are named.  But I gently corrected her, “She can be St. Ruthie the Silly, if that’s what God wants.”

*It’s no joke.  We signed her up for gymnastics classes, and she was quickly invited to the advanced level.  I came to watch just one of her practices, and it’s for the best, because I hardly made it out without weeping.  I’m a sap, but she is gifted, and that’s beautiful to behold.

**Now I see what is meant by the “jealousy” of God.  It is ferocious.

“O death, where is your sting?

O hell, where is your victory?”

– 1 Corinthians 15:55

If you’ve bothered to click through and read this, I will honor your time by getting to the point.

Ladies and gentlemen:  Hell is real.

Hell is any one person having power over all the others; hell is Sauron and the Orcs conquering Middle Earth; hell is the outer darkness; hell is being alive enough so that you can suffer maximally.

Think child abuse.  Think rape.  Think torture in a foreign land with no home of coming home.  Think of sex slavery.  Think of your children being kidnapped.  Think of being tried, sentenced, and executed – and you are innocent.  Think betrayal, think of losing everything.  Think of powers that be, who seem never to suffer, while you live and die at their whim.

Hell is immense, relentless, insurmountable suffering with no end in sight.  God damn, indeed.

Whatever you think of the doctrine, you already recognize the abstraction – Hell is real.  And it seems never to be defeated.

We have not even touched on death.

Think how death looks to the first humans – it is absolute, terrifying and mysterious.  A person is up, walking around and alive; then his body is utterly still.  Cold and stiff.  After a few days, it is grotesque, and eventually it withers away and is gone.

It goes without saying, doesn’t it?

Death is brutal.  Death is devastating.  Death is a force of nature, a scorched earth, inescapable, to be joked about nervously if we wish not to cry about it.

It is the destroyer of souls, and of families.  It is merciless, not at all subject to our feelings or wishes.  Death does not give a single f*ck.  (But that is its role).

Death and Hell assume victory.  They assume the final word on human existence.  What can anyone do in the face of such misery, such abject vulnerability?

But if a man were to rise from the dead…

Along comes St. Paul, who gives us the absurd words above.  Listen to him!

He is taunting death.  He is taunting Hell!

Imagine yourself, just as you are, standing before the army of thousands of Orcs – millions of Orcs, if you like! –

No.  I mean, really imagine it.  Put yourself on the muddy earth, as night creeps across the sky, and the ground trembles with the marching of a whole army wishing for nothing less than your absolute suffering and death.

If you have ever been terrified of anything…imagine that.

Then, dare it to come get you.  And know that it will (St. Paul still died a brutal death).

That all makes for a charming story, and it is elevating and pleasant to hear from 20 centuries away.  Anyone speaking truth to power, any unlikely hero standing up to a villain, often has that effect, even if the story is badly written.

The Christian is set apart – is holy – when she completely trusts it.  When she puts no wager on this life, but bets everything on the next.  Then she is truly on another level.

Now that is terrifying.  If you are a Christian, that’s what you signed up for.  If you are a Catholic, that’s what you profess every time you sign the Cross.  If you are wrong, you lose everything you have.

We do well to lose our stomachs over this.  Because if you are right, then you gain impossibly more than you ever could earn.  It is the greatest gamble we all make.

Having wagered, there can scarcely be anything more invigorating than witnessing a man taunting all powers and principalities in our world.  There can be nothing more encouraging – that is, bestowing courage.  Even the unbelievers understand this.  Just listen to Matt Maher lead into the final refrain…

I know there’s some people here tonight

You’ve been struggling in your faith

You’ve had doubts and anxieties, you’ve had fears about your life

And those things occupy your heart and your mind more than your faith does

I want to remind you, that the same power that raised Jesus Christ from the dead

It can resurrect your heart tonight

It can give you courage instead of fear and doubt

It can give you confidence in God

If that’s you tonight, put your hand on your heart with me

Sing these words over our lives and believe in the truth God has for them…

This is not a man afraid, even if by every account he should be.  Neither is St. Paul.

O, Death, where is your sting?

O, Hell, where is your victory?

O, Church, come stand in the light!  Our God is not dead – He’s alive!  He’s alive!

Whom, then, shall you fear?

Friday of the Third Week of Advent

Reflection

There will be at least one feminist listening in, and it will be a testament to her if she can do so without protest.

On the Feast (The Feast!) of the Immaculate Conception, we have Mary’s experience of the Annunciation – that is, the announcement of the birth of Christ.

On Friday of the third week of Advent – no small thing, to be sure – we have Joseph’s.  But men are often willing to lift up their wives.  Just watch this man work.

First, recall – in the time of Joseph and Mary, fornication was highly stigmatized.  It is less so now – make of that what you will.  But in their time, his very honor…

Shall we say, how he identified?

…was under threat by Mary’s pregnancy.  In other words, because he was righteous, this state of affairs was unacceptable to him.  He would only marry a virgin.

But he had mercy on his betrothed, and decided to quietly divorce her.

Think of that.  By all appearances, she had disgraced him as completely as she could; but because …well, because he loved her, I think, he would not hold her out for punishment.  He would let her go quietly back to her family, and there would be no castigation, no calumniation, no abandonment.

We are so shameless in our age that there is not a parallel.  If you do not already understand Joseph’s predicament, you cannot.  We are diametrically opposed on this matter.

Be that as it may…

The Lord, God Almighty, chose not only Mary, but He chose Joseph as well.  Here was the man who would shepherd His son.  Here was the man – listen now – who would teach God incarnate how to be a man.

We could not stretch our foreheads high enough to comprehend this.  Any man listening – would you sign up for this?

I could not.  But quickly learn:  No mogul or king qualified for the job.  No muscleman, no pretty man, no self-righteous man was chosen.  A small-town carpenter was chosen.

What do you do for a living?

Now here are the angel’s words:

“Joseph, son of David,
do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home.
For it is through the Holy Spirit
that this child has been conceived in her.”

See, he is not afraid of the angel.  He is afraid of breaking God’s commands.  This is why he is a Saint.  This is a man who would stare down the dragon in the Garden of Eden, and not bite the apple.  Or so I think.

But anyway, listen further:

“‘She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus,
because he will save his people from their sins.’”

All this took place to fulfill
what the Lord had said through the prophet:

Behold, the virgin shall be with child and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel,

which means ‘God is with us.’
When Joseph awoke,
he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him
and took his wife into his home.
He had no relations with her until she bore a son,
and he named him Jesus.”

Now, we may imagine that a great deal of deliberation and discussion took place.  Perhaps it did.  Perhaps he rushed to Mary, and either apologized for disbelieving her, or wept for joy that her story was true.  Perhaps he had no idea, because Mary did not tell him the “why” of her pregnancy.

What is told to us, though, is fidelity and obedience.  The human spirit has always rebelled against such things.  It is remarkable when we can embrace them.

Angel:  “Do not be afraid to take Mary into your home”

Joseph:  “[he] took his wife into his home.”

Angel:  “You are to name him Jesus.”

Joseph:  “And he named him Jesus.”

See, he did not even reply to the angel!  These were his actions, observed by Matthew:  he heard and obeyed.

Notice what might be missed…Joseph knew his Scripture.

“Behold, the virgin shall be with child and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel,

which means ‘God is with us.'”

I asked any men reading whether they would sign up for Joseph’s job.  It is a sifting question, one that might find all of us wanting for virtue.  But it is worth noting that, in order to pass through the eye of the needle, a man needs to know what God has proclaimed.