Docility and the School of Life

As some may have picked up from several of my more recent blog postings, I have been particularly struck of late by the virtue of humility. This is not to say that I have been particularly adept at practicing this virtue, but rather it has stood out in my mind over the past several weeks as a goal worthy of a renewed effort. My efforts have been successful at times, and utterly disastrous at others, but through it all Our Lord has been there, whether I have seen Him or not. He has been behind every lesson, every curve ball that life has thrown my way as I try to give up myself, and His Presence has been most reassuring.

But as I was meditating on humility this morning, I was struck by another one of its beautiful aspects: it leads to docility. Often times these two virtues, docility and humility, are equated with one another. For many, they are simply synonymous. There is a real difference, though, between them. Humility is primarily an abandonment of all false notions of grandeur about oneself. It is a recognition of reality, of realizing how low we truly are. To gain humility, we must break through the false notions regarding our own goodness and recognize things as they are. When we become humble, we will see ourselves as good in as far as we are in the image and likeness of God, but we will also begin to see how weak our sins, our failings have made us. We will see how we are in need of God's mercy.

Docility, on the other hand, is primarily a willingness to be taught. It is the virtue by which we are made into good students of man and God. It is that quality by which we accept instruction and correction so as to come to further knowledge. The student who is not docile to his teacher is often rebellious because he believes he is self-sufficient for attaining knowledge. He would rather believe that he already knows everything rather than submit to someone else and learn from them. The docile student, though, will seek after the truth no matter whether it comes from his own abilities of discovery or from the knowledge already possessed by a teacher. For one who is docile, the truth is all that matters, not how he comes to know it. So, he will recognize that there are those around him who have attained to some knowledge of the truth, and he will be willing to submit to their instruction so as to gain a glimpse for himself.

Docility, then, is rooted in the valuation of truth above pride. Thus, before one can be docile, one must be humble. If we are to be prideful and stoke the fires of our own self-worth, we will find that we will not be willing to listen to anyone else. Using hyperbole, the sentiment of the proud student is expressed thus: "Why would I need to listen to anybody else? I am so great and wonderful that I can find truth all on my own." Now, very few people think these exact words, but there are many people who act as if this is what they think. For example, many go about scoffing at tradition (which is only another kind of teacher) while claiming they know better than everyone who came before. These are often the people that think being "medieval" is a thoroughly bad thing. They have a pride rooted in "time-ism" which is similar to racism; it is the unjust and unfair bias against someone else based on an inconsequential circumstance, namely that we have been born after those who came before.

With humility, though, we gain the ability to listen to others, including those who came before. When we are not the source of all truth, when we recognize our littleness, then we can listen to others. In particular, we begin to become docile to the lessons God seeks to teach us through our own lives. Without humility, curve balls and unexpected events in our lives become burdens. If we are constantly seeking, in our pride, to be in control of all that happens to us we'll find such unexpected events burdensome. We'll be aggravated that this or that is happening. We'll mutter saying, "Why did they ask ME this? Or why did this happen to ME?"

But if we're humble, if we're truly being docile to the teachings of Jesus, we'll find that these unexpected events are opportunities to learn. They are opportunities for Christ to expand us, to take us out of our comfort zone, to draw us to rely on Him more and more. They further our humility and docility, so that we begin to learn from all the daily circumstances of our lives. The unexpected event can help teach us how all of our experience is a lesson from God's Divine Providence. In humility and docility, every phone call at work, every supper made for family, every diaper changed truly does become an opportunity to know Christ better. In turn, then, our own pride is probably the worst thing that has ever happened to us.

Easter Friday

The celebrations of Christmas and Easter hold such an importance in the Church's spiritual life that she gives them each an Octave: eight days of Solemnity, of celebrating, after the actual day. These are eight days where the Church says it literally is the same day. So, for eight days it IS Christmas, and for eight days it IS Easter.

However, though the Church may say it is the same day, Father Time rolls right along bringing us one day after another. Thus, we end up with the rather odd occurrence of an Easter Friday. I say this is rather odd, because Friday is normally a time to meditate on the Crucifixion and Death of Christ, and Easter is normally a time to meditate on the Resurrection. Indeed, there is often a sentiment among Catholics to the effect of, "Well, we've just meditated for forty days about Jesus's death, now we need to think about His Resurrection."

We tend to separate in our minds the Crucifixion and the Resurrection, which is often very fitting and right to do. They did take place at two separate times, and indeed the scenes that we use to imagine these monumental events are rather different. For the Crucifixion we envision a bare hill with a dark sky, while the Resurrection rightfully brings to mind the sight of a garden and tomb. The physical and temporal distinctness of each event makes it natural to think of them apart from each other.

Meditating on them separately, too, can often bear great fruit in our relationship with Christ. By focusing on each event, we're able to discover more about them. By focusing only on the Crucifixion during Lent we're (hopefully) able to come to a more full understanding of Christ's sacrifice for us. We are plunged into the mystery of His suffering, of His humanity. We are called to wrestle with the fact that God would die for us. Likewise, in Easter, in meditating solely on the Resurrection, we're confronted with the power of Jesus over death. We learn that His death is not the end, and through His grace He leads into everlasting life.

However, while it is often beneficial to think of each mystery on its own, Easter Friday presents a whole new opportunity for us. On this day, the Resurrection is placed before our eyes by the Church, and the Crucifixion is placed before our eyes by Father Time. Because it is Friday we are confronted with His death, and at the same time because it is Easter we are confronted with His Resurrection. Today, then, marks the perfect opportunity to remind ourselves of the deep and intimate connection between the two. While historical and liturgical circumstances are often conducive to think of them separately, this day of the year is more conducive to thinking of them inextricably tied together.

And, indeed, one simply cannot be fully understood without the other. Good Friday, without Easter, becomes a simply tragic tale. Without His Resurrection, Christ's death on the Cross takes on the character of a true defeat. Yes, He died for us, but if He does not conquer death then it is death that conquers Him. He can still act as an expiation for our sins, offering Himself up to appease God's justice, but without the Resurrection He does not lead us into a new life.

Similarly, the Resurrection only makes sense in light of Christ's death on the Cross. First, and most plainly, Christ could not rise from the dead if He had not actually died. In order to overcome death, it was required that He actually grapple with it and confront it. He didn't wish to simply wave a magic wand to bring us to new life, He lead the way Himself. Furthermore, the Resurrection completes the sacrifice made on Good Friday. His sacrifice was not in vain, but was instead effective. He did not simply suffer, He conquered. He did both. And in so doing, He was able to both provide expiation, payment, for our sins and give us something that we had never had before. Like the Church says, "O happy fault, O necessary sin of Adam, which gained for us so great a Redeemer!" ~Easter Exsultet.

The Cross and the Resurrection, then, are both necessary. In our own lives we must make this reality of Christ present again, too. We must know that we cannot come to the Resurrection, the Glory of Christ, without first passing through the Cross. To be like Christ, we must suffer, we must become like Him in every way. If "it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me" (Gal. 2:20) then we must become like the description of Christ in St. Paul's letter to the Philippians "Being found in human form he humbled himself and became obedient unto death, even death on a cross. Therefore, God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name which is above every name." (Phl 2: 8-9). We must live both, we must live the Cross and in so doing we will also live the Resurrection.

Easter Friday, then, presents the perfect opportunity for meditation on this union of the suffering and glory of Christ. Interestingly, the Church does teach that "Easter" trumps "Friday" today. Unlike other Fridays during the year, we are not called to do penance today. Indeed, the Church actually allows the eating of meat on this Friday. These concessions of the Church teach a valuable lesson, then. Even though the Cross and Resurrection our intimately united, one is ordered to the other. One finds its fulfillment in the other. The Resurrection is Christ's greatest achievement, and it is the source of our joy. Though the two mysteries make up the one mystery of our salvation, it is the Resurrection that is the fulfillment. So, enjoy your Easter Friday today, and eat some meat!

The Living amongst the Dead

"But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices which they had prepared. And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, behold, two men stood by them in dazzling apparel; and as they were frightened and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them, "Why do you seek the living among the dead?" Luke 24: 1-5 

For nearly 2,000 years now, men and women have lived and died for the belief that Jesus the Christ died, was buried, and on the third day rose again. The Resurrection, and thus Easter, lies at the very heart of the Christian life. Those who fail to believe in the Resurrection, fail to truly understand who Jesus is, and in so doing they fail to be able to have a relationship with Him as He hopes for. It is impossible to know Jesus if we do not believe in the Resurrection, as the angels so clearly point out "Why do you seek the living among the dead?" If we fail to believe in the Resurrection, we will begin to believe that He is dead, and if we believe He is dead, we will not find Him.

This simple failure to believe in the Resurrection is much more common in ourselves, though, than we may think. We don't have to publicly renounce the Resurrection of Christ to fail to believe in it in our own lives. For instance, how often to we remind ourselves that His heart still beats, His hair still exists, He even still has fingers and toes. So often times in our lives, we fall into the trap of making Jesus into a theoretical person, or a storybook character. When we pray, we forget we are talking to One who has ears just like we do. We instead make Jesus into a purely intellectual reality, which is the ultimate temptation to all of those who pray. The devil wants us to look amongst the dead for Him so that perhaps we might fall in and become dead ourselves. But we must recognize that He is alive, that He does still have His body, and that He then shares His body with us in the Eucharist.

To love Jesus, then, is to love someone who still lives, to be united to a living Person. In our relationship with Him, we do not follow a corpse. Many people today do follow corpses when they follow Buddha, or Marx, or even the American founders. These leaders are great men and women from the past who while alive did magnificent things, but in the end died and became dust. As Hamlet so rightly says of Caesar, "O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe, should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw!" Unto dust these men have returned. Their ideas linger, but we cannot have a relationship with ideas the way we have a relationship with other men. No, that requires life.

Now, in one fashion we can say that we can have a relationship with men who have died, for their souls linger on. But Christ desired that we have a closer relationship with Himself, and He desired that this relationship should draw us into a New Life. So, He led the way, and defeated death and rose again, taking on new life. For, the Resurrection did not simply reanimate Christ's body. He did not simply become alive again, as some people do when they die for a time and are brought back to life with medicine. These people will die again some day; they have not conquered death, only delayed it. But Christ Himself conquered it, vanquishing it once for all so that it now has no power over Him. His Resurrected Body is not bound by the limitations of death; it can now do such things as vanish into thin air as it did for the apostles going to Emmaus, or enter locked rooms as it did with the Apostles.

The Resurrected Christ lives a true life - one that is not afraid of death. And when we love Him, He invites us to become partakers of this same life. We are called, in our relationship with Christ, to experience the Resurrection. Of course, in this life this experience of the Resurrection is only a foretaste; we are still destined to die. We are called to follow Christ into death and trust that He will raise us. But before death, we can participate in the Resurrected life of Christ by openly accepting His graces that He won for us through His Passion and Resurrection. We can come to know Him, to love Him, to dwell in His resurrected life. And it is this foretaste, this dwelling in His Resurrection, that He will use to raise us on the last day.

This Easter season, let us always remember that the Resurrection is not just another story found in the Gospels. Let us recall that Christ is not like George Washington or Caesar, great in their own right but dead in the past. Instead, this Easter may we become more and more convinced in the present reality of the Resurrection. May we place all our hope in it and draw from it all of our joy. Let us avoid looking for the living amongst the dead.

Holy Week and Triduum

Here we are. After nearly 40 days of Lent, after making resolutions, after sometimes failing to keep them, we've come upon the time that we've eagerly been preparing for. In just over 24 hours, the holiest days of the Christian year will be upon us. Three days, the Triduum, to commemorate the mystery of our salvation, the mystery of God's love for us even in our sinfulness. His humility, His mercy, His willingness to bring us out of ourselves and closer to Him - all of these beautiful qualities of God will be on display through the Scripture and Liturgies of the next few days.

It'll fly by. It always goes far too fast. It seems like you just walked into the church on Thursday night for the Mass of Our Lord's Supper when you walk into it again on Sunday for the Mass of Our Lord's Resurrection. Even these days of desert preparation, interrupted by feast days giving witness to the uncontainable nature of Christian joy, fly by. But Holy Week especially goes far too fast. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday... there is a quiet that settles over everything. We feel it in our activity, in the liturgy: something big is about to happen. I'm sure the apostles felt it as well when they were with Our Lord in Jerusalem that week. "Where is He going, what will He do?" How they must have been eager to see what the Lord's mission truly was.

But when the mission, when his "hour", came, they scattered. The very thing they were eager to see they fled from, because they had envisioned something far different. They did not expect the suffering He was to undergo. They did not imagine the sacrifices that might be asked of them. Their action spoke louder than words, "Lord, I will love you like this, not like that." They limited God's love, confining it to their human understanding. Only a few like Mary and John accepted whatever the Lord would give. They were docile to His love, they said "Lord, love me as you wish, and I will love you in return."

This Triduum, though it is set to go by so quickly, we too must be docile like this. Some of us will be given amazing Triduum's. We will go to Church each day filled with enthusiasm. We will feel the deepest sorrow on Good Friday and the greatest joy on Easter Sunday. If this happens to us then we must rejoice, for this is how God has chosen to love us. On the other hand, some of us will go to Church each day searching for God. We will be distracted, tired, grumpy from fasting. We'll try to concentrate and we won't be able to. We'll wake up on Easter morning and feel like we've wasted the Triduum, and now we have to wait a year to do it again. Rejoice, for this is how God has chosen to love us!

God does not ask us to be in a certain emotional state during this time. To a large extent, He will determine what we feel when presented with this mysteries. What we're called to do, what we're always called to do, is to respond to however He shows His love for us by loving Him in return. This Triduum, if we really want to get the most out of these three days, we must accept and give the most. We need to accept God's love for us in whatever way He shows it to us. In turn, we must love Him and be faithful to Him in all the little activities of our lives.

Holy Week, the Triduum. We are in the midst of times that ought to change our lives. The mystery of the Cross and Resurrection should teach us that God does love us, even if it's not how we'd expect Him to. Indeed, how He chooses to love us is often far greater than what we could expect. Who could have expected the true magnitude of the Crucifixion? Who could have guessed at the true glory of the Resurrection? Jesus always pours out His love for us in new and unexpected ways. And over the next few days, we will have the chance to experience that anew, again, for our selves. These can be days that change our lives, but we must let them. We must let Him.

Easier for a camel

There is nothing like growing up in a super power to teach you what wealth is. The experience of unprecedented material comfort swiftly instructs man in the goodness of all the lower things. Unfortunately, such wealth and prosperity tend to be terrible teachers of the virtue of poverty. And without the virtue of poverty, we really lose all the wealth of the soul.

As modern day Americans, we face the daunting challenge of trying to get to heaven while living in an incredibly rich society. Indeed, this is a specific struggle Jesus warned us about when he said, "Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God" (Mt. 19:24). Even if we believe that by "eye of a needle" Jesus meant a small gate in the walls of Jerusalem, His basic point remains the same: it is very hard for rich people to get to heaven.

However, in many sermons that I have heard about this passage, I seem to have always heard the same watered down theme: don't worry, you can still be rich and get to heaven; Jesus was just talking about "poverty of spirit." The current understanding of the virtue of poverty seems to be that you can have all the material goods you want as long as you aren't attached to them. Don't worry if you have a large number of cars, or if you have a massive house. As long as you aren't attached to these things, everything's fine.

But I wonder if that is totally true. For, it seems to me, that when we have a large number of things we necessarily tend to grow attached to them. We begin by saying of this or that thing, "wouldn't it be nice if we had this?" Wouldn't it be nice if we had a second car? Wouldn't it be nice if we had a third? Wouldn't it be nice if we had an espresso maker? Wouldn't it be nice if we had a bigger TV? When it comes to material goods, especially in America, the desire for them always begins in the desire for a luxury, but then it ends in a longing for a need. "How would we ever do without our second or third car? I don't know how I could get through the day without my morning espresso. If we go back to a smaller TV, how would we be able to see anything?" What started out as a luxury becomes a necessity, and we become attached.

This tendency to make luxuries into necessities, to value comfort often at the cost of sensibility, is what Our Lord was really talking about when He spoke of the eye of the needle. The possession of large amounts of material wealth makes it very difficult to be detached from material wealth. Whenever somebody possesses material wealth, which in America is almost everybody, myself included, we tend to become attached to it. We tend to think that this wealth, this luxury is something we really need.

The root cause of this tendency to become attached to wealth lies in the fact that man is incarnate and fallen. When I say he is incarnate, I mean that all of man's knowledge, all of his experience, begins with the senses. Sensible things are the first things that are available to us, and thus it is easier for us to know them. And, because we are fallen, we tend to stay in the realm of the senses. Our tendency away from God becomes a tendency towards lower things. For instance, we can see, hear, and smell all the things in nature around us, but we can't see, hear, and smell the virtues of charity or hope. It's so easy for us to enjoy the taste of a good cup of coffee, but it's so hard for us to enjoy the virtue of prudence. Thus, we tend towards pleasure, towards gratifying sensual desires at the expense of the higher, intellectual things.

Because of this, material wealth presents a temptation for us. Even though it is rightly said not to be evil in and of itself, wealth is a great temptation because it provides us with the means to satiate our earthly desires. It makes it possible to distract ourselves to death, literally. It makes it possible to never think about the higher things, because we are always made fat and content.

If we're to live a true union with God, then, one of the first places we might want to start is in embracing poverty. While true poverty, the poverty that denies the necessities of life to some, is an evil that needs to be eliminated, we can live out a type of "not having" that is good. We can embrace not having all the luxuries of our contemporaries. We can choose to live simpler, with less entertainment and some more suffering. We do this to teach ourselves what's most important in life, to reorder all of our desires so that we don't favor what is lower, but instead favor God above all else. If we're serious about the spiritual life, than I wonder how we can possibly choose to become rich when Jesus warns us that wealth makes it so much harder to come into His kingdom.

Lessons from Lenten Penances

During the past few weeks, I have found myself wondering what late February, March, and early April are like to non-Catholics, and I imagine that this time of the year must be rather boring. We are far enough away from Christmas and New Years that the excitement of the holidays has thoroughly faded (especially since modern man celebrates the holidays during November and December), and we are still far enough away from summer that they cannot yet get excited about all that that season brings with it (though this year, the weather has allowed for some excitement far earlier than normal). So, when I imagine going through these forty days of the year as a non-Catholic, I must say it seems rather boring; so much so that I do believe I would rather go through Lent than have to live through the doldrums of February and March twiddling my thumbs.

In particular, my preference for Lent would mainly be due to one reason: a time of penance is a great teacher of the soul, and times of quiet in life and nature ultimately cannot be appreciated without the lessens that penance teaches us. In other words, I would be able to enjoy the grayness of February and March if I had already been through Lent, but not without it. If there is one thing that penance particularly teaches the souls, it is exactly the lesson that is necessary to enjoy February or March; namely, joy is possible no matter what circumstances surround you.

The reason penance is so adept at teaching this lesson of unalterable joy is because it curbs our wills. Many in the word today view penance simply as a type of Christian masochism. Indeed, they're only real encounter with penance comes from the likes of The Davinci Code and its self-flagellating albino monk. They see it as something extreme, something that only the fanatics do. And, in their mind, it is a fanaticism that is akin to masochism. For them, penance must be a sort of enjoyment of pain. It is a perversion of the natural order caused by what they view as a similar perversion - dogma. For modern man, there is no way that penance can be good unless you are twisted enough to enjoy pain, and there is no way you can be this twisted unless you also enjoy faith.

However, like many other good things, the modern world totally misses the point of what it criticizes when it attacks penance. It sets up a straw man in front of a strong man and then mocks the scarecrow for its lack of strength. What I mean is this: the modern world says the point of penance is to enjoy pain, when in fact it is quite the opposite. The point of penance is to not enjoy something, and by not enjoying it, curb one's own will. It's particularly the unenjoyable part of penance that makes it worthwhile. By denying ourselves goods of pleasure or comfort, we deny our own will. We learn how to live when things are not going our way, when circumstances in or out of our control are not favorable to us. Most of all, we learn how to be joyful in all of these circumstances.

I was reminded of this important point when reading a passage from St. Therese of Liseiux last night regarding her vocation. For those who might not know the story of St. Therese, she was a young woman in France who fell deeply in love with Our Lord. From her earliest years she wished to give her whole life to Jesus by living a life of prayer in a Carmelite convent. So strong was her desire, that she actually sought to enter the convent at the tender age of 15, instead of the customary age of 21. However, in order to do so, she had to get her bishop's permission. During this process, she was asked by Our Lord to wait. Particularly hard for her was the fact that she wished to enter on Christmas Day, but was asked to wait several more months until after Lent. Here is how she responded to that:

"How did these three months pass? They were fruitful in sufferings and still more so in other graces. At first the thought came into my mind that I would not put any extra restraint on myself, I would lead a life somewhat less strictly ordered than was my custom. But Our Lord made me understand the benefit I might derive from this time He had granted me, and I then resolved to give myself up to a more serious and mortified life. When I say mortified, I do not mean that I imitated the penances of the Saints; far from resembling those beautiful souls who have practised all sorts of mortifications from their infancy, I made mine consist in simply checking my inclinations, keeping back an impatient answer, doing little services to those around me without setting store thereby, and a hundred other things of the kind. By practising these trifles I prepared myself to become the Spouse of Jesus, and I can never tell you, Mother, how much the added delay helped me to grow in abandonment, in humility, and in other virtues." (Story of a Soul, end of Chapter 6, emphasis added)

As she so often does, St. Therese gets right to the heart of the matter. She identifies the very essence of what mortification and penances are all about: "checking my inclinations." And this is what Lent is all about. Lent and its penances are meant to teach us disciples of Christ how to check our own wills, our own inclinations. This time in our liturgical calendar is meant to help us give up our own will and by doing so find true joy in doing God's will. If we continually are trying to impose our will on creation, we will be miserable. We will find that no matter how hard we wish it, we will not simply become rich, or be treated with admiration by all, or even make it any less gray outside. But if we do give up our will, if we do curb our inclinations and in turn join our will to God's, we will find that all these things bring joy to us.

And here is where another aspect of St. Therese's words come in. Note how, in this paragraph from her autobiography, she specifically mentions that she doesn't perform great acts of penance like the saints did. Her mortifications are small, and they are the stuff of every day life. Serving those around her. Keeping back an impatient answer. These are situations that arise each day, and yet they often become moments of asserting our own will. The penitential season of Lent provides us with an opportunity to take advantage of disagreeable daily circumstances. It should teach us that every day we are given chances to give up what we want and accept the gift of life as it comes to us from God. Ordinary life ought to teach us humility, and in turn humility ought to teach us gratitude, and in the end gratitude towards God will make us more in Love with Him.

This is why February and March cannot be enjoyable without Lent, and why I would never give up a Lenten February and March for non-Lenten ones. Through Lent, we learn that our own wills are often out of control. We try to force our desires on the world, and through penance we curb these desires. When we curb these desires, we begin to accept things as they are given to us instead of wishing things were different. And when we begin to accept things as they come, we can truly be thankful for them, praising God for the blessings He grants us in life. Lent, then, is truly an opportunity to learn how to live as God meant us to live, accepting everything from Him in a spirit of joy and love, and sharing this joy and love with those around us. No wonder the Eastern Church calls this time "Great Lent."

Grumble grumble grumble ...

There are many sins that man has gotten proficient at since the fall, but there seems to be none he performs with more ease than grumbling. Indeed, it may very well have been the first response to the Fall. It is very easy to imagine Adam saying, "The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me fruit of the tree" in a half mumbled grumble sort of tone. Ever since then, man has continued grumbling. Whether it be Israel in the desert longing for the fleshpots of Egypt, or the apostles in the storm complaining that Our Lord was asleep, it seems that man is truly adept at being miserable in whatever circumstances he finds himself in.

Anybody with a brief knowledge of Facebook would see that this trend from biblical times has indeed continued today. Status updates our often filled with expressions of "bleh" or "ugh", followed by some sort of complaint. But don't get me wrong, I'm not accusing everyone else of this while exempting myself. The last thing I mean to do is grumble about everybody else grumbling. I, too, am more than adept at the art, and I find that I often grumble so much that in order for reality to match up to perception, I would indeed need to be the Cartesian "ego" with the universe revolving around me.

And that really does get to the heart of grumbling: the ego. If grumbling is anything, it really is a matter of pride. It is a reaction to circumstances that we dislike based on the idea "I am owed this" or "My life should be like this." Indeed, a grumble almost always has to do with someone being unjustly injured, whether it be by nature, another person, or the world. However, it's not grumbling simply to point out a wrong. There is great value in saying, "This situation we find ourselves in is wrong," like African American's did during segregation. However, these statements of "I've been wronged" can often become grumbling when we are not actually owed the thing we've been denied. African American's are owed equal treatment; I am not owed praise and adulation from everybody at work when I do my job.

This is why I say that grumbling is most of all a matter of pride; it is based on the assumption than I am more than I am. Statements like "Ugh, my wife is going out tonight, so I have to do the dishes" are based upon the false assumption that I should never have to do dishes (the falseness of this assumption will be readily verified by my wife.) Even grumblings such as "bleh... I am so tired today" are based upon false assumptions - in this case a false belief that I am owed sleep. In fact, though, I am not owed sleep. Sleep is a gift, it is a blessing which I should be thankful for, and when I don't get sleep I should not grumble about it, but instead I should thank God for the other blessings He has given me and move on with my life.

Now, it may seem extreme to say that statements like "I am so tired today" are grumbling and should be avoided, but can we imagine our Lord ever saying this? In fact, I would challenge anybody to find a passage in the Gospels that begins with, "And Jesus grumbled, saying..." Jesus did not grumble. He would speak in love, in joy, in surprise, in exasperation, but not in grumbling. Rather, "like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is dumb, he opened not his mouth" (Isa. 53:7). Even in his most intense suffering, Christ would not complain.

The saints, too, are examples of not grumbling. For instance, when Blessed John Paul II first received the pope-mobile with the glass covering, it is said that as he entered it the door slammed on his finger. Without missing a beat, the pope whispered under his breath, "Thank you God for loving me so much." In the Rule, St. Benedict directly addressed grumbling when talking about obedience saying, "If a disciple obeys grudgingly and grumbles, not only aloud but also in his heart, then even though he carries out the order, his action will not be accepted with favor by God, who sees that he is grumbling in his heart." To be a saint is not to grumble, it is to quickly and speedily do the will of God and accept the blessings and tribulations he give us.

Most importantly, though, grumbling is a deadly hindrance to a life of charity. How are we to greet each person as Christ if we grumble about them to ourselves when they're not around? How are we to perform every work out of love when we are so quick to grumble in our hearts if the task is not to our liking? Simply put, love is stifled by grumbling, because love is stifled by pride. If we are going to progress on the way of holiness, then, we must rip out grumbling from our hearts. We have to cease overestimating what is due to us and begin to rejoice in the blessings we do have. In short, we must learn the truth of what St. Paul says: "God loves a cheerful giver" (2 Cor 9:7).