GUEST POST: Being Charlie Hebdo

Taking a moment from my website restructure to share a friend’s thoughts on the recent tragedy in Paris. (We’ll call this friend “Mrs. Joe.”)

Before yesterday, I had never heard of Charlie Hebdo.  Would that that were still true.

My first exposure to it, coming almost simultaneously with the news of the massacre at its offices, was a repost on Facebook of a grossly offensive cartoon of the Trinity.  So all morning, my horror of the attack was muddled up in my thoughts with my horror of the cartoon.  The result was that I felt no sympathy with the numerous postings of “Je suis Charlie” I saw on social medial and in the news.  “I’m very, very sorry they are dead,” I mused. “I’m very, very sorry for their families.  But I, I, am not Charlie.”

All day these thoughts roiled.  Tears pricked behind my eyes when I thought of the murdered, and those they left behind.  But then the cartoon flashed across my memory, and a surge of anger and nausea took their place.  And behind it all, a different pricking altogether.

That second nudge finally broke through in the evening. My thoughts turned on blasphemy again, and I recalled a question posed at an RCIA class long ago.  The catechumens asked about appropriate dress at Mass, and were troubled by the mostly casual attire they saw.  “They can’t really believe it’s God, can they, if they dress that way?”  We had a fruitful discussion about dress and discipline, the language of attire, and the influence of culture and local custom.  In the end, I said, “Look, the important thing to remember here is that we can’t dress in a proportional way to what’s happening when we receive Communion.  The ‘appropriateness’ of the way we dress is important for us, not Him.  There’s an infinite gap there already…the Lord of the Universe, the Almighty and Eternal God is presenting Himself as a piece of bread, to be consumed by us, His creation.  The absurdity of that isn’t rectified by finery.

“The clothes we wear are important.  They speak a language, not just to our neighbors, but to ourselves.  They put us in a frame of mind… ‘this is not just another hour of my Sunday, this is something entirely other, and entirely important.’  If your pew mate is in shorts and a tee shirt, maybe that’s all he has.  Maybe that’s all he had time for.  Maybe he can’t tolerate other fabrics.  You can’t know, just as he can’t make the gift of the Eucharist more absurd by his dress.  All you can know is what and why you wear what you do, and that is enough.”

After all, I know all too well the hypocrisy of noticing and disapproving of my neighbor’s attire, while remaining appallingly unaware of my own distraction and neglect of the Sacrifice being offered on my behalf.  As I considered beams and motes, the memory of the horrible cartoon reared its ugly head.  Blasphemy, after all, is only culpable if you know God.  Otherwise it’s gross, ugly ignorance.  I don’t know the backround of those poor men who were slaughtered, but it’s no secret that the Eldest Daughter of the Church isn’t the most churched society any more.  I, on the other hand, have had the singular gift of wise and faithful parents, a virtuous and intelligent community, and strong, solid preaching from the pulpit my entire life.  How have I offended the God I claim to know and love, and how much more culpable am I than those I judged?  Why was there anything in my thoughts of them other than prayers for their peaceful rest, and the comfort of their loved ones?  I was grossly unqualified for anything else.

Je suis Charlie. Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Attribution(s): “The Pharisee and The Publican” by James Tissot, via the Brooklyn Museum Open Collection. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.