Fantasia

Hardly Worth Mentioning Anymore...

Maybe that was their plan. Maybe if they ride it out, they can just keep getting away with it once the story becomes so commonplace and tedious that people get bored with the news and just stop caring, or assume that something was done.

Two stories today. From the first:

The priest, the Rev. Martin P. O’Loghlen, was once a leader in his religious order and was appointed to an archdiocesan sexual abuse advisory board, although officials at both the order and the archdiocese knew at the time about his admission of sexual abuse and addiction. He served on the board, which was meant to review accusations of abuse by priests, for at least two years in the late 1990s, according to church and legal documents.

From the second:

Nearly a decade after the scandal over sexual abuse by priests erupted, Philadelphia's district attorney has taken a step no prosecutor in the U.S. had taken before: filing criminal charges against a high-ranking Roman Catholic official for allegedly failing to protect children.

...

Williams announced charges Thursday against three priests, a parochial school teacher and Monsignor William Lynn, who as secretary of the clergy was one of the top officials in the Philadelphia Archdiocese from 1992 to 2004.

The three priests and the teacher were charged with raping boys. Lynn, 60, was accused not of molesting children but of endangering them. A damning grand jury report said at least two boys were sexually assaulted because he put two known pedophiles in posts where they had contact with youngsters.

"The rapist priests we accuse were well-known to the secretary of clergy, but he cloaked their conduct and put them in place to do it again," the report said.

The grand jury report went further and suggested that the archbishop at the time, Cardinal Anthony Bevilacqua, who retired in 2003, may have known what was going on.

...

Over the past decade, prosecutors have pressed high-ranking church officials in the U.S. to accept responsibility for covering up abuse but never actually brought criminal charges against them as individuals.

For instance, Phoenix Bishop Thomas O'Brien admitted in 2003 that he sheltered abusive priests, an acknowledgment made as part of a deal with prosecutors that gave him immunity from any potential obstruction-of-justice charge. He agreed to institute reforms and cede some authority to other church officials.

The Diocese of Manchester, N.H., admitted wrongdoing but avoided criminal charges in 2003. The Archdiocese of Cincinnati pleaded no contest in 2003 to charges of failing to tell authorities about sex abuse claims against priests, paid a find and created a fund for victims.

And in 2005, the Boston Archdiocese struck a deal to avoid an unprecedented federal indictment on allegations of making a false statement to federal authorities. Among other things, the archdiocese agreed to closer scrutiny of its child-protection programs.

This isn't going to go away just because you make room-mothers at Catholic schools take useless VIRTUS training. Anything short of massive institutional reform will not solve the entrenched corruption which is inherent to the very structures of power and how relationships and accountability work (or don't work) among the clergy.

Fear and Death

The other day someone made the accusation to me that religion was just a way for people to deal with the fear of death through the promise of an afterlife. I couldn't disagree more strongly.

Don't get me wrong, I understand exactly the phenomenon he's talking about, and for most people (all of us probably) it's true. But I'd argue that, while people might be inclined to phrase it or interpret it that way, "fear of death" is actually cognitively meaningless. At least, under the assumption that death is just nothingness, which is what he was positing.

There is nothing fearful about the cessation of consciousness (or consciousness of nothing; which is metaphysically different, but in practice probably an equivalent experience). If there were, we would be terrified to go to sleep each night. If we were, no one could stand to go under anesthesia or twilight sleep (which total dreamless blackout I actually enjoyed immensely when I got my wisdom teeth removed).

No, one cannot be afraid of such a state of death itself, that's simply meaningless. If you wouldn't exist, then there's nothing to fear. But, on the other hand, obviously we are afraid of that sort of death in some sense, so what do we really mean? I would posit two things.

First, I think people are afraid of dying. Which is to say, the process leading up to death. But you're still alive when you're dying. People certainly fear the possibility of pain. I think most of all I fear the fear itself. I worry that, if I were aware of the fact that I were dying or about to be killed, even painlessly...I would be overcome by some instinctive panic, that some limbic part of me would make the anticipation of death unbearable terror even if I rationally knew slipping into nothingness is just like going to sleep (I've discussed this before a few paragraphs down in this post.) Pain is bad enough, but I absolutely hate the experience of terror. There is truly nothing to fear but fear itself. But, boy, fear itself is awful. Of course, my irascible appetite tends to be much stronger than my concupiscible.

However, all this leads to my second point, which is that we are always dying. I may worry that I'd be overcome by some self-preserving fight-or-flight adrenaline rush if I thought I were about to die, but I think some people (especially the sick or elderly) are more easily able to imagine death as being just like falling asleep peacefully. And yet, even then, there is a fear in many people of the idea. In all of us maybe. What is it about dying (again, death-as-nothingness can't be feared, I don't think, that's meaningless), about the idea of the moments leading up to death, that makes us at least uncomfortable (even assuming they aren't painful or otherwise terrifying ones)?

I said to the person who was berating religion that I think the fear of "death" (ie, of dying) is really the dread that life may be meaningless. Though Existentialists and other uppity "philosophers" have tried to create systems where meaningfulness is only relative and is immanent in the choices or experiences we make in the here and now...I think most people have a distinct sense that if life ends with the cessation of consciousness, with nothingness, then it is exactly as if none of it had ever happened at all (at least for the extinct subject). And if none of this ever happened at all, none of it could be ultimately meaningful (which I think people also have an innate sense is a transcendental category).

Therefore, I have to conclude that what we fear is not actually a death of nothingness in itself (which idea doesn't even make sense; something can only be bad for you if you exist), but that such a state at the end of life would mean that life is or had been meaningless. And I think we fight against that with every instinctive fiber of our being. Even fear of "dying" becomes relative then, as every day we're dying; it's just that a sense of immediacy would make it worse, but that's only a difference in degree, not nature. So the meaning of every day is dependent on the notion that this is really happening, that it will have always have happened, that existence really absolutely exists.

To me, belief in heaven is not about a fear of death as nothingness. I wouldn't mind death as nothingness, in itself, as there would be no I to mind it. Even the concept is no worse than going under anesthesia, even the transition process itself (if a peaceful and non-painful one) would be equivalent to going to sleep. No, for me (and I think for all upon deeper examination) belief in eternity is comfort against the idea of life as meaningless. Not some fear of the state of nothingness or unconsciousness, but against the possibility that everything I do while alive will, essentially, have never been at all, not even as a past.

At that point, heaven becomes not some future reward that prevents people from living in the moment here on earth, but an affirmation of the meaningfulness of life itself. Far from being a fantasy of escape from suffering or of infinite delights, to me it actually defies the dreadful escapist doubts that one might as well just kill oneself now (or lose oneself in meaningless pleasures) to end the suffering and get it over with (if it all will just "never have been" at that point anyway). Frankly, either of those solutions would be equivalent to heaven if heaven were just the blank-slate escape or cosmic orgy that atheists accuse the idea of being.

We don't really fear death, not in the simplistic sense people who make that accusation think, at least. Nor is that what religion mitigates against. What we fear is that all these signifiers are not ultimately anchored in anything permanent, stable, or absolute. What we fear is a meaningless life.

The atheist existentialists and post-modernists might try to shame us for feeling this way, or for solving it by religiously positing an absolute. They'll say it is immature or cowardly or prevents a real "in the present" way of living "authentically." That we should take ownership and responsibility for some sort of solipsistic construction of meaning or value as the only "real" non-absurd remedy for either suicide or hedonism. But they were sad and weird and European. I, for one, will stand by the notion of absolutely meaning, and will exalt this fear not as paralyzing, but as a thrilling affirmation from the bottom of my being of all that is good and noble about the human condition: yes, this really will have happened!! I was here, the people I loved were here, I do exist, we do exist!!! If I am absurd or pathetic for believing that, I am proud and happy to be.

Question on Consecration

Someone in the comments asked this question and I wrote up a response there, but thought it might be informative to post it here instead:

Supposedly one has to have consecrated hands to touch consecrated vessels, correct? Then how is it that EMC's are always touch the ciborium with their bare hands?

This question is putting the cart before the horse a bit, isn't it? LOL! The first question should really be: how are they allowed to touch the Host!? Because, if you can't even touch consecrated vessels, you certainly shouldn't be touching the Blessed Sacrament Itself. (Which is why letting EMHC's distribute communion but then asserting that they are not to purify the vessels is so absurd).

However, it is not true that you need consecrated hands to touch consecrated vessels, even in the Old Rite. The real principle was that any thing that was to come in direct contact with the sacred species was to be consecrated. Therefore, the vessels used (as well as the priests hands) were consecrated. But the consecrated things themselves could touch non-consecrated things (ie, there only has to be one "layer" of protection), though touching consecrated vessels was supposed to be limited to clerics in Major Orders.

Traditionally, the deacon is actually considered ordinary minister of the chalice only (see the Reply to Objection 1 in the Summa article here). He was only extraordinary minister of the host; by the most traditional thinking, the deacon's proper ministry was the cup. This makes sense because the Precious Blood is necessarily contained in a vessel, and therefore not handled directly; as a deacon's hands are actually not traditionally consecrated. It is also symbolically appropriate for a variety of reasons.

Deacons traditionally distributed communion to the sick, yes, in fact this is one of their main duties. But remember what a ciborium really is: it's a modified chalice. Think of the old practice on Holy Thursday whereby the priest would consecrate two large hosts and store one for Good Friday in a veiled chalice. Think also of Byzantine practice: the soaked host is put in the chalice and afterward is left to dry, the whole chalice being reserved. When bringing communion to the sick among the Byzantine churches, they have a tiny box with a little chalice, a gold vial (for a dried particle from the Lamb), and a vial of unconsecrated wine. The particle is dumped into the tiny chalice, re-wet with the unconsecrated wine, and then administered with a spoon like usual:

So there is still no direct contact even if a deacon is distributing, and he is still seen as primarily associated with the chalice rather than with the host directly. When a deacon distributes in the East, it is with the Spoon (or is supposed to be) even if some priests (in some traditions) intinct dry pieces of the Lamb directly into the chalice with their hands instead of using the spoon method. But the deacon uses an instrument rather than making direct contact.

In the West, perhaps, we might do well to imitate this to some degree by implementing consecrated golden Tongs or something when deacons must minister the host directly (such as to the sick). Having deacons, at least, bring the host in a small chalice (/little screw-top ciborium) as in the East might also thus be better than deacons using pxyes. Certainly, deacons distributing the host at Mass should always do so from a ciborium (which is really a form of chalice) rather than a paten (which is proper to the priest).

Now, as for touching sacred vessels that did not contain the consecrated Eucharist, one traditionally had to be at least a Subdeacon. In fact, this was the principle that made the subdiaconate (though not a Sacrament) a Major liturgical Order in the West; subdeacons could touch sacred vessels.

Of course, even before Vatican II these principles were going slack. Minor Clergy and even lay Sacristans regularly touched consecrated vessels in some cases, and deacons regularly distributed the Host with their hands. Still, we might do well to re-institute (even in the Old Rite) the internally consistent liturgical principles behind all this, because if you start to make too many "extraordinary" exceptions...well, we've see where that slippery slope led.

Don Quixote

"The sorrows arising from well-placed affections should be accounted blessings rather than calamities." -Don Quixote, Cervantes, Don Quixote, Part 2, Chapter XII

I'm not insane, just battling windmills...

Penelope Weaving

A Clericalist Superstition

Some of you may have seen this Fr Z post.

Fr. Z is claiming that, "What the ordained do when they bless and what lay people do when they 'bless' are different. There. I’ve said it. I am sure you are shocked."

While I may support the old discipline of delegating the power to bless only to priests, the truth is that, absolutely speaking, "blessings, in the sense in which they are being considered, are entirely of ecclesiastical institution, the Church has the power to determine who shall have the right and duty to confer them" (from Catholic Encyclopedia on "Blessings").

Now, he's probably thinking about the distinction, which does exist, between a blessing of the Church (which must thus be preformed by a validly delegated public representative of the Church) and the "blessing" of an individual, which is basically just a prayer invoking God and which depends, thus, on that individual's merits. That is not a lay/clerical distinction, however, but a private/public distinction. From the same article:

As has been said, the value of a blessing given by a private person in his own name will be commensurate with his acceptableness before God by reason of his individual merits and sanctity. A blessing, on the other hand, imparted with the sanction of the Church has all the weight of authority that reaches to the voice of her who is the well-beloved spouse of Christ, pleading on behalf of her children. The whole efficacy, therefore, of these benedictions, in so far as they are liturgical and ecclesiastical, is derived from the prayers and invocations of the Church made in her name by her ministers.

However, that's not what lay people giving the public St. Blaise blessing are equivalent to. As the current Code of Canon Law says:

Can. 1168 The minister of sacramentals is a cleric who has been provided with the requisite power. According to the norm of the liturgical books and to the judgment of the local ordinary, lay persons who possess the appropriate qualities can also administer some sacramentals.

[In terms of what "some" means, the Code goes on to specifically limit only consecrations, dedications, and exorcisms to presbyters or bishops.]

If these requirements have been met for an actual official sacramental, then there is NO DIFFERENCE between that lay person’s administration of that sacramental, a deacon’s, and a priest’s, except under the assumptions of a sort of clericalist superstition.

I don’t know if the lay version of the blessing for St. Blaise invokes this or falls under this principle, if its existence in the {shudder} Book of Blessings constitutes a “norm of the liturgical books” or if a specific dispensation by the Ordinary would be needed in each case, but these public lay blessings very well could be the “same thing” as a priest’s.

Fr. Z is promoting a superstition whereby a cleric's blessing is "different" (and, it's implied "better") when, canonically and theologically, a lay person's blessing (all else being equal in terms of subjective factors) may well be entirely the same if they have been validly delegated (either specifically or habitually) by the Church.

Roman Catholic?

I have recently pointed out to someone that, while the use of this designation is widespread even among (albeit, probably well-meaning) Catholics themselves, I actually consider it a mild slur and would discourage people from using it to refer to the Church as a whole.

Now, the truth is, the term doesn't really bug me personally so much because I am a Roman (ie, Latin Rite) Catholic in the more limited technical sense. Still, its origin in the English Reformation is the same as other slurs like "Popish," "Papist," and "Romish"; the emphasis on "Roman" can be taken (and was originally intended, and still is by some Protestants using it) to exoticize us or to emphasize the "foreign-ness" or "ethnic-ness" of the Catholic Church in the Anglophone world.

It is certainly a usage some Western Catholics (even bishops and popes) have adopted upon occasion (as persecuted groups often do with derogatory labels), even one embraced by some hyper-ultramontanists as a way to emphasize being in communion with Rome. Even by some highly Latinized Eastern Catholics as a way to emphasize that aspect (which is somewhat understandable; it is what set them apart from their Orthodox neighbors).

But it's not the preferred term; in internal documents, actually, very often just "the Church" will be used, and when we have to use specific denominational distinctions to differentiate ourselves from other churches or ecclesial communities, then we prefer just "the Catholic Church."

I mainly point it out because I have Eastern Catholic friends and readers who (though in communion with Rome) say things like, "I'm a Byzantine Catholic (or a Coptic Catholic; or a Syro-Malabar Catholic, etc) not a 'Roman' Catholic" and who do find the term to be an offensive Latinization of the whole Church, which it does seem to be (besides being a sort of linguistic contradiction, combining a local with Universal).

Think of it this way: when and if reunion with the Orthodox occurs (a definite possibility for us in the next century) they would never accept the appellation "Roman Catholic" (even if they did come into communion with Rome) and thus I tend to balk even when Catholics use it except in the very specific context of describing Catholics of the western patriarchate. Protestants aren't usually making such a technical distinction, however...

But "RCC" is, at least, better than the bare phrase "Roman Church." That is especially incorrect as, to us, "Roman Church" refers only specifically to the diocese of Rome (albeit it's the diocese that the other local churches are in communion with), and when that phrase is used to describe Catholicism as a whole...it is usually said with a snide attitude, and usually some implicit appeal to negative emotional associations with the decadence of the Roman Empire.

The fact is, if you say "the Catholic Church" in the Anglophone world...everyone knows who you're talking about, even if other churches consider themselves catholic. Just as if you say "the Episcopal Church" everyone will know, even if other churches are episcopal. And the same for numerous denominational titles that "capitalize" an aspect of that denomination which may be shared by many others.

As such, I think an "extra" adjective just to emphasize that other churches also consider themselves catholic is superfluous and a double standard. I don't insist on calling the Episcopal Church the "Anglican Episcopal Church" just because the Catholic Church is also episcopal. I don't insist on calling the Presbyterian Church (USA) the "Protestant Presbyterian Church" just because the Catholic Church also has presbyters.

The superfluous label "Roman" (though of course sometimes used by us, even, to emphasize communion with Rome; something Eastern Catholics may be ambivalent about) thus serves no other purpose than as a barb against our claims of catholicity. Maybe it's just where I was raised, but I've often heard the phrase "Roman Catholic" pronounced with a sneer on the "Roman."

It is unnecessary for clarity. Everyone knows what you mean if you say capital-c "Catholic Church" without qualification. Even other denominations that use "Catholic" have their own chosen modifiers ("Anglo-", "Old", "Independent", "Polish National") because, well, we called dibs on the unmodified title first, basically.

Some people of course just use it out of ignorance, but when it is used deliberately and self-consciously by Protestants as opposed to just "Catholic"...it is often them making a subtle jab of a statement about what they think of the denomination; at worst "Roman" is used by Protestants with connotations of the Whore of Babylon, and even at best usually represents basically a coded way of saying something along the lines of "so-called."

So, my point: resist the use of "Roman Catholic Church" to describe the Catholic Church. If you use it to describe just the one sui juris church, fine, but even then something like "Latin-Rite Catholic Church" might be better just to avoid confusion in general.

Just So You Know...

I don't think I saw Fr. Z mention this story yet, though many of you have probably heard. It seems, more and more, that crowd is trying to ignore these stories or dismiss them as "sensationalist" mudslinging, just to avoid having this conversation. But it looks like another superstar "fallen priest" (lol, I don't actually use that term, but I saw Jimmy Akin use it to describe Fr. Cutie and had to think, "'Fallen priest'? Really?! What is this, The Scarlet Letter ?") A sad situation all around.

Humility as Reality

This is a post in the vein of a couple previous posts regarding my general "pastoral" outlook towards sinners (and who isn't?)

For those who disagree with the Church's teachings on sexuality (but still try to maintain some semblance of uniquely Catholic doctrine) I've seen two main positions:

Either 1) they also reject the idea that the church is doctrinally infallible in the strict sense it officially teaches itself to be (often citing the examples of past "changes" in teaching that, in my understanding, are not at all comparable) or 2) they adhere to a notion that the Church's teachings on sexuality have never actually been promulgated at the level of infallible dogma (in the same way that, say, Trinitarian and Christological dogmas have been) and are therefore questionable.

I find both of these positions rather insupportable and intellectually dishonest (or at least based on willful misunderstandings) and also rather arrogant. But I've also seen, rarely, a third position, a sort of agnosticism about it, which I consider at least more intellectually honest and humble (even if I ultimately disagree). It's an "I can't think about that right now," sort of stance.

This third position is basically an attitude something like the old colonial attitude "obedezco pero no cumplo” meaning "I obey, but I do not comply" (which Arturo Vasquez said, I think quite rightly, is "a position that is often hypocritical but also the most sane.") Though that may depend on your definition of hypocritical...

In other words, a few people will (at least vaguely) recognize the existence of the teaching objectively, but then convince themselves of a sort of "dispensation" for themselves (in the internal forum) based on arguments (however finally untenable) from "conscience" about practical psycho-emotional necessity or the redeeming good human aspects of sexual relationships, etc. If one feels stuck between a rock and a hard place, if one feels "damned if I do, damned if I don't" by being forced by ones current psycho-emotional situation to make a choice between chastity and charity, or to have to sacrifice one value for the other...I certainly think choosing charity at least shows ones priorities are correct.

After all (they might say) nobody carries out the whole law perfectly all the time, and Catholics certainly believe culpability for things is often reduced or eliminated by mitigating factors. And there is often also implied in this attitude the very human instinct that maybe the ends can justify the means (or at least the choice of a lesser evil or imperfection) if greater good is coming of it, as long as no one gets seriously injured (I disagree in theory, but sympathize with the instinct).

As I said, I cannot ultimately agree that this is a spiritually healthy stance to take in the long run, but it at least strikes me as honest and humble, containing as it does an at least implicit deference to Church teaching combined with a frank admission of ones own weakness. I am sympathetic to this sort of casuistry, which has something of the spirit (though not exactly) of the Eastern concept of pastoral "oikonomeia".

Again, I cannot ultimately agree; even if we all do negotiate our morals and accept a certain degree of imperfection in practice...at least some of us abstain from communion until we've confessed (indeed, reception of communion used to be very infrequent among Catholics). Then again, confession is only valid with a true intent (at the time, at least) to stop...and perhaps these people are simply more honest about how (un)realistic such a "resolve" would be at this point in their lives. And some may conclude (again, in their private judgment in the internal forum) that they are in fact in a state of grace sometimes and thus that receiving the eucharistic presence is subjectively good for them spiritually even if (albeit) it expresses a state of full communion with the institutional church that doesn't objectively exist (at least not perfectly).

It is therefore, I think, possibly a stage some people need to go through in their spiritual journey rather than driving themselves crazy trying to become a Saint overnight "cold turkey" (or expecting them to be able to instantly break-off marriages or relationships) and is a position I would recommend that people who find themselves in such a situation and so currently adhere to "1" or "2" (which are basically just heresy) seriously consider as a better alternative compromise.

However, I'm not sure how realistic that is, as this also seems to be nowadays a highly specialized position and so I have not seen it often. Most people cannot bear such cognitive dissonance, at least not Moderns (the Medievals seemed to hold to it, on the other hand, almost as a rule); people are more inclined nowadays to alter the ideal to meet their practical possibilities rather than admit that they fall hopelessly short from the ideal (at least not in a grave way). The notion of a "benign neglect" (as Arturo has also said) of the "peasant" class of believers (who didn't commune very often either, however) has given way to the Tridentine (and Protestant) expectation of perfect "clerical" adherence and weekly reception for all. I think a balance must be struck somewhere between the two.

A conscience claim of duress in practice may be perfectly valid, but it doesn’t at all justify rejecting the teaching in theory. The “correct” response is to act on conscience, yes, when forced to make a choice between two evils, but also to humbly recognize that this “double bind” requiring a conscience-claim is a result of your weaknesses, not conclude that it means the teaching is wrong in general.

Obviously, some people have, say, accepted more children even in destitute situations and somehow made it. More practically, other people have practiced NFP or celibacy without going crazy or becoming rigid or mean-spirited or ruining their marriage, have found a way to make it work out great!

It may not, currently, be possible for many people, psychologically and emotionally. That’s understandable, and they may have a valid claim in conscience to choose the lesser evil for now. But rather than reject the teaching outright, the goal should be to eventually, with God’s grace, become the sort of person or couple who can follow the teaching without being forced to sacrifice either chastity for charity or charity for chastity (as such people do exist!)

I would be the first to recognize a claim of duress like that, that abstinence as required for NFP might ruin a marriage or that celibacy might have negative psychological effects that make one a worse person, in other areas, in practice. It’s these “unideal” casuistic situations that conscience is for. And, in fact, I would argue that it is very morally mature to be able to have that sort of self-awareness about ones own psyche and about the emotional conflict that can arise between something with very concrete principles like chastity, and something more situational like charity.

But that sort of pragmatic realism doesn’t mean giving up the ideal or the theoretical teaching either. Because with God’s grace, we can become the sort of people who don’t need to sacrifice one value in favor of another, we can become the sort of people who can choose both at once. God never leaves us in an impossible moral “double bind” like that forever.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "The mark of genius is the ability to hold two diametrically opposed ideas at the same time without losing the ability to function." And not everyone is a genius, so usually you'll see stance 1 or 2 which I have no patience for. But for those who hold this third position, I can at least profoundly respect it.