Aesop's Volvo

Last Saturday, it snowed for the first time—which provoked a meditation I was not expecting.

I drive a Volvo. Many of you know that these are Swedish cars, well outfitted for snow. Repeat: well outfitted for snow. So, as a native of Phoenix, Arizona, it never quite made sense why our family always bought Volvo's. At one time, I think we had 4 Volvo’s in our desert driveway. Sure—they are incredibly safe. But, as far as the stamina of an imported vehicle in 120 degree weather goes—Volvos do not win.

But, naturally, when the time came for me to drive, I inherited a 2000 Volvo. So, picture this: my Volvo spent 10 years in the desert, followed by one year in southern California becoming acquainted with beaches—until the Lord called me out to Minnesota this August.  And the import of this didn’t hit me until I found myself—and my windshield—braving galactic snowflakes last Saturday. Almost immediately, I was cognizant of the beauty of this moment: After 11+ years in exile, this Volvo had finally reached the end for which it was crafted: driving in snow.

At this realization, I was just overcome by a deep peace. Who would have thought that such an event would actually cause spiritual consolation? Honestly, I was shocked by my reaction, “This Volvo persevered!” But, the moment far transcended the Volvo, the weather, and Swedish mechanics.  This was the satisfaction only experienced when something has finally reached the end for which it was created. And this is no exaggeration: it imbued me with hope that I too will someday reach my end if only I persevere. The desire we all have for fulfillment, for happiness, is not an empty dream.

If the Lord cares enough to let a Volvo finally reach its end, how much more does He want that for us?  Let us be confident that our desires for ultimate Truth, Goodness, and Beauty are not in vain. We are crafted for eternal happiness. Let us only persevere.

A Modern Pieta

Today, I found myself at a 10am Saturday Mass at the Basilica of St. Mary's in Minneapolis, honoring veterans--both living and deceased. Auxilary Bishop Lee Piche presided and delivered an incredibly somber homily about the wounds and trauma of war. He closed with an anecdote about a man whose duty was to accompany the bodies of fallen soldiers back to their hometowns. This entailed meeting with the families. Sometimes it was the mother and father, but mostly, he would just meet with the mothers. And the mothers would always ask one question: “Are you sure this is my son?”

When Bishop Piche announced this question, I caught a glimpse of a stone sculpture of Christ crucified, with Mary Magdalene and the Blessed Mother on either side. I immediately thought of how that question must have crossed Our Lady’s mind when she held the dead God in her arms, “Are you sure this is my Son?” A question which would echo Isaiah’s prochecy, “As many were astonished at Him, His appearance was so marred beyond human semblance” (52:14) God had suffered so terribly He had become unrecognizable. Similarly, the reality of the death of these soliders  presented something almost unrecognizable--the horror of a dead son—of a mother burying her child, that mothers were compelled to ask, "Are you sure?"

Suffering comes to us with manifold faces--faces which provoke this same question. Indeed, despite the external disappointments we all face, the hardest suffering is often what we find within ourselves. This is how we approach our brokenness: We look at ourselves in the existential mirror and ask, “Are you sure this is me?” We see the scars, we see the disfigurements and whatnot. We almost ask in horror—“Are you sure this me?” The question is spat out into a void—waiting to be filled by the one answer we both long for—and yet fear. We wait, like the Blessed Mother, like those mothers of the soldiers, with our poverty cradled in our arms.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

But, the God who answers, "Yes"--is also the God who speaks with infinite compassion, "You are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you.” (Isaiah 43:4)

Let us remember this truth--the truth of God's all encompassing love--when we consider all of what makes life so terrible and so beautiful--and allow ourselves to offer to the Father that poverty--the unthinkable--which is cradled between our arms.

The bell tolls for you—and for your salvation

Bells have always gripped me, sometimes even to the point of completely stopping whatever I’m doing to count the peals as they lap the air.

And for some reason, even though a bell is an indicator of time—not only for the hours—but also marking the moments with each gong—there is an eternal quality about its bronzed cadence.

Last Sunday, the eternal quality of the bell was unveiled before me at the 10am Mass at the Cathedral of St. Paul.

For those of you who have never stepped foot in the Cathedral of St. Paul’s—pray that you do one day. Truly it is an edifice of architectural grandeur seldom seen in North America. Gazing at it, you’d think your feet were planted somewhere other than Minnesota. But here it stands. Entering the doors, one is immediately struck by the stateliness of the interior. Sprawling ceilings, stone columns, cerulean and rose stained glass, even a baldocino over the altar.

But what really distinguishes the Cathedral is not its architecture, but its liturgies: the solemn barreling of the organ, the ethereal Latin chant…and the bells. Every Sunday Mass, the cathedral bells toll at the moments the bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ. I eagerly await the proclamation of the bells—Verbum caro factum est—deeply moved by the eternity behind them. Those bells are resounding the salvific truth that Christ had become Man, and now had become Bread.

And why did He become Bread? “Whoever eats my Flesh and drinks my Blood will have Eternal Life.”

The bells, like the Apostles, have a message of eternal importance to proclaim to us, “Fear not little one, your salvation has come.”

Whom do you seek amidst the olive trees?

Thursday night, I ventured into the city for my first taste of the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Unbeknownst to me, MIA was hosting its "Third Thursday" event--an evening replete with club music and drinks in the lobby of the museum. Initially, I was not secretly annoyed by the cacophony, which was so unusual for that particular milieu. Most art museums boast of silence, and the occasion echoes of guided tours a few galleries down the hall. Not tonight. And later, I was tremendously grateful for this fact.

As I wandered through the various galleries almost to the beat of the music downstairs, I emerged from the European art from the 1800s to the colors of impressionism. I sat down to absorb a particularly large and colorful painting. The lines were imprecise—and for a realist—most of the picture was not true to life. But the reds, blues, yellows, greens were captivating—if only for a moment. And then I heard a voice within me, almost like a death knell, “Not even color satisfies.” At which point, I began to suspect that this artist had attempted to touch the infinite through the vibrancy of color—only to discover that that too did not suffice.

As I rounded the bend, I recognized a familiar painting by Van Gogh, Olive Trees. But my appreciation for the piece mounted as I read the history behind it. In 1889, just a year before he died, Van Gogh checked himself into an asylum. It was during this time that he painted various scenes of olive trees. Less than a year later, he committed suicide. So, basically, Olive Trees was a snapshot of his soul. Those trees were so angular, so scorched by the sun. You could see the motion of heat. And color dominated. And again the words, “Not even color satisfies.” It is not enough. Color is not enough. Nothing is enough. Art is not enough. But I think Van Gogh was hoping that his art would save him. At last, he could no longer handle the silence with which his art answered him.

Maybe to escape from this disconcerting conclusion about Van Gogh’s fate, I sought out a guard to direct me to the medieval art. Entering those galleries, the irony of the evening was heightened even more. I was looking at medieval triptychs and downstairs were avant-gardes and club music. So strange. It really forced a meditation on the sacred and the profane and the emptiness that the world offers. It only offers emptiness.

I recalled how in Austria we had the end of the year dance in an old Carthusian Monastery in the foothills of the Alps. One of the rooms had been converted into an ornate ballroom. I was in the gravel courtyard, with the dark sky, the medieval spire silhouetted against the moon, and that yellow glow coming from the ballroom, where they were blasting the song, “What is love?”  At that moment I was seized by the reality of spiritual blindness. Young people were dancing--looking for satisfaction in each other when the simple Host sat alone in a tabernacle. I went to the Adoration instead of the ball.

This evening at the MIA was the same—with the dichotomy but also the close proximity of the sacred and the profane. This painting summed it all up:  Christ’s arrest in Gethsemane. The entire explanation for the piece was the Gospel passage typed onto the placard. It repeated Christ’s question to them, “Whom do you seek?” When I read those words amidst the cacophony, I was deeply moved. I made a 360 degree turn around the gallery. “Whom do you seek?” Amidst this art, amidst this noise, amidst a myriad of souls, “Whom do you seek?”

And like Van Gogh, the men in this painting were also looking among the olive trees.

The Call of St. Matthew

"Jesus said to him, "Follow me."

And he got up and followed Jesus."

Mark 2:14

One look upon the Face of Christ consumed the heart of a man entrenched in the comforts of unearned wealth. So, what was in this Face that compelled Matthew to arise so quickly? 

Most of us resist the Face of Christ, for in it we catch a glimpse of the fullness of Love--a fullness which we would almost prefer not to receive.

We are afraid of Its Fire.

Leaping from this Fire, is the gaze that pierced Matthew, the gaze which spoke, "You may stay at your post. Your are free to stay. But, even as the eternal, invincible God, My joy will not be full without you in My company." What drew Matthew was the radicality of the desire of God; that God longed for him personally.

Like Matthew, we must accept God's longing for us, and allow ourselves to be drawn by Love. We must not succumb to the temptation to resist God's longing for us under the pretext of our misery. It's true that we are almost embarrassed by the thought of God desiring us. But, it would be a fatal mistake to have more confidence in our wretchedness than His desire. He does not come to us in spite of our sinfulness, but because of it.

Let yourself be loved.

Let yourself be longed for.

Everything depends on it.