Mark has now reached the point, in my reading, where the conflict between Jesus and the religious authorities is escalating. Every page, it seems, alludes to the fact that the authorities are plotting to kill Him, and would do it immediately, except that the people would revolt against such an action.

So, like theives, they will wait for the night.

In the meantime, they continue to confront Christ about His teaching and actions. He drives the money changers out of the Temple and they want to know by what authority He has done this; they try to trap Him on the subject of paying taxes, and the resurrection; ultimately, they are incensed and furious that He would liken Himself to God and declare that they, far from appearances, have denied the Lord in their hearts.

All of this from under the shadow of the cross, within days of a torturous death.

On a purely human level, I am amazed at the way He keeps His cool. How can He think of that response to the Pharisees and Herodians – “Pay unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s” – knowing that they are bringing about His death? He may not make a single misstep in teaching or action, though they challenge him a thousand times in a hundred different ways.

How does He, with simplicity and elegance, craft a question for them – Was John’s baptism of God, or not? – or a parable – The parable of the vine-growers (Mark 12:1-12) – which so poignantly illuminates the tragedy of the high priests and the scribes, and their failure to be servants rather than to be those who are served?

I’m not as well-read as I’d like to be. In my humble reading, I’ve encountered the towering language of Dostoevsky and the subversive scalpel of Nietzsche’s thought. I’ve read Descarte thinking himself into existence and Plato building the incredible monument of philosophy one Socratic phrase at a time. Sun Tzu has shown me the secrets of war, and Simone Weil the tumbling depths of self-mortification. There are many others, brilliant lights, whose names I have not even heard of.

Even in the humble language of Mark, there is no one who compares with Jesus. Don’t think you’re hearing a cliche. I’ll spell out my reasons for saying so.

No one brings about such honesty which is completely devoid of self-pity. No one declares that his death is coming, by whom and what their method will be, who will betray him, and yet walks straight toward it without arming himself. No one – come on now – no one declares this, and immediately adds that he will rise again three days later.

No one demonstrates such cleverness – indeed, Jesus is shrewd as a serpent – in his defense of the lowly and his testimony to God. No one lives with such density of purpose that not only his words, but also his actions and context are declaring his mission at every moment. No one can be that deliberate, as though they built the stage and set the scene themselves, without the slightest hint of heavy-handedness.

No one operates within such a radius as that and fundamentally shapes the course of history. No one convinces people, centuries after his death, that it is good and worthy to give their lives in his name, whether by devotion or martyrdom.

Then there are the miracles to consider, and the complete self-forgetfulness in favor of serving others, even to death. That’s coming up next.

My wife works at a children’s hospital, and could fill many volumes with the stories she has to tell. Fortunately for me, she does not share them too often, or I would probably drown in despair.

Some nights the burden is quite heavy, and tonight she did unload a few stories on me. She was exposed to two patients today who were victims – seemingly unintended – of gun violence. Gangs were believed to be involved in both instances.

The first was a one year old, who was sleeping with her mother when a bullet ripped through their house at 1am. It pierced the child’s head and was embedded in the mother’s leg. Somehow, the child has survived, and in spite of losing one of her eyes, she shows many signs of good condition and potential for recovery.

Marcy went on to say that many people were pressing to visit the girl, whose mother was with her. The mother suggested that she knew the shooter, but would not say who it was. Marcy worried that one of these guests might want to harm the mother because of her knowledge, which made the day that much more tense.

At length, while telling this story and others, my wife grew exasperated. She said, “There is something wrong with the world when you can’t even be safe sleeping in your own home.” She had other things to say, but they may be safely summed up in this one lamentation.

I had a thought then, which I will share now. The preface I want to offer is that I have been truly blessed with an experience of security through my life, and so I cannot fully appreciate this thought, though it was mine to speak.

“I think now we have come to a real understanding of Original Sin. Original Sin is not a distant theological idea; it is a gunshot wound to the head when you’re sleeping next to your mother.”

And that’s the problem politics can’t fix, nor can any NGO, neither can any social structure begin to address. You will never annihilate the fact that humans experience conflict, and that we have designed and built weapons in order to have our way in those conflicts. Indeed, a great effort is required just to keep some semblance of order, and that is no small thing. After all, at least one person has experienced a life of relative security.

If you want to say that Christians are pie-in-the-sky types, you are not grasping the doctrine of Original Sin, and you fail to appreciate the true significance that we attach to the title of Savior. Or, if you do grasp the former, you begin to understand the incredible claims of our Founder.

Just can’t find it at the moment.  Suffice it to say I really am moved by both sides of this story, and not only for the headline.  Have a read about the gifts that were exchanged.

As noted in previous posts, Barclay has a tendency to “naturalize” some of the events in the life of Jesus.  One of the main ways he does this is by suggesting that demon possession, for example, was merely a psychological illness; a serious illness to be sure, with staggering consequences, yet truly a product of the mind.

Now, I don’t dismiss that psychological illness could play a role in something like demon possession, and that the power of cultural beliefs (here, a cultural belief in the reality of demon possession) can exacerbate and extend suffering in some cases.  Let us indeed consider the  nuances.

Still, from a very (fortunately) limited experience and from second-hand information, it is hard for me to dismiss the other possibility – that demons take some form in reality.  That is, people are sometimes stricken completely outside of their wishes (however masochistic these can be), and the condition manifests a kind of power and fury that borders on supernatural.

The trouble with this “naturalizing” of miracles, as I see it, is two-fold:  One, it often seems a stretch to draw out of the context that these things were other than supernatural acts.  Two – even if you could make a reasonable case in every instance, sometime you have to come up against that most staggering event of all, the resurrection of Jesus.  And I would ask – will you also naturalize this?

After all, we have said from the beginning that our faith is complete folly if the Resurrection is not true.  Explain away the exorcisms, explain away the miracles of healing, explain away (if you dare) the raising of Lazarus from the dead – you simply cease to be Christian when you deny the resurrection.

This is not a judgement; it’s a definition.

Barclay seems to walk the line of naturalizing miracles in his commentary on the passage at the top of this post.  Rather than explain it away, though, he expounds on the lasting meaning of the event, and in the process he relates a nice anecdote.

He says that Jesus calms the figurative storms in our lives, and notes that one of these is the storm of sorrow.  Then comes this story:

There is an old story of a gardener who in his garden had a favourite [sic] flower which he loved much.  One day he came to the garden to find that flower gone.  He was vexed and angry and full of complaints.  In the midst of his resentment he met the master of the garden and hurled his complaints at him.  “Hush!” said the master, “I plucked it for myself.”

This, he says, is like the way death works, and we are sometimes angry at God for “plucking” our loved ones away from us.  But if we recall that He is the Master of the garden, we can allow Him to calm the storm of our sorrow and be certain of an eventual reunion.

Quick note:  I hope/plan to finish the Gospel of Mark before Holy Week, and then to finish reading the second part of the Pope’s study on the person of Jesus.  It’s really, really good, and I unreservedly recommend it if you’re at all interested.

I’ve taken to heart this notion that Jesus, when called upon, did not insist on his own need for rest or solitude.

He did take opportunities for these things, and it does not seem that he experience the kind of ambitious restlessness which is common today.  Rather, he did not look at a person in need and say, “Maybe later, but now I need to rest.”

A self-indictment is necessary here:  I have spent too much time insisting on my own equilibrium, mainly at work.  At home, this is just an impossible thing, far even from ludicrous.

But at work, you know – no one cries, or screams.  At least, not the co-workers.  They’re not your direct charges at all times.  You can almost pretend to be something else, in order to protect your interests.

Anyway…

I’ve taken the example of Jesus to heart at work.  Rather than *barely* hiding my exasperation over one thing or another, I have endeavored to be cheerful.

Whereas I have, at times, done only as much as was necessary, I have begun looking to see what else could be added to the request.

“You would like me to mount these wall files you bought?  They’re the wrong color?  No problem.  I’ll take care of everything.”

I’ve not perfected this turn of grace.  I’m still, for all who care to investigate, a prig.

Nevertheless, it’s that small step, the size of which does not matter as much as the direction.  It is like what Thomas Merton says to God, “I believe the desire to please you does in fact please you.”

Exactly there is one of the really significant leaps of faith – to trust that God cares what you are doing about the little things.

Now interrupting the series of posts on the Gospel according to Mark for this (important?) bulletin…

In other places I have commented on my love of local newspapers.  We get the Joliet Herald News, and I read every issue.

This guy, a columnist named George Gaspar, finally got my goat one too many times.  I am compelled to write …A LETTER TO THE EDITOR!

Here is his column.  Below is my response (not sure why it’s in bold).

With 300 words or less, the Editor has put me at a disadvantage.  I can’t have all of my grievances redressed, so we’ll’ve [sic] to settle for the major point.

Ed Pluchar
New Lenox

It is amazing what a good commentary can do.

Some time back I attempted to read the Gospel according to Luke, and I found myself stumbling constantly.  This was nothing more than a form of unfamiliarity – despite my upbringing and hearing passages from the New Testament (at least) once a week for as long as I can remember, I don’t get first century Galilee.

Fine, but aren’t the episodes and teachings timeless?  If you’ll labor with the text, won’t it come alive in some way very near to your own life?  Sure it will, but that can seem an awful lot like cherry-picking.  And that’s probably not quite fair, because one does not usually want to cherry-pick, but to understand the gospel as a complete work, as though one had walked with Jesus and experienced Him.

Anyway, we’re veering off the course.  Stay focused, you.

If the text must be understood – at least to some extent – from the perspective of a 1st century reader, Barclay has translated the social and historical (con)text into 20th century language.

Isn’t this the 21st century?  The man died in 1978, dude.  What do you want?

Once he has done this – once it is like reading a biography of a near contemporary – then the timeless teachings and stories are all the more brilliant.

For example, Mark introduces us to John the Baptist in the early verses of chapter 1, and paints quite a vivid and brief picture of him:  He is out in the wilderness, baptizing, eating locusts and honey.

Now, my initial reading of this (and lingering impression) is, “Locusts?  Come on.”

Letting that sit with you how it may, Barclay expounds:  Locusts may have been a kind of nut or bean, which was the food of the poorest of the poor.  Honey could have been wild honey, or sap from a certain kind of tree.

I don’t know why, but that is comforting to me.  The man might have been eating beans and honey, and I find it easier to imagine myself doing the same.  Why should that matter?

Because I know, going into this, that John was called by Jesus “the greatest man ever born of a woman.”  And yet he would be the least in Heaven.  Was he great because he ate simple (possibly disgusting) food?

Barclay again:  “Between the centre (sic) of Judaea and the Dead Sea lies one of the most terrible deserts in the world.  It is a limestone desert; it looks warped and twisted; it shimmers in the haze of the heat; the rock is hot and blistering and sounds hollow to the feet as if there was some vast furnace underneath…In the Old Testament it is sometimes called Jeshimmon, which means The Devestation.  John was no city-dweller.  He was a man from the desert and from its solitudes and desolations.  He was a man who had given himself a chance to hear the voice of God.”

This is pretty bleak.  I shudder at the notion of a place called The Devestation.

And still, I am comforted – there is something profound about the desert (someone has pointed out that the three major theistic religions came out of the desert) which I admire and respect.  It puts to shame the notion that salvation might be found by no greater a feat than eating bugs on Fear Factor.

Yet I can’t live like John, at least not right now.

“Can’t” is the wrong word.  I don’t believe God is asking me to do that, which is nice for me and my family.

What then?

The transition to Jesus is brief and abrupt, and this is the almost ludicrous pace of Mark.

Jesus is baptized, “and immediately the Spirit thrust him into the wilderness.  He was in the wilderness for forty days, and all the time he was being tested by Satan.  The wild beasts were his companions, and the angels were helping him.”

I’ll tell you what sticks for me:  What must it be like to have an angel helping you?

Widening the scope, think how much could be written about this.  We could have a feature length movie on those 40 days, or put together an encyclopedia which would categorize the temptations and offer strategies for overcoming them.

Mark is done in two verses.  Barclay comments for four pages.

The material of these first verses, until verse 16, is pretty heady, no matter who is guiding you through the context.  Beginning in that 16th verse, Mark, through Barclay, begins to answer that original question – What, exactly, does God want of me?

This Lent, I’ve decided to give up Starcraft.  There is nothing to be gained by admitting this, except a stage for the next statement.

I’ve also decided to read the gospel of Mark, along with a commentary.  I’ve selected William Barclay‘s commentary, which is both readily available and approved by the likes of Archbishop Fulton Sheen.

Actually, I consider this my primary objective, and the former creates time to make it possible.

So what?  Well, perhaps not much.  I’m only here telling you because I want to (try to) hold myself accountable.  My aim will be to share some thoughts – Barclay’s or mine as the muse suggests – and hopefully come to know Christ more nearly.

I can start there.  That last phrase – to know Christ more nearly – is somewhat famous among Christians, and I think has been made into a hymn (if it wasn’t originally that).  Now, it is a veritable cliche, and the worst kind – a religious cliche.  (That’s an interesting topic).

Let us set aside the cliche and I will say it – I have been wondering, in my heart and out loud, whether Christ listens to me.  This is apart from His omniscience, by which He would necessarily know all of my thoughts, words, and actions.

And the implication is vastly true – I believe Christ is the greatest man, the Son of God (if there ever was one).  I am, rather, vastly disappointed in myself.  If I believe these things, how do I account for the way I actually think, speak, and act?

I mean, I can be a real prick.  I am envious beyond my control, spiteful even when the real damage is to my own position, impatient with reasonable requests, and insidiously selfish with my time and energy.  Total prick.

That’s when I want to blame God, and here is why:  I have asked, so many times, for God to guide me.  Not abstractly, not indirectly.  Come down – I’ve even said, “Come into this room.” – and precisely show me the Way.  Show me my errors, show me the excellent way, and I will follow it.  Insanely, I believe that last part.

I don’t say that I want to “follow Him more nearly” in a light way.  I’ve wept deeply, recklessly because of my desire that He would draw near and lift me up.  (It is too easy, in such a case, to conclude that God does not exist.  Atheists accuse believers of intellectual laziness, but many atheists are made by way of emotions overpowering the intellect.  There is no such thing as a blind watchmaker).

You can see that, among other things, I’m in my head, right?  I don’t think that is a fault, as long as there is balance.  But that other side – the immediate, long-term decision, the commitment made without any thought of the cost – does not come easily to me.  Where could I find it?  Where will I encounter Christ so concretely that I can be sure of His authentic personality, without any of the mitigating interpretations (and let’s say it, sensibilities and fears) that accompany the modern world?

As Barclay says, “If ever we are to get anything approaching a biography of Jesus, it must be based on Mark, for it is his delight to tell the facts of Jesus’ life in the simplest and most dramatic way.”

He adds that Mark’s gospel was likely based on the immediate preaching of Peter, which explains the sometimes discordant chronology and so many of the minor, vivid details.

As for my psychological burdens, my (seemingly) insurmountable sinfulness?  Here, we have Barclay’s translation of Mark’s opening:

“This is the beginning of the story of how Jesus Christ, the Son of God, brought the good news to men.”

Let’s have some good news.

A friend has had some questions about the Catholic faith, and one of them centered on Baptism.  How is it, she very reasonably asked, that we started with John baptizing Jesus and Jesus commissioning his disciples to baptize in the name of the Trinity and now have priests sprinkling infants with water, while no one else may baptize?

You playing at home probably know, as I did, that baptism is not the purview of priests alone, but also bishops – and under fairly ordinary circumstances, deacons can baptize.  You probably also knew that any believer could baptize under extraordinary circumstances – say, a death bed conversion.

But here’s your extra credit question:  Did you know that non-believers can baptize people into the Catholic Church?  It’s true, as long as they follow the form and formula, and carry the same intent as the Church does whenever she baptizes.

Maybe I’m alone in this – that, to me, is astounding.  It actually puts me in awe.  The Church is so caught up in the salvation of souls – desperate even, in a certain way – that we allow anyone to baptize (under particular, reasonable circumstances).  Richard Dawkins could baptize.

That’s called grace.

I guess this is kinda my blog now…

www.acatholicguy.com – still available.

There some ridiculous company, by the way, that owns www.restfortheweary.com.  I have the .net version of that, because they decided to take the .com and occupy it like Wall Street.  And they’re very gracious about it – every couple of months I get a form e-mail saying the site is available at a discount.  Instead of $2,000 or some ridiculous price, they’ve brought it down to a very reasonable $1,750.

I sent them an e-mail suggesting that they were motherless and enjoying their freedom at the cost of several thousand dollars.  I may have also offered them a discount on www.gotohell.com.

Or, I may have politely declined their offer, but thought about doing those things.