Works and Prayers of a Fils Prodigue

I wanted to share this illuminating and humble article by Dorothy Day, which can be found in her writings on the Catholic Worker Website (www.catholicworker.org).

“ADVENT IS a time of waiting, of expectation, of silence. Waiting for our Lord to be born. A pregnant woman is so happy, so content. She lives in such a garment of silence, and it is as though she were listening to hear the stir of life within her. One always hears that stirring compared to the rustling of a bird in the hand. But the intentness with which one awaits such stirring is like nothing so much as a blanket of silence.

Be still. Did I hear something?

Be still and see that I am God.

Zundel, in Our Lady of Wisdom, has some beautiful passages on silence:

Do we understand at last that action must be born in silence, and abide in silence, and issue in silence, and that its power must be an emanation and the radiation of silence, since its sole aim is to make men capable of hearing the Word that silently reverberates in their souls?

All speech and reasoning, all eloquence and science, all methods and all psychologies, all slogans and suggestions are not worth a minute of silence in which the soul, completely open, yields itself to the embrace of the Spirit.

In solitude Christ speaks to the heart, as a modest lover who embraces not His beloved before all the world.

In silence we hear so much that is beautiful. The other day I saw a young mother who said, “The happiest hour of the day is that early morning hour when I lie and listen to the baby practicing sounds and words. She has such a gentle little voice.”

St. James says, “If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man.” And how much more women need this gift of silence. It is something to be prayed for. Our Lady certainly had it. How little of her there is in the Gospel, and yet all generations have called her blessed. [James says,]

Behold, how small a fire, how great a forest it kindles. And the tongue is a fire, the very world of iniquity. The tongue is placed among our members, defiling the whole body, and setting on fire the course of our life, being itself set on fire by hell. For every kind of beast and bird and serpent and the rest is tamed and has been tamed by mankind. But the tongue no man can tame; it is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.

With it we bless God the Father; and with it we curse men, who have been made after the likeness of God. [ James 3:5-9]

To love with understanding and without understanding. To love blindly, and to folly. To see only what is lovable. To think only on these things. To see the best in everyone around, their virtues rather than their faults. To see Christ in them.

Many people think an examination of conscience is a morbid affair. Péguy has some verses which Donald Gallagher read to me once in the St. Louis House of Hospitality. (He and Cy Echele opened the house there.) They were about examination of conscience. There is a place for it, he said, at the beginning of the Mass. “I have sinned in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.” But after you get done with it, don’t go on brooding about it; don’t keep thinking of it. You wipe your feet at the door of the church as you go in, and you do not keep contemplating your dirty feet.

Here is my examination at the beginning of Advent, at the beginning of a new year. Lack of charity, criticism of superiors, of neighbors, of friends and enemies. Idle talk, impatience, lack of self-control and mortification towards self, and of love towards others. Pride and presumption. (It is good to have visitors; one’s faults stand out in the company of others.) Self-will, desire not to be corrected, to have one’s own way. The desire in turn to correct others, impatience in thought and speech.

The remedy is recollection and silence. Meanness about giving time to others and wasting it myself. Constant desire for comfort. First impulse is always to make myself comfortable. If cold, to put on warmth; if hot, to become cool; if hungry, to eat; and what one likes; always the first thought is of one’s own comfort. It is hard for a woman to be indifferent about little material things. She is a homemaker, a cook; she likes to do material things. So let her do them for others, always. Woman’s job is to love. Enlarge Thou my heart, Lord, that Thou mayest enter in.”

Servant of God, Dorothy Day: pray for us! May we be filled with the same charity and humility as you were.

Well, it’s the end of the semester and I’m finally able to sink my teeth into some writings of the Church. Right now, “Sun of Justice” by Harold Robbins — an Englishman writing an 150-page essay about the basics of Catholic Social Teaching.

Also, I’m trying to work through JPII’s “Letter to Families,” “Life of Moses” by Gregory of Nyssa, and “The Practice of Prayer” by Msgr. Romano Guardini.

Good stuff — really gets my wheels turnin’! Biggest question of the moment: Just Price and Diffusion of Private Property. Hm.

Yesterday was a watershed day for me. As Jordan and I left our American Lit class still discussing the novel, “Peace Like a River” and how much we enjoyed it, we were stopped by a small man in the quad. Unassuming with shaved head and a green bubble jacket, he would not have elicited a second glance on any normal day. However, he approached us with books which he produced from his small hemp bag: Bhagavad Gitas. He told of us an organization he was a part of which was seeking the intelligent students of LSU (a rare breed, we jokingly observed). Unphased by our humor, he introduced himself as Mike and asked if we meditate. Jordan answered that he did when he prayed. Thus launched the brief and terrifying conflict with the Buddhist.

I presume that he was Buddhist, for his first proposition (after the initial flattery of deeming us “intelligent students”) was that we could be liberated from suffering; nay, we could transcend suffering. We listened attentively as he showed us in the rather illustrious edition of the Gita a picture of a family mourning over the loss of a love one: “don’t they know,” he asserted, “that there is no reason to mourn for the body is merely a casing for the soul?” He continued by saying that life was full of suffering, but this suffering can be avoided by turning away from the pleasures of the body and seeking to please the senses of God. Like I said, this was a rather Buddhist approach (except for the notion of God). And if your familiar at all with my history, you’d know that I had, at the very least, a fleeting romance with Buddhism prior to my reconciliation with the Catholic Church. I’d heard this bit before.

I couldn’t help but think of Chesterton and his writings about Buddhist pessimism in “St. Thomas Aquinas.” Notions of Catholic Social Teaching pulsed through my head, nearly in sync with the paroxysms of my nervous knees. “But, doesn’t the body mean something?” I asked. “No, the body is just like clothing that we put on. We are really our souls,” he retorted with eyes as serene and empty as a chilly morning in November. “Then, it is irrelevant if I murder someone? Because, after all, their body is just clothing, and it just makes them suffer anyway.” He responded that no, others had a right not to have suffering imposed upon them. From whence this right comes would be another discussion for another day, for if the body is meaningless and the soul cannot be injured, how could one object to really any moral outrage? We agreed that we are embodied spirits, but the disconnect between us was of a most fundamental, if not slightly subtle, caliber.

The discussion continued: I worked up my gall and said, “But see, Christ became a man, and showed us not to transcend suffering, but to transform suffering. We do not evade suffering, as one would walk around gate. We embrace suffering, as though we were walking through the gate to reach God. This is the witness Christ gave us.” Interspersed among these words were his drivel about all theistic Gods being essentially the same and a mild plea for donations. We laughed that, though we were intelligent like students, we were also poor like students, and had nothing to offer. But I wouldn’t let the issue die. I continued to stress the importance of Christ giving meaning to the body, and how dangerous it was to reject the body, wholesale.

Seeing that we were not “buying what he was selling,” the man enacted the proverbial dusting of his feet, remarked that his organization was happy so long as we were on our way to God, and walked away. My entire body was shivering. Jordan and I talked about ten minutes further, the majority of which was me ranting about the importance of the person, the image of God, the dignity of the body, the millions dead from the rejection of that dignity, and so on. On the way home, I considered many things I could’ve said to be a greater witness. I could’ve brought Genesis into the mix, I could’ve told him of God breathing life into dirt, I could’ve made more of a fuss about the consequences of degrading the body; such is the nature of brooding over the past, I suppose.

But this moment was of more significance than I realized in the moment. Although I felt that it was important for me to plant whatever seeds of truth I could into this man’s heart, it was also a very symbolic rejection of an old lover of mine: I officially rejected Buddhism. Officially, Buddhism as a religion is not as true as I once thought, for what did this man propose except for the denial of the Incarnation? The denial of the worth of humanity? In fact, the denial of the fullest Truth, Christ Himself? To my discredit, I was proud that I had spoken up; I was proud to have refused to subsidize this man’s lies; I was proud that I knew the truth. But, I hope to see Mike again. I wish we could’ve gotten coffee together, although I wouldn’t want to cause the man too much suffering.

While I’m sure that I will reflect on this semester for some time to come — what truths sneaked in unnoticed, what transformations occured in my soul, and what goods were undone and what vices exposed — I can’t help but think this morning (although I should really be studying at this very moment) about there are two things which have, above all else, suffered this semester: relationships and profitable study. [forgive that extremely long sentence]

Relationships are meant to be the lifeblood of human society — [inner] solitude is necessary, but community is essential. I found myself nearly adrift these past few months; although it may seem to reveal the extent to which my reliance on God has suffered, the true anchor of my life was Kelli. She was a tireless friend, a faithful companion, an oasis, a comforter; she was a godsend. She was not God, of course, but she was His vessel. But even our relationship suffered. I would get out of class around 10 or 11:30, eat lunch, then soon after, go to work, come back home and do schoolwork — do you imagine that this left much time to foster and grow the second most important relationship in my life: that of my future wife and I (the first, of course, with the Almighty)? This taught me, above all, the agony of duty, and it is still present even in these last weeks of school; to feel her aching from the shore, and for my duty to be a high-prowed ship with grey sails bowed in the wind, my heart its unwilling prisoner.

Yes, this semester was an torture test in duty, but not only that, but the painful loneliness which comes from adversity and poverty of time. I had few friends — not to anyone’s discredit! I was befriended, of course, but who can keep a friend whom they never may see? Who is simply not available for friendship? This was a great loss this semester — I miss my friends dearly; I miss laughter, discussion, food, enjoyment! May God see fit to bless me with these once again.

I will talk soon enough about the Almighty’s weighty hand over this semester, but not yet. Soon, also, will I bring up the topic of my lack of profitable study. But I cannot abdicate my work any longer!

Be well, friends.

How did this escape my attention for so long? A veritable massive heap of Dorothy Day’s writings are available at the Catholic Worker Website . Even her book, “From Union Station to Rome” is availabe in its entirety!

!!

mustn’t…get…distracted….have to…do….school work…. bah!

Ever think that the corporate man isn’t out to get you? Do you ever sink into that warm tub of consumer comfort, thinking that, really, perhaps, the Man isn’t trying to pull one on you? Well do I have a narrative for you!

I’m not one for fast food — to me, it’s like eating the sole of a shoe soaked…well, we’re just not sure what it’s soaked in. The phrase “dark juices” come to mind, but at the very least, you get the idea. The fact that we need gobs of ketchup and mayonaise and mustard to gobble down these meals is testament enough. But I digress. I, having abstained from these forbidden foods for some time, decided that I’d stop by my local Wendy’s. Being tired of eating “Penne Pasta Vegetable Sausage” MREs, even a shoe-sole soaked in God-knows-what seemed better. Thus, I enter — enthused about my purchase.

This is how they see us!

How quickly our dreams are dashed! How deftly the deviant doth durst to drive that dagger of deceit deep into our chests! (Ok, admittedly, the alliteration was a little much — it’s late, though. Give me a break!) On the combo menu, the prices are listed pertaining only to the “Small Combo.” I chose the #1 — quarter-pounder — $4.59. Assured in my decision, I approach the eager worker who, I imagine, feels a pure thrill with every customer she aids.

“I’ll have a #1, please,” I begin.

“Medium or Large?”

I pause. Medi-wha or huh?

I chuckle nervously. “Er, just small.”

“Oh.”

Did you see it? Did its nefarious scent waft beneath your nostrils? How sly! How brilliant! Can’t you see the Corporate Man laughing in his I-Just-Bought-Taiwan-and-then-sold-it-back-to-itself-at-double-the-cost guffaw? He decrees “We shall display the price of the small. Thenceforth, we shall present only two options aurally: that of the Medium and that of the Large. And the consumers, in their confusion, shall pay more; oh yes, they shall pay dearly for their ineptitude!”

But I stood strong. I looked that Corporate Man straight in the eye and said “No sir. I will take the small, Sir. I say good day!” And then wouldn’t you know? They charged me $.50 for the cheese.

There’s just no way out, I suppose — but damn it, I had won, and I’ve cherished that victory these past…13 hours.

I bid you all farewell.

——

(wow, this is what happens when you stay up too late and write about events. Apparently the purple prose flows after 1:30 AM!)

College is a setting in which ideas flourish and actions wane. Or to put it another way, being in school is like being frozen in the Matrix (wow, did I really just make that comparison?); maybe even like being a brain in a vat. You can learn ideas all day long — you could spend hours in the library reading Berry, O’Conner, Pope John Paul II, Lenin, Tolstoy, Kropotkin, Benedict XVI, etc. and never become a Catholic Agrarian Anarcho-Personalist Southerner. You can learn about voluntary poverty without ever having to spare a dime. You can study sociology without ever needing to actually meet a foreigner from an underdeveloped country. You can shout “All belongs to all!” without ever actually giving that annoying frat boy down the street your lawnmower.

This has been my most discouraging experience in college: it’s all thought and so little meaningful action. There are a few movements in which I’ve seen a quickening of the blood; primarily this has been the Pro-Life movement here at LSU. Active in protests and fully engaging the dominant culture de mort, they are among the only people I see actually doing something (that’s not to say many don’t simply escape my attention). Here, our hardcore libertarians use public roads and federally funded work-study jobs; our agrarians have a little thyme which wilts in their windowsil; many of our catholics have, well, a lot of booze. And yet, this is the accepted stasis — we are allowed to be still in the womb of the University.

Is it improper, then, to desire premature birth?

I have an idea which sprouted from my contact with a man named Robert and a brief article by Stefan Molyneux. First things first. Robert approached me, in lieu of my recent financial collapse, as I myself approached Chase bank to cash a check from my landlord. Veteran’s Day. No good. Robert walks up to me quite humbly and begins muttering unintelligibly about his wife and kids, his lack of a job, the tears he cries, how he will wash my car or cut my grass, his time in jail, again how he cries, again how he cries… Missing several teeth and lacking eloquence, I could understand his difficulty in finding gainful employment. I tell him, with dismay, that I have no money, but I give him my first name, neighborhood, and phone number, telling him that I would need some help cleaning up my yard, and he ought to just call me. Dismayed at the prospect of a delayed transaction, we part ways.

After listening to an article — the title of which escapes me, although I remember it contains the word “Chainsaw” and “Helping the Poor” — by Stefan Molyneux, a militant hyper-rational anarchist and atheist which deals with the problem of helping the poor, I begin to ponder Molyneux’s notion of the “poor by habit” and the “poor by circumstance.” Briefly put, the “poor by habit” are those who, through their own fault, contract poverty; this could be by drink or drug, sex or gambling, ignorance or impulsiveness. These are the people who have a crack addiction and yet demand money to feed their family. These cast the shadow over the honest charity that the “poor by circumstance,” or those who are poor through no fault of their own, need. Still, the basic idea remains: both parties need help. To take it further than Molyneux, we are called to love both the poor by habit and the poor by circumstance.

Robert, however, seemed to be an odd mix. Not entirely poor by circumstance, as he had obviously committed a crime and thus hurt his chances of employment, nor entirely poor by habit, as he was functionally illiterate (he would inform me) and rather hard to understand (and, as a side note, a terribly unattractive man — missing teeth, scraggly, etc.). Either way, Robert needed help. And even though I have yet to hear from him, he sparked an idea in me. Rather than giving Robert $10 which may or may not go to feed him, his wife, and two children (or rather feed whatever habit he has contracted), why couldn’t I offer to teach him to read? Why not offer to help him read, to help him fill out applications, to give him a shower and a razor to shave with? To buy him a suit and new shoes for an interview?

Through this realization that I had a plenitude of options with helping Robert, I realized something that I could do to help my community. Valley Park, as you may guess, is a poor neighborhood. From my experience in Broadmoor High, a lot of children need good English tutors, helping them write papers or understand grammar; helping them dissect theme and motifs; helping them speak proficient “professional” English, and so forth.

And so this is my idea, my bursting forth from the womb of academia: I want to begin tutoring in my own home. I want to post sign across the neighborhood: “Free Tutoring: English, Free Enterprise, Physics, Biology — call 337-499-4494. Adult Literacy Assistance as well.” Now, I know this will immediately put me in the “I’m not sending my kid there because he might be a pedophile” category. And so, I’d like to get a seal-of-approval, so to speak, from one of the pastors from Christ the King. But more than all else, I want to give of my “talents” — I don’t want to bury them in the middle of Valley Park, but offer them to all who need them, adults or children.

That’s my idea right now. Do I plan on tutoring for the rest of my life? No. But my obligation is not with tomorrow, but with today, and with the community in which I find myself. I am extremely open to all questions, concerns, or comments from you, my beloved reader and friend.

There’s just something about Winter. I am, pre-eminently, a winter creature. It’s not that I don’t get cold, or that I enjoy the sensation of blood-leaving-fingers. I don’t relish the body-chills or the frozen feet. But despite all the discomfort that the season brings, I feel myself bloom as a human being in the brief windows of Winter. I come alive in a time when all else is passing into ashen, fuliginous slumber.

And so, I am a creature which hoists my hands against the natural hibernations of the mammal — my God is close in Winter; in fact, I am close to myself in the clear but blurred months. Unlike my mammalian kin, which sense with dread the impending chill, and trudge half-dead into their warm burrows, I emerge triumphant and refershed from the dank and moist four walls of summer, and like God of Adam, the ice-wind breathes life back into my bones. I live again! I think again!

Yes, there’s just something about winter.