Of Mockingbirds

 “Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird.” – Atticus Finch

There was a period from around the time I was in middle school until shortly after finishing college that I read Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird at least once each year. I still love the book, but it has now been a couple of years since I last revisited it. The themes of innocence protected, innocence lost, the collapse of ideals in the face of looming adulthood, and the clarity with which we remember childhood still resonate deeply each time I go back to the text. In all these years, though, it has never occurred to me to look up a picture of a mockingbird, or to listen to its song on the internet. I have always assumed the accuracy of my own imagination, I guess, and I have always believed Ms. Maudie when she insists, "Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us."

	Northern Mockingbird	Mockingbird Song

A few months back, I acquired the Merlin app. It is developed by the ornithological lab at Cornell University, and it identifies birds by written description, recorded song, or photograph. And it is free. You just agree to share your bird data with them for the sake of their research. It is an amazing app that I use often, and on which I depend when encountering birds I do not know when fishing. I was glad to have it several days ago when, as I walked from my room to the refectory in the main residence hall, my ears were assaulted by the raucous and obnoxious carrying on of some bird. "What the hell kind of bird is that?" I wondered, expecting some variety of crow or jay. Instead, Merlin identified a mockingbird. I heard the same raucous call earlier today. Merlin again identified a mockingbird. I find that I do not not agree with Ms. Maudie. The call of a mockingbird is not all that lovely. And it is fortuitous that I discover this truth just now.

The foundational idea of Harper Lee's novel is that the mockingbird, with its sweet song, is a symbol of innocence, goodness, and purity. It is a sin to destroy these things, and true heroes are those who dedicate themselves to their preservation. For this reason, Atticus hides his capacity to shoot well and take life from his children. For this reason, he defends the doomed Tom Robinson. For this reason, Heck Tate will not allow Arthur Radley to stand accused of murder. In this context, there appears to be a parallel between this novel and the call of the Bishops of South Dakota for people of good will to vote against Amendment G. It is a sin to kill a mockingbird. It is a sin to destroy what is beautiful. It is a sin to injure the innocent. It is a sin to deprive the unborn of life. 

I wonder, however, if I have not misunderstood Lee all along. What if it were an obvious irony to her southern readers to suggest that the call of a mockingbird is lovely. What if they really are notoriously boisterous and obnoxious -- something of a frustrating presence? What if mockingbirds, suddenly absent, would go unnoticed and their paucity unremarkable. What if a dearth of a mockingbirds were, in fact, something of a relief? Why bother about mockingbird if they do not contribute anything of note? I speculate about this after having spent entirely too much time arguing on the internet championing the proposition that the Church must stand in defense of the unborn, and that this issue merits special attention that is not afforded to other political matters about which Catholic Doctrine has much to say. Should we not also speak as vigorously about federal aid programs for the poor, efforts to expand medicare, or initiatives to preserve the environment from unscrupulous mining and extraction companies? Perhaps more to the point, are we not whitewashing the fact that for many, a baby is an unchosen burden, a sick baby or special needs baby an intolerable pain, and for a mortally sick mother, a sacrifice too heavy to bear. Have we too easily assumed the sweetness of the mockingbird's song? Do we too readily insist that every life is beautiful?

I want to be very clear. I believe and defend the Church's position as regards the dignity of life, and consider all that we teach to be not just a doctrine I am bound in conscience to promote, but also a conviction of my own. I affirm all that the Church teaches with regard to the dignity of life with full assent of my own intellect and will. I believe every word of it, and will defend it to my dying breath if I must. Toward that end, I spent fruitless hours yesterday and today painstakingly explaining Catholic opposition to Amendment G, I explicated our unwavering opposition to abortion for any reason, and I argued vigorously with the articulate, the inarticulate, the ignorant, the stupid, the belligerent, and especially with Catholics who ought to know better than the obtuse positions they propose. My impatience, especially with that final group, was obvious at times. It stung a bit, however, when one of my interlocutors suggested, "I see [the struggle of a woman in a difficult situation] as more complicated, I guess, than you do, or the church does." This is simply not true. I do not think I have ever lost sight of the fact that I am talking about ideals that affect the real lives of real women who face real suffering. It was a good reminder for me, however, to keep at the forefront of my mind that I am calling people to embrace a cross I will never have to embrace. For them, at least in the moment, the mockingbird does not sing beautifully. Its song is a burden the loveliness of which is a fabrication and the noise of which is a theft of freedom and self-agency. The temptation to silence the song is enormous.

The temptation for those of us in solidarity with the Church, at least sometimes, is to try to assign the value of the mockingbird's song to its utility to me without reference to anyone else. It is a sin to kill a mockingbird because I like mockingbirds. The mockingbird is good because I enjoy its song. It is good because it adds something to my life. These arguments, though true, are vulnerable because they do not take seriously that perhaps for another, the mockingbird has no utility and does not add value to life. At times, the mockingbird may even diminish another's immediate experience of happiness. If the goodness of the mockingbird and its song is relative to the subject who perceives it, the mockingbird has no real value at all. It is like trying to pay for gas with pictures of your children. They might mean something to you, but they have no value to the person standing at the cash register. 

I have always interpreted Lee as equating beauty and innocence with a right to exist. Now I hesitate. I don not think the call of a mockingbird is all that lovely, and I am not sure that she really thought so either. The mockingbird's value is not an issue of utility but of truth. This is demonstrated in the disdainful comment of Attitcus advising Jem and Scout to "shoot all the bluejays you want." The comparison to bluejays is not accidental. Bluejays are genuinely pretty birds. They are flashy, and draw the eye. But they are deceptive. They pretend to be something they are not. Through subterfuge, they convince us that they have utility, and because we mistake utility for goodness, they do a great deal of harm. They rob the nests of other birds. They kill and destroy. And we don't care because they delight our passions. "Shoot all the bluejays you want" could as easily read "denounce every lie you hear." 

Ms. Maudie only partially understands Atticus. She sees through the lies of the bluejay, but she only thinks in terms of utilitarianism. The mockingbird is good because of what it adds to life. "Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us," she opines. It is significant that Lee does not articulate the utilitarian argument in the voice of Atticus. For him, the goodness of the mockingbird resides elsewhere. After all, he requires Jem and Scout to visit and read to the despicable old Mrs. Dubose as she overcomes her addiction to morphine, even after the hateful insults she piled on the children's father every time the children passed her house. Mrs. Dubose dies a free woman, having become exteriorly what she had always been from the moment of her creation interiorly. Perhaps Atticus sees, as we must, that it is a sin to kill a mockingbird because a mockingbird is beautiful, simply by virtue of the fact that it is what it was created to be and does what it was created to do - a drab and arguably vexsome bird that sings a loud and intrusive song. It doesn't much matter that the mockingbird is raucous and maybe even obnoxious. It doesn't matter that the mockingbird might be a burden to me when it carries on before I've even had a chance to drink my coffee. It gets to do so, and I must bear it, because it deserves to exist even though it costs me something. It gets to demand sacrifice of me because that sacrifice permits it to be what it must be. The mockingbird tells no lies, but it does insist that it be allowed to be what it is without regard to its utility and unhindered by my preference or convenience.

We have to stop Amendment G. It is a sin to kill a mockingbird. 

Sacerdos in Aeternum

The Adoration Chapel in the upper Basilica.  I pray here or in the crypt chapel most days.

 

"No person of reason, no thinker, has ever performed miracles, not even among the saints. He does divine works whosoever surrenders to God. So don’t think about it any more. . . Do this for all your needs, do this. . . and you will see great continual silent miracles. I will take care of things, I promise this to you."  - Servant of God Dolindo Ruotolo, "The Surrender Novena"

I have assigned the Surrender Novena, in whole or in part, as a penance too many times to count.  The fundamental notion of the novena, as expressed in the quote above, is that God will provide for our every need if we surrender and allow him to care for us.  It is a simple idea, and it is profoundly true.  God takes care of us.  Yet, in spite of knowing that it is true, I am generally inclined to tell God how he might best care for me.  I regularly argue with him about what he gives to me, why he gives it, and how he gives it.  Though I have repeatedly proven myself an incompetent agent of self-sufficiency who usually ends up drowning in trouble when I try to do thing on my own and in my own way, I find hat I am still insistent that God do as I tell him.

This was the substance of a conversation between Jesus and I as I prayed in front of the Blessed Sacrament at the Basilica recently.  I was grousing about my frustrations with the city, my homesickness, and my desire to exercise priestly ministry.  He reminded me of several truths I conveniently forget.  First, I chose to come here.  The bishop did not force me.  He asked if I was willing.  I said yes.  I could have chosen otherwise.  Second, it is my firm conviction that the moment in which we find ourselves and the experiences of this moment are, even when they include suffering or evil, an expression of God's love and providence.  Where I find myself right now is Jesus loving me, even if I would rather he loved me in a more comfortable way.  Third, and following from the previous premise, it is my conviction that obedience to Christ means choosing for myself that which he chooses for me.  If this moment is an expression of his love, and he has chosen to love me thusly, obedience requires that I also choose to be loved in this moment and through these experiences.  I am where I am and I undergo what I undergo because he has loved me into this moment, and to try to escape or to resent this moment is to reject Christ's love.  It is a variety of faithlessness and to the extent that I persist in it willingly, a sin.  So it was that Jesus was able to ask me sternly, "Will you choose for yourself what I have chosen for you?"  As it turns out, sometimes to hang on the cross and die is less painful than to try to pull my hands and feet free of the nails that hold me there.  "Yes, Lord.  I surrender."  

Obedience is its own reward, and I did not surrender with the expectation that it would win me any particular favor.  I should know by now, however, that God is never outdone in generosity.  When I give my will to him, he gives me all that I desire in return.  To whit, beginning sometime last week I had a hankering for saltwater taffy.  This is not particularly unusual.  Since my surgery, I have regularly endured cravings for any variety of sugary foods.  This urge, however, was particularly intense.  I spent an hour on Amazon trying to find reasonably priced bulk bags of taffy before coming to my senses, turning out the lamp, and sleeping.  I woke up still craving taffy, but sleep had at least steeled my resolve sufficiently to reject the idea of mail order candy.  Imagine my surprise, then, when a day later, when I went into the dining room, I discovered that one of the resident priests had been out and about earlier in the day, and had bought taffy and left a portion for the community to share.  "Surrender to me," Jesus says, "And I will do everything for you."  He cares that I want candy.

The above example is, I suppose, a bit glib.  The cacoethes to founder on sugar and Christ's response is hardly a genuine example of God's providence.  I would agree with this contention were not for the fact that the taffy was just an amuse bouche for what he really had in mind.

For two months now I have been plagued with a kind of fear of becoming useless or unneeded.  Part of what I loved about parish life was the fact that I was needed.  There were things that no one else could do, and that if I did not do them, they would remain undone.  Without me, Masses would go unsaid, sins unforgiven, and the sick unanointed.  A great deal of my sense of identity was absorbed in what I did, what I accomplished, and how I helped.  Then, suddenly, I was not really needed.  Someone else would say Mass and forgive sins.  I would live in a parish already staffed by people assigned to those tasks.  After that, I would go to school where not only would I have no community of people to need me, but also I would have no authority to take care of them.  What is a priest who does not preach?  What is a priest who does not hear confessions?  What is a priest without his people?  These have been the substance of an ongoing conversation with Jesus for months, and they were top of mind when Jesus asked me to surrender and choose for myself what he had already chosen for me.  Such was my resolution as I headed to dinner that night.

Sitting with one of my fellow students, the conversation, unprompted by me, somehow arrived at a place where he described a family friend who had, with his wife, founded a megachurch somewhere in the outskirts of Washington, D.C.  He commented that this man seemed, in conversation, to assume that his work as a protestant pastor and Patrick's life as a priest were substantially the same.  Poignantly, Patrick noted, "He doesn't realize that while pastoring is something he does, a priest is what I am.  Even if I am lying in my bed crippled and unable to move, I continue to minister as a priest by virtue of my ordination.  Priesthood is not what we do.  It is what we are."  Patrick said nothing new.  I was not unaware of the facts he articulated.  But I needed to hear them again.  I am a priest.  Though I might prefer to be a priest with people for whom to care, having them is hardly constitutive of my priesthood.  I went to bed that night encouraged by this reminder of the truth of Holy Orders.  I offer the sacrifice of Christ on the altar and by my own manner of living.  When I offer the Holy Mass, my desire and my longing for a parish become part of what is offered on the altar.  They become part of the sacrifice of myself that priesthood demands.  If this is how Jesus wishes that I offer my sacrifice right now, who am I to disagree?  If this is how I might best serve his people at this moment, then this is how I must serve them.  To learn the law is my ministry.    

But, the ache for the hands-on, down and dirty, spitting in the Devil's eye work of the Gospel remains . . .

And so it was one of the greatest joys of my life when yesterday, for the first time in weeks, I pronounced those sweet, sweet words of mercy, "I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."  I have finally received permission from the Archdiocese of Washington D.C. to hear confessions.  As a result, I swiftly volunteered to assist with confessions at the National Shrine yesterday.  I sat for two hour in the confessional and forgave the sins of a dozen penitents, one of whom had been away from the sacrament for more than thirty years.  This morning, I concelebrated Mass at the same church and assisted in the distribution of Holy Communion for the first time in several weeks.  While returning to the sacristy, the coordinator for visiting priests thanked me profusely and begged that I would help with upcoming holy days and confessions during Advent and Lent.  I could not help but grin at the prospect.    After I had finished removing my Mass vestments, I went back to the confessional and absolved another two dozen sinners.  And I felt useful.  And I felt happy.  And I felt like a priest.  I surrendered to Jesus, and he has done everything for me.  He will not be outdone in generosity.

I am a student, and I will be a student for quite a while to come.  After that I will be a pastor again.  Between here and eternity, there will be assignments that I cannot even begin to predict right now.  Eventually I will either retire or die.  There will be more occasions when I feel useless, and I will wish that I could offer my life in the ways I prefer.  I will argue with Jesus again about what he choses for me, and when, and why.  And in all of it, I will be a priest forever.  Priest is not what I do.  It is what I am.

Poverty

 

This is the residence chapel where I celebrated Mass today.
 It is very odd to do so without a congregation.
  It is very odd not to preach on Sunday morning.

Jesus said to him, “If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me.” Matthew 19:21

A little more than five years ago, I completed the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius.  These are completed, most typically, over the course of a thirty day silent retreat, though they can also be completed in other ways.  For most of those who approach the exercises with sincerity and dedication, the experience once is one wherein the retreatant discovers God's love with new depth and conviction.  These were certainly the outcomes for me.  Among the unexpected graces of the retreat, however, was a deepened awareness of God's desire that I should live in poverty.  This call has manifested itself in acute ways over the last several months.

Poverty is, at its heart, not so much a physical as a spiritual reality.  Though not unrelated, material possessions or the lack thereof do not define poverty.  Poverty, rather, is an expression of dependence.  he who is poor has nothing upon which to rely except the goodness and benignity of a provident and loving Eternal Father.  One experiences poverty when he arrives at a point where he cannot take care of himself and must allow another to do so for him.  For this reason, material poverty can be an aid in achieving the genuine poverty to which the Christian disciple is called, but the two are not synonymous.  I might have nothing, but continue to try to take care of myself.  By contrast, I might have all the riches of the earth and  live a life of utter dependence.  Dependence is the key.  To a certain extent, dependence is a synonym to poverty.

This notion makes sense when we consider the fundamental identity with which we approach God.  We are God's beloved children.  While we may like to think we are his beloved, adult children, we deceive ourselves.  We are God's infant children.  The hallmark of infancy is dependence.  Babies cannot take care of themselves. Left unattended, they will certainly die.  We are the same.  We have nothing to recommend that we are capable of self-reliance.  We need someone to take care of us.  To the extent to which we lean into and embrace this reality is the extent to which we experience poverty.  

Jesus is rather insistent on our poverty.  Or at least, he is rather insistent on my poverty.  He is disinclined to tolerate for long any source of security beyond himself.  This is not to say that he wants we to live a life scurrying from one danger to the next like a mouse in a house full of cats.  It is, rather, that he wants me to trust absolutely that in all circumstances he will give me everything I need and more.  Herein, I think, resides an explanation of the fact that I find myself writing while sitting at a desk in q city that I do not love. having celebrated Sunday Mass without people I do love, wondering where to tow a vehicle that has inexplicably stopped working, and wishing that I did not have to rely on providence to get by.  

I have been, for a long time now, growing rich.  My house was comfortable.  I was surrounded by my own things.  I made most decisions for myself.  I largely determined my own schedule.  I recreated in ways that I chose, in places where I was comfortable, and with people with whom I was familiar and had relationships.  I could escape to the ranch at will.  I could hide in one of my two rectories and avoid seeing people for days at a time.  My ministry, though fulfilling, presented few new challenges.  I knew how to handle most situations.  I was generally happy, comfortable, and content.  Though Jesus was near, and I spoke with him regularly, I had arrived in a place in life where it seemed as though I could do it alone.  There was little I needed from Jesus.  There was little I asked him to do for me.  So he put me in a place where I need him.  I was rich, so he made me poor.

I say all of this, not by way of complaint or lament.  It is, mostly, I suppose, just thinking aloud.  Jesus wants me.  He has always wanted me.  But he wants me on his terms, not my own.  I do not get to decide what our relationship is going to look like.  I do not get to decide when I need his help and when I do not.  Either I am dependent on him, and I live that way now and in eternity, or I depend on myself, and I live that way, now and in eternity.  

It is not easy or comfortable to be poor.  In fact, to some extent, the only natural reaction to poverty of the material or spiritual sort, is to attempt to escape it.  That is, I think, perhaps the point.  The only way out is for Jesus to get me out.  And, once I have escaped the poverty of school, traffic, crime, and east-coast nincompoopery, if I am willing, he will choose a new way for me to be poor - a new parish, a new ministry, a new bishop - any of these will be sufficient to ensure that I cannot do it alone.  It will guarantee that I remain God's infant child, always dependent on the one who has always taken care of me, and who always will.