Blessed Christmas Eve, Digital Neighbors! Good morning or good day, wherever you find yourself on our little spinning orb of life. Happy Wednesday, ADD Irregulars, Curators and Contributors of the WSN, and Happy Curmudgeons! You know of my fondness for all of you who make Padre’s a great place to laugh, ponder, rant, and chat about any number of topics that come along in our ADD-fueled coffee talks. Hello again, Friends, Refugees, Early Birds, Later Dayers, Conversants, Lurkers, and all members of The Rubin Report, where it all began. Hey there, Phamily, Dawn Patrol, and all you Misfits at Phetasy, now roaming about on Substack! I know it’s a long introduction, but consider it an act of appreciation from your resident Friar and local Padre.
I am not everyone’s cup of tea (it should be coffee if you pay any attention to the memes, for crying out loud)! But I am who I am: a Disciple, a Spiritual Father, mostly traditional, slightly disturbed, entertained by what many might consider inappropriate or irreverent humor for a Shepherd of Souls, a laugher at self and humanity, an adherent of common sense, a respecter of freedom, a believer in conversion, a lover of neighbors (all the easy ones to love and even the lousy ones—I pray for the lousy neighbors to get their crap together), a curious observer and seeker at the thresholds of experience, thought, and imagination, a fan of reality and yet a skeptic and questioner of so much that I see and read in the current chapter of life and information. I am a fan of Wrestling Jacob, holding tight to the Mysterium in the Night, waiting to know a name and a face in the dawning day. Better luck next time, buddy! But he does get a cool name change out of it!
I mostly love with the story of humanity, and I know so little of it. It is not all peaches and cream—mostly horrible chapters, to be frank, with little episodes of light and hope. This world was never meant to be the permanent residency; more of an incubator, nursery, eventual boot camp for something more. Today, this eve, I am thankful that the Unnamed of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—the Wrestler in the Night, the Burning Bush, the Guide of Judges and Prophets, the Lover of David, the Whisper at the mouth of a cave, the Faithful One of the Covenant—sent His WORD, His Son, to dwell among us, to become one of us, like us in all things but sin. Yes, I am aware of all the other days and stories in the ancient world religions that preceded this celebration and that Christians appropriated this day from the Romans. The Author of the story has entered the story. It is a stretch for many, but for me it is the key to trying to make sense of this life. It doesn’t mean it answers all of life’s questions and curiosities, but it is foundational and formative. There is plenty left for the “your guess is as good as mine” crowd.
I believe that the Incarnate One gathered disciples and left a community to invite humanity to know Him until He comes again. Far, far, far from a perfect community—there is plenty to point out for all the naysayers of Christianity and Catholicism in particular. No pedestals for the living, as it were, and there are plenty in death who are no saints. But to see only the shame and failings of Christianity is to see only a partial part of the story and to ignore the good it has helped create—and the good it has helped create is immense. Not perfect, but far better than the current ideologies seeking to supplant it. I so believe in G. K. Chesterton’s quote: The Christian ideal has not been tried and found wanting. It has been found difficult; and left untried.
Today, this Eve, we celebrate Him who gives the name to the Season, by whom we measure our years, and who dares to be personal and vulnerable in His Incarnation. Today you will know that the Lord is coming, and in the morning you will see His glory. Blessed Christ-Mass to all of you! You are in my prayers and often in my thoughts as my days unfold.
Today marks the three hundred and thirtieth birthday of the Frenchman François-Marie Arouet, better known by his nom de plume, Voltaire (1694-1778).
Born into a bourgeois family during the reign of Louis XIV, the “Sun King” (r. 1643-1715), Voltaire suffered tragedy at a young age when his mother died. Never close with his father or brother, Voltaire exhibited a rebellious attitude toward authority from his youth. His brilliant mind was fostered in the care of the Society of Jesus, who introduced him to the joys of literature and theater. Despite his later criticisms against the Church, Voltaire, throughout his life, fondly recalled his dedicated Jesuit teachers.
Although he spent time as a civil servant in the French embassy to the Hague, Voltaire’s main love was writing—an endeavor where he excelled in various genres, including poetry, which led to his appointment as the royal court poet for King Louis XV. Widely recognized as one of the greatest French writers, and even hyperbolically referred to by ...
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XIII
The Proud Minister
One day there came into the Garden a man in torn clothes badly bruised and cut, who said to the Lover, “In the name of the Beloved I demand your help.”
So the Lover and the Disciple let him in and dressed his wounds and prepared the best of the vegetables from the Garden for him to eat. When his wounds had been dressed and he had eaten and rested the Lover asked him how he had fallen into this plight, to which the man replied, “I was Minister of the Beloved in a city near this place, where I preached His gospel and expounded His doctrine to the people. I pointed out to them how their sins had made them wholly hateful to the Beloved and how therefore they were utterly beyond the range of His love and He would condemn them to eternal torments, whereon some fell into despair and wept bitterly but many were angry. One day the magistrates called me before them and begged me to leave the city and preach elsewhere for they said I had made many people so angry and desperate that they feared there might be a riot and they might not be able to protect me but that I might suffer some injury. I, however, very zealous for the Beloved and believing that the magistrates only feared that their own sins might be proclaimed, preached the more vehemently, denounced the magistrates and made it abundantly clear that the whole wicked city was foredoomed to eternal punishment by the just provision of the Beloved. Whereon a mob, stirred up no doubt by the corrupt and venal magistrates, fell upon me with sticks and stones, nearly killing me and driving me out of the city in the state in which I came to you.”
“My friend,” said the Lover, “this was not a good deed of yours, for besides denying the unfathomable compassion of the Beloved, you have by your obstinacy caused these people to commit a grievous sin, and this cannot be pleasing to the Beloved, that through you who profess to be His minister the people should become worse. Surely you remember that He Himself said, ‘If they persecute you in one city flee to another.’”
Therefore the man was very angry, and cursing the Lover, said, “I see that I have had a very false report of you and I do not believe that you are a servant of the Beloved at all. When I came to you so injured for the Beloved’s sake you set before me only herbs and fruits although the garden is full of birds which you could have killed to make me a worthy meal. I shall proclaim everywhere that you are no true servant of the Beloved but a mere falterer who dares not suffer in the cause of the Beloved. Be sure that you are foreordained to eternal torments who suffer nothing here.”
For the man was so blinded by his own pride that he could not perceive the scars on the hands and feet and the brows of the Lover nor how the cloth beneath the armpits of his tunic was dyed with a red dye. So he went out of the Garden cursing and shouting.
But the Lover looked sad and said, “A man like this does much harm to the cause of the Beloved, for by thus speaking falsely about the Beloved he may bring men to fear Him but none to love Him, and by love alone can any man approach the Beloved.”
