St. Peter Canisius Apostolate

A few years ago I began wondering what the Church’s position was on Friday abstinence outside of Lent. I searched, but I couldn’t find a clear answer; but gradually I came across different texts and articles that helped clarify what the Church of us regarding Friday abstinence. What I’d like to do in this post is simple cite two of the best texts I’ve read on the subject with the hope that this post might be a “one-stop” post for some who, like me a few years back, was looking for clear guidance on Friday penance.

This first text will deal with what exactly is the Church’s current teaching on Friday abstinence. It’s from an article by the late Fr. John Hardon — “The Practice of Penance”:

One aspect of the practice of penance has to do with the proper observance of Fridays. I am afraid there is some misunderstanding on the subject. In 1966 when Pope Paul VI issued his Constitution on Penance, he did not change the essential meaning of Friday as an obligatory, yes, obligatory day of penance to be observed in union with the passion of the Savior. Fridays were, and they remain, mandatory days of penance. A Catholic has no option as to whether he will do penance on every Friday. This is a duty specified by the Church. The only option is the kind of penance one performs.

At the risk of being technical about this important matter, let me explain. Each member of the Church should be united with his fellow Christians in offering reparation to God for sins. We can choose to do penance on any day and in any way that appeals to us. A work of penance is always pleasing to God. To do penance is a divine law. But besides the divine law, there is an ecclesiastical precept, a law of the Church to practice penance on certain days and in the manner the Church requires. What was formerly given as the second precept of the Church could now be modified to read, “to fast and abstain, or do some act of penance approved by the Church, on the day commanded.” The question may be asked, “In place of abstinence on Friday other forms of penance are mentioned by the Church. Are these of obligation or merely a matter of counsel?” The answer to this question, is that a person who avails himself of the choice of eating meat on Friday is not merely advised to undertake some other form of penance; he is bound to do so.

Friday penance, therefore, is not a matter of mere counsel, but of actual precept. In plain language, a Catholic commits sin if he or she allows a Friday to pass without an act of penance.

The final sentence of this excerpt makes the Church’s teaching crystal clear: “a Catholic commits sin if he or she allows a Friday to pass without an act of penance.”

If the first passage explained the Church’s teaching, this second passage will give us the how-to’s of keeping Friday a day of penance. It’s from Fr. Fernandez’s In Conversation with God, Volume 3, p. 557:

The Church reminds us frequently of the need for mortification. If any man would come after me…. In particular she has set aside one day in the week, Friday, as a day on which we are to consider the need and efficacy of denying ourselves and practicing some special mortification: abstaining from flesh meat, or doing something we find rather difficult (like finishing our work more perfectly or making life more pleasant for others), or performing some pious act: doing some spiritual reading, saying the Rosary, paying a visit to the Blessed Sacrament or doing the Stations of the Cross. We might also perform one of the corporal works of mercy: visiting the sick, spending some time with a person in need, or giving alms. However, we ought not to be content with just a weekly penitential act as a reminder of our Lord who suffered and died for us, and taught us the value of sacrifice. Each day God expects us to deny ourselves in little ways, in things which will enliven our soul and make our apostolate fruitful.

This passage is little more than an elaboration of what we find in the Code of Canon Law. Canon 1249 states “The divine law binds all the Christian faithful to do penance each in his or her own way. In order for all to be united among themselves by some common observance of penance, however, penitential days are prescribed on which the Christian faithful devote themselves in a special way to prayer, perform works of piety and charity, and deny themselves by fulfilling their own obligations more faithfully and especially by observing fast and abstinence….”

By way of summary, we can say this: First, Catholics are obliged to engage in penance every Friday of the year in commemoration of Our Lord Jesus’ sacrifice, and second, on Fridays outside of Lent we are free to choose the act of penance we wish to perform.

Over the past few days, In Conversation with God has focused quite a bit on the place of natural morality in living an authentic Christian life. This is one of the many times that Fr. Fernandez takes a theological tenet and shows us how it applies to everyday life.

In this case, the theological tenet is this: “grace presupposes nature.” Another way to state it is like this: “grace builds upon nature.” These are nice phrases, but Fr. Fernandez opened my eyes to the tenet’s true meaning: grace depends on nature.

In the case of natural morality, this means that grace needs the natural moral virtues. If we do not strive to be prudent, just, moderate, and courageous, the theological virtues of faith, hope, and love cannot be firmly planted in our hearts.

How can we allow our reason to be guided by faith in things we do not see if we don’t have the ability to make decisions based on the reality that is in front of us (prudence)?

How can we practice true fraternal charity if we can’t be a good companion, if we don’t possess the art of living with others, if we are unable to give another what is properly owed to him (justice)?

Or how can we act with a genuine hope of heaven if we lack the ability of accept loss and injury for the sake of truth and justice (courage); or if we are unable to protect ourselves from the self-destruction of pleasure seeking (moderation)? ¹

The answer to each of these questions is obvious: We can’t. Faith, hope, and love need the virtues of prudence, justice, courage, and moderation. The Word of God needs good soil in order to take root. Grace needs nature.

From the opening of the Prima Secundae of the Summa theologiae of St. Thomas Aquinas:

Since, as Damascene states, man is said to be made to God’s image, insofar as the image implies an intelligent being endowed with free-will and self-movement: now that we have treated of the exemplar, i.e., God, and of those things which came forth from the power of God in accordance with His will; it remains for us to treat of His image, i.e., man, inasmuch as he too is the principle of his actions, as having free-will and control of his actions.

In this matter we shall consider first the last end of human life; and secondly, those things by means of which man may advance towards this end, or stray from the path: for the end is the rule of whatever is ordained to the end. And since the last end of human life is stated to be happiness, we must consider (1) the last end in general; (2) Happiness.

This Tuesday is the beginning of a forty-week study of what St. Thomas Aquinas says about the purpose of human existence. Our primary text will be what is commonly (but wrongly) called the “Treatise on Happiness.” You can find it here, under the subtitle “Man’s Last End.”

The text we’re considering today could be called the “Introduction” to the section of the Summa theologiae that treats general moral theology. This point is important to understand, and it’s why I said that it is wrong to call this portion of the Summa the “Treatise on Happiness.” The word “treatise” would imply that it is self-contained, and the questions on happiness are anything but that. They are the first five questions of the Prima-Secundae — the first part (prima) of the second part (secundae) — and they must be understood as such. Not to understand the questions on happiness within the context of morality is to rob Thomistic moral theology of its power.

The text we’re looking at today opens the Prima Secundae, and in these few words St. Thomas sketches for us a basic outline of his moral theology. Because the human person is created in the image of God, the human person is endowed with free-will and self-movement. Let’s look at these two individually.

By free-will, St. Thomas does not mean a purely natural freedom — the freedom to choose between A and B. Rather, he means that we are free to choose the good and avoid the evil. The reason why this is important to understand is because St. Thomas teaches that if a person chooses to commit an objectively evil act (tell a lie, let us say), they choose it under the appearance of the good. Simply put, we don’t tell a lie because we believe it is an objectively evil act; rather, we tell a lie because, at the time we tell it, we believe it will bring about the greatest good. The reason why we often perceive objectively evil acts to be good is because of original sin. Yet the fact remains that we always choose (what we perceive to be) the good and we will always avoid (what we perceive to be) the evil.

(If you don’t quite understand where I’m going with this, hang in there for a couple of more paragraphs.)

By self-movement, St. Thomas means, as he says, that we control our actions. On the surface, it seems that we don’t need to go further. But one point should be made — namely, that actions are not merely external. There are also acts of the intellect and acts of the will. We have control over all of these. Therefore, when St. Thomas says that we have free-will and free-movement he is saying that we are the source of all our actions. Whatever good we may do, or whatever evil we may do, they are our own.

Now here’s why all of that is important. Because human freedom is more than a mere choice between two objects — because we seek the (perceived) good and avoid the (perceived) evil — St. Thomas teaches that human’s act in what is called a teleological way. The word teleological comes from the Greek word, teleos, meaning end or goal. To state it in a popular way, all of our actions are goal-oriented. Thus when St. Thomas speaks of our “last end” he means that ultimate goal all of our actions are oriented toward. We advance toward this ultimate end with our actions. And that’s why self-movement is important. Because we have control over our actions, we are in control of our destiny. We control whether we reach our ultimate goal or not.

This is some pretty heavy stuff, I know. But it’s important (I believe) for a mature understanding of Catholic moral thought — especially today, with so many ideas of about human freedom. What we’ll be focusing on over the next several week is what St. Thomas says about the ultimate goal of human life.

Sacrosanctum Concilium, 2: The liturgy daily builds up those who are in the Church, making them a holy temple of the Lord, a dwelling-place for God in the Spirit, to the mature measure of the fullness of Christ. At the same time it marvelously increases their power to preach Christ and thus show forth the Church, a sign lifted up among the nations, to those who are outside, a sign under which the scattered children of God may be gathered together until there is one fold and one shepherd.

In previous posts we have seen that the Fathers of the Second Vatican Council believed that the four goals of the Council could only be achieved through the renewal of the liturgy, for only through the liturgy does the Church receive the supernatural power to witness to Christ in word and deed. A supernatural power is absolutely necessary to witness to Christ because the Church, having both a human and divine element, can only preach the gospel if its human element has been transformed by and is oriented to its divine element. That’s the background for the passage we’ll be considering today.

This passage speaks of the two effects of the liturgy in the lives of believers. First, the liturgy enables us to grow into mature Christians. The phrase, “mature measure,” is drawn from Ephesians 4.13; read in context, this passage tells us that the Lord gives his gifts so that we “may no longer be children, tossed to an fro and carried about with every wind of doctrine,” but, rather, that we might “grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ” (cf. Eph 4.14-15).

If there’s one thing lacking in the Church today it is spiritually mature Christians. In a natural sense, we call someone mature who shoulders his responsibility without complaint, who sacrifices his own wants and desires for those around him, who works hard, who avoids wasting time, who has a serious mind and does not spend his energy on trivial things. Do not the same principles apply in the spiritual life? Do we shoulder the responsibilities laid upon us by the gospel of Christ without complaint? Are we willing to sacrifice our own licit wants and desires for the love of God and neighbor? Do we work hard, not only in our secular occupations as if for Christ but also in the spiritual exercises to which the Lord has called us? Are we good stewards of the time the Lord has given us? Do we have a serious mind formed by intelligent and assiduous study?

This is the kind of examination of conscience we should submit ourselves to on a weekly basis. And if we find that we are not living a mature Catholic life, then we should offer up the next Holy Mass we attend for the grace to leave childish things behind and “grow up” in Christ.

Only mature Catholics have the power to “to preach Christ and thus show forth the Church.” Though I don’t recall the reference off hand, Aristotle says that the only way to know the beauty of a thing is to see it in its perfection. If you want to convince someone of the beauty of the piano, you don’t take them to a 2nd-grade piano recital; rather, you have them listen to a master pianist performing the work of Bach, Mozart, and Chopin. In the same way, the world will only be convinced of the beauty of Christianity if we can show them that beauty in our very lives. The only hope for our civilization and the world if is we become saints, and that’s possible only through a spiritual life that is rooted deeply in the liturgy.

In the “Introduction” to Good New, Bad News: Evangelization, Conversion, and the Crisis of Faith, Fr. McCloskey and Shaw this observation:

The most important thing about conversion is, of course, that it’s God’s work and God’s alone. Others, including the converts themselves, only respond to divine initiatives, only cooperate with grace.

If we’re ever lucky to talk about the Catholic Faith with anyone who’s not a Catholic — or with any lukewarm/fallen away Catholic — these are important words to remember. It’s too easy, in the heat of the moment, to believe another person’s conversion is up to us.

This reminds me of a story about St. John Vianney, the great parish priest of Ars, France, who is now the patron saint of parish priests. A fellow priest came to him lamenting he’d done all he could to convert his congregation, but they had remained unchanged. To this, St. John responded, “Have you prayed for them? Have you fasted for them?” The priest had not. “Well,” St. John said, “you have not done everything.”

Prayer and fasting — these old ideas sound new and strange to us. Yet, they are the only way we can penetrate a person’s heart because through prayer and fasting we are putting all hope where it belongs, in the hands of God.

If this is the secret to changing the world, then I have to ask myself: Why don’t I prayer and fast for the conversion of sinners? The answer’s simple, really. Prayer and fasting are much harder than, and not nearly as fun as, theological jousting and bombarding a person with books and tapes. But as sad as it may sound, maybe the real reason I don’t do these things is because I’m more interested in the argument than in bringing another person into the fullness of Christ’s life.

Yes, I think so.

1. The Pocket Catholic Catechism by John Hardon. For forty years the Church in America has suffered from a lack of solid catechesis. Even Catholics who know their faith well seem not to have a solid foundation. This was certainly my case. I read this book after ten years of steady study, during which I obtained two degrees in theology, and I still found this little book by Fr. Hardon to be a treasure trove of insight and knowledge. The reason for this, I believe, is because Fr. Hardon’s work was penetrated by his deep holiness. In the end, the greatest teachers of the faith are always saints.

2. Theology and Sanity by Frank Sheed. On the surface, this is little more than an introduction to theology, but the real genius of Theology and Sanity comes from Sheed’s basic goal of teaching us to see the world as the Church sees the world. It’s this theme that distinguishes this book from others like it. What Sheed stresses from the very first page is the Catholicism is a thinking man’s religion — a fact that is grossly overlooked nowadays.

3. Living the Good Life: What Every Catholic Needs to Know About Moral Issues by Mark Lowery. This book is to moral theology what Frank Sheed’s Theology for Beginners is to theology in general: A first-rate introduction to the moral teaching of the Church. Rooted in the thought of Pope John Paul II and St. Thomas Aquinas, Dr. Lowery presents the material in a simply Q&A style that makes the moral thought of the Church accessible to the beginner. At the same time, Lowery never “dumbs-down” the material. The simple presentation makes the material easier to understand, but Lowery still expects you to think.

4. This Tremendous Lover by Eugene Boylan. Aimed at the layperson, Fr. Boylan examinees both the theological foundations for the spiritual life as well as its practical elements. Moreover, Fr. Boylan is well-versed in the great spiritual traditions within the Church, particularly Carmelite spirituality. Perhaps the best thing about the book is the peace of soul one receives as one realizes that becoming a saint is indeed within our reach. This book is the modern version of St. Francis de Sales Introduction to the Devout Life.

5. In Conversation with God by Fr. Francis Fernandez. O.K., this entry is really a seven-volume collection, the books flow seamlessly together. Following the liturgical calendar, these books are made up of three daily meditations based on the readings of the Holy Mass. The real beauty of these books — the reason why I recommend them to everyone I can — is that Fr. Fernandez has a tremendous gift for making the Church’s theology, moral teaching, and spirituality applicable to daily life. Rich or poor, young or old, priest, nun, married, or single — every Catholic can find spiritual food in at least one of the three daily meditations. And the meditations aren’t long, either, two to three pages each. You could easily read all three meditations within twenty minutes. Anyone looking for solid and substantial spiritual reading — these books are for you. (If you don’t want to kick the tires, you can always buy an individual volume first.)

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From the Letter of St. Ignatius of Antioch to the Ephesians (100-110 A.D.)

I have learned, however, that certain persons from elsewhere, who have evil doctrine, have stayed with you; but you did not allow them to sow it among you, and you stopped your ears so that you would not receive what they sow. You are like stones for a temple of the Father, prepared for the edifice of God the Father, hoisted to the heights by the crane of Jesus Christ, which is the cross, using for a rope the Holy Spirit.

St. Ignatius of Antioch is perhaps one of the best known Church Fathers from the early 2nd century. For one reason, his writings (which we’ll dwell on for several weeks) display a rich theology of the Church and a deep theology of the Eucharist. For another reason, he was the first Christian writer to us the word “catholic” in reference to the Church of Christ. For a third reason, his deep desire for martyrdom makes him a memorable figure. In this passage, we see how St. Ignatius understands the Church of Christ to be a visible reality.

But first, some context. It is clear from the opening sentence that the community in Ephesus has been subject to false teaching, and scholars have discern that the false teaching that was most prevalent in Ignatius’ time was that of Docetism. Docetism is an explicit rejection of the humanity of Christ and taught that the Eternal Logos, the Son of God, only seemed to be a man; that is to say, the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Christ were in appearance only.

On a broader perspective, Docetism is one form Gnosticism took in the early Church. Gnosticism taught that matter was evil and hostile to the spirit and salvation. Gnosticism took various forms in the early Church, but we already know enough to understand this passage from St. Ignatius. Briefly put, Docetism and Gnosticism are the historical keys that unlock the meaning of St. Ignatius’ letter.

Ignatius says that the Church in Ephesus did not accept the teachings of the Docetists, and this allows him to praise the Ephesian community. How does he praise them? By describing them as “stones for a temple of the Father, prepared for the edifice of God the Father.” The first time we read this, we might not see the connection, but consider this: a stone is something you can see. It’s a visible and material reality. Perhaps I’m reading into this passage, but it seems to me that St. Ignatius lauds the Ephesians for rejecting Docetism, which denies the material reality of the Incarnation, by using a term that emphasizes the material reality of the Church. Just as Christ was not a mere spiritual reality (as the Docetists say) the Church is not a mere spiritual reality (which would be the conclusion of Docetism). Using today’s language, we would say that just as Christ is the sacrament of God, the Church is the sacrament of Christ. Both have a visible and tangible reality, and both signify God’s invisible presence and activity among humankind.

Are we not confronted today with another form of Docetism — a kind of ecclesial Docetism that dismisses, if not outright denies, the visible structures of the Church, such as the necessity of the sacraments and Magisterium? To be a member of the Church of Christ is to be a member of a visible reality. If I may be so bold, we should all take a moment today and offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the gift of the Church as well as say a special prayer for the one who is the visible sign of the unity of the Church, the Pope.

We’re still on paragraph 2 of Sacrosanctum Concilium. In the second sentence, which is sixty-seven words in the English translation provided by the Vatican, the Council gives us one of the best definitions of the Church we’re likely to find. The sentence reads:

It is of the essence of the Church that she be both human and divine, visible and yet invisibly equipped, eager to act and yet intent on contemplation, present in this world and yet not at home in it; and she is all these things in such wise that in her the human is directed and subordinated to the divine, the visible likewise to the invisible, action to contemplation, and this present world to that city yet to come, which we seek.

This sentence has two distinct parts. The first half speaks of what the Church is — of her different parts and her various actions. The paragraph, in the Austin Flannery translation, as a list, runs like this. “The Church is …

1. essentially both human and divine,
2. visible but endowed with invisible realities,
3. zealous in action and dedicated to contemplation,
4. present in the world, but as a pilgrim …”

The second half speaks of how those parts and actions are related, one to the other. “The Church is … so constituted that in her …

1. the human is directed toward and subordinated to the divine,
2. the visible to the invisible,
3. action to contemplation,
4. and this present world to the city yet to come, the object of our quest.”

In other words, though the Church is a human and visible reality that is actively present in the world, the Church is also an invisible and divine reality dedicated to contemplating truth and ordering the realities of earth so that all men may reach heaven. To simplify it even more, we could say that the Church is both earthly and heavenly, and that the earthly part of the Church looks to its heavenly part for guidance and meaning.

What does this mean for the average Catholic sitting in the pew? Since through baptism we are members of the Church, the Church’s nature is our nature. This means that our human will must be subordinated to God’s will; that our visible lives must be permeated with a deep prayer life; that we don’t get so caught up in doing things that we forget the one thing necessary, knowing Jesus Christ; and that though we cannot escape the present, we must always remained prepared for the day God invites us to eternity.

It’s true that many saints suffered through what St. John of the Cross called the dark night of the soul. What does St. John mean by this?

The dark night of the soul is the second purgation of the spiritual life — the one we must pass through before we achieve that mystical union with God described by more than a few saints.

The first purgation of the spiritual life is called the dark night of the senses. This means we need to prune ourselves of those things that give us physical pleasure so that we are able to focus more intently on God. Abstinence and fasting from food are the two primary ways of engaging in the dark night of the senses, but we can expand this to all sorts of things: T.V., movies, secular learning, sex, and an assortment of physical comforts such as a bed, a pillow, and the kinds of shoes we choose to wear. (Read enough lives of the saints, and you’ll quickly be overwhelmed by the many and various ways they chose to mortify themselves.)

If I understand St. John’s teaching, the first purgation — the dark night of the senses — is something we can actively engage in. We can choose when to start denying ourselves creaturely comforts. There is a point when God, the master vinedresser, comes in and prunes away those things that are holding us back from him. But for the most part, the dark night of the senses is our job.

The dark night of the soul is radically different. We have no power over whether God makes his presence known to us. We may, at times, feel deep consolation, while, at other times, feel vast dryness. This is God’s choosing. We have no say in any of this.

Now here’s the point: just as the dark night of the senses purges us of our intemperate desire for creature comforts, the dark night of the soul purges us of those interior delights we so often love more than God. If we love the gift more than the Giver, where does that leave us?

Since the soul has different powers (intellect, will, emotions, imagination, etc.) each of these powers will undergo a darkness, a purgation, in order that our love of God is purified. So sometimes our faith will be tested, and other times our ability to pray, and other times our desire to do the good. There’s no rhyme or reason — at least not from our viewpoint.

The point I’ve been working toward is this: The lesson for us ordinary Christians is that when it comes to the spiritual life, it is unwise to trust our emotions. I rarely feel close to Jesus during Mass, but what does this feeling mean when I receive the Eucharist? Provided I’ve done nothing to cut myself off from Christ, it means absolutely nothing. My feelings tell me one thing, but my reason that’s been informed by faith tells me something different. Which one am I going to base my actions on? Will I continue going to Mass despite that I don’t feel close to Jesus, or will I leave the Church and find some other community where I feel close to God?

This battle of emotion versus reason is true for all parts of the spiritual life. If through prayer and discernment you believe God is calling you to an apostolate you feel deeply about — say, youth ministry — don’t be surprised if once engaged in the apostolate you don’t feel as passionate about it any longer. There are all sorts of reasons for this, but the ultimate reason is that God is stripping you of consolations and is asking the only question that matters: “Are you doing this for you, or are you doing this for Me?”

What I’ve come to believe is that for most of us, God wants us to see if we’re true to Him. This is the test of Abraham in miniature. If we promise to pray a full Rosary once a week, we will be tested. It won’t be fun. The twenty or so minutes will seem like six-and-a-half hours. Or if we promise to read the Bible daily, the words will suddenly seem as vacant and trivial as the classified ads. The question is always the same: “Are you doing this for you — for your own personal satisfaction, for your own personal glory — or are you doing this because you long for Me?”

It’s a question about our motives, and the only way God can ask it is by stripping us of the warm-fuzzy emotions we think we deserve and sending us into the desert.

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From his Catechetical Instruction on the Apostles’ Creed, St. Thomas Aquinas writes:

The fourth effect of faith is that by it we overcome temptations: “The holy ones by faith conquered kingdoms” (Heb 11.33). We know that every temptation is either from the world or the flesh or the devil. The devil would have us disobey God and not be subject to Him. This is removed by faith, since through it we know that He is the Lord of all things and must therefore be obeyed. “Your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, goes about seeking whom he may devour. Resist ye, strong in faith” (1 Pet 5.8). The world tempts us either by attaching us to it in prosperity, or by filling us with fear of adversity. But faith overcomes this in that we believe in a life to come better than this one, and hence we despise the riches of this world and we are not terrified in the face of adversity. “This is the victory which overcometh the world: our faith” (1 Jn 5.4). The flesh, however, tempts us by attracting us to the swiftly passing pleasures of this present life. But faith shows us that, if we cling to these things inordinately, we shall lose eternal joys. “In all things taking the shield of faith” (Eph. 6.16). We see from this that it is very necessary to have faith.

The world, the flesh, and the devil — the three highways by which temptations come. At St. Thomas so aptly states: the world tempts us with riches or fear, the flesh tempts us with passing desires, and the devil tempts us to disobedience. Let’s dive into these a bit further.

The world tempts us with riches or fear. If we limit ourselves and think of riches only as material possessions, we will delude ourselves. Riches can also come in the form of fame, glory, and honor. In other words, anything that separates us from the common, everyday person is a kind of wealth. From this point of view, the kind of fear the world gives is the fear of being poor — either material poverty or social poverty.

St. Thomas quote from the fifth chapter of 1 John to show us how faith helps us overcome the world. Read in context, John tells us that we overcome the world by following the commands of God. The first commandment of the new law, given by Christ himself at the Sermon on the Mount, is this: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” To be poor in spirit is, as St. Ignatius of Loyola teaches us, to have complete detachment from all creatures. This means we must be detached from not only material possessions, but also social honors. If, by faith in Jesus Christ and his grace, we are detached from creatures, then the world cannot tempt us, for we neither desire its riches nor fear its poverty.

The flesh tempts us with passing pleasures, such as food, sex, sleep, and entertainment. All four of these are licit and to be enjoyed under the right circumstances. These circumstances are not difficult to understand, if we approach each from a purely objective viewpoint. Food, sex, and sleep are obviously necessary in order to bring about certain ends. Each one of us needs food and sleep for the sake of physical health. A marriage between husband and wife needs the conjugal act for the sake of bring children into the world as well for the sake of strengthening the union between spouse. And as St. Thomas teaches elsewhere, we need delight (i.e., entertainment) in our lives if we are going to avoid the spiritual sadness that leads sin.

The problem is that our flesh wants to enjoy food, sex, sleep, and entertainment in what theologians call a inordinate fashion. It doesn’t want only the food and sleep necessary to sustain our health, but wants an excessive amount of food and sleep. It doesn’t just want to engage in sex within a marriage, but, rather, wants to engage in sex whenever and however it desires. And the same is true with entertainment.

In Ephesians 6, St. Paul describes our spiritual armor. A close reading of this passage teaches us that our spiritual armor is comprised of the virtues. The way we fight against the temptations of the flesh are by cultivating the virtues.

Finally, there is the devil to contend with. Hollywood’s vision of the satanic has skewered our understanding of how the devil works. His primary mode of operation is to stack the cards in such a way that we can easily disobey the will of God. A calculated suggestion that will make us feel lonely, neglected, forgotten, depressed, or anxious — that is how the evil one works, for he knows that all negative emotions open the doors to all kinds of worldly and fleshly solutions.

If we feel lonely, we will seek fame; if we feel neglect, we will seek honor. How many people turn to excessive food, sleep, sex, and entertainment when feeling depressed or anxious? A careful and reflective reading of how the devil tempted Our Lord Jesus after he’d fasted and was alone for forty days in the desert will help us understand the devil’s tactics.

And like Our Lord, the only way to resist the evil one’s temptations is by faith in the Word of God. Though I am lonely, I will not seek worldly fame. Though I am depressed, I will not hunt for solace in the desires of the flesh. Despite my emotional state, I will seek to be poor in spirit and to cultivate the virtues. We can only do this if we have a real, genuine faith in Jesus Christ and the reward he promised we shall receive.

With this in mind, I encourage you to read and meditate on Pope Benedict’s Spe Salvi to better understand what it means to live by faith.

Sacrosanctum Concilium 2. For the liturgy, through which the work of our redemption is accomplished, most of all in the divine sacrifice of the Eucharist, is the outstanding means whereby the faithful may express in their lives, and manifest to others, the mystery of Christ and the real nature of the true Church.

Here the Council sketches the spiritual power the liturgy has in the life of the Church. Two ideas are being expressed in this sentence: first, through the liturgy Christ’s salvific work is accomplished, and second, through the liturgy the faithful are empowered to bring Christ to others. Let’s go into this in a bit more detail.

The liturgical actions of the Church make the sacraments available to us. The sacraments are the divinely ordained ways God has chosen to offer us the free gift of grace. Though it is true that Christ’s work of redemption was finished through his passion, death, and resurrection, it is also true that this work must be made available to us. Protestant Christianity believes Christ offers us redemption by spiritual means alone: through an explicit faith in Christ one is justified and saved. Catholic Christianity does not undermine the necessity of faith (cf. Mk 16.16), but the Church believes that Christ himself set up a way to give us his grace through tangible means. What did Jesus mean when he claimed that the spiritual rebirth that is necessary for salvation is to be effected by water and the spirit (Jn 3.5)? What did our Lord mean he spoke of the necessity of eating his flesh and drinking his blood (Jn 6.52-59)? The Church, from its earliest days, has always understood these teachings of Christ to be the foundations for the sacraments of Baptism and the Eucharist. St. Paul tells us the meaning of these sacraments: through baptism we participate in the death and resurrection of Christ; we have died to sin and are enabled to live a life worthy of God (Rom 6.1-11). Through the Eucharist we have communion with the Lord (1 Cor 10.14-22); this communion is so real that if we receive the Eucharist in an unworthy manner (i.e., in the state of mortal sin) we shall be guilty of profaning the body and blood of Christ (1 Cor. 11.27-32). It’s clear that the sacraments unite us in a very real way to the salvific actions of Christ, and it’s through this union that we are given the grace of redemption.

This union to Christ, particularly that union we have to him through Holy Communion, has a real effect in us. As St. Thomas Aquinas said: “The proper effect of the Sacrament is to change man into Christ, so that he can say with the Apostle, I live; no, it is not I who live. It is Christ who lives in me” ¹. Thus, through the sacramental action of the Church — through the Church administrating the sacraments to us, and through our own generosity to God — the sacraments bring about a true transformation in us. We are made, as Archbishop Fulton Sheen said, into “little Jesuses.” Because we have been transformed into Christ, we are able to bring Christ and his grace to others. Understanding this deep reality makes the prayer of St. Teresa of Avila resonate with profound meaning:

Lord Christ, You have no body on earth but ours, no hands but ours, no feet but ours. Our are the eyes through which your compassion must look on the world. Ours are the feet by which you may still go about doing good. Ours are the hands with which you bless people now. Bless our minds and bodies, that we may be a blessing to others.

The Three Conversions of the Spiritual Life is a short masterpiece. In about 100 pages, Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange outlines the traditional journey the soul makes as it advances toward God. These are sometimes called the “three ways” or the “three stages” of the spiritual life. They’ve been around at least since the time of Origen (the 250’s) and have been the hallmark of Catholic spirituality.

We may speak of the three ways as the way of purgation, the way of illumination, and the way of union.

Or we may speak of them in terms of the beginner, the proficient, or the perfect.

Or, as Garrigou-Lagrange does, we may speak of the first conversion, the second conversion, and the third conversion — i.e., the pivotal transformations of the soul one must undergo to advance in the spiritual life.

The first conversion is necessary to reach the stage of the beginner, or the way of purification. On the interior level, this is a conversion from a state of sin to a state of grace. On the exterior level, it is a response to Christ’s call to follow him. Simply, it means repenting of your sins and seeking to life a life worthy of God. Thus the beginner in the spiritual life sets out on the way of purgation; that is, the purification of one’s life from sin and the things that lead to sin.

But at some point, the soul must undergo a second conversion. Garrigou-Lagrange compares this second conversion to the trial the apostles underwent during our Lord’s crucifixion. They had become attached to the humanity of Jesus and, thus, still attached to the things of the world. Just as the crucifixion severed this attachment, this second conversion severs our attachment to worldly things.

How can one be too attached to the humanity of Christ? According to Garrigou-Lagrange, we are too attached to Christ’s humanity when we love God for what God gives us — for the spiritual pleasure we receive in prayer — more than we love God for God’s sake. We love being with Jesus in a superficial way, and the second conversion is the spiritual darkness and dryness we must experience in order to purge ourselves of this superficial and childish love.

If we successfully endure the second conversion, we enter the stage of the proficient. We have a new, deeper sense of Christ’s presence — just as the apostles had a new, deeper experience of the crucified and risen Lord. This way is marked out by a deep desire to grow in virtue and holiness.

Nevertheless, a third conversion is needed, for the soul, though advanced, is still attached to superficial things — not the superficial things of the world, but a kind of spiritual superficiality. These souls may desire to be saints — a noble desire, to be sure — but they also desire a kind of ecclesiastical glory.

The apostles also experienced this same kind of desire for spiritual superficiality. Before Christ ascended into heaven, they asked him if he was not going to restore the kingdom of Israel (Acts 1.6). They were still thinking in terms of earthly glory. Thus, they had to undergo a third conversion.

This third conversion is called the dark night of the soul. Whereas the dark night of the senses severed our attachment to worldly things, the dark night of the soul severs our attachment to spiritual things so that we can love God alone.

If we successfully pass through this third conversion, we enter what is called the way of unity — the stage of the perfect. All the great saints achieved this level of holiness and many, many unknown souls as well. At this level, one love God alone and desires only to do God’s will — regardless of personal cost.

Thus, a basic outline of The Three Conversions of the Spiritual Life. It’s a great book for someone who has a good grasp of the basics of the spiritual life (daily prayer, spiritual reading, mortification, and so forth) and wants to go deeper into their relationship with God.

An old tradition in the Church — which is still expressed in the Liturgy of the Hours — is to engage in some special devotion to the Blessed Mother on Saturdays, telling her how much we love her. Maybe today we can begin renewing that practice by praying the “Hail Mary” three times, honoring her as the most blessed daughter of the Father, the most loving mother of the Son, and the most pure spouse of the Holy Spirit.

From the Letter of Barnabas (around 120-130 A.D.):

Since, then, He has renewed us by the forgiveness of sins, He has put a different stamp upon us, so that our souls might be like the souls of children, as they would be if He were creating us anew.

One of the forgotten elements of Christianity is that through Christ we are created anew. Scripture uses different words to attest to this: “clean heart” (Ps 51.10); “new spirit” (Ps 51.10; Ez 36.26); “heart of flesh” (Ez 36.26); “being born again” (Jn 3.3-5); “dead to sin” (Rom 6.1-11); “new creation” (2 Cor 5.17); “regeneration” and “renewal” (Titus 3.5); “children of God” (1 Jn 3.1-2). And the list could continue.

Unlike the Protestant Reformers, who more or less held that justification means that God simply declares us righteous, the perennial teaching of the Church — which is the perennial teaching of Scripture — has always been that in justifying us God transforms us, that God really changes us, us into new creations.

This is the great truth that the above passage from the Letter of Barnabas teaches: through the forgiveness of sins God puts a “different stamp upon us,” making our souls like “souls of children.”

What does this change mean for us? Later Catholic theology would speak of being transformed by the “supernatural life of God.” The notion of supernatural life isn’t that difficult to understand.

We observe three basic kinds of life on earth. There is plant life, there is animal life, and there is human life. Each of these different lives has a distinct nature attached to it. Plants take their food from the ground, for example, and animals cannot cook their food. If we were to observe a tree walking around looking for food, or of if we saw a fox pull out a skillet and begin cooking its newly killed beaver, we would say the tree and the fox were acting to natures above their own. The tree would be acting according to animal nature, and the fox would be acting according to human nature. Now, the Latin word for “above” is super, so another way of saying that the tree and fox were active above their own natures would be to say that they were acting supernaturally.¹

When a person is forgiven, when he is justified, when he is given a new spirit and a new heart, when he is regenerated, made a new creation, when he is born again into the supernatural life of God — all of these concepts express the same fundamental truth — when does that mean?

On the most basic level, we are able to believe what God has revealed through Sacred Scripture and Sacred Tradition as proclaimed and preserved by the Catholic Church. We are also able to trust deeply in God’s promises — that by living according to faith we shall gain the reward of heaven. And we are also able to love God above all things, including ourselves, thereby making God the object of all our words, thoughts, and actions.

On a higher level, we now have the ability to receive the other sacraments, particularly the Eucharist. We are able to pray to God not merely as one of his creatures, but as one of his children. We can unite our own hardships and sufferings to the passion and death of Jesus Christ. Most importantly, perhaps, is that we are able to bring God’s grace to others through acts of kindness, charity, and prayer. Thus, through the sacrament of baptism we become like a sacrament ourselves — a visible reality that carries the hidden God into the world.

I finished reading Pope Benedict XVI’s Spe Salvi yesterday, and I have a lot to say about it. But in the meantime, I want to pass on this bit of wisdom which is tucked away toward the end of the encyclical.

But first, let me put it in context. The point of Spe Salvi is to remind Christians that we must live by hope — that is to say, that we live a Christian life with the hope that it will “pay off” after death, in the next life. As Our Lord Jesus says, we must store up treasure in heaven. To do this, Benedict tells us, it is necessary to live with an active hope in our future reward.

That being said, now here is Benedict:

I would like to add here another brief comment with some relevance for everyday living. There used to be a form of devotion — perhaps less practiced today but quite widespread not long ago — that included the idea of “offering up” the minor daily hardships that continually strike at us like irritating “jabs”, thereby giving them a meaning. Of course, there were some exaggerations and perhaps unhealthy applications of this devotion, but we need to ask ourselves whether there may not after all have been something essential and helpful contained within it. What does it mean to offer something up? Those who did so were convinced that they could insert these little annoyances into Christ’s great “com-passion” so that they somehow became part of the treasury of compassion so greatly needed by the human race. In this way, even the small inconveniences of daily life could acquire meaning and contribute to the economy of good and of human love. Maybe we should consider whether it might be judicious to revive this practice ourselves. (Spe Salvi, no. 40)

The beauty of this “forgotten” practice is that every struggle, every irritation, every frustration can, if we accept them with the correct disposition, put a few extra treasures in our heavenly reward. What does it mean to offer something up? Benedict provides an answer, one that doesn’t make much sense without having read the entire encyclical, so let me sum up the full answer: To offer something up is to identify it with Our Lord Jesus’ suffering, and then to imitate him while enduring it.

But as I said, much more on this in a few days.