On Metanoia and Coming Home

As we take another step closer to Lent, the Church takes us deeper into the mystery of repentance.  With the Gospel of the Prodigal Son (Lk. 15:11-32), we have a fairly complete picture of this mystery.  For it is not only about the recognition of sin and the turning away from it, but also about the blessed fruits of repentance.  That is, we see repentance not only from the perspective of the repentant sinner, but also from that of the merciful God.

The first thing we have to do to understand the mystery of repentance is to get rid of the word “repentance.”  Now I say this half-jokingly, but only half.  This is because the term is inadequate, and the usual understanding of it gets neither to the spiritual heart of the mystery nor to the actual practice of it.  The Greek term in the Bible that is translated “repentance” is, as you probably already know, metanoia.  This is the term that I will mostly use.  The English word “repentance” in common usage has a limited meaning, that of being sorry for sin and perhaps of making some act that indicates contrition. But metanoia goes farther and deeper.

Metanoia is not limited to recognition or regret where sin is concerned, nor even to a declaration of amendment of conduct.  If you break a civil law, you can express regret and even decide never to do it again, simply in order to avoid the legal penalty.  But you might still go on thinking that the law is stupid and you didn’t really do anything wrong.  That might be called repentance from an external point of view, but it is not metanoia.

To experience metanoia is to undergo a real and profound interior change.  For metanoia is an actual change of mind and heart, a change in one’s perception, world-view, and hierarchy of values.  Therefore it is necessarily also a change in direction, that is, in attitude and behavior—if the metanoia is genuine and not just lip-service.  When you see things differently you naturally begin to live according to this new vision.  To experience metanoia is to begin to see things as God sees them and thus to live in a manner that is consistent with the word of God, with the principles of his Kingdom and his righteousness.

Let us now see what happened to the prodigal son, how he sinned, repented, and was received back into the love of his father.  It may be objected that the prodigal son repented for reasons less profound than a real change of heart.  He had first disgraced his father and spurned his love, selfishly living according to the flesh as long as his money lasted.  But then he ran out of money, found himself hungry and humiliated, and reckoned that if he humbled himself before his father, he could still at least have a safe place to stay and regular meals.  These are the outward facts of the story, but evidently something did happen interiorly, for this parable was told by Jesus as an example of true repentance.

The interior experience of metanoia is indicated by the phrase “he came to himself.”  The fathers make much of this and sometimes speak of the “spirit of metanoia,” as a spiritual gift.  This is the moment of illumination, of purified perception, of seeing the truth about himself.  Usually when we speak of repentance, we speak about something that we do.  But I found a rather unusual use of the term metanoia in the Acts of the Apostles.  When Peter was testifying before the Sanhedrin, he gave them the reason that God had exalted Jesus as the Savior: “to give metanoia to Israel” (5:31).  So repentance isn’t only something we do, it is first of all something that is given to us by God.  That’s why it can’t be limited to an expression of contrition or a promise to behave.  God gives repentance, that is, He gives us the grace of a change of heart, a new way of thinking and seeing, a true, deep, interior turning—away from sin and toward his love and truth—if He finds any good will in us at all.

So I think that God gave metanoia to the prodigal son when the young wastrel had finally reached the depths of misery, when his pride was broken, when his defenses were down, when he could finally admit: yes, I have failed; I need help.  God gave metanoia to him, but this gift does not bear fruit without a personal and wholehearted response.  So, when the prodigal received that grace, he did something about it: “I will arise and go to my father, and I will say to him: ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me as one of your hired servants.”  This is putting the grace of metanoia into practice.

There are four elements of repentance expressed here: the resolve to confess, the confession itself, the realization of what sin does to us, and the doing of some sort of penance to show that the repentance is genuine.  Once God gives the grace of metanoia to us, we will be moved to express this change of heart in some concrete way.  So we resolve to confess our sin.  Then we just get up and do it.  It is noteworthy that the son realizes that his sin is against both God and man: “against heaven and before you.”  This is one of the main reasons why we confess before a priest and not only privately to God.  The priest represents the members of the Body of Christ, against whom we also sin whenever we offend God.  Sin is not a private matter, even though it is often hidden from the eyes of others.  St Paul says that in the Body of Christ, when one member suffers, all do, and when one rejoices, all likewise share the joy.  That means that when you sin you hurt me, and when I sin I hurt you.  We sin against Heaven and against our brothers and sisters, and sacramental confession absolves us of both.

But let’s not forget that when you sin you also hurt you, and when I sin I hurt me.  This is why the prodigal said, “I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” He realized that his sin had deprived him of the right of sonship; it had degraded and debased him; it reduced him to something he wasn’t before, and he was powerless on his own to heal the damage.  So he at least offered to do penance, to prove that there was something behind his words of contrition, that he really meant to change his life.  “Treat me as one of your hired servants.”  He accepted the consequences of what his sin had done to him.

All that is from the perspective of the son.  Now let us look at the Father.  The son had to go through the soul-searching, the struggle, the sorrow, the painful but salutary awakening, the long journey back from the far country of his self-indulgence and degradation.  Otherwise it wouldn’t have been true metanoia.  But the Father didn’t have to hold his sin against him, humiliate him further, or punish him perpetually by giving him what he deserved.  No, once the father saw him coming (and I’m making the analogy to God the Father here), he knew that the son had undergone a change of heart.  So he ran to him.  He didn’t stand there with his arms folded, with “I told you so” written all over his face.  He ran to him and embraced and kissed him.  He didn’t even let his son finish his confession because he knew there was metanoia in his heart, and in the father’s heart there was only love and joy.

We ruin ourselves through sin, but it is within the Father’s power to heal us.  We can’t undo the damage, but He can.  Our sin makes us unworthy to be called God’s children, but the grace of his forgiveness makes us worthy again.  Sin enslaves us, but divine mercy sets us free again and restores us to favor with God.  If sin humbles us in a bad way, by reducing us to a wretched state of unrighteousness before God, then God’s mercy humbles us in a good way, making us realize that we don’t deserve the finest robes, the ring, and the shoes, which signify royal sonship.  But we receive them gratefully because it is the Father’s good pleasure to lavish them upon us, and now we want nothing more than to please Him.

So the spirit of metanoia works an interior change in us that corresponds to what the Father wants to do for us.  True repentance gives us the capacity to receive what the Father wants to give us.  We know that the prodigal experienced metanoia because he responded fully to the Father’s love for him.

But there are two sons who are sinners in this parable, and only one of them responded to the spirit of metanoia.  The elder son was outwardly righteous but inwardly bitter, resentful, and hateful.  He didn’t share the father’s love for the homecoming son, and he refused to understand how his brother’s heart had changed—for the elder son’s own heart was hard and cold and closed to repentance.

The banquet given by the Father for the repentant son is an image of the Kingdom of Heaven.  But the proud and hard-hearted elder son was angry and refused to go in.  This is what the Lord meant when he once told the Pharisees: “Prostitutes and publicans are entering the Kingdom before you.”  The elder son is an image of the self-condemned.  The father came out to meet him, too, for he loved both his sons.  He pleaded with him to come in and share the joy over the repentant son—Christ also said that there would be great joy in Heaven over even one repentant sinner.  But the self-righteous son would not go in.  This is why is it said that God does not condemn us to Hell; we condemn ourselves.  The Father comes out to invite us to a change of heart; He tries to give us the spirit of metanoia.  But if we remain angry and bitter because of our pride, we place ourselves forever outside the Kingdom of Heaven.

So let us heed carefully the message of this Gospel and take seriously the consequences of sin as well as the blessed fruits of mercy.  Let us pray for the spirit of metanoia to be given us in full as we approach Lent, so that we will arise and go the Father, lamenting our unworthiness but rejoicing in his goodness, falling before Him with a contrite heart, but allowing Him to raise us up and embrace us in his loving compassion.

Let us pray as Thomas à Kempis prays before Holy Communion in The Imitation of Christ: “But why should You come to me?  Who am I that You should give Yourself to me? … And why do You condescend to visit a sinner? … Thus I confess my unworthiness and I acknowledge your goodness. I praise your mercy, and I give thanks for your boundless love.”

Not of This World

When Jesus was on trial before Pilate, the governor asked Him, “Are you the King of the Jews?”  What Jesus said in response is significant.  He didn’t give him a yes or no answer.  He simply said, “My Kingdom is not of this world” (Jn. 18:36).  He went on to say that if He was a worldly king, his subjects would be fighting for Him, and He wouldn’t be standing alone and undefended before a foreign power.  Yet Christ still is a king, but this world is too small and barbaric for him to settle for a limited terrestrial reign.

Still, the kingship of Christ is stressed over and over in John’s passion account.  “So, you are a King? … You say that I am a King … Hail, King of the Jews! … Behold your King! … Shall I crucify your King? … Do not write ‘The King of the Jews’… What I have written, I have written.”

We know that if Jesus says his Kingdom is not of this world, then it means that it is of Heaven, the world of God.  Yet that doesn’t mean that as King of Heaven He had to be the King of Glory while on Earth.  Earthly glory is for earthly kings.  On Earth, the crown of the King of Heaven was made of thorns, his scepter was a reed, and his royal garment a cloak of mockery.  I often pray before an icon of Christ called “The Bridegroom,” which depicts him in the humiliating state of his Passion.  It could just as well have been called “Behold your King,” for that is how He was when Pilate brought Him before the people, shortly before he condemned Him to death.  Clearly, his Kingdom is not of this world.

Yet it is still this world that Jesus came to save, and over which He does reign, having ascended to Heaven after his resurrection.  But only in Heaven is his reign acknowledged by all.  Here on Earth there are many who still say, “We do not want this man to reign over us” (Lk. 19:14).  Those who live in this world and who do accept his kingship must also be in some way “not of this world.”

“Our citizenship is in heaven,” writes the Apostle (Phil. 3:20).  As we live our lives in this world, we still need to have a similar awareness to that of Jesus, who “had come from God and was going to God” (Jn. 13:3).  We don’t “come from God” in the same way Jesus did—essentially and eternally—but we come from Him in the sense that we were created by Him, and we’re going to Him because God is our destiny.  “We must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ” (2Cor. 5:10).  If we are always aware that we have come from God and are going to God, we can live in this world as people who are not of this world; we can live on Earth as citizens of Heaven.

Jesus Himself said that his disciples are not of this world.  He even compared them favorably with Himself, in his priestly prayer to the Father: “They are not of the world, even as I am not of the world” (Jn. 17:16).  Let’s see that statement in its fuller context, so we get a little better idea of what it means: “I do not pray that you should take them out of the world, but that you should keep them from the evil one.  They are not of the world, even as I am not of the world.  Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth.  As you sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world.”  So, to be in the world yet not of the world means, in part, that we have a mission here, and this entails speaking the truth against the evils of the world, without being dragged down by them.

In other words, there has to be a specifically Christian world-view that is not limited by the philosophies, politics, and technologies of this world, but rather that connects us to Heaven, where our citizenship is.  We are to “keep our eyes fixed on Jesus… for here we have no lasting city” (Heb. 12:2; 13:14).

But it is not enough to have the wits and the perception to see things clearly (as indispensable as that is).  We have also to take practical steps to make that true perception concrete in our daily lives.  The Church gives us the means to do this: meditation on the word of God, prayer, the sacraments.  Anything that “connects” us to God draws us nearer to the Kingdom that is not of this world.

The Holy Eucharist is especially helpful in renewing our heavenly citizenship.  For, among all the means of our sanctification and communion with God, it is the one par excellence that is “not of this world.”  For this is the Bread from Heaven, the flesh of the Son of Man, which He gives for the life of the world, so that we can abide in Him and He in us, and so that He can thus raise us up on the last day (see Jn. 6:51-58).  We are confirmed in our status as being not of this world when the Bread from Heaven enters our bodies and souls.  For we are in a personal communion of faith and love with Him who said, “My Kingdom is not of this world.”

As I meet with various people who are laboring to live a Christian life in the world, I realize that the pressure is strong to be “of this world,” and that those who are not will be ridiculed and ostracized and even persecuted, precisely because they are citizens of Heaven.  “A time will come,” an ancient prophecy runs, “when the world will go mad.  And the few who are not mad will be told by the others: ‘you are mad, for you are not like us.’”  The Lord was aware of this as He prayed to his Father: “I have given them your word; and the world has hated them, because they are not of the world…” (Jn. 17:14).

So be it.  In the end Christ alone will reign, and those who have been faithful to Him in this world—especially at great personal cost—will reign with Him in glory and joy.  We have a mission in this world, but we are not to become engrossed in the world.  Our citizenship is in Heaven, and hence our hearts and desires and aspirations and labors should be directed heavenward.  If they are not, where shall we go when we must leave this world?  Where do we belong?  Now is the time to get all that straight.  Choose the kingdom to which you wish to belong.  As for me, I choose to live for the Kingdom that is not of this world.

Abraham’s Knife

It was recently brought to my attention that the biblical account of Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of Isaac is difficult to understand, especially in the light of what God has revealed about Himself (i.e., that He’s not the type to demand human sacrifice).  I think that first of all we have to have a kind of a priori submission to the mysteries of God, whether we understand them or not, or even whether they fit into our image of God or not.  Even though God has revealed much about Himself in the Scriptures, He has not revealed everything (and really cannot, since human words and concepts are wholly inadequate to the Divine Being).  So we have to approach the incomprehensible mysteries of God with reverence and with a certain hesitation to make any sort of simple assessment based on our limited reason.

All right, it seems that the main problem here is why God would tell Abraham to sacrifice his son, and why Abraham didn’t question Him about the wisdom or morality of that command.  My first answer would be: I don’t know.  But since very few would find that answer satisfactory, I’ll have to dig a bit deeper.

Let’s look at the last issue first: Why didn’t Abraham so much as blink at the divine command to sacrifice his son?  We can’t say that the Hebrew religion tolerated human sacrifice, since there’s no evidence in their history that they did, except when foolishly imitating the Canaanites for a time, for which sins—i.e., departures from their religion—they were severely punished.  But the better reason is that there simply was no Hebrew religion at the time!  All we have at this time is a nomad to whom God appeared and made some promises, and his heir.  We can hardly speak of a distinct religion at this point, at least not until we can speak of “the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”  Once Jacob’s sons were established, one can perhaps make the distinction, though it is better made after the Exodus.

Abraham was probably familiar enough with the various religions in his own general environment (some of which most likely offered human sacrifice), and he probably practiced one of them, for practically no one was without any religion in those times and places.  I guess, then, the question is not why Abraham didn’t balk at the idea of human sacrifice, but why didn’t he balk after all God’s promises concerning the descendants of the very one He was asking him now to kill!  The simple answer is that he trusted God—absolutely, and in the face of all contrary evidence.  The author of the Epistle to the Hebrews gives a little commentary: “By faith, Abraham, when he was tested, offered up Isaac, and he who had received the promises was ready to offer up his only son, of whom it was said, ‘Through Isaac shall your descendants be named.’ He considered that God was able to raise men even from the dead…” (11:17-19).  So here we have the interpretation that Abraham was going to do it because he believed God could raise Isaac from the dead.  This is interesting because it shows how completely Abraham believed in God’s promise.  If God said descendants would come through Isaac, then come through Isaac they would, and if God now says “kill Isaac,” then somehow God would make Isaac live again to have descendants.

So Abraham obeyed out of radical faith and trust in God.  But usually the critique is directed not against Abraham, but against God.  Why would He even suggest such a monstrous thing?  Well, it says right in the first verse of Genesis 22 that God did this to test him.  God did not really want Abraham to kill Isaac, and so in the end God prevented him from doing so.  But God wanted to see what Abraham was really made of, or rather, God wanted Abraham to see what Abraham was really made of.  (This is the basic reason why God tests anyone at all.)  This was a test of the highest magnitude, for God went out of his way to pull on the old man’s heartstrings: “Take your son, your only son, whom you love…”  (A little aside: here “son” means “heir.”  Isaac was actually Abraham’s second son, but Ishmael didn’t “count” in God’s promises.  Isaac was the only heir.  But here we have the reason that the Muslims say that God called Abraham to sacrifice Ishmael, saying that Isaac was not yet born, so Ishmael was his “only son.”)

Another aside: I’ve often wondered what Isaac was thinking during this whole journey to Mt Moriah.  Even from the text we get the idea that he was getting just a tad nervous as they approached the place of sacrifice.  “Behold the fire and the wood [he forgot to mention Abraham's knife, which was in his father's hand; I think his heart got stuck in his throat at that point]; but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”  The text also says, without going into detail, the preparations: “Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar, upon the wood.”  Isaac certainly would have had a few things to say at this point.  “Heh, heh.  OK, Dad, that’s a funny joke, but come on now, really, where is the lamb—you know, the one that is really going to be killed and burned?  You can untie me now. Dad? Dad!”  I also have wondered about the conversation afterward, on the way down the mountain: “Uh, Dad, you weren’t really going, I mean, um, if the Lord hadn’t spoken right when He did, you really wouldn’t have…”  I think little Isaac locked his bedroom door every night for years after, and politely declined all subsequent offers to go hiking with Dad.

Back to the meaning of the test and the sacrifice.  I think that it was because of the greatness of Abraham’s calling that he had to be put to the most severe of tests.  God had to see, and God wanted Abraham to see, that Abraham was willing to surrender everything to Him out of faith and trust.  A father of many nations, and the distant ancestor of the Messiah Himself, has to be tried unto perfection, has to be absolutely loyal, has to obey without question—because he has to know the One who commands so well that he knows that even a devastating order will be for his ultimate good.

But we have to look beyond the event itself and its original context to get its full meaning.  God doesn’t ask us to do anything He isn’t willing to do Himself.  How terrible to ask Abraham to sacrifice his only son!  Should He then not have asked him?  Isn’t it a much greater sacrifice for God to sacrifice his only Son?  Should He then not have done it?  Where would we be if Jesus wasn’t bound and laid upon the wood, if the soldier’s lance, like Abraham’s knife, wasn’t poised to finish Him off?

The Lord knew Isaac would live.  The author of Hebrews speculated that Abraham believed God could raise Isaac from the dead.  God knew for a fact that He could raise Jesus from the dead, so He didn’t intervene to spare Him.  He let the Sacrifice happen.  For us.  Lest we think God cruel to ask Abraham to sacrifice his son, let us think of how cruel and wicked we have been, so as to require the sacrifice of the Son of God to take away our sins!  But God loved us enough not only to give his only Son over to suffering, but to prepare this mystery for centuries through the events and words of his revelation to his chosen people.  God is saying that the supreme test through which He put Abraham is little enough in comparison to what it prefigured.  Jesus’ death was not a mere “human sacrifice”—upon Him was laid all the sins of the world, an infinitely intolerable burden that no one but the Son of Man could bear, but which He did out of love for us, having passed the supreme test initiated in Gethsemane.

By the way, Scripture scholar Scott Hahn has discovered something quite astounding (but knowing God, not surprising) in his research.  He did some study of the geography of the lands in the time of Abraham and of Jesus.  Mount Moriah, the place of Isaac’s near-sacrifice, was much later called by a different name: Mount Calvary, or Golgotha.  Yes, God has been speaking to us for a long time, and though we don’t always understand what He’s up to, He is trying to tell us in so many ways that He loves us, that what He asks of us is for our good and his glory.  “Because you have done this [i.e., passed the test in obedience and trust]… I will indeed bless you” (Gen. 22:16-17).

Let us, then, trust Him, even when we don’t understand Him or what He is doing in our lives, even if we think He is asking too much of us, or asking something He ought not ask of us.  He has our best interests in mind, though we don’t usually know what they really are ourselves.  But “If God is for us, who can be against us?  He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, will he not also give us all things with him?” (Rom. 8:31-32).  Do not shrink from the tests.  God will provide.  And He will indeed bless you.

Paradox and Pair o’ Doves

We find ourselves in a sort of paradoxical point in the liturgical year.  Here we are in the midst of our several weeks of preparation for Lent, and we’re suddenly looking back to a mystery that relates to the infancy of Jesus and hence seems to be a kind of last upsurge of the Christmas spirit.  Of course, the reason it occurs now is not some sort of accident or oversight (nor even a bit of anxious nostalgia for Christmas as Lent looms large on the horizon), but simply because this event historically occurred 40 days after Jesus’ birth, and here we are, 40 days after Christmas, so we celebrate this feast today.

There’s also another paradox about this feast, which has nothing to do with our liturgical year.  It is hinted at in the Epistle reading (Heb. 7:7-17).  The reading talks about a change of priesthood and a change of law, about Christ the High Priest not following in step with the descendants of Aaron, who were the only legitimate priests back then, but rather emerging on the scene mysteriously from unknown origins, like the enigmatic priest-king, Melchizedek.  So we have the Child Jesus undergoing a standard ritual according to the Law, while wholly transcending it in his person, and forever changing its meaning and direction by his forthcoming mission.

According to the Law, every first-born son was to be consecrated to God by presenting him in the temple and offering a sacrifice of a lamb and a turtledove, or, if the family is poor, two turtledoves would suffice.  (This is in fact what Joseph and Mary offered, and it offers a little more evidence that the Magi actually arrived somewhat later, since if Mary and Joseph had recently received gold from them, they could have afforded a lamb for the sacrifice.)

There’s a certain irony here, that the eternal Son of God had to be consecrated to God as a first-born.  The Office for the feast takes this to an extreme at one point, by saying that Christ, as God, is being offered to Himself, but I think we ought to cool the anti-Arian fervor just a bit at this point so we can better understand the mystery.  The whole point is that as man He is being offered to God the Father.  For all eternity the Son has been offering Himself to the Father in love, in the inner life of the All-Holy Trinity, but if that were the only requirement, there would have been no need for the Incarnation.  It is the sacrifice of God-made-man that redeems and saves us, and today’s mystery is a foreshadowing of it.  The infant Jesus is offered to God in the temple as a kind of pledge of the perfect offering He would make of laying down his life as a sacrifice for us sinners.  So, even though He was following a centuries-old practice by being presented in the temple, with the customary sacrifice, Christ was forever changing the meaning of sacrifice and offering, and investing it with the power of redemption, by ultimately making it his own and bequeathing its grace to all succeeding generations of his Church.

Now we no longer have to sacrifice lambs or turtledoves, for the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, has been sacrificed once for all, and if we wish to participate in the fullness of the grace of his Sacrifice, we have but to receive Holy Communion worthily, and so be united to Him in the mystery of his self-offering for our salvation.

There’s another irony here, for according to the prescriptions of Leviticus (12:2-8), the turtledove, or the second turtledove as the case may be, is considered a sin-offering, to atone for the ritual impurity of the mother who has shed blood in the process of giving birth.  The irony is that the All-pure Virgin, who miraculously gave birth while preserving her virginity, would have to offer a sacrifice for her purification!  In the West, this feast was in fact sometimes called “The Purification of Mary,” which referred solely to the ritual of the Law.  Both of these rituals, the presentation of the first-born and the purification of the mother, were to take place in the temple when the child was 40 days old.

Now let us look at the rest of the cast of characters, for there are more mysteries and paradoxes to explore.  A righteous man named Simeon was told by the Holy Spirit that he would live to see the Messiah.  This meeting of Simeon and the infant Jesus is what gives this feast its name in the Byzantine tradition.  It is not called the Presentation of the Lord, which refers to the ritual offering of the Child to God, but rather the Meeting of the Lord (with Simeon), which refers to the fulfillment of prophecy.  Of course, both of these aspects are essential to the mystery.

When Mary and Joseph brought Jesus into the temple, Simeon was there, because the Holy Spirit told him to be there on that day and at that time.  We can hardly imagine the deep emotion that must have filled him as he took into his arms the long awaited Messiah of Israel who, as Simeon would presently prophesy, would also be the Enlightener of the Gentiles.

At this point, Simeon prayed one of my favorite prayers: “Lord, now let your servant depart in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation…”  I’m always reminding the Lord that it’s OK for Him to let me depart in peace, though for some reason I’m still here.  But my eyes have in fact seen his salvation, and I have held Him in my hands like a precious newborn.  Every time I elevate the consecrated Lamb of God in the Divine Liturgy my eyes see his incarnate presence, though veiled, and my hands touch the mystery of the Word of Life, as St John says in the beginning of his First Epistle.  (As a matter of fact, in the Byzantine tradition priests are required to pray St Simeon’s prayer right after the Divine Liturgy, for that very reason.)

That moment of ecstatic joy for the little circle of the elect in the temple was, however, rather short-lived.  Perhaps Mary and Joseph would have told Simeon to quit while he was ahead, had they known what the rest of the prophecy was going to be.  For he continued, speaking to Mary: “Behold, this child is set for the fall and rising of many in Israel, and for a sign of contradiction—and a sword will pierce through your own soul—that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.”

This is the second time in this prophecy that revelation is mentioned.  First, it is the joyful annunciation that Christ would be a Light of revelation to all nations, but now there’s a more painful revelation, the kind that only the two-edged sword of the word of God can accomplish: the revelation of what is in people’s hearts (see Heb. 4:12-13).  That is why Christ is set for the rise of some and the fall of others.  That is why He is a sign of contradiction, which literally means people will speak against Him.  This happened not only in his own life, which led to his condemnation and execution, but it has gone on ever since then, by those who don’t wish to approach the Light of revelation, those who don’t want the thoughts of their hearts revealed.

There’s one more member of the chosen who witnessed this scene, and who then became a witness for Christ: the prophetess Anna.  She had been married for seven years and then was widowed and lived as such until she was 84.  A friend of mine, who teaches catechism to children, learned from one of her precious charges that after St Anna’s husband died, she became a window until she was 84!  Being of the Byzantine tradition, we can easily make that work.  Anna, which name means “grace,” became transparent to God’s grace through prayer and fasting.  She was, as it were, a window in the temple, for people could perceive the presence of God through her.  If you place a window in a wall, it reveals what is beyond the wall, and the Scripture says that Anna spoke about Christ to all who were looking for the redemption of Israel.  So through her testimony they were able to “see” something that was beyond the wall of their present knowledge and experience, and they glimpsed a new spiritual horizon in hope.  So Anna really was a window in the temple!

So many paradoxes, ironies, and mysteries in this feast!  But we have to do much more than merely examine the texts and unearth their meanings and allusions and prophecies.  We have to hear the word of the Lord for our own lives.  We have to learn the meaning of sacrifice, of being consecrated to the Lord, of meeting Him in the temple through prayer and the sacraments.  We also have to realize what it means that we are disciples of the Sign of Contradiction, of the one who is spoken against.  Jesus is spoken against more and more, explicitly or implicitly, by those who promote atheism, immorality, or other evils of the day.  When we stand with Christ, we shall be spoken against as well.  We may feel the heart-piercing sword—as Our Lady did when she saw her only Son crucified for our sins—and our own thoughts will thereby be revealed.  And we will be called to witness to Him, like Saints Simeon and Anna.

Therefore this ought to be the feast of our purification, not with a sacrifice of lamb and turtledove, but with the Sacrifice of the Lamb of God, the Light of Revelation and the Glory of the people who are called by his name.  And then, at the moment chosen by God, He will let us depart in peace, according to his word given to all those longing to see eternal salvation.

On Spiritual Fatheads

Once again we have blown the dust off of our Lenten liturgical books and have cracked them open for the services of the pre-Lenten period.  Today is actually the second Sunday of the preparatory time, but it’s the first Sunday that we actually use the Lenten books. So this means our preparation must really begin in earnest, starting today.  And the Church gives us what is perhaps the most important disposition for fruitfully living the time of Lent, as well as our whole lives, if we indeed want to live them as Christians.  It is the recognition of our pride and the renunciation of it, and, conversely, the recognition of the rest of our sin and our humble acknowledgement of it, bringing it to God in repentance.

Today’s parable of the Pharisee and the Publican (or tax-collector) is introduced by St Luke in this way: “Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and despised others” (18:9).  Even without hearing the parable there is much to reflect upon here.  This is such a common thing in the Church today (and perhaps always has been), especially among those who consider themselves traditional Catholics.  They think that they themselves are righteous, and they think that this gives them the right to look down on others.  The Lord makes it very clear that these are not justified in his eyes, no matter how much they pray or fast or give alms.

I pray more than the others; therefore I am holier than they are.  I fast and give alms more than others; therefore I am more pleasing to God than they are.  God will never hear the prayers of someone with this kind of attitude.

Attitude is really what this parable is about, and what our preparations for Lent should be about.  For God does not condemn the Pharisee for his good works, but for his attitude—the double aspect of his high opinion of himself and his low opinion of his fellow man.  It may have been true that the Pharisee was not, as he boasted, an adulterer or an extortioner, or even one of the despised class of tax-collectors.  And it may have been true that he fasted and gave tithes according to the law.  But you know what?  God was not at all impressed by this.  For God reads our hearts and judges our attitudes.  And the attitude of the Pharisee was not acceptable in the sight of God because it was infected with pride in himself and scorn for others.  The Lord might have initially tolerated (but just barely) the Pharisee’s offering of his good works.  But as soon as the Pharisee pointed out the publican and said, “I’m glad I’m not like him,” which means, “I’m glad I’m better than he is,” He was rejected by the Lord’s righteous judgment.  If there’s anything we can say the Lord hates, it would have to be pride.  This is a demonic sin, and the devils are where they are because of it, and we will join them in the end if we don’t shake ourselves free from it.  And the only way to do it is through repentance and humility.  Whenever the subject of pride comes up, we immediately think of someone we know who fits the description.  But why don’t we immediately think of ourselves?

The Pharisee is what I would call a spiritual fathead.  To say that someone has a big head or a swelled head is a way of saying that the person is proud, has a big ego, thinks too highly of himself, or is always thinking about himself and his own ideas and concerns.  Malcolm Muggeridge relates a rather humorous anecdote that brings out the point.  He was attending an exhibition of Madame Tussaud’s famous wax figures.  He writes:

“The most interesting part of the whole experience was being taken on a tour of the Exhibition’s nether regions, where there is a remarkable collection of bits and pieces of waxworks: items such as Gandhi’s leg, Sophia Loren’s bust, a famous Archbishop of Canterbury’s rump—oddments like that casually lying about.  What fascinated me most, however, was a collection of no less than six heads of Harold Wilson, who was Prime Minister at the time.  I asked why six heads, and was told, believe it or not, that it was because during his period of office his head had been growing steadily bigger, so that it was necessary to re-do it from time to time.  Why, you may ask, keep all the six used heads?  Because, it was calculated, out of office his head might begin shrinking again, and the old heads come in handy.”

If we’re honest with ourselves, we’ll have to admit that our hats sometimes seem to get tighter, and we may even need to get larger ones, but we don’t always come to the correct conclusion as to why this might be happening.  But I think if we go back and read the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican, we might discover, upon a sincere examination of conscience, that we have either been thinking too highly of ourselves and our own righteousness or piety, or that we have been thinking uncharitably of others, as if they were inferior to us in the sight of the Lord.  Let us keep our old hats, though.  They might come in handy if we repent and our heads shrink back to their proper size.

I recently discovered that the expression “having a big head” when speaking of the proud is not one of recent vintage.  It goes back at least to the fourth century.  Evagrius, one of the early monastic fathers—speaking about monks though it can apply to all—said the following.  “The demon of pride is the cause of the most damaging fall for the soul, for it induces the monk to… consider that he himself is the cause of virtuous actions.  Further, he gets a big head in regard to the brethren, considering them stupid because they don’t all have this same opinion of him.  Anger and sadness follow on the heels of this demon, and last of all there comes in its train the greatest of maladies—derangement of mind, associated with… hallucinations of demons…” (The Praktikos, v.14).

So we see where pride leads us.  And we see that pride negates the value of good actions in the eyes of God.  We can be, externally seen, the most pious and righteous of people, but if there is pride within us that causes us to judge or regard others as inferior to us, then all the spiritual value of our prayers or works is lost, as well as whatever righteousness we thought we had possessed.

The Lord gives us an example of the one who is justified in his eyes, and this man is a public sinner!  Of course, it is not his sins that justify him, but his humility and his repentance, as well as what these signify: the fact that he put his total trust in God’s mercy and not in his own piety or holiness—since he had none anyway!  But he was in fact justified in the eyes of the Lord—and those eyes are the only ones that matter.  We can try to defend ourselves so that we come off looking good in others’ eyes, or we can delude ourselves so that we come off looking good in our own eyes, but the Lord is trying to tell us this: “Humble yourself and repent so that you can look good in My eyes!”

We can never really get away with praying the prayer of the Pharisee: “God, I thank you that I am not like other people.”  You know why?  Because we are like other people—perhaps not in all the particulars, but we are all sinners, we are all limited, defective, and usually rather selfish, and yes, often proud and conceited as well.  So there’s only one prayer left to us, the prayer of the publican: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”  And Jesus tells us that this is the one that works.  This is the one that wins his heart because it flows from the humility that is based on truth, for God is a God of truth, and He welcomes it wherever He finds it.  That is why this prayer, somewhat adapted to include the Name of Jesus, is the prayer in the Byzantine tradition, the most loved and practiced prayer, especially among monks.  It has this miraculous quality by which heads gradually get smaller as the prayer is prayed with fervor and love, as it flows in honest repentance out of our wounded and defiled hearts, humbly seeking healing, mercy, and salvation.

If we say this prayer often and sincerely—and I stress the “sincerely”—then it can become a powerful antidote to the pharisaic pride that is so corrosive to the soul, that makes the soul impervious to grace but quite vulnerable to demons.  Even with the power of the Jesus Prayer, however, we must be aware that prayer alone, while necessary, is not sufficient.  If it were, Jesus would have said, “The one who loves Me is the one who prays.”  But He didn’t say that.  He said this: “The one who loves Me is the one who keeps my commandments” (Jn. 14:15, 21).  So the breaking of pride with its judging and denigration of others, and the cultivation of humility, with its openness to repentance and its honest self-appraisal and charitable attitude toward others, takes a lot of effort, a lot of self-denial, a lot of obedience, a lot of John the Baptizer’s “He must increase and I must decrease.”

So let us take this Gospel seriously, because it is so close to the heart of spiritual life, and so important if we wish to be pleasing to the Lord.  Attitude is everything here, and without the attitude of the publican our Lenten efforts will be wasted, for they will be devoured by pride and we will have nothing to present to God but a swelled head and a heart full of worthless self-righteousness.  And let us not think we can get away with merely changing the terms of the Pharisee’s prayer while retaining his attitude: “I thank you God, that I am not like the Pharisees, self-righteous, proud, and full of themselves, or even like [fill in the blank].  On the contrary, I am humble, for I pray the Jesus Prayer every day!”  That doesn’t work either.  Only one thing works: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”  A humbled, contrite heart, says the psalmist, the Lord will never spurn.