It’s a proven fact that I would estimate 55% of NFL players, upon scoring a touchdown, will give some acknowledgment to God.

You get the fingers pointed skyward, the knee and a moment of stillness, the chest tap, and so on.  I think I’ve seen the “grenade launch” where the players forgot to throw the grenade, so I suppose that one was attributed to God.  They’re lucky the whole stadium didn’t blow up.

Anyway, I have no problem with this, and sometimes find it touching.  I realize these players, typically, won’t represent the depth of religious devotion that many religious, parents, and children demonstrate every day.

Yet, like life, the most impressive displays of religious devotion come from the valley.  (Here, by “impressive,” I mean something that makes and/or leaves an impression).

Growing up, I admired a friend of mine, Dave, who played every game as hard as he could.  He simply would never give up, and fought tooth and nail to stay in every contest.  (I’m not kidding about the nails.  I was scratched on several occasions).  His ferocity was a contrast to my more even demeanor, and I frequently wondered if I was lacking in spirit.

While at St. Joseph Seminary, I had the marvelous opportunity to participate in a few of the annual basketball tournaments at Mundelein Seminary.  It was a great opportunity to meet men considering the priesthood from all over the Midwest, and for strong competition.

Our team was never a favorite.  Nevertheless, we made some impressive stands, and for some reason these were occasions when I found my spirit tested.

Two years in a row, each time following our elimination loss, I made my way to the basement locker room, where I could be alone.  Sitting on an old wooden bench with my head bowed, the sweat dripped from my face in slow, thoughtful drops.  Waves of heat and the sound of my breathing filled the room.  If you listened carefully, you could hear a slight shudder as I took my exhausted limbs and my stomach that seemed to be eating itself and the pulse that I could feel and hear in my neck and head and offered it all to God.  This was among the very feeble offerings in the history of our faith, but for me it was the undeniable sign of an unrelenting spirit.

Out of this fundamental experience, I have found ways to let that spirit spur me on to good works (or at least better works than I used to be doing) and greater love (or at least less-worse love than I formerly demonstrated).  I can’t knock those NFL players because I’ve seen that it’s important to acknowledge God after every contest of the spirit, win or lose.

I’m just going to do some linking here.

Fr. Robert Barron is a priest for the Archdiocese of Chicago and the Francis Cardinal George Chair of Faith and Culture at University of St. Mary of the Lake/Mundelein Seminary (I didn’t know that position existed until I wrote it just now).  When I was a seminarian at St. Joseph College Seminary (Loyola University Chicago), Fr. Barron came to speak on occasion.  He was always insightful and well-spoken, one of my favorite guest speakers.

He has a blog (www.wordonfire.org) and recently wrote an article for the Catholic New World (newspaper for the Archdiocese of Chicago) on the Hitchens brothers, Christopher and Peter.  The former is a renowned atheist, and the latter eventually came to espouse Christianity.  The two have sometimes debated the subjects of religion and God’s existence in public presentations.  While searching for Fr. Barron’s article, I encountered this video which hits all of the same points, sometimes verbatim.   It’s six minutes long, and thought-provoking.

Namely, he hits the point which seems so obvious that I am always surprised when intelligent atheists (Christopher Hitchens, in this case) miss it:  God is not the cause of society’s ills or tragedies.  When God is “involved” in these evils, what you’re really seeing is an abuse of the name of God and a misinterpretation of His Will.  Rather, the desire to eliminate God from our social fabric something worse than short-sighted.  It’s an inversion of the reality.  To promote ethics at the expense of God is like dumping your parachute because opening it will be jarring.  And you can follow the analogy all…the way…down…

This is like real-time breaking news!

Adam and I are having a G-conversation as I type.  That is, Google Chat, for all you tech-unsavvies.

We’re talking about home, the soul’s desire for wholeness.  I have just said that one has to believe there is only an endless search for home, if you’re looking for it in this life, and no soul finds it until he or she comes to Heaven.

(Salvation)

This has been a subject most inspiring and terrifying, for me.  Leaving inspiration [ecstatic-ness] aside as somewhat self-explanatory, it is terrifying to imagine this:  You come to your final moments, and you have the fortune (good or ill is subjective) to see it coming.  Your last breath, and you will feel your spirit leave your body.

But will you?  Is there a spirit in you, that will then leave when your body dies?

Or is that it?  [Black]  Do you close your eyes, and like an insignificant movie, you are never animated again?

(Life everlasting)

I’ve had to remind myself to believe this, or else my trust is vastly inconsistent with my thoughts.  And, so often, I am wanting for the kind of joy one might expect of a man who eagerly awaits the promises of Heaven.

That’s a funny thing, trust.  (Joy unimagined)  What would happen, I wonder, if I ever truly accepted the reality of Heaven?  If it was so joyfully inevitable to me, like family parties when I was a child, that I could not keep from singing?

This post may teeter on the brink of cheesiness.  You have been warned.

There’s a song by Ne-Yo called “Closer.”  ($250 to the winner of the wager, “Will Ne-Yo’s ‘Closer’ ever be referenced on www.twocatholicguys.net?”)

Stay with me.  I know I’m not helping.

Here’s a link to the music video.  Be warned, the lyrics and video are very suggestive.  Alright, time to talk myself out of this hole I’m digging.

My thesis might run something like this:  There seems to have been whole centuries when the most talented artists were rendering works to the glory of God.  Some still do.  However, the glorified artists (who may or may not be terrifically talented) of our time are not doing this, and it is a shame.

I take part of that back.  Some of them will point upward and thank God when they win an award.  It’s not nothing.

In the case of Ne-Yo, I am not arguing that his lyrics should be “explicitly” Christian, or theistic.  This isn’t like taking Bryon Adams’ “Everything I Do” and imagining the lyrics declare the love of God (except for the lying part).  Anyway, the best possible conversion of that song has already been achieved.

I am arguing that sex, while beautiful and powerful, is not worthy of worship.  And I am arguing that such songs could be very suggestive of the glory of God, rather than sex (or through sex).

I am not arguing that such art should be always and hopelessly optimistic, either.  We pray a whole set of sorrowful mysteries, and there is no obligation or recommendation to immediately follow with the glorious mysteries.

Imagine, for instance, that Ne-Yo decided to perform a take on a Psalm.  Or retold the story of David’s temptation and sin with Bathsheba (in the proper context, of course).  Or simply put his “Closer” song in some kind of context which would at once demonstrate the power of sex and, idealistically, its proper place.

I’ve made myself sick wishing for things like this to happen, in the past.  Still, one can hope.

Following a post titled, “The Man God,” by my comrade and caddy, Adam Fischer, Brian T. took to the comment board and sparked a discussion on the nature of Jesus’ temptation in the desert.  Since it got buried in a post no one else was reading anyway, I thought I’d reprise my response to Brian’s thoughts and see if there aren’t any other responses out there (or follow-up thoughts from Brian, for that matter).

In quick summary, Brian noted a reference Adam made to Jesus’ temptation, and asked for clarification.  He wondered in what sense Adam was speaking about Jesus’ “weakness,” particularly during the temptation, since it is a matter of faith affirmed by the Church Fathers that Jesus could not possibly have failed in His mission, even down to the smallest choices.  In other words, not only was He sinless, but He could not have sinned, due to His divine nature.

Brian posted several links to back up his stance, including this one.

Beyond the highlighted quote is a line from St. Leo the Great which says: “For we should not be able to vanquish the author of sin and death, were it not for the fact that our nature was assumed and appropriated by Him whom sin cannot sully and death cannot claim.”

This is exactly the way I perceive it, too, though my way is still rudimentary. In any case, the point I’d like to make is this: Death cannot claim Christ, but He did taste it. And for our part, when Jesus died, there was not an overwhelming confidence that He would rise, though He said so often that He would.

I am not about to segue-way into the idea that Jesus “tasted” sin, mostly because I’m not sure what that could mean. But if you’ll allow the analogy, I think this helps make a case: In the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy, everyone knows Frodo is going to accomplish his mission and live to the end. In that sense, in the context of the story, he could not fail.

But if you read the story with that premise in mind, and therefore allow yourself to be bored with his adventures, you’re missing the point (and I don’t say YOU are missing the point, but one who reads it this way). There’s real danger there, which no one else has conquered and lived to tell about.

I agree that Christ could not have failed. Yet, He allowed that we should gasp at the thought of His death. We all fall to our knees when it is re-told on Palm Sunday. I doubt we would be doing this if it were a perfectly sterile event, if we read it in the manner described above: “Jesus appeared to be dead, but was not really, and proved this three days later by walking around with his scars in tact.”

Instead, we say, “He was crucified, died, and was buried. On the third day he rose again, in fulfillment of the Scriptures…” We might likewise say, “On the 40th day he was starving, vulnerable, and tempted. On that day he overcame temptation, in fulfillment of the Scriptures…”

Again, in all of this I don’t believe we (Brian, Fischer, and I) are opposed in any way. I would simply like to emphasize the danger involved, which leads to my echo of Adam’s point – That Christ did not, like Luigi grabbing the Invincibility Star in Super Mario Brothers, manifest His power to overwhelm the foe, in a show of force we are utterly incapable of imitating. Instead He turned to the Word of God, and let the Father be His strength, which we can certainly attain to.

(Full stop)

I want to add that I believe this issue teeters on edge of reason, leading to mystery.  Brian is correct to say that we should still be encouraged to think about it, to have serious minds plumb the depths and see what they can make of the landscape.  Nevertheless, I think there is something in Jesus’ temptation (and even, if I may conjecture, what temptation there might have been throughout His Passion) that teaches us about love, which we can come to understand yet is forever unspeakable.

A question which points to this might be framed this way:  A lover may say to a beloved, “I would never dream of doing (an act which betrays the beloved).”  Would it be better for the lover to say, “In all my decisions regarding my love for you, I have carefully considered all of the options and their consequences.  Every time, I have chosen to love you with my whole heart.”?

A friend blessed me with a book by Karl Rahner (SJ, or some such) titled as shown above.  Many passages are worth passing along; here are a few.

“Our love of God and our prayer have one difficulty in common.  They will succeed only if we lose the very thought of what we are doing in the thought of Him for Whom we are doing it.  To be concerned mainly with the correct way to love or the correct way to pray, entails almost inevitable failure in the realization of either activity.  It is useful to consider these matters in retrospect by meditating on the nature of the love of God and on the nature of prayer; it is useful to attempt to describe what the act of love or the act of prayer really entails.  Yet, to some extent, such meditation destroys the very act itself, for we cannot really perform an act and at the same time be preoccupied with the mechanics of our doing it.”

Quoting St. Augustine’s famous statement, “Thou hast made us for Thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in Thee,” he goes on to say:

“Deep in our buried heart, we find this seed of the Divine, this restless searching out towards something infinitely beyond the things of this world; and we find strength to pray:

“Our Father Who art in the depths of my heart, transforming its hallow emptiness into a heaven on earth, Hallowed be Thy Name, even in the death-like silence of my ignorance and my lack of faith; Thy Kingdom come in the very midst of my desolation; Thy will be done in me, even if it means pain and death; Thy will be done in me, for Thy will is my true life; Give us this day our daily bread, for I am utterly dependent upon Thy Divine Providence; Forgive us our trespasses – those sins which are ultimately but treason against Thy love for us, and therefore treason against myself; Deliver us from evil-from the evil of centering our lives upon ourselves, in order that we may learn that Thou are the center of all, and that only in Thee can we find freedom worthy of the sons of God.”

There was a feature in the Chicago Tribune this past Sunday which was simply uncanny, though not surprising.  Headlines and political cartoons were reprinted from as long as 140 years ago, with the too-blunt-to-be-implicit point that we haven’t really conquered many of our big problems.  A few were:

“OIL SPILL THREATENS GULF” from a spill in 1980 of 4,000 barrels.  There were concerns about how and where the oil would disperse.

“REVOLT MAY BE NEARING,” leading with “Taxes are becoming so burdensome…” and more or less describing what the tea parties are about.  It was 1949, and a quoted expert said, “the politicians, apparently, are not aware of the situation.”

There were two about the CTA’s financial problems, from 1950 and 1967.  And there’s one about how Cubs fans are long-suffering.  The date on that one is 1968.

In this context, I would like to share some quotes from GK Chesterton, which have a similar effect.

“Do not look at the faces in the illustrated papers. Look at the faces in the street.”

“Progress should mean that we are always changing the world to fit the vision, instead we are always changing the vision.”

“I still hold. . . that the suburbs ought to be either glorified by romance and religion or else destroyed by fire from heaven, or even by firebrands from the earth.”

“This is the age in which thin and theoretic minorities can cover and conquer unconscious and untheoretic majorities.”

“There is a corollary to the conception of being too proud to fight. It is that the humble have to do most of the fighting.”

“If you attempt an actual argument with a modern paper of opposite politics, you will have no answer except slanging or silence.”

“When a politician is in opposition he is an expert on the means to some end; and when he is in office he is an expert on the obstacles to it.”

Bear in mind, if you don’t know, that he lived from 1874-1936.

Here is another thought I am developing.  Once again, I invite your feedback to help me develop it.

(The other thing to say about these developing thoughts is that I am not claiming to be the first to think of them, or that they’re even very profound for anyone but myself.  On the other hand, I encourage you to see, at least, that I am seeking a thorough understanding of these ideas, and not to grasp them simply as facts that might be taught in a religion class).

At times when my faith is challenged, when I have to acknowledge that I have an almost infantile view of many points of theology, and philosophy at large, the vessel of my mind begins to drift away from the harbor.  What if I’ve come to dock at the wrong port?  (If you feel silly reading this figures of analogy, know that I feel silly writing them.  But coming up is a valuable point, I think).

There is, after all, the whole ocean out there.  If this is the wrong port, I have a lot of searching to do over an unbelievably vast space.  I begin to wonder how I got here, now drifting toward the open sea, toward the allure of adventure and the threat of peril.  Fortunately, there has always been a sharp tug after a certain distance, not too far out but not so close, either.  I’m anchored by two tenets of my faith.

The first, which I won’t dwell on now, are the powerful experiences of God’s presence I have known.  It will suffice to say that if I were to deny these in favor of the search for another port, I would be rejecting myself, my fundamental self.

The second, the idea I’m developing, is the fact that a man said he would rise from the dead, and he did.

Now, there are several possible responses to this, the most obvious being, “I don’t believe he did rise from the dead.”  And some explanation may or may not follow.  This objection deserves a complete response, one I am not equipped to offer at the moment.

But if you do believe this, that a man rose from the dead, or at least you are open to the possibility, then you should feel your anchor tugging when you drift a little, too.

(At this point, if you haven’t, I would like you to step outside of religion class and into the realm of your pure mind and spirit.)

This is unbelievable!  Everyone else dies and stays dead!  There are laws of nature which everything obeys.  It would have been something to see Christ defy the law of gravity (which He appears to have done in His Ascension), but if He did so and still died, and stayed dead, we might only remark that it was an amazing thing to do.  And very soon we might even forget it, or doubt it.

What more amazing thing could He have done?  Conquer the world by military power?  Cause planets to collide within plain view of ours?  Make a square a circle?

The answer is, essentially, nothing.  Death is fundamental, a law that no one breaks.  And not for lack of trying.

Jesus told us He would die then rise again.  Then He died.  Then He rose again.

Ah, I’ve thought of something more amazing.  More amazing – I might say stupefying, but I don’t mean to compromise my sense of charity, particularly when I need it from so many others – is the person who accepts that Jesus rose from the dead, then does not reflect on how this should influence his or her life.

You have to, right?  To cheapen the point a little for relevance, this is akin to seeing a headline, “Man rises from the dead!” and not at all being curious about how it happened, why it happened, and whether it could also happen for you.  No such news is reported in any other harbor.

Here is a line of thinking which I have tried developing for a few years, and I would greatly appreciate any help advancing it (or challenging it, for that matter).

The summary would be something like this:  The moral demands of Catholicism represent ideal human behavior, including thoughts and actions.  Not so groundbreaking, though you may be someone reading this who would disagree.

It becomes interesting, I believe, when laid next to the modern approach to morality.  Co-habitation is a fairly innocuous example, partly because many people who co-habitate do so out of a sense of necessity.  It is more practical, they will argue.  They often are not repulsed by the thought of marriage, but in no hurry either. Co-habitation is convenient.

Put another way:  Few people approach the start of co-habitation with the same joyful expectation as most people enter marriages.

In that light, I have found few people who would disagree with the notion that living apart from one’s significant other (or fiance when things become more serious) should be preferred in a fundamental way to co-habitation.  Now, some of these may also be Catholics, and here is the reason for raising this line of thinking at all:  How does one persuade a modern Catholic adult to abandon his or her co-habitation plans (or lifestyle, if the plans are already in effect)?  How does one persuade such a person concerning any moral issue, many which have become more powerfully influenced by efficacy (of the necessary and superfluous things, such as money and gratification) than by clear moral statutes?

Perhaps the appeal starts with a search for the pre-Fallen ideal, the very rational guidelines established by, if you’ll pardon the expression, the Manufacturer.  If that search yields a common result, then a new appeal begins:  An appeal to courage, to discipline, to excellence.