When I was an child, I loved as child. Now that I am a man, I wish to love as a man. CS Lewis offers advice about this in his book Mere Christianity. Msgr. Luigi Giussani (left) does more than offer advice, he shows the way, in his three-volume work Is It Possible to Live This Way? The third volume, Charity, is currently the focus of Communion and Liberation’s Schools of Community worldwide.

In Book III, chapter 9 of Mere Christianity, part of our YIMC Book Club reading this week, “Jack” Lewis draws the distinction between love as a feeling and love as an act of will. His simple advice is, Don’t wait to feel love for your neighbor, and for heaven’s sake, don’t sit around trying to pump up love for your enemy. Act as if  you love your neighbor and your enemy, and eventually you will love them.

This is good advice, of course. Try smiling when you don’t feel like it. Force your face muscles into a grin and hold it for a while. You will feel better. Lewis adds one grace note to this thought at the very end of the chapter:

The great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, [God’s] love for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and, therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him.

It’s a beautiful thought. Don Giussani goes much further.

Here’s a contrast: In Mere Christianity, Lewis discusses the three theological virtues, Charity, Hope, and Faith in that order. In the famous passage from 1st Corinthians, 13, St. Paul speaks of them as Faith, Hope, and Charity, and so does Don Giussani. Better, Giussani explains why.

Over the past two years, Schools of Community have read the first two volumes of Is It Possible to Live This Way?, Faith and Hope. Faith, Giussani writes, is founded not on a leap (of faith) but quite reasonably on a fact—the fact of Christ’s presence in the world. Hope is a completely reasonable extension of this fact into the future, our own future, where our destiny lies.

While so far we are only about 30 pages into volume 3, Charity (slow readers seem to predominate in CL!), it is clear where all this is leading. Because already Giussani is writing of charity not alone as an act of will but as a sharing in God’s gratuitous love for us. Without faith and hope, without the certainty that God exists, that Jesus Christ is present in the Eucharist, in his Church, and in the companionship of those who share with us in this Presence, there can be no true charity. Lewis’s act of will is worthy, but how can it be whole?

I would quote Giussani at length, but his Italian-translated-to-English is an acquired taste, and I encourage you to learn more on your own, by checking out the CL Web site. But here are a couple of small bites of Giussani on charity:

Charity . . . indicates the deepest content, discovers intimacy, discovers the heart of the Presence that faith recognizes. 

Note that charity hinges on faith. And here:

The most intimate content of the supreme reality exists in experience, because it is felt, and, when followed, it produces an effect, it changes things. 

So love or charity does begin with a feeling—or it begins with faith, which prompts a feeling. A feeling that arises from the statement “He exists.” From that certainty, everything else follows.

Which is to say that love comes from God—as Giussani writes later, from God’s “gratuitous love” for us—and not from an act of human will alone, and certainly not from me. Sorry, Jack, but I’m afraid Don Giuss has got you covered on this one. Although to give you credit, Jack, I think you really might have loved School of Community.

During my wilderness years, I fell for theories about mystical kingdoms in Tibet or where Jesus really was from age 12 to age 30. But what if Tibet’s only kingdom was destroyed when the Chinese invaded? What if Jesus did nothing from 12 to 30 except stay home in Nazareth, near Joseph and Mary?

Since this is a Catholic blog and since we’re five weeks from the feast day of St. Joseph, my patron, I’m going to stick to the second question.

In the what-did-Jesus-do department, I somehow thought that the gnostics might have it right: That He maybe studied with some esoteric school somewhere, like, say, the Essenes. I didn’t really know who the Essenes were, but if there were such a thing as a universal mystical brotherhood, operating in, like, say, Tibet, then it made sense for Jesus to have been in touch with, oh, say, some sort of correspondence school or some such affiliated with said brotherhood.

But what if the Church is right? (A question I never seriously asked until being received into the Church two years ago.) What if Jesus, Mary, and Joseph returned from Egypt to Nazareth and, with the exception of Passover visits to the rabbinate in the city, they just stayed home? What if the world really is as simple and straightforward as it seems? What does this say about St. Joseph? Or about the importance of the family in the divine plan?

I thought about this question yesterday, as I wrestled with a heavy cold, pondered a personal fatherhood question, and read Redemptoris Custos, John Paul II’s Apostolic Exhortation on the Person and Mission of Saint Joseph in the Life of Christ and of the Church. There’s nothing that will bring theological questions about fatherhood into sharper focus than tossing and turning in sick-bay while thinking about a grown child who is not answering a friendly e-mail.

Who was St. Joseph? What was his life like? And if it was really like I think it was, and Immaculate Mary was Jesus’s mother, what other teachers did Jesus need? Especially if He, Jesus, was the Son of God? I will leave detailed discussion of Redemptoris Custos (Guardian of the Redeemer) until next week and finish here with a couple of my own personal and entirely noncanonical thoughts about Joseph.

Mary may have been born immaculate, without stain of sin, but there’s nothing in Church doctrine that says the same of Joseph. Joseph was a JAG, just a guy, a carpenter. Descended from David, yes, and probably devoutly Jewish. Old? Young? Certain veins of tradition argue that he must have been old, because a widower. But what was old in that time? Thirty? Forty? I give Joseph credit for being young enough to pack his family off to Egypt under cover of night, young enough that when he settled back in at Nazareth, the demands of chastity while living with a beautiful young woman were significant.

This guy kept his mouth shut and worked and cared for his family. I’m guessing that an adolescent Jesus may have been a handful, and who’s to say that even Mary didn’t have her moments, no matter how immaculate? Joseph kept his mouth shut and worked and cared for his family and died in total anonymity and (this is my addition) never resented it for a moment. To quote once only from Redemptoris Custos, “Joseph was in daily contact with the mystery ‘hidden from ages past,’ and which ‘dwelt’ under his roof. This explains, for example, why St. Teresa of Jesus, the great reformer of the Carmelites, promoted the renewal of veneration to St. Joseph in Western Christianity.”

This gives me my next step on the path to understanding St. Joseph better. I’m going to dedicate the weekend to reading Shirley du Boulay’s biography of Teresa of Avila, which has been staring out of the bookshelf at me for far too long.

And I am going to keep my mouth shut as I wait for my beloved daughter to get back to me.

Footnote: Any reader who has come this far might conceivably be interested in why St. Joseph is my patron, which is to say, how he nosed out St. Thomas More in the homestretch. 

March 19, 2008, was a decisive day for me. Easter Vigil was three days away, as was my reception into the Catholic Church. Throughout RCIA, I had planned to take Thomas More as my confirmation name, but I came into Mass that morning and discovered that it was the Feast of St. Joseph. That did it. St. Joseph took me by surprise.
I had been utterly clueless about him until that morning of March 19. In fact, I had even thought that the statue at the head of the right aisle in our church, which illustrates this post, was of St. Peter. I think it was Ferde who set me straight about that, as he has set me straight about many things Catholic.

I decided to take Joseph as my confirmation name because I realized that St. Joseph represents something more important to me than all of the worldly accomplishments or moral courage of Thomas More; Joseph represents the good father. For me, that is the highest standard, a bar that sometimes looks way over my head, although my own father seemed to glide over it effortlessly.

St. Joseph became my patron, and when my father got sick and died over the ensuing six months, I spent many minutes kneeling before this statue and another one in the Catholic Church in my parents’ town. I found myself in front of St. Joseph again this morning, under less dramatic but still compelling circumstances. Other than Mary, Joseph is the only saint I have prayed to, but I do pray to him. I believe that my prayers are heard.

St. Joseph’s Day is still nearly two months away, but I’d like to dedicate a few posts to him between now and then. Yesterday morning in men’s group, a non-parishioner and non-Catholic, Kirk Kvistad, gave a beautiful presentation of his own prayer-song compositions. I wish I could share some of these with you via MP3, but they’re not available yet.

However, Kirk started off the meeting with a prayer to St. Joseph that I had not seen before, and I can share that:

Oh, St. Joseph, whose protection is so great, so strong, so prompt before the throne of God. I confide in you all my interests and desires. Oh, St. Joseph, do assist me by your powerful intercession, and obtain for me from your divine Son all spiritual blessings, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. So that, having engaged here below your heavenly power, I may offer my thanksgiving and homage to the most loving of Fathers.

Oh, St. Joseph, I never weary of contemplating you, and Jesus asleep in your arms; I dare not approach while He reposes near your heart. Press Him in my name and kiss His fine head for me and ask him to return the Kiss when I draw my dying breath. St. Joseph, Patron of departing souls—Pray for me.

According to a footnote Kirk passed along, “This prayer was found in the fiftieth year of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. In 1505, it was sent from the Pope to Emperor Charles when he was going into battle. Whoever shall read this prayer or hear it or keep it about themselves, shall never die a sudden death, or be drowned, nor shall poison take effect on them; neither shall they fall into the hands of the enemy, or be burned in any fire, or be overpowered in battle.”

I do not know on what authority, if any, this footnote was written. But I do not disbelieve it.

Posted by Webster 
Living where I do, outside Boston, I am surrounded by Catholics. Being Catholics of our times, many of them, born into the Church, have left it. This is a strange burden for me, only two years a Catholic, to bear.

By what lottery was I called to this faith now, nearing the age of 60? By what turn of the wheel have these Catholics, who adored the Church of their childhood, fled it like a frightening memory behind a door they themselves have locked and lost the key? I have never prayed to St. Jude, patron of lost causes (left), but if I meet many more of these people, I may begin doing so.

I have written previously about “my friend who has fallen away from the church.” More recently, I wrote about a cradle Catholic who values my passion for Catholicism but somehow can’t find the way back to his own. Let me take a moment to tell you about a third friend, “Rosa.” This friend recently came upon one of my blog posts, and she was offended by what the post implied about people in her situation. But as we talked I realized, and so did she, that the blog had actually opened up inner territories for her to explore. I even dared to think it may have reopened a door she had closed so long ago.

I have known Rosa for many years now. She is bright, well educated, upstanding in motherhood and citizenship, and—I think even she would admit—extremely talkative. I am not so talkative—except in your blog, I can hear Katie saying with an eye-roll, and she is right, of course. Because Rosa is talkative and I am not, and perhaps for no other reason, we may not always have understood each other as well as we might. Talkative can look superficial to the non-talkative; and I know how self-absorbed I can seem.

Rosa may be talkative, but as I learned in a recent conversation, superficial she is not. She told me of her extreme devotion to the Church as a child. Of praying on her knees on a hard wood floor while other children were playing. Of the countless rosaries, novenas, and other devotions she applied herself to until—when was it?—her late teens, early twenties? Then, a disastrous series of encounters with a priest soured her heart. This was no sordid story of abuse like those that have made news in recent years. It was just a case of lousy advice from someone who should have known better. At a time when she was growing from adolescence to womanhood, when it seems that even virginity was still an option for her—when her life could have taken so many good turns—Rosa turned away from the Church.

As a mother, she has tried to find her way back, but again, maybe ten years ago, she asked for pastoral guidance and received just the wrong answer. You can say, but maybe Rosa is wrong, maybe it was the right answer. I’ve heard the pastoral answer she was given, and, let me presume to say this: It is the wrong answer. I am not sure what the right answer is, but Pope Benedict would have known, and so would Father Barnes, I’m sure.

I am sorry to be so indefinite about Rosa’s story, but I must not violate her privacy. What’s more, I am just finishing Michael O’Brien’s extraordinary novel Island of the World, and I have underlined the following words regarding the short biography of a poet, who is the central character:

Before going to press, . . . he insisted on the deletion of any significant biographical data. He maintained that while such matters are important “for the soul” of a man, the understanding to be gained from them is for the man himself, and not for anyone who, from idle interest or “more perilous curiositas,” as he called it, presumes to enter into the realm of another’s private memory.

I wrote Rosa’s initials in the margin beside this quote. And I have written this post with the quote in mind. My interest in Rosa is not “idle,” but Rosa herself will have to arrive, perhaps with the help of the Holy Spirit, at a renewed understanding of her own biographical data. I feel honored, though, that, during a brief conversation that shattered all my preconceptions, Rosa gave me a glimpse into the realm of her private memory.

What else can I do now? Keep blogging and getting in trouble with my blogging. Keep talking. Keep praying. Joan of Beverly would advise me to add Rosa to my prayer list, and so I have done so. St. Jude, pray for us.

Posted by Webster
Last night Katie and I took our friend Joan to see a creche collection that has been 45 years in the making. Tom Petitte, FSM, received an 11-piece nativity set from his parents when he took his vows as a Marist brother in 1964. Today his collection fills four classrooms in a parish education center in Peabody, Massachusetts.

That first 11-piece set is at the bottom center of this photo: the Holy Family, three Wise Men, a couple of shepherds, three sheep . . . Now, as you can see, Brother Tom’s collection of Fonantini nativity pieces, all created in one Italian village, is completely out of control.

And it’s only the piece de resistance of a collection numbering 200 nativity scenes. Sets, all of which have been given to Brother Tom, “come from six continents, and are made out of a wide range of materials including banana leaves, corn husks, wood, porcelain, pewter, glass and fabric and bear the names of well-known brands of collectibles, including Lenox and Precious Moments. Brother Tom’s collection contains Peanuts figures, as well as animal figurines.” The quote is from the on-line edition of The Pilot, the venerable newspaper of the Boston Archdiocese, which featured the story this week.

Here’s another set, from Ireland. It belonged to Brother Tom’s grandparents. 

I spoke briefly with Brother Tom, whom I expected to be a bit of a romantic, if not postively mushy about his hobby. He was anything but. Very matter-of-fact, very friendly without pushing himself, the Marist brother with a fully developed Friar Tuck paunch told me that he is an instructor of theology at Malden Catholic High School. He lives at St. Thomas the Apostle Church in Peabody, where the display is mounted, and serves as a pastoral associate in the parish.

This is one of my favorite pieces in the collection. As the caption notes, it was created by a homeless woman.

Here’s a set from Africa made of banana leaves.

Wandering through rooms filled with tables displaying the collection, it was easy to wander in my own memories: back to my Ammie’s house in Minnesota in the 1950s. My grandmother, whom I wrote about here and who converted to the Catholic Church late in life, made a big deal about getting me over to her house on Lake Minnetonka on a wintry afternoon to set up her elaborate creche on the grand piano in her living room. She had twenty-six grandchildren when all was said and done, but I was, she always reminded me proudly, her oldest grandson, and I returned pride with pride. Since her oldest grandchild, my cousin Mary, lived in Connecticut, I had the singular honor of setting up the creche with Ammie—and first choice of her Christmas cookies.

This nativity scene from Brother Tom’s collection was carved into a log by an Amish craftsman in Pennsylvania.

This one is a cat nativity. Yes, Brother Tom has a dog nativity too, but I thought posting cats and dogs in one place might cause trouble.

I want to thank my choir buddy Sheila Ouellette for tipping me off to the exhibition in Peabody. I know most readers of this blog live in other states, or on other continents, but if you’re within driving distance, Brother Tom’s lovely tribute to the Holy Family is on display today and tomorrow.

“My goal is to help people to focus on the real meaning of what Christmas is all about,” Brother Tom told The Pilot. I think he has succeeded.

Watching the Red Sox try to hang on in their series against the Angels, I come up against a Blackberry ad using “All You Need is Love” as theme music. Love? I wonder. No, not all you need.

But “My Generation,” same as The Who’s, has been humming songs like this since the 1960s. They tell us, and we believe, don’t we, that we need nothing but someone to love us, or, same difference, “Somebody to Love,” the first big hit for Jefferson Airplane.

Why exactly did Crosby, Stills, and Nash tell us to “Carry On,” the first track on this album? Because “love is coming,” of course. “Love is coming to us all.”

Janis Joplin’s only #1 hit was “Me and Bobby McGee,” Kris Kristofferson’s bluesy ballad of romantic love. Kristofferson was Joplin’s “lover,” but how much good did that do her? Hey, but maybe “Feelin’ good is good enough for me.”

The  Doors’ 1967 super hit was “Light My Fire,” about the hottest sort of love, baby. Which didn’t do a lot of good for Jim Morrison, now, did it?

Is it any surprise that the biggest, longest-lasting hit of the 1960s was “(Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”? Well, not really, no.

Somehow, I end up at 1st Corinthians 13, which must be the Biblical text used most often in weddings since the 1960s. “The greatest of these is love?” Sure thing. But does anyone ever give a thought at any of those profoundly romantic moments about the two cardinal virtues that come first? 

Sox lose . . . What’s a good Catholic boy to do? . . . Root for the Angels, of course.