Every Day Is Reformation Day

It’s naturally difficult for Catholics who are former Protestants to talk about the Protestant system without doing ideological violence to it. To shift from one ideological system to another necessitates that the former was incomplete, insufficient, or outright dangerous (and this goes both ways—for also the Catholic who becomes Protestant). One can only talk about the fullness of one’s new ideology by comparing it to the system he knew in the past, and that perspective is violent, dangerous, and, well, revolutionary. The Catholic convert has revolted against the revolters. For the Catholic convert in America, every day is Reformation Day.

I’ve never actually told the story of how I was called into the Catholic Church. I find it difficult to discuss the Protestant system (as if there is merely one) without unintentional disrespect, because it’s all I know in comparison with the Catholic system. If I had converted from agnosticism or from Orthodox Judaism or from Buddhism, such a perspective would frame my story, and I would necessarily do violence by speaking of those systems in the past-tense. To make matters worse, we Christians love our conversion stories because they emphasize the hope that is in Christ. We speak in past-tense because it makes Jesus look good, and it brings hope (and hopefully, more conversion) to the world: I once was lost, but now am found, etc.

But truth be told, my whole life has been a conversion story. Today, I am still striving to be Catholic. I am still striving to be holy, and to be true and authentic to my God and my fellow man (Philippians 3:12), and my Catholicism isn’t solely a matter of intellectual assent, but a matter of the will and body. Even many Protestants would agree that we are not saved on an intellectual basis (though some details of what you believe, a result of what you know [a strictly intellectual matter], appear to be important for some Protestants).

I don’t want to disparage the Protestant system, least of all on this day. In light of Reformation Day, I want to speak of the Christ I see in Protestant systems, and how individual reform can convert us ultimately to Christ—the most important conversion one can have, especially Catholics.

Wesleyanism was my introduction to Christianity, and I can hardly think of a better entry-point, or a system for which I have more gratitude. I came in through the United Methodist Church as a teenager and already had a love for history and thought that contemporary Christian issues should be handled within the context of how the historical church would have handled such issues. As a 15-year-old, I studied the life of Wesley and the history of the United Methodist Church, doing my final report for my Sophomore world history class on the history of Methodism. At the time, I was largely unaware of the liturgy around me, but I loved the way we spoke of the Holy Spirit. I read the whole Bible within a few months and fell in love with it—a deep, almost romantic love that still excites my heart today.

Within a few years I’d come to be friends with a pastor’s kid (who lived up to the stereotype) who was Lutheran. Not merely Lutheran, but of the Lutheran Church of the Missouri Synod. We were inseparable buddies, and he introduced me to everything that would shape my world for the next five years, from sports to music to popular entertainment and video games and literature, but perhaps most importantly, he introduced me to scriptural exegesis and conservative, traditional theology. And, most significantly, the practice of antinomianism. Jesus literally says that this is his body and blood, not that it’s like his body and blood—and we know from his parables that he knows how to speak in metaphor, but here it’s clearly not a metaphor, nor has the church ever understood it to be metaphorical, they taught me. I read Luther’s Small Catechism in no time and took notes in the margins, and, following the deep theological advice of teenagers, I deadened my conscience because my conscience didn’t matter to my salvation.

And then I went to college. I was introduced to nondenominational evangelicalism and thought it was just the best—that God should save everyone from each Christian denomination because each denomination reaches different people in their own way (a simple cop-out for the conflict of relativism and religion). Little did I know that this was a slope towards Universalism, but it revealed a desire that’s in everyone’s heart (and the fundamental conflict between Calvinism and Arminianism)—that God, in his loving generosity, has a plan and an intention to save every human being. However, it wasn’t long before the sacraments of Lutheranism and the holiness of Wesleyanism fell to the back, while a new order of relativistic interpret-the-Bible-for-yourselfism took its place. Having just turned 20, I had already mastered scriptural exegesis, had an appreciation for history, and knew that the Holy Spirit wouldn’t steer me wrong. What I didn’t know was that the Holy Spirit can’t supplant the human will.

Year after year for the next five years, the deadness of my conscience would drive me further away from Scripture, from God, and even from my friends. At last, after much conflict, confusion, and distress, when I had hit rock-bottom and abandoned hope in God, a friend saw my turmoil and said to me, “Don’t worry. The Catholic Church is still admitting sinners.”

Within six months, I read the Vatican II documents, the Catechism, and re-read in a new light Galatians, James, and Matthew (my guiding lights of Scripture). In the Catholic Church, I found the personal holiness that Wesley spoke of, the sacraments that Luther couldn’t give up, an answer for relativism that doesn’t undermine principles of eternity and infinity, and the promise that God’s plan for salvation is not foiled by man’s lack of knowledge or limited by our understanding. The Holy Spirit works with our will, but doesn’t replace it (see Romans 7:15–8:18). And that’s the beautiful thing. Nearly four years since that call, I, like St. Paul, still wrestle with the almost Platonic dichotomy between mind and flesh. But I know that grace comes from God, and the Holy Spirit is engaged in recreating me, preparing me for infinity, while this world tries to catch me and hold me in the temporal and the corporal. I know that many Protestants are earnestly seeking this personal conversion, too. Because, in the end, what are Protestant systems except a seeking after the infinite? Seek first the Kingdom of God.

This blog post isn’t merely a pat on the shoulder for Methodists, Lutherans, etc. In the end, regardless of what you believe (or what you think you believe), seeking the Kingdom of God isn’t an intellectual pursuit. In the same Gospel, Christ doesn’t speak of the Kingdom being a belief system or creed. His parables speak of serving the poor, the widows, and the orphans (it would be interesting to read Stanley Hauerwas’ commentary on Matthew in the Brazos series on this). Seeking the Kingdom isn’t agreement to a creed, catechism, or confession. It’s an activity. The activity of doing what Christ speaks of in his parables in the same Gospel. We Christians should be others-focused before we can be theological. We need to be engaged in behaving like Christ before we can be ecumenical. And we all know, by nature of our birth, we won’t naturally be like Christ unless we commit violence to our sinful nature—and seek to cause reform within ourselves. Protestants speak of this personal conversion all the time—and know how drastic it can be. Francis Chan’s Crazy Love is an insane example of this, which many Catholics could benefit from reading. But ultimately, it’s not what we read that saves us, that unites us, or that makes us like Christ. It’s conversion to the will of Christ.

“The greatest challenge of the day is: how to bring about a revolution of the heart, a revolution which has to start with each one of us?”
-Dorothy Day


Pornography, Death, and St. John Vianney

I came here to read St. Jean-Marie-Baptiste Vianney and to read Bishop Robert Barron and to drink coffee. After I get my coffee, I bring my backpack to the chair that’s awkwardly behind one already occupied by a woman in her late 30s, her face decorated with some layers of makeup. She gets up as I try to maneuver my way to the chair, so we have that awkward moment of “No you go ahead” and “Excuse me, pardon me”, as there’s only enough room for one of us to pass.

“You look pretty young,” she says, after I get into my chair and she gets around her table.

Thanks? I think to myself.

She asks, “How old are you?”

I’m kind of taken aback by the question, but I guess this is technically a way to begin a conversation, so I indulge her. “Twenty-nine,” I say, with a welcoming smile.

“That’s not too young,” she says, making it sound like a compliment. “Are you a student?” she asks me.

“No, I graduated five years ago,” I say, plugging in my laptop, getting myself ready to be a hipster writer in a local coffee shop.

“What did you study?”


“Me too!” She gets excited. I smile. She reaches out her hand, and I shake it. She offers me her name.

“I’m Brandon.”

“So do you use your degree in a career?” she asked.

“Yes, I do marketing.”

“Congratulations!” she says. Truly, it is hard to find use of an English degree. She continues, “I used to model for Playboy back in 1999. Now I’m a lawyer, but I really appreciate marketing, because I do my own marketing. Do you want to see my business card? It’s a way of marketing.”

“It is,” I agree, without breaking my smile. Flipping through her purse and through a variety of business cards, she pulls out a black one from her collection. Outer Space Law, it reads, which matches the title on the cover of the book laying on her table. It has the playboy bunny icon in the center, and is a very simple card.

“I have a friend who just graduated with a degree in English, who is just starting out in law,” I say. “He’s got quite a way to go, though, just starting out.” Trying to avoid the elephant in the room (or in this case, the rabbit).

She begins packing her things. “Yeah, I really enjoy it.” She pauses as she packs up her stuff. “Wait, I didn’t mean to take my business card back. You can keep it,” she says, handing it back to me.

“Thanks!” I say, not unenthusiastically.

“Well, it was nice meeting you! See you later!” she says as she walks out, waving.

“Yep!” I say, taking out my well-worn copy of The Curé d’Ars. “Take care!”

And now I process thoughts. what. just. happened.

She made it a point to let me know one of the first things about her was her pornographic modeling done nearly sixteen years ago. I think about how difficult it must be for her to get freedom and independence from the need of masculine affection that she must have been addicted to all these years. Does she still need male affirmation to find meaning in herself? Even now, the thing she notices first is youth, and she compliments it and affirms it in a stranger before saying anything else. Would that the users of pornography could meet the souls and the hearts involved in its production, and how joyful they could be if given an identity that outlives their youth. I’m going to try not to read into her too much—I have probably gone too far already—but I am reminded of the First Things article that was retweeted earlier this morning. Originally written by Carl Trueman last year, he immediately says about pornography in his first sentence, “Pornography degrades women (those cocksure feminists who claim otherwise have fallen for the biggest male confidence trick of all time).” In no uncertain terms he very plainly deconstructs our cultural infatuation with pornography, concluding with, “whatever the aesthetics, sexual activity as a means for preserving the myth of eternal youth is always going to involve the law of diminishing returns and thus ironically prove a powerful witness to its own falsehood. It really does not matter how many orgasms you have, or how intense they are, you are still going to die.”

These words could not come from a man unfamiliar with the words of the Qoheleth (teacher). This was my late grandfather’s favorite book, and I used to think it somewhat melancholy—especially coming from a Baptist—but more and more I’m learning why Ecclesiastes is perhaps one of the more pertinent biblical texts our culture could learn to read.

I said to myself, “Come now, I will make a test of pleasure; enjoy yourself.” But again, this also was vanity.

I also gathered for myself silver and gold and the treasure of kings and of the provinces; I got singers, both men and women, and delights of the flesh, and many concubines.

So I became great and surpassed all who were before me in Jerusalem; also my wisdom remained with me. Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them; I kept my heart from no pleasure, for my heart found pleasure in all my toil, and this was my reward for all my toil. Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had spent in doing it, and again, all was vanity and a chasing after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 2:1, 8-11)

Carl Trueman is onto something. Our culture’s obsession with pornography is an obsession with youth—youth that is valued and proclaimed in popular entertainment (music videos, Hollywood, television) and even, to some noteworthy extent, in politics. We are afraid of death, and aging is a reminder that each of us is going to die. On the other hand, sexual behavior is an expression of youthfulness. In its proper state, sexuality should be for the creation of life, not the avoidance of death. A proper perspective of our impending death (proper with the hope that is fitting of a Christian) dispels the false promise of eternal youth in this life.

But how do we adopt a daily perspective of our own death? We must stop living with the fantasy that we will (or we ought to) be young forever. Embrace aging. Embrace our own death.

In the Catholic tradition, we have a rich treasury of writings from which to draw inspiration. Mortification is the act of fasting with the sense of our own death in mind—the sense that we will not be young for very long, and that we need to live with our own death always before us. St. Robert Bellarmine and St. John of the Cross speak very well of this, and St. John Vianney lived this daily.

St. John Vianney led a great example for us to follow in this regard. By way of fasting, he held no presumption that he should live, or that he deserved to live, in a prolonged youth. Fasting, you see, breaks the holds of this flesh on our minds—the desires of the flesh to stay young, to do the things young people do, to eat the things younger people eat and to play the games they play. But by way of letting go of pleasures, we let go of the lie that we will be 18 forever. Vianney was never concerned with his own youth, with lost years or wasted potential—in fact, he entered the seminary rather late, and was ordained a priest later than his confreres, and he had good reason to be concerned with youthfulness. But he lived in the present moment at every moment, concerned only with what matters are at hand. I think this, among other things, is what made him a good confessor.

And when we have a mind and an act proper to our own age and proper to our Christian beliefs (that of an ageless eternal life, not an eternal youth), we can actually live out the role of mentoring and teaching that we are blessed in increase in each passing year. The lure of illicit sexual behavior seems an awfully shallow draw when one is faced with his own death, and faced with finding real meaning and purpose for his own life (who, when facing imminent death, thinks of their sexual exploits or their hours of sleeping in, or the amount of television shows they’ve watched, and counts that as a good life? Rather, when faced with imminent death, the person considers whether they’ve had a positive effect on humanity—whether they’ve been selfless and changed others’ lives and been good and kind to others). The pursuit of pleasure and youth blind us to our real humanity—wherein lies our real purpose. Mortification, on the other hand—the practice of the awareness of our own death—frees us to live purposefully. It is the practice of our Lord’s commandment to take up your cross and carry it daily.

For those of you who are Christian: if you were to die tomorrow, would you look back to today and say that you honored God with the blessing of your age?

For those of you who aren’t Christian: if you were to die tomorrow, would you look back to today and say that you accomplished something meaningful with your life through the privilege of your age?

The Beatitudes and the Cross

Whenever someone preaches the Beatitudes, the message is always about “living out” the Beatitudes. How the Beatitudes are the new Decalogue, the new law of the land, the new order of relationship with God. This is how God would take the Ten Commandments, written on stone, and write them onto the human’s stony hearts. (Hebrews 8:10, Ezekiel 11:19, 36:26, and 2 Corinthians 3:3)

But how do you actually live the Beatitudes? Living the Ten Commandments is fairly straightforward. Living the Beatitudes is… confusing.

Blessed are the meek. Blessed are those who mourn.

Does this mean I need to mourn all the time? I need to be sheepish and shy?

I’ll admit, I recently taught the Beatitudes to my LifeTeen high school youth group, and we had difficulty connecting the abstract Beatitudes with concrete lifestyle choices and attitudes of the heart. How does one reasonably live any of the Beatitudes?

In order to prepare to teach the Beatitudes, I hopped around a few commentaries (Mostly the Word Biblical Commentary and Fire of Mercy, Heart of the Word by Fr. Leiva-Merikakis, which were great for this study. I also looked at the Catholic Commentary on Sacred Scripture volume by Curtis Mitch, founder of FOCUS Ministries, so naturally this commentary helps bring the teachability of the Gospel of St. Matthew to the front).

The Greek word for “Blessed” in this context is μακάριοι, which carries with it a sense of happiness and joy that are implied with the blessedness. In the Latin Vulgate, we get the word Beatus, which means to make joyful and make glad, but in a spiritual and contented way. This is the same root word we see when Elizabeth tells Mary, “Blessed are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled.”

So, here only a few verses in Luke after the Annunciation—where Mary gave her “yes” to Jesus and pretty much gave up her life for the Lord—we see her cousin saying, “Happy, joyful, blessed, glad are you who believed in God!” This is not “Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus!” Benedictus is a different type of blessedness–literally, “well-spoken of” are you among women, and “well-spoken of” is the fruit of your womb. However, the “wellness” of bene implies a divineness. Benedictus is the holy water, the baptism, the sacraments and sacramentals of the Church, because they are not just well-spoken of, but divinely-spoken of. But I didn’t open this door to speak of Mariology (much as I would like to). We’re still talking about the Beatitudes. Beo is the root of Beatus which Jesus uses in the Latin Vulgate (or μακάριοι) and in this term, Jesus doesn’t say that the meek will be divinely blessed, but that they will be internally happy, content, and filled with a peace and Godliness.

Mary believed that what the angel said to her would be true. And it made her blessed, it made her happy.

So what does that mean for those Jesus speaks of in the Beatitudes? “Happy are the poor in spirit”, “Happy are those who mourn.” These are outright contradictions. The poor in spirit isn’t merely referring to the depressed or the sad. He is literally talking about those in poverty, and the kind of spirit they have because of their life–the spirit of those who are the lowest class of human being, the dejected and treated as subhuman, or mere animals. What does Jesus mean, they are blessed? How can they be happy?

Happy are the meek? What does that mean? How shall the meek inherit the land?

I think in order to understand the Beatitudes, we have to begin by contrasting them against the Ten Commandments.

In contrast to the Ten Commandments, which seem like a bunch of “Don’t do this” and “Don’t do that,” the Beatitudes are promises of happiness. “Blessed are the peacemakers” and “Blessed are the pure in heart” are positive attributes, contrasted against “You shall not kill” and “You shall not commit adultery.” So the Ten Commandments present the bare-minimum of the law (“Don’t kill”) while the Beatitudes present the highest ideal (“Be a peacemaker” i.e. one who prevents the conflict that ultimately leads to loss of life). Jesus later speaks on the middle-ground (see Matthew 5:21-5:26 for how anger, which would have been prevented by the peacemaker, leads to the conflict that brings death). This same train of thought can be drawn between “Blessed are the pure of heart” and “Thou shall not commit adultery” and the explanatory passages of Matthew 5:27-28.

So the Beatitudes are ultimately the same message as the Ten Commandments. And Jesus didn’t come to abolish the law (the commandments), but to fulfill them. It seems to me that the Beatitudes are the ultimate fulfillment of the law.


You see, Jesus himself lived out all of these beatitudes, just as he lived out all of the Ten Commandments. When he said “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the land,” who do we think of as being worthy of inheriting land? Kings, and princes, and rulers. Jesus lived this out–Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum–and showed us that meekness is the way to the kingdom, and that the last shall be the first in the Kingdom of God. See Mark 10:41-45 for more.

As king, Jesus shows us his throne. Jesus is the king who rules from the cross. Instead of being lifted up in a chair and paraded on the backs of servants, as kings would do in the ancient world, he is paraded with a cross on his back through the city that jeered and spat on him, and at the end of the parade, he is lifted high up on the cross.

Through the beatitudes, Jesus wants to take our understanding of the world and change the way we see reality. Kings should be servants. Bless those who persecute you. Our instinct is to hate people who hate us—but Jesus tells us to love our enemies. Our instinct is to talk about other people, in order to make ourselves feel better. But Jesus asks us to be merciful, and we will be given mercy. Our instinct is to hold onto things and to go after life experiences—to travel the world, to experience the best sex always, to have a fast car and to drive it really fast. But these experiences are fleeting. Meanwhile, the joy, the happiness, the blessedness Jesus speaks of is eternal.

The beatitudes turn the world upside down so we can see reality as it is—that reality is pointed toward heaven.

G.K. Chesterton once said that the way St. Francis viewed the world was as if it was upside-down. That is to say, the whole world is hanging and depending upon God. Chesterton describes what a big city would look like if it were hanging upside down on the earth. Chesterton says, “Instead of being merely proud of his strong city because it could not be moved, he would be thankful to God Almighty  that it had not been dropped; he would be thankful to God for not dropping the whole cosmos like a vast crystal to be shattered into falling stars. Perhaps St. Peter saw the world so, when he was crucified head-downwards.

It is commonly in a somewhat cynical sense that men have said, ‘Blessed is he that expects nothing, for he shall not be disappointed.’ It was in a wholly happy and enthusiastic sense that Saint Francis said, ‘Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall enjoy everything.’”

The beatitudes strip us of our worldly, animalistic desires, and they make us cling to Jesus. If we listen to them, they build into us the divinity that Christ promises to share with us—his Holy Spirit. You see, when we are rid of our worldly desires, our worldly expectations and the need for self-fulfillment, the things that we cling to that cause us to turn inward into ourselves, then we are free to receive love that lasts eternally—and to love others unreservedly. I want to live in that city that sees God holding me in place, keeping me from falling into the cosmos. To live the way Jesus lived, to live in the Beatitudes, is to trust in God—as Mary did when she said “Yes” to God and believed that what the angel said was true. Mary’s reality was turned upside-down. She was not concerned with not coveting her neighbor’s possessions–instead, she wanted to give her neighbors everything of herself. She still wants to give her Church everything of herself.

It is then, when we can love everyone in the world and give everyone everything we have, that we will be truly happy. Indeed, we will be blessed. Let us begin seeing the world upside-down, as if we are crucified as St. Peter.