Of course, fellow friars and spouses, like the next-door neighbor with the fresh-baked cookies, also have their winsome qualities. They, too, can be endearing, if we take the time to notice it. (In this regard, it helps to remember that we may not be the easiest people to live with, either.) But, even so, endearment only goes so far, and, when we live with someone on a daily basis, it doesn’t go nearly far enough.

Perhaps, among the apostles, St. Peter’s gruffness was endearing, or St. John’s youthful enthusiasm. Yet, endearment did not get them through the arrest, torture, and death of Jesus, their teacher, brother, friend, savior, Lord, and God. Christ’s self-sacrificing love did. Hard, scary, and unpleasant as it was, self-sacrificing love is what got them through over the long haul. Self-sacrificing love, not endearment, is what led to their salvation.

And yet, endearment is very often part of the story. If we didn’t try “to inspire affection or warm sympathy” in each other, and if we didn’t try to be inspired with affection and warm sympathy for one another, it would be harder to go further and deeper in our love of neighbor. We can, however, rely on Christ’s self-sacrificing love to give us the grace to love our neighbor always, regardless of appeal or not—even beyond endearment.

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Image: Trash Can Jenga

To see how this is true, we need to look at something simpler than a human being, like a stone. All things considered, a stone is not the most dynamic thing in the universe. If we were asked to describe what a stone does, our answer would probably be, “Not much; it just stays in one place, sitting on the ground with other stones.” In Aristotelian terms, we could say that a stone is in potency to one thing, which is to fall down to the earth’s center. In doing this, a stone acts according to its nature, its natural form. There is little room for “improvement” here.

Whereas a stone’s simplicity makes its activity straightforward and easy, the life of a human being is anything but simple. St. Thomas explains that, unlike stones, human beings are composed of many parts: intellect, will, appetites, and passions. While a stone’s one act is just to be a stone, there are many activities that a human being engages in, and they must all be ordered together harmoniously to produce healthy and normal action that leads to the perfection of man’s nature.

The complexity of all of these parts makes unified action in a human being all the more difficult. From break dancing to philosophizing, from cow-tipping to urban rioting, we engage in a variety of actions, some in accord with, and some contrary to, our nature. Thanks be to God, the grace given by the Holy Spirit can reorder our passions and powers in a way that befits and perfects our human nature. This leads us toward our ultimate end: salvation and the vision of God.

This harmonious reordering, however, does not occur all at once, or even over a short period of time. When God offers his grace to us, there is often resistance on our part, which usually arises from the same disordered passions God is trying to fix. In the Incarnation, the Son of God took on the entirety of human nature, in all of its complexity. He did this because he wanted to redeem all of our nature, not just part of us. In this way, everything that makes us human is elevated and, through grace, participates in some way in God’s divinity. Since this is a transformation of our very nature in all of its parts, it is no wonder that sanctification is something that concerns our entire life; it is no wonder that it usually requires a great deal of time. A stone needs very little to be perfect, but it’s not a stone that God is trying to save.

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Image: Bouldering in Hueco Tanks, Texas

Now, if someone flat-out rejects divine revelation, it might be tempting to try to offer him some sort of proof for what has been divinely revealed. But we need to resist this temptation. Intellectually, all we can really do for such a person is help remove obstacles to belief; we can show him or her that the faith is not irrational, that it accords with what we know about the world and about humanity. But we cannot prove the Incarnation, the Redemption, or the Resurrection. Indeed, if we could, we wouldn’t have faith. Moreover, if we could actually wrap our feeble minds around these divine realities, they wouldn’t really be divine.

Near the beginning of the Summa Theologiae, St. Thomas Aquinas’ articulates one of the principles that permeates his entire theological project:

Since faith rests upon infallible truth, and since the contrary of a truth can never be demonstrated, it is clear that the arguments brought against faith cannot be demonstrations, but are difficulties that can be answered.

Although it might seem that there is not much we can do for someone who adamantly argues against divine authority, there is in fact a great deal we can offer: we can indicate the ways in which objections to the faith do not hold. Since the truths of the faith rest upon the revelation of God, who cannot deceive, arguments against the faith cannot be demonstrative. Thus, if we take the trouble to educate ourselves, we can approach objections to the faith with confidence, knowing that they are not insurmountable. In the same way, although my father realized he had a daunting task in reclaiming his pasture, he also knew that he had adequate equipment for dealing with the problem: a six-foot bush hog and a Massey Ferguson tractor.

In our own day, obstacles to the faith come a in a variety of forms: a thicket of moral objections (how can the true Church have sinful members or leaders?) along with a few weeds of doctrinal difficulties (why purgatory?) and some fallen branches of existential problems (how can God tolerate evil?). We all know people—perhaps they are friends or members of our own family—who say, “I would believe if it were not for x” or “I am really angry about y.” In response, it might just be our task gently to point out that these difficulties are not actually proofs against the faith. They will never amount to conclusive demonstrations, but will always remain just what they are: difficulties. And, as Blessed John Henry Newman said, “Ten thousand difficulties do not make one doubt.”

Moreover, such difficulties are often easily answered; sometimes they are built on a simple misunderstanding, and clearing them up can render someone utterly open to the grace of the Holy Spirit and the gift of faith. When the weeds and thickets of confusion and ignorance are removed from the mind and heart, the lush prairie grass of understanding begins to grow almost automatically. Even my father, despite his inexperience in farming matters, was more than capable of mowing down that stubborn vegetation and turning his pasture into grassy grazing-ground for dozens of cattle.

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Image: Nicholas Blowers, Willow Gully I

While I researched this model, I often wondered: is this motion, or any event, truly random?  That is, can there be any effect whose cause is completely uncertain, or which has no cause at all? The random variable in the equation with which I worked is the compound result of billions of atoms and molecules, all moving according to the unpredictable laws of quantum mechanics. When faced with this theory, in which motion occurs on a scale too small to determine with certainty, Albert Einstein quipped, “God does not play dice!”  In other words, Einstein was reluctant to accept a physical explanation that seemed to violate the God-given laws of classical mechanics.

This philosophical quandary intrigued me even further when, as if by chance, I ended up defending my thesis on the feast of St. Matthias, two years ago today. St. Matthias, a longtime disciple of the Lord, was chosen as an apostle to replace Judas, seemingly by random draw. The assembly of disciples nominated two candidates, Matthias and Barsabbas, but did not vote on them, as we read:

Then they prayed, “You, Lord, who know the hearts of all, show which one of these two you have chosen to take the place in this apostolic ministry from which Judas turned away to go to his own place.” Then they gave lots to them, and the lot fell upon Matthias, and he was counted with the eleven apostles. (Acts 1:24-26)

Did the disciples, then, leave this important decision to chance? Or did God manifest His divine will through the random event of casting lots? If He did, it was certainly not the first time. When God gave Moses the plans for the tabernacle and priestly vestments, He included a breastplate for the high priest to wear: “In this breastpiece of decision you shall put the Urim and Thummim, that they may be over Aaron’s heart whenever he enters the presence of the LORD. Thus he shall always bear the decisions for the Israelites over his heart in the presence of the LORD” (Ex. 28:30).

The Urim and Thummim (sometimes translated as “light and truth”) were, most likely, two wooden rods that were used to cast lots for making decisions. These were used when asking God who is to blame for a military disaster (see 1 Sam. 14:41) or when deciding which of two goats should bear the sins of the people (see Lev. 16:8), among other occasions. In all of these cases, including the election of St. Matthias, the plan of God was shown forth through an action which we, in our limited knowledge, cannot explain completely.  Since we do not perceive all the causes of a draw of lots, a coin flip, a toss of the dice, or the motion of a molecule, we call them random; yet that does not mean that they have no cause.

St. Thomas Aquinas considers this phenomenon of randomness in his treatment of Divine Providence in the Summa Theologiae (I.22.2). “If then everything was foreseen by God, nothing would happen by chance,” says one of his objectors. Yet St. Thomas responds that chance is not beyond the sight of God.  He gives the example of two servants who meet unexpectedly in the marketplace: yet both were sent there by the same master. While neither servant can explain how the other came there, the master knew and arranged for the encounter to occur.

Furthermore, St. Thomas says in the Summa Contra Gentiles (III.74.6) that because of the order and gradation of causes, “The order of divine providence requires that there be chance and fortune in reality.” For example, we cannot know the outcome of a die roll before it occurs, nor explain how it turns out the way it does; there are too many variables and causes acting together, such as the speed at which we throw the dice, and the way the dice bounce when they first impact the table. Yet Divine Providence is a higher cause than all of them combined, and nothing, not even events we perceive as random, escapes it. Truly, God does not play dice–rather, He moves the dice.

Because of biblical events like the election of St. Matthias, we can know that God is the master even of chance; when we do not know the reasons for all that goes on around us, He does know.  From the stochastic movement of the tiniest molecule to the greatest decisions that affect the whole world, God knows them all and governs them according to His loving and providential plan; and this we can know with certainty.

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Image: Vasily Kandinsky, In Grey

It is somewhat similar for the virtuous man. A virtuous man reads the circumstances of his life and acts accordingly. He knows when mercy or justice is called for, whether it is proper to act or to be patient and wait, and so on. Like the soccer player, he is committed to practice. He strives to live a life of virtue. The skillful soccer player is constantly practicing and perfecting the mechanics of passing and shooting, and the virtuous man is always exercising the virtues of prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance; of faith, hope, and love.

Following Aristotle, St. Thomas Aquinas assigns to games the virtue of eutrapelia. This is the virtue of pleasantness or playfulness. St. Thomas explains that, just as the body needs rest when it is weary, so too does the soul when it becomes overburdened. And, like the body, the soul takes rest in a kind of pleasure, which we call “play.” As St. Thomas says, “Now such like words or deeds wherein nothing further is sought than the soul’s delight are called playful or humorous.”  Of course, these words or deeds are only virtuous if they accord with reason. Playfulness has its proper time, place, and mode. But insofar as we play reasonably, we can speak of a virtue of playfulness and, therefore, a virtue related to games. Through games we restore the strength of our souls, so as to be more fervent in pursuing higher ends, such as contemplation.

As this academic year comes to a close, I look forward to the opportunity of exercising the virtue of eutrapelia. For me, this will consist either in playing “the beautiful game” myself or in watching it played by some of the best clubs in the world. After finals week, my weary intellect is certainly going to need it.

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Image: Germans and Allies Play Soccer, Christmas Truce of 1914

The commonly accepted perspective is that, on the one hand, religious belief is dogmatic and constrains us to a rigid, irrational framework, while, one the other hand, science is open to whatever we can discover through experiement and empirical investigation. Of course, in a certain sense it is true that Christianity is a “restrictive” worldview—but no more so than the materialist atheism that many assume must be the basis of modern science. As Chesterton says in Orthodoxy, “[The Christian] cannot think Christianity false and continue to be a Christian; and the atheist cannot think atheism false and continue to be an atheist.” But he goes on to note that there is a further sense in which the common opinion gets it backward:

The Christian is quite free to believe that there is a considerable amount of settled order and inevitable development in the universe. But the materialist is not allowed to admit into his spotless machine the slightest speck of spiritualism or miracle.

Christianity, like any particular worldview, must be “restrictive” in order to signify anything—an affirmation logically implies a negation—but it is in fact less restrictive than the materialism that supposedly frees us to think rationally. The Christian is perfectly able to apply his reason to whatever he pleases, whether material or not. When I work through some differential equation or learn about some new physical theory, I am not taken aback or annoyed because I do not detect the operation of spiritual or immaterial forces. While I believe in a spiritual order of being, I do not demand that it show itself in my study of physics, nor am I disappointed when it does not. This, too, Chesterton summed up nicely, using the doctrine of immortality as an example:

Spiritual doctrines do not actually limit the mind as do materialistic denials. Even if I believe in immortality I need not think about it. But if I disbelieve in immortality I must not think about it. In the first case the road is open and I can go as far as I like; in the second the road is shut.

These quotations from Chesteron came to mind recently while I was listening to William E. Carroll’s lecture on cosmology at a recent Thomistic Circles event. By way of illustrating a typical “scientific” attitude toward philosophy and natural theology, he quoted from a popular book on quantum gravity by Lee Smolin: “By definition the universe is all there is . . . the explanation for anything in the universe can involve only other things that also exist in the universe.”

If we are simply discussing the material order of things and the conclusions we can draw by using the tools of empirical science, this statement is perfectly acceptable, but Smolin (and other materialistic scientists) want to raise this to a philosophical claim: there is nothing besides the material order and, therefore, all explanations must be physical. As a Christian, I am perfectly willing not to think about the spiritual order when I’m working through some physical model of the universe, but I need not demand that the former does not exist in order to make sense of the latter.

Of course, culturally, there is a conflict or tension between faith and science inasmuch as there are plenty of believers who see science as a threat to their faith and plenty of scientists who see faith as a threat to their science. But this sad divorce is not necessary, and the more I study the underpinnings of both science and theology, the more I see that they are both wonderful gifts from the same God, who made us in his image and gave us an intellect capable of probing the fascinating depths of both the material and the spiritual.

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Image: A Spotless MBE Machine

The tenets of Breatharianism ring discordantly in Dominican ears for a number of reasons. Among these, the first is historical. Saint Dominic founded the Dominican Order to help the Church combat a particularly gruesome sect of heretics known as the Albigensians or Cathars. The Albigensians viewed the material world as evil and therefore renounced many created goods in deference to the spiritual world.

Among the Albigensians, there was an elite group known as the Perfecti, who practiced extreme fasting and other rigorous physical penances. In fact, Albigensians even lauded those who starved themselves to death intentionally in order to liberate the soul from its bodily captivity. Now admittedly Breatharians do not openly intend or advocate suicide, but there is a deep connection between the two groups: Breatharians, like the Perfecti, totally ignore the body and its needs in favor of the spirit.

Some may defend the Breatharians, saying, “Christianity advocates fasting, so in a way Breatharianism develops a Christian practice.” Herein lies a second reason why Dominicans oppose Breatharianism: Breatharianism distorts the proper understanding of penance, specifically fasting. The purported Breatharian ability to go without food is a fruit of meditation.  Breatharians supposedly consume the energy of light and air and therefore don’t really fast.  They simply stop eating food and meditation allows them to be nourished from the more spiritual sources of rays of sun and wind. Christian fasting, on the other hand, moderates the excess desires of the body so as to nourish one’s spiritual life. In the Christian tradition fasting is directed toward ordering the passions and encouraging growth in the spiritual life. In Christianity, fasting tames unruly desires and aids one to develop one’s spiritual life, but for the Breatharian, transcending the needs of material food and drink entirely is the result of a developed spiritual life.

In addition to the Christian perspective on fasting, Dominicans treasure the Catholic view of the mystery of the Incarnation and viscerally object to Breatharianism’s exclusion of it. By taking flesh and living among men, God sanctifies the material world. The Scriptures tell us Christ was hungry (Mk 4:2) and that he ate with the disciples and even tax collectors (Mt 9:10). Even after the Resurrection, Christ eats a piece of baked fish before the apostles (Lk 24:42). Breatharianism misses the affirmation of creation’s goodness bestowed by the Incarnation. In the Incarnation, ultimately culminating in Christ’s sacrifice on the cross, the powers of heaven intersect the realities of earth and make eternal salvation possible for all men. And so for the Dominican, the Breatharian need to transcend the flesh is simply a non-issue, because the Dominican sees the goodness in the created order itself and the way in which Christ’s offering transforms it.

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Image: Chopra Center Healing Wisdom, Man with Flipped Wrist

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After being trained by the great Master in the art of combat, I was sent on a mission to recover the long-lost Golden Rosary. Legend tells that the Rosary had once brought great peace to the land, but that it had mysteriously disappeared when the people of the realm stopped praying. Wickedness had then fallen upon the whole world. Thousands of years later, however, the wise and eternal Master from above deemed that it was now time to recover the Golden Rosary, and he chose me to lead this most worthy undertaking.

He said, however, that I could not recover the Rosary on my own. I would need a companion for the journey, a friend; and only with a friend would I be able to find it.

I had never had a “friend” before—the concept was foreign to me—and finding one seemed like an impossible task, but the Master reassured me. With the Master, nothing is impossible.

I set out on the journey, carrying no moneybag, no sack, no sandals. Far and wide I searched for this friend. I entered thousands of homes and encountered millions of people along the way, to no avail. None of them seemed a fitting companion. Some were too short, and some were too tall; some were too talkative, and some were too quiet. A few had great skill in the art of combat, but possessed little in the way of humility or wisdom.

Alas, would I ever be able to find the right person to accompany me on my journey? Would I ever be able to find for myself a “friend”?

One day, as I walked along the dusty road, almost in a state of despair, I noticed from afar a man who had fallen victim to robbers. They had stripped and beaten him and had gone off, leaving him half dead. Moved with compassion at the sight, I approached the man, poured oil and wine over his wounds, and bandaged them. Then I lifted him up on my back, took him to an inn, and cared for him.

The next day, leaving the man to recover under the supervision of the innkeeper, I prepared to continue on my quest. But as I was saying goodbye, the poor man grabbed my arm. He reached into his shirt pocket, and behold, he took out a rosary fashioned of gold. He gave it to me, and I marveled at the precious beads, which sparkled in my hands. There was an inscription on the back of the crucifix. It read:

A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter;
he who finds one finds a treasure.
—Sirach 6:14

The man then disappeared, and I was left to myself, still clasping the rosary in my hands. Immediately, I fell to my knees and recalled the Great Commandment my Master had taught me: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind, and you shall love your neighbor as yourself.

This is the meaning of friendship. Friendship is not about finding the “right” person. Rather, friendship is about being a friend to others. It means loving another as God loves us, and God loves us not because we are good, but because He is. God loves us not because we are the “right people” for Him; rather, He loves us gratuitously, out of the abundance of His own goodness. This is what the Master calls us to: to be a friend to others as He has been a friend to us.

From that time on, I carried the Golden Rosary with me wherever I went, praying the beads daily and befriending those whom I had shunned before. And, indeed, since then a friend has always been at my side.

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Image: Katsushika Hokusai, Martial Arts

Running, strange as it may seem, offers itself as a good analogy for the spiritual life. Indeed, even St. Paul compares the life of faith in Jesus Christ to the perseverance and work of a runner (1 Corinthians 9:25). To become a successful athlete requires many hours of work and dedication. A distance runner works day after day, year after year to become stronger, both physically and mentally. Often, the work seems to go unrewarded. The improvements that were expected are slow to come, and the endless miles just seem to pass by. Yet, there are moments—a great workout or race—that make it all worth it. These moments reveal that every minute of suffering, pain, and disappointment was worth the effort, and the runner can look back over his log-book, realizing that every single step has paid off.

So, too, in the spiritual life: progress in the life of faith is often imperceptible. As Dominicans, we come to the chapel many times throughout the day, and each day we follow the same routine of prayer. We spend time with God, and sometimes it seems to be unfruitful: we may not feel anything, we may not hear anything, we are distracted. But we know that when we put ourselves before God and open our hearts to him, we are changed. In the certitude of faith, we know that God is always working in our lives, and when we see this, when we have moments of insight and awareness of His grace, we realize that time spent with God is never fruitless. We can look back and see how God’s providence has been working in our lives, suaviter et fortiter, gently and firmly, as Scripture says (Wisdom 8:1).

Runners often experience frustration. Sometimes things just don’t come together and the race isn’t won. But, good runners know that they must trust their training, their coaches, and the work put in. In a word, they must have faith to persevere.

Unsurpassable perfection is not for this life: we fall short each day in our relationship with Christ. Yes, each of us is called to holiness, to be a saint and nothing less, but we do fall. Like the runner we have hope, although with an important difference: it’s not a matter of trusting in the work we put in, but a matter of trusting in Him for whom we run the race. Each day we beg God for the grace of perseverance, an unmerited gift from God, in hope of something infinitely more beautiful and exhilarating than winning a race: eternal life in paradise. By praying for God’s gift of perseverance, and by giving ourselves each day to Christ Jesus, we run so as to win the unfading crown of glory.

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Image: Steve Prefontaine running the 1969 NCAA Cross Country Championship

Today, Cinco de Mayo has little connection to the historical events that occurred 150 years ago, but for Mexican Americans it is still an important celebration of their heritage, culture, and faith. Indeed, I would suggest that it is important, not only for those of Mexican descent, but for all American Catholics, especially those who are troubled by the increasing secularization of our country. On this day, it is fitting to consider the words of Archbishop Jose Horacio Gomez, Archbishop of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles, who has warned that Hispanic Catholics are under particular pressure to abandon the traditions of their faith and to succumb to a secular American worldview:

. . . immigrants already face severe demands to “fit in,” to downplay what is culturally and religiously distinct about them; to prove that they are “real” Americans, too. We might feel subtle pressures to blend in, to assimilate, to downplay our heritage and our distinctive identities as Catholics and Hispanics. I believe that in God’s plan, the new Hispanic presence is to advance our country’s spiritual renewal, to restore the promise of America’s youth. In this renewed encounter with Hispanic faith and culture, I believe God wants America to rediscover values it has lost sight of—the importance of religion, family, friendship, community, and the culture of life.

The odds of beating back the forces of secularism and preserving Hispanic Catholic culture in America may be as slim as those faced by the Mexican army at Puebla 150 years ago, but let us pray that the victory will be equally stunning and, by God’s grace, still more enduring.

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Image: Catholic Church in Bramaderos (Oaxaca, Mexico)