I Am Not Goat Dung Covered Over With Whitewash: Thoughts on Pentecost

Happy Solemnity of the Third Person of the Trinity!

This year has been the year of the Holy Spirit for me and I’m feeling especially joyful this Pentecost.   I want to share some musings from my journal, having meditated on today’s second reading (option 2 – Romans 8:8-17) this morning:

“…children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ” (vs. 16-17) -

This continues to be an astounding and radical statement – and this is what the Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit.  Here is a CHILD!  A CO-HEIR!  Here is one who is being transformed into ME!

I am not goat dung covered over with whitewash.  I – ME – the core of who I am, the echo of His “I AM”, His image, His “deep calling unto [my] deep” – is being transformed into God Himself – a little Christ, one of His Body.  I am what I eat. The Holy Spirit burns with love within and so far as I am willing – and as grace allows – He changes me into the Image of Himself.

I still don’t get this mystery, Lord.

Giotto, Pentecost

Giotto, Pentecost

I’ve been thinking a lot about the mystery of theosis, or deification.  My husband had been doing some scholarly work on it a while ago, and then I began a program of spiritual formation at our parish where the leader, Michael Fonseca, has focused heavily on this mystery and its living reality in our lives. Theosis is nothing less than the idea that God transforms us into Himself – literally.

Before anyone chucks rotten lettuce at me for being a heretic, in defense of theosis, it’s a common enough theme in the New Testament, in the Church Fathers, and beyond.  But the idea sounds blasphemous. When my husband first told me about theosis, I thought he’d gone off his rocker.

Theosis has to do with how salvation works.  What do we mean when we say God saves us?

Speaking of goat dung, one Protestant understanding (not universal but common enough) of salvation is that salvation is a “covering up” of our sinfulness through the Blood of Christ.  His sacrificial act on the Cross justifies us, through faith.  The price of sin has been paid, we assent to this, and therefore we get to go to heaven.  But this does nothing to change our fundamental nature – we are still, well, piles of dung, but piles of dung whose guilt has been covered over with Christ’s Blood (“covered with snow”, I think they say – my “whitewash” is me mixing metaphors again) so that we appear as righteous before God.

Catholic understanding is, as you probably guessed, different.  For us, salvation is being drawn into God’s covenant family not just through the justification of the Cross but also through transformation of the Resurrection.  Instead of being covered piles of dung, we are diamonds covered with dung, and God washes away the dung and fills us so that we are resplendent with His light.  We become children and co-heirs in the literal sense of our natures being both purified and elevated.  “May we come to share in the divinity of Christ who humbled Himself to share in our humanity.”

God does this to us, by means of His grace, and through the work of the indwelling Holy Spirit, without either His ceasing to be the Creator or our ceasing to be the created.   We are the iron in the fire of the Holy Spirit, purified and shaped, in a sense, by becoming that fire itself.

Connected to this is the Catholic understanding of the Sacraments.  Sacraments, for Catholics, are direct conveyances of God’s grace via physical means.  Most important is the Blessed Sacrament, the Holy Eucharist, in which the bread and wine become Jesus Christ’s Body and Blood – not only symbolically, but actually – by the working of the Holy Spirit, in the Church (also “the Body of Christ”) through the words and person of the priest.  And when we eat (gnaw, to paraphrase the Greek word Jesus uses in John 6, thank you, Scott Hahn and Co.) His Body and Blood, we become what we eat in a very real way.

Christ’s Body is now a part of my body.  Christ’s Blood is now a part of my blood.  But because Christ, as God, is the stronger element, we are taken up more intimately in His Body.  As we consume the Eucharist, we are consumed, we course through Christ’s veins, so to speak.

Jesus’ death on the Cross and Holy Eucharist are together the signs of the New Covenant.  Whenever God formed a covenant with the People of Israel, two acts occurred:  a sacrifice and a meal.  Think of the Passover Meal:  the lamb is sacrificed, yes, but then the lamb had to be eaten.  Protestants miss this.  For Christians, Jesus Christ is our real, actual Sacrifice, and He is also our real, actual Meal.  The Sacrifice was a real sacrifice of a real person, the Lamb.  The Meal is a meal eating that real Lamb.   To reduce one or both to a symbolic act is to shortchange our understanding of God’s saving work on our behalf.

This is what the Holy Spirit bears witness to with our spirits.  The Holy Spirit is the effectual fire in our lives, bringing about this transformation as the very Love that proceeds from the Father and the Son – the Love whose essence is joyful self-sacrificing – confirmed upon us through (you guessed it) the Sacraments of Baptism and Confirmation.  We are temples of the Holy Spirit – and, again, not figuratively, but actually, because that’s what Sacraments do.

As the Holy Spirit “hovered over the waters” when God the Father, through Christ the Word, spoke the world into being, so too the Holy Spirit hovers over us and within us, bringing about our re-creation.

How does this work?  I don’t know.  It’s a mystery.  It comes through the Church.   But it’s a beautiful mystery to celebrate today – the working out of our salvation.

Mary and the Mystery of Theosis

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My latest article is up at CatholicMom.com:

Mary and the Mystery of Theosis

Image Credit:  WikiCommons

What the Word of God Does – and What Catholic Writers Do

What does it mean that Christ is the Word of God?

All good gifts come from above.  Words are my gift from above, originating in their form with the Word Himself and employed by this imperfect creature.

Words bubble up and pour forth like gas from champagne. When generous with myself, I call it verbosity.  Otherwise, I call it rambling.  (After I’ve been rambling, unchecked, I always feel as though I had drunk too much champagne – a bit woozy and a bit embarrassed.)

The words want to run wild without direction, but I must build my strength, strap thick ruddy leather to the bits at their frothing mouths, and drive those words toward the completion of a finished product.

To what end?  Purity.  “Redemption comes to us above all through the blood of his cross, but this mystery is at work through Christ’s entire life:

– already in his Incarnation through which by becoming poor he enriches us with his poverty;

– in his hidden life which by his submission atones for our disobedience;

– in his word which purifies its hearers;

– in his healings and exorcisms by which ‘he took our infirmities and bore our diseases’;

– and in his Resurrection by which he justifies us. (CCC 517)

When we are given the gift of words – and most of us have this gift in some form – we are participating in Christ’s redemptive work.  His words purified his hearers.  My words must come into conformity with this purpose. We write to purify ourselves and others.

This isn’t to say that I must never depict what is not-pure, that is, evil. That would be ludicrous.  No, instead I must be ready to depict evil as truthfully as I can, in all its horror, in all its might, and with all its consequences.  Only then will I have art, and only then will art reveal evil so as to purify us from it.

And this isn’t to say that my work cannot have nuance – another ludicrous position.  Some, in advocating for clearer lines of good and evil for the sake of cultivating the Christian imagination, have indeed sacrificed nuance.  No.  Instead, I must be ready to depict human nature as truthfully as I can, and in all its messiness.  Only then will I have art, and only then will art serve the purpose of showing us to ourselves, and of showing God’s grace as the redemption is really is – infinitely higher and more powerful than our bumbling attempts at self-justification.

Also, this isn’t to say that we cannot take humor in man’s foibles and fallacies.  Again, ludicrous.  The joy and mirth that bubbles forth from the depths of God’s delight must find its place in art.  Where is the humor in contemporary Catholic literature?  Are we so deadly serious about our commitment to the revitalization of Catholic culture that we have forgotten to smile?  When will I open Dappled Things and find a raucous, rollicking piece that splits my sides?  Have we forgotten that laughter opens our hearts to truth?

Whatever our words, they are words for the sake of purification. In a sense they become His redeeming words.  Or, perhaps, they were His words all along.

My words, wild and untamed and unlearned as they are, must come closer and closer to their source in the Word.  The waters overflow, and I must form the banks of the river and direct them toward pools of purity, where a writer meets her readers, to giggle and splash in ice-cold refreshment.

Image Credit: WikiCommons

Review of “O Radiant Dawn: 5-Minute Prayers Around the Advent Wreath”

…Between Advent and Christmas, we cannot fight fire with fire.  If Christmas is a time of celebrating the Infant Christ with family and friends, with dinners, parties, and gifts, a time of rejoicing and fullness of life, then Advent is one of simplicity – a “little Lent” to prepare the way for the Lord.

Rich simplicity is the distinguishing mark of O Radiant Dawn: 5-Minute Prayers Around the Advent Wreath, by popular author and founder of CatholicMom.com, Lisa Hendey.  Rich, because copious spiritual fruit lies between its pages.  Simple, because it is written with a mother’s practicality…

Read the rest at CatholicMom.com.

 

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