The Simpsons II: The Father, Son, and Holy Guest Star

by Dan Masterton

Picking up my periodic thread on The Simpsons (click back here to read my series intro and first post), today I'm sharing about a lesser-known episode that comes after the "Golden Age" of the series. While some hardcore fans seldom dignify much after the first dozen seasons, I am not so strict of a purist and continue watching the show religiously to this day. Here's a fine chestnut I've plucked from Season 16 that is worth a few minutes of your time:

“The Father, Son, and Holy Guest Star” (full synopsis | full episode)

Bart gets wrongfully blamed for an incident at school and gets expelled. Low on options for a new school, Homer and Marge send him to Catholic school, where an Irish priest connects Bart to the gory lives of the saints and Homer to pancake breakfasts, a pair of smooth moves that kickstart an unlikely switching story (using the word conversion to describe switching between Christian denominations is a misnomer!).

Bart’s time at Catholic school satirizes some great Catholic school stereotypes: Bart is taught by an Irish nun, and when she sends him to the hall for discipline, he encounters the Irish priest; Bart and his classmates are in full dress uniform, complete with ties; the nun disciplines her students with a ruler and yardstick. Many of these details invoke a bygone era, as Catholic schools are now largely staffed and led by laypeople, but the reputation for greater discipline, higher standards, and a more rigid environment mostly endure as attractive characteristics of Catholic education. The great outlier in their satire is the nun’s instruction on math: “Now class, open your math books to the word problems of our Lord: Billy and Joseph start their penance at the same time. If each swear brings a 1000 years in hell…” While teachers are encouraged to suffuse the faith into all subjects and disciplines and areas of student life, I’ve never seen this kind of over-the-top crossover.



The episode also takes a moment to poke fun at conversion and call. Fr. Sean (an Irish priest voiced by the great Liam Neeson) shares that, after a drunken fight with his father, a light post turned into St. Peter, scolded him, and spat on him, prompting Sean to straighten out his life and join the priesthood. It’s a great moment that acknowledges the unusual nature of vocation stories, centering on odd combos of family, the communion of saints, and God knows what else, while pointing people toward greater service of others.

Most delightfully, across the episode, the writers balance gentle mockery of both Catholicism and Protestant traditions. Fr. Sean quotes Eminem in his sermon; Marge describes the sitting, standing, and kneeling of Catholic Mass as worse than “Simon says”; Marge additionally calls Catholics a peculiar bunch with no birth control, no meat on Fridays, and use of incense that “ruined her pantsuit”; Homer agrees, saying the Church “has more crazy rules than Blockbuster Video” (shoot a knowing glance at the young people in your midst); Just as Homer begins to scold Fr. Sean -- “I’m sick of you teaching my son your time-tested values!” -- he stumbles upon a pancake breakfast at the parish/school gym; Homer proceeds to confess a litany of sins, implying the faith allows for unlimited sins due to the easy access to absolution; Homer comes home amenable to Catholicism, but Marge warns him she's not having another twelve kids (Homer says nine or ten, tops). The kernel of truth in this cascade of on-the-nose references is there -- the Church is predicated upon a thorough and deep set of practices and teachings, which can invite blind faith, questioning, and thoughtful fidelity alike. At the end of the day, the fellowship and traditions thoughtfully forged in the Church help Catholics sustain strong community in faith.



Marge then comes to church alone, their congregation which belongs to the one true faith: “The Western Branch of American Reformed Presbylutheranism.” Fellow church-goers and the pastor criticize her for her son and husband falling “under the spell of a man in a pointy white hat.” As they figure out what to do, Flanders complains that Catholics have been separate since “the Schism of Lourdes in 1573,” which was about “our holy right to come to church with wet hair... which we’ve since abolished.” Here, Ned's brief harrumph describes a fictitious incident that neatly satires the points of division that can sometimes seem so trivial. Here, Flanders asserts his territorialism, remarking that, once Catholics initiate their members, "it’s just like the Jews with their snippity-snip.”

Ultimately, Marge lures Bart back toward Protestantism by bringing him to a youth festival, complete with gimmicky signs, a live praise band, and a biblically-themed paintball course. As Fr. Sean and Homer confront Rev. Lovejoy, Marge, and Bart -- “once you go Vatican, you can’t go back again” -- Bart delivers a strong message of ecumenism, suggesting people of faith focus more on unity than conflicts: “The little stupid differences are nothing next to the big stupid similarities!” Juxtaposed to the hilarious image of heaven, with clouds that separately host preppy looking Protestants and the raucous throng of Catholic Mexicans, Irish, and Italians, the unity message is a strong finish, even as Flanders remarks they should focus together on their common enemies (stem cells and monogamous gays -- facepalm). This episode does a fine job poking fun at the more quirky and unseemly aspects of the faiths; it doesn't endorse one or the other as perfect or best yet celebrates the strengths of both traditions. As usual, the humor comes in acknowledging the idiosyncratic realities of each and can actually help an insightful viewer find the best.

Apparently, I'll be fighting my family members, drinking beer,
and Irish dancing in heaven with my Irish brethren. See you there.

The World through the Eyes of Baby Jesus

by Tim Kirchoff

Child-rearing is just one of the many key aspects of human existence with which the modern adolescent male is likely to be completely unfamiliar. Such was my condition when, around the time I graduated college, my friends started having children. For some reason I didn’t stop spending time with them, so I found myself observing the behavior and development of infants for the first time since my younger brothers were born.

Perhaps even more importantly, I was consistently spending time around first-time parents who were keeping track of their infant’s milestones using various books on child development. Whenever I saw them, I would learn about what their child had learned to do that week and how it compared with the average. Instead of simply thinking “babies are cute, but stupid”, I tried to understand what they can actually perceive, and so gained a greater appreciation of some capacities that I take for granted.

Learning to sit up, crawl, stand, and walk all require not only the growth of muscles, but the development of the brain so as to be able to control their movements. Our brains only gradually develop the ability to clearly perceive objects, or to understand that they persist even when they disappear from view. Presumably, Jesus' infant brain was no different. He whose love in every moment sustains the universe may once have had a brain that could not process object permanence.

One of the aspects of child development that I found the most surprising and interesting was an infant’s tendency to turn toward sources of light like windows: babies are drawn to and fascinated by light.

Here's Dan's daughter, Lucy,
seeking the light of the Christmas tree.

In that way, Jesus’ introduction to the world as a human was perhaps not so different from when God created the world and at every turn pronounced it good. He through whom light was made beheld light with human eyes, and found it beautiful. Although Jesus was entering a fallen world, He perceived and focused on the sources of light and goodness around Him rather than shadows and sin.

As for me, I tend to focus on sources of stress and annoyance. Even in my better moments, I am not so much moving toward the light as I am fleeing from my pursuing shadows—mitigating my anxiety rather than exorcising it with joy. As my extended family gathers for the holidays and old arguments rise back up to the surface, even among my own siblings, I find myself wanting just to escape from the discomfort of the conflict, not to see the peace that ought to and could exist.

This Christmas, I want to cultivate my capacity for wonder. I want to be better able to sustain my gaze toward something, to perceive and contemplate its innate light and goodness. I want to see the world as baby Jesus did.

The Restless Hearts Christmas Mixtape

Orchestrated, Edited, and Introduced by Rob Goodale

I love talking about Christmas traditions. It’s one of my favorite conversational diving boards from which to leap when getting to know somebody; there is a treasure trove of delicious personhood wrapped up in childhood holiday habits. It is a certain type of person from a certain type of family who steadfastly attended Midnight Mass every year on Christmas Eve; this certain type of person is radically different from the “Early” Christmas Eve Mass attendee, who is yet again vastly different from the Christmas-Morning-Or-Bust types.

Going to see Santa Claus at the mall, baking cookies, building snow forts, caroling at nursing homes -- each of these celebratory details reveals something important, and from time to time leads to a delightful conversation wherein someone tries to explain Elf on the Shelf to someone else who has mercifully never heard of such chicanery.

As far as I’m concerned, conversations about the Feast of the Nativity of the Lord begin and end with music, sung at top volume -- at church, in the car, in the kitchen, always at top volume. In the Goodale household, it wasn’t really Christmas until the dulcet tones of Harry Connick, Jr.’s When My Heart Finds Christmas came wafting through the air. To this day, that version of “Sleigh Ride,” with its blaring horns, is the only version I am ever really capable of enjoying.

In recent years, I’ve discovered some beloved Christmas albums of my own: Josh Garrels’ hauntingly beautiful The Light Came Down, Penny & Sparrow’s Christmas Songs, A Johnnyswim Christmas, which is just delightful, and of course, The Oh Hellos’ Family Christmas Album.

I was prepared to go through my own top whatever number of Christmas songs and rant for about 15,000 words about all the stuff I like. Then I thought better of it, in large part because I imagine I am the only one in the entire world who is interested in hearing me do that.

Instead, we rallied the Restless Hearts troops, from the wizened, weary veterans to the fresh recruits, and asked them to share their favorite holiday tunes. As it turns out, not all of them feel the same way about Christmas music.

For the Liturgically Appropriate Among Us

Dan: So “Silent Night” certainly has that old, classic, even mildly cliched feel to it, coming from ages-old Germany. And for those of us who don’t speak German, hearing it with its original German lyrics is something. "Silent Night / Night of Silence" is a newer spin on the time-tested favorite that mixes a slightly more upbeat, punchy sets of lyrics with the more solemn, reflective tone of the original using the same chords and key. The songs can be melded together to even build to an overlaid counterpoint. The choir at my childhood parish would sing it regularly, and the layered pieces bring both musical and nostalgic joy to my ears and heart.

Jenny: Gaudete, Gaudete! Who doesn’t love a rousing 16th century Latin carol? Seriously, have your flagons of mead ready at hand for this one. Translating to “Rejoice, rejoice!”, this hymn is a song of welcome to God born of the Virgin, coming to renew the world. In addition to being a great Christmas song, it came to be a favorite of those in the Echo program when we would absurdly celebrate all the year’s holidays throughout the course of the summer. If you lack flagons of mead, here’s another, tamer version that would be better paired with eggnog.

Erin: My favorite Christmas song is (and this will come as a surprise to no one) strongly influenced by the one and only Father Greg Boyle. I’ve never been a huge Christmas hymn person, but in his chapter on “Kinship” in Tattoos on the Heart, Boyle talks about why "O Holy Night" is one of his favorite hymns, and I’ve never looked back. He focuses on the lines: “Long lay the world in sin and error pining -- ‘til He appeared and the soul felt its worth.” Jesus shows up in our lives and all of a sudden, we feel worthy. This is powerful stuff. Boyle takes it beyond just Jesus’ love and presence, however, explaining that making the soul feel it’s worth is “the job description of human beings seeking kinship.” Our job, in the Christmas season and always, is to make the souls of those around us feel their worth. (Full disclosure, in this passage G also talks about listing to his mom Kathleen Conway Boyle sing the song when he was a child, which may have influenced my fascination.)

A Moment to Consider the Existential Happiness of Elves

Laura: Do all elves have as their telos the making of toys? This is the question raised by Barenaked Ladies’ "Elf's Lament". Is it inherently an elfin vocation to construct gifts for wide-eyed "nice" children, or is the workforce at the North Pole more akin to "indentured servitude," as the song claims? While I'm not the biggest fan of the Rudolph movie, this question was approached via the ostracization of the dentist elf, Hermey.

This is really a silly song, but I enjoy it because it exposes the incoherence of the general secular mythos we have built up around Santa -- an incoherence I'm weighing as we have to make the decision whether to buy into it fully, and how much we could relate it to the real and saintly person of Nicholas of Myra or the consummate self-gift of the Christ child. The song also contains a simple social justice appeal: requesting consciousness of the cost of the gifts you request to those who might manufacture them.

Sweet, Sweet Pangs of Nostalgia

Dan: I’m not a huge Christmas music guy. I don’t love that one radio station that plays it 24/7 starting in November. A pinch of Christmas music as I pass in and out of stores or take a short car ride with someone else controlling the radio is plenty for me. But before I was old enough to have strong opinions about music, and before cars had aux cords and CD players, we had one cassette that lived in our tape deck for the winter: John Denver & The Muppets’ Christmas album (full album here). It’s full of classics that are thoroughly seared into my memory. While “Christmas is Coming” will plant the most delightfully pesky earworm, it’s their rendition of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" that is the flagship song for the album. It features many of the great characters from Muppet lore, most notably the ever-diva Miss Piggy who croons loudly, “Fiiiiiiiiive, gooooooooold, riiiiiiiiiiiings,” which eventually comes with a punchy “buh-dum, bum, bum.” I dare you to listen. Merry Christmas!

Laura: This is certainly my entry from Nostalgiaville. My dad put on the Christmas album from Glad, a Christian a cappella group, every Christmas morning since I can remember (but never before). It was a peaceful bellwether of the Christmas season's arrival after all the anticipation of Advent. The full album is excellent, but my favorite track is this rendition of "Rise Up, Shepherd, and Follow", an African-American spiritual. If anyone truly internalized the hope offered to the lowliest of society through the angels' invitation to seek the infant Jesus, it was the slave, and that reads through in the simple but heartfelt lyrics.

Erin: One of the Christmas songs I remember most fondly from my childhood is "I Want a Hippopotamus For Christmas". My brother and I discovered this song on a CD of weird Christmas songs (think... “All I Want For Christmas is My Two Front Teeth” and “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer”) that we picked up from the library one year and then every year thereafter. And although I had no particular fascination with these “hippo heros,” something about sitting around our house at Christmastime listening to a whiny child’s voice sing about how “only a hippopotamus will do” and how “there’s lots of room for him in our two-car garage” will forever be cemented in my memory.

Spanish Renaissance Hymns Performed by The Monkees

Jenny: Here’s another Renaissance hymn: Ríu Ríu Chíu. My favorite version of this Spanish hymn comes from an unexpected source: the 1960s boy band, the Monkees. Besides being a super chill and beautiful song to listen to, the lyrics are also epic. It talks about God protecting the ewe from the wolf (the Immaculate Conception), and how the infinite God redeems us by making Himself small. Plus, you have to appreciate the really campy 60s video.

Beware: Here Be Scrooges

Tim: Bah, humbug!

Dave: I’ll confess. I don’t really dig Christmas music outside of liturgical settings. But one song beyond all others drives me crazy: "Wonderful Christmastime" by Paul McCartney. I despise this tune so much that I start foaming at the mouth whenever the synthesized beep-boops begin. The good knight’s iconic song is the singular reason why I avoid Christmas radio, and stick to my alternative/indie rock station, which refuses to succumb to the possibility of its cacophonous waves being transmitted all across Portland. I shall also confess that in the realm of popular Christmas music, I love Hanson, the extremely underrated creators of “MmmBop” and “Penny and Me” (they also have a wonderful cover of U2’s “In a Little While”).

So as to not go Scrooging all over the place, my two favorite hymns are “Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming” and “People Look East”. Seriously, check out that latter video; the choir of kiddos from the famed Ely Cathedral in England absolutely slay (“sleigh”) it. I find that the first carol perfectly sums up the archetypal imagery of light shattering darkness, and I can’t help but consider Tupac’s “The Rose the Grew from Concrete” whenever I hear it. “People Look East,” on the other hand, takes various images of Christ, and offers metaphors for the various Loves that the Christ child embodies: Love the Guest, Love the Rose, Love the Bird, Love the Star, Love the Lord. Nothing short of gorgeous.

Tim: … Fine, I guess if I'm not the only scrooge in this group, I don't have any excuse.

I don't really like listening to Christmas music. I do, however, enjoy singing it, and one of my favorite Christmas songs to sing is "Adeste Fideles/ O Come All Ye Faithful". My affection for the song may stem at least in part from my appreciation for Latin, but I think on a deeper level, I like that the song -- the opening verse, at least -- feels like an invitation. It doesn't start with the "Christmas spirit" in full force, but rather builds toward it. The song starts with a feeling of anticipation and restrained excitement as it invites the listener to come and see and wonder at the newborn king of angels, and only in the following verses arrives at the fuller sense of joy that we associate with Christmas.

Another Christmas song that I rather enjoy singing is "Good King Wenceslaus", which I enjoy partly because of a sentimental attachment. Back in my undergraduate days at ND, I was part of a group that walked around St. Mary's Lake every Sunday evening praying the Rosary, and after the trip that followed the first snowfall of the year, we would sing this carol. After 20 minutes of trudging through the cold and snow, following in the footprints of those ahead of us, the lyrics felt quite appropriate.

Merry Christmas from The Restless Hearts crew!

Waiting in Darkness

by Jenny Klejeski

“Advent is the season of the secret, the secret of the growth of Christ, of Divine Love growing in silence.” - Caryll Houselander, The Reed of God

There are few sights that fill my heart with hope more than a lit sanctuary lamp.

In college, I would often wear myself ragged with studying into the wee hours of the night. I would trudge from the library back to my dorm in the dark, across long, open quads, weighed down by my backpack and mild existential despair. Sometimes I would come back so late that the first birds of the morning would be merrily whistling away, even though it would still be dark out for several more hours. Upon hearing them, I didn’t know whether to laugh or to curse.

Regardless of how tired I was, I would always make a brief visit to the chapel of my dorm—the Chapel of the Annunciation—which was conveniently located right off the entryway. Shuffling in and genuflecting, the stillness and silence of the space cut through the noise of my bulky winter coat, clumsy boots, and overfilled backpack. In those dark nights, the only light visible was the lit sanctuary lamp, casting bold, red warmth against the darkness.



These visits to the chapel were rarely a consolation to me on a natural level. I still felt weary and stressed out and overwrought. But there was a deeper consolation in those moments. I was receiving something supernatural. I found hope in His constancy. He was—even at that late hour—still waiting up for me to come see Him.

During Advent, as the days become shorter and often busier, I think of these moments in my dorm chapel, these brief moments of vigilance, of waiting to receive something, of hoping for a coming—for an encounter—in the midst of my anxieties.

The Presence of Christ concealed in the tabernacle, and signaled by the sanctuary lamp, is a poignant image of Advent to me. It is like the Christ in utero, hidden in the body of his mother, small, silent, unknown, yet powerful. It is the image of the Messiah Who does not swoop in to solve all my worldly problems, but rather makes Himself known in silence and hiddenness and constancy. And Who wishes to find a home within myself as He did in Mary.

He shows us the power of weakness and vulnerability and smallness. He reveals the richness in poverty, the beauty in simpleness, the fullness in self-emptying. The God of all the Universe comes in the form of a tiny wafer, hidden in a box. And before that, as a tiny child, hidden in the womb of His mother.

Caryll Houselander beautifully writes, “The psalmists had hymned Christ’s coming on harps of gold. The prophets had foretold it with burning tongues. But now the loudest telling of His presence on earth was to be the heartbeat within the heartbeat of a child.” What was asked of Mary was her humanity, which gave Christ His humanity. Bones, blood, cartilage, skin, all organizing themselves (literally) within her, a vital, mysterious, silent, life-giving force.

Christ comes to us in the Eucharist, small, silent, vulnerable, and asks the same of us as He asked of Mary—he asks for our humanity. He requires our fiat in order to give Him shape and form in the world. “We are all asked if we will surrender what we are, our humanity, our flesh and blood, to the Holy Spirit and allow Christ to fill the emptiness formed by the particular shape of our life” (Houselander). He desires to come into the secret of our hearts to teach us wisdom, a wisdom that is foolishness in the eyes of a world that always has more for us to do or worry about. It is the wisdom of smallness, of silence. It is the wisdom of a power not our own.

“In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” - Luke 1:78

Make Straight the Path

by Dan Masterton

A voice cries out:
In the desert prepare the way of the LORD!
Make straight in the wasteland a highway for our God!

-from the First Reading for the Second Sunday of Advent from the book of the prophet Isaiah and echoed in the Gospel reading from Mark

*  *  *

This past October, I traveled to southern Arizona for three days. It was a rare “business trip” for this pastoral minister.

This upcoming April, I will be leading an educational immersion for eleven of my high school students to learn about immigration and migration, based out of ambos Nogales (Spanish for both, referring to the towns of the same name on each side of the Mexico-America border) and Tucson, Arizona. Though I’ve learned about and studied these issues for a while, I had never been to the border. Over the course of this school year, I have been connecting with various people and organizations, and to help lay the groundwork for our immersion, my bosses funded a modest exploratory trip.

After a whole mess of emails, meticulous visits to Kayak.com, and a flight and a drive, I made it to the borderlands. While there, I met with people connected in various ways to humanitarian groups that seek to advocate for people in transit and accompany them in the various stages of their journeys. As my conversations unfolded and the pieces of our immersion week settled into place nicely, I was still left with a missing piece that I wanted badly for my students and me: a desert walk.

Frequently, immersion groups will take a supervised trip into the Sonoran desert with one of these humanitarian groups, trips which often include supply drops as well. People in transit often cross long stretches of this desert on their way toward a family member, pickup meeting point, or some other destination. The goal of a desert walk is to see firsthand the nature of the journey these people make through the desert. However, as I contacted different people, nothing was working out. Schedule conflicts, lack of availability, and messages without replies left me with no opportunity to see the desert and arrange that experience for my students.

As I was talking to one of my new friends, she shared that she often takes guests into the desert nearby. I was a bit surprised. We were talking at her house, where she hosts groups to give talks based on artifacts she and her colleagues find in the desert; as an ignorant midwesterner, I was amazed at how close the legit desert was to her home -- literally just down the street, butting up against the edge of her subdivision.

Here's the view from the edge of the desert, looking back down her street of homes.

So, we walked two blocks, and just like that, paved street gave way to sandy, rocky terrain. Surrounded by low, dry, brown trees, specks of resilient green shrubbery, and a sudden and stark lack of civilization, we were walking in the desert. As I followed my friend, we began to discover leave-behinds from people in transit. On the edge of this desert, still well within sight of a fully developed residential area, these people had passed by, and likely were regularly passing, on their way north.

Here's the jacket, just as we found it.

At first, we found just a dusty, empty water bottle. As we wandered further, we came across a gnarly, twisted tree that looked like it could serve as a bit of a basic shelter or shade. There, hanging from its jagged branches, we found a fleece jacket. Carried and worn to stay warm in the cooler temperatures at night, they’re often discarded when migrants reach meeting points and must cram beyond capacity into crowded vehicles where there is no room for their belongings, their supplies, or their layered clothes. Then a few feet away, in the shadow of that same tree, we came across a slipcover for a shoe. That’s a common way for a person to obscure their footprints in the desert sand while making their way to their hoped-for destination while seeking to evade capture -- perhaps this person had reached the end of their desert wandering? These realities were all sitting in plain sight, within shouting distance of everyday people in their sleepy Arizona neighborhood. The proximity of such extreme realities to everyday living floored me, and thanks to my friend, my students will walk into this desert, too.

*  *  *

This shoe slip-cover was just a few feet away
from the tree and jacket.

At Sunday Mass for the Second Sunday of Advent, our priest preached about his hometown, where he was raised by the outdoors, growing up with the mountains watching over him. He felt nostalgic whenever he drove home from college, traversing the cusp of a ridge to see the valley of his home and the next range of mountains welcoming him back. He admitted that the call of Isaiah, and then John, agitated him -- he loves the mountains, ridges, and valleys and can’t imagine taking this beautiful, dramatic terrain and smoothing it out to clear a straight path. The call of our Advent spirituality may not require such a literal bulldozing of topography, but our work as Kingdom-builders (or Kindom-builders) does call us to prepare a direct path for God’s love to break into our world.

At Mass on Sunday, I couldn’t help but think of this patch of desert that I got to explore. Up to a certain point, society had worked together to pave streets, lay foundations, and build homes, and now in that place, a community lives together. Yet, just beyond the edge of this collaborative effort, the harshness of the desert endures. Customs and Border Patrol (an imperfect but overly demonized agency with some good people that does some good humanitarian work in addition to its policing) executes a strategy focused on deterrence, fortifying high-traffic and urban border areas while leaving the more brutal, remote stretches of land less policed; desperate migrants will often move to the area of least resistance, and, here, in the dry, hot, barren desert, the elements will do much of CBP’s work for them.

As people seek to move north, they are traversing lands where there is no way made for them. There are no paved roads; there are no water fountains or showers or bathrooms; there is nothing forgiving in the land. There literally is no way for them. What little trails exist are the futile efforts of transitory people attempting to pound a superficial trail into land that stubbornly resists. They must simultaneously juggle survival, the logistics of reaching a meetup or safe place, and the need to proceed undetected and unseen. For instance, a migrating man was captured with a cactus spike in his eye because in the dark, cold desert night he could not use a flashlight to evade the patrol and impaled himself on the plant.

This is the bit of trail that is superficially trod in this patch of desert,
just a short distance from a quiet, smalltown neighborhood.

This is where many people of goodwill seek to accompany and advocate. The readings from the Second Sunday of Advent tell us that God’s way must be and will be made “in the wasteland,” and this symbolic prophecy finds a concrete reflection in the dirt of the Sonoran desert. Here, the way of the Lord hopefully will come not only by an increasing number of migrants pounding out a trail out of necessity by their footsteps in the desert; the way of the Lord must come through those who observe courtroom proceedings and assist with legal advocacy, through samaritans who arrange supply stations on migrant trails, through workers who triage the needs of the recently deported and prospective migrants, through communities who offer sanctuary and support to people in transit.

As American society continues to evaluate its treatment of migrants, immigrants, refugees, and asylum seekers, the human dignity of those in transit must be upheld. These are people who have neither a literal, physical, topographical way nor a social, cultural, personal way cleared for them. The way of Lord is cleared and secured when we do the will of God in our world. By upholding human dignity and enfleshing our human solidarity, we glimpse the city of God while we work together here on earth. Certainly, the massive movement of people facing political uncertainties, social unrest, drug wars and gang violence, and the desire for social and economic security requires broader reform and more thorough resolution (I support amnesty and a subsequently established reformed, clearer, strict system). In the meantime, the way of the Lord is blazed by opting for those marginalized by these realities -- by encountering these people who have been marginalized, taking stock of their needs and challenges, and walking alongside them as brothers and sisters.

Deleting a Letter from the Kingdom

by Dave Gregory

When I started graduate school at a Methodist seminary, I had to take a number of required courses: ethics, systematics, inter-religious dialogue and leadership, et cetera. As a biblical studies dude (I realized about halfway through the program that I would become a Master of B.S., quite literally), I spent about two-thirds of my coursework in language classes and biblical seminars, but the material I found truly enlightening was within the aforementioned courses that aimed for breadth, rather than depth. Needless to say, studying systematics at a Methodist seminary that almost got kicked out of the Methodist church for training rabbis and imams... well... you know. Neither Aquinas nor Augustine made the systematic theology syllabus; rather, we read Jurgen Moltmann and Delores Williams, and delved into the wildness that is John Caputo.¹

However, in my ethics class -- the one that featured Hauerwas and Winkle and Yoder and consequently turned me into a pacifist -- I learned a new term ² that has radically altered the way in which I hear and engage the Bible and liturgical things and preaching and kind of everything that utilizes certain thematic elements of the Christian imagination.

This term isn’t really a new word. It’s just a remodeling of an existing word: all you gotta do is delete the “g” from “Kingdom”.

The Inadequacy of the Kingdom

For hundreds of years, the “Kingdom” provided a more realistic metaphor to Christians than it does to the 21st century mind. As a feudalistic serf or lord or something in between (you know, someone with a fine sense of absolute authority), I might have been able to understand the concept of God as King; even if a Cersei equivalent ruled over me with a tyrannical fist, I would be able to understand the yearning for a virtuous replacement. And when that righteous usurper did come, I could internalize the concept of their foreshadowing the true King, who would accept me into the Kingdom. The Hebrews would have understood this, I suppose, even though they were never intended to have a human king, as made clear in 1 Samuel 8:10-18:

So Samuel reported all the words of the Lord to the people who were asking him for a king. He said, “These will be the ways of the king who will reign over you: he will take your sons and appoint them to his chariots and to be his horsemen, and to run before his chariots; and he will appoint for himself commanders of thousands and commanders of fifties, and some to plow his ground and to reap his harvest, and to make his implements of war and the equipment of his chariots. He will take your daughters to be perfumers and cooks and bakers. He will take the best of your fields and vineyards and olive orchards and give them to his courtiers. He will take one-tenth of your grain and of your vineyards and give it to his officers and his courtiers. He will take your male and female slaves, and the best of your cattle and donkeys, and put them to his work. He will take one-tenth of your flocks, and you shall be his slaves. And in that day you will cry out because of your king, whom you have chosen for yourselves; but the Lord will not answer you in that day.”

The Hebrew people got jealous of surrounding empires, wanted a king, threw a hissy fit, and got what they wanted, despite the fact that YHWH (their actual king) warned them of unavoidable exploitation. Every human leader will enslave their people in some way or another, will oppress rather than liberate, will force injustice for self-gain. If you and I are rather incapable of becoming moral paragons, how much more susceptible are political leaders to evil inclinations? Take a quick glance at Saul, David, and Solomon, the first three kings: Saul loses his mind through violence and commits suicide; David is a rapist and murderer; and Solomon -- for all his reported wisdom -- quickly descends into idolatry given his unbelievable sexual promiscuity (literally, according to accounts, hundreds of wives and concubines were involved in his infidelity).

Beyond the fact that the biblical kings all possess deep flaws, and just get worse and worse (except for a couple, like Josiah) as the sequence of rulers progresses, those of us sitting here in the 21st century don’t have a whole lot to go on. I mean, I’ve never even had a king to compare God to, so how can my imagination possibly begin to appreciate and acknowledge all the weight that the symbolism of kingship carries?

My point is this: the notion of God’s “Kingdom” doesn’t really cut it anymore for many of us. Emptied of potential meaning, its repeated colloquial usage subtly fosters unhelpful, and even destructive, notions surrounding any number of theological stuffs.

Down with Praise and Worship Music: A Brief Though Relevant Rant

To paraphrase Fr. Greg Boyle, S.J.: God doesn’t give a shit about our praise. I mean, think about it: what sort of a good king demands constant praise? Does Jon Snow³ make the Wildlings or Winterfellians constantly tell him how stupidly handsome he is? Did King Arthur force his knights to sing about how awesome he is? All that is more of a Joffrey Lannister⁴ move. And yet…

After attending any number of church services (both of Protestant and Catholic leanings) that involve contemporary ensembles, I’ve come to grasp that such musical inclinations arise from a desire to sing at the King: to tell him how wonderful he is, how beautiful his love is, how great his sacrifice is. My fiancée glances over at me whenever one of these songs that “magnify” God commences; I think she’s convinced that I’ll be driven to involuntarily vomit one day. I do not mean to bash those who connect with God through praise and worship. In my mind, anything that fosters greater love for God is awesome. However, love of God isolated from love of neighbor means nothing, and my theological beef with much⁵ contemporary music is this: it ignores community in favor of the Kingdom.

Let’s face the facts here. While praise and worship can be quite moving, so long as it echoes the sentiments of the seraphim in Isaiah 6 (“Holy, Holy, Holy, is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory!”) -- whose entire existences revolve around filling the heavens with song -- humans are not angels. We were not created with and for that purpose. Jesus is not Joffrey, after all. I have trouble reading the Gospels and thinking to myself, “Man, I should go sing to Jesus about how great he is, because that’s what he wants from my life.” I just can’t escape the feeling that the Incarnation did not happen in order that God could be sung at.

In reality, according to the first bits of Acts, the response of the Christian community to the Spirit is not singing praise and worship, but intentional community (Acts 2:43-47):

Awe came upon everyone, because many wonders and signs were being done by the apostles. All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And day by day the Lord added to their number those who were being saved.

And just to be clear, first century Temple worship did *not* look anything like contemporary praise and worship music. These disciples’ Temple sacrifices fed their community life, and vice versa. Praise and worship music, in icky contrast, tends toward individualistic consumerism, honing in on the guarantee of personal salvation because I praise and worship so damned well. Salvation becomes a financial contract, with a currency consisting of moral worthiness (at its best) or intellectual assent (at its worst). And praise and worship music does so precisely because the destination is the “Kingdom,” whose entry into which I want so badly.

Take the final two stanzas of “In Christ Alone” as one example among limitless others. Despite its gorgeous melody, these lyrics are abominable. Granted, there is a little bit of Christus Victor ⁶ in here, but nonetheless it emphasizes an understanding of salvation as transactional (“bought with the precious blood”), and removes all personal agency and freedom from the picture (“Jesus commands my destiny”). Note how it’s all about me, me, me, me, and more me.

There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ. 

No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow’r of Christ in me;
From life’s first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow’r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow’r of Christ I’ll stand.

Blech.

The Kin-dom⁷ of God

Re-imagining the Kingdom as the Kin-dom does a number of things, I’ve come to see.

First, it forces our imaginations to engage a new perspective on what we’re all about, as followers of the Nazarene. The standard understanding of salvation -- as N.T. Wright points out in his excellent The Day the Revolution Began -- has been so thoroughly platonized over the centuries that we’ve lost sight of the biblical understanding. Salvation is not so much about us going from “here” to “there”⁸ as it is about “here” and “there” colliding: hence Revelation (chapter 21) and the second letter of Peter (chapter 3) speak of “a new heaven and a new earth”. The Bible’s various perspectives on eschatology do not so much advocate this world’s obliteration, but its transformation. Jesus does the same in his prayer, petitioning for the kin-dom to come, that it might be realized “on earth as it is in heaven.”

Second, the Kin-dom invites us to long for salvation not as a strictly individualistic matter, but a thing in and through which we become bound to one another in a radical solidarity. Neither bought nor earned, salvation is a thing that becomes and grows in the here and now. The Gospels make this glaringly apparent, at least when we sit down and read any one of them straight through: with each healing and exorcism, the Kin-dom pierces through the earthly plane a little bit more.

Third, and most importantly, the Kin-dom advocates a position of fierce subversion: we can sit by and wait to enter the Kingdom, but the Kin-dom requires our cooperation, for the Kin-dom -- though it be the not yet -- still properly belongs to the immanent. Should we begin to see that salvation is less about a transaction and more about a salve-ing, less about personal purity than about communal authenticity, maybe we’d kick things into a higher gear: the groans of birthing would grow stronger.

The Kingdom has clear boundaries. Some lay without, others within, whereas the Kin-dom has no boundaries. All these walls we construct, these walls that barricade the other from my presence, echo the structure of a kingdom. The simple radicality of the Kin-dom, though, reacts against both our natural inclinations and the exclusivist logic of the world. It demolishes those fabricated barriers we so willingly erect, for by its very definition, it cannot be anything other than unconditionally inclusive.

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1 Respectively: a super cool liberation-y Reformed theologian, a Black Womanist biblical scholar, and a post-Christian theologian/philosopher. The Crucified God, Sisters in the Wilderness, and The Weakness of God all shifted my theological perspective tremendously, especially when I figured out I could put them into dialogue with one another. ^↩

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2 This occurred in the most unassuming of ways. Each week, we were required to post a written response on a forum before our in-person meetings, and respond to the posts of two others. One student kept referring to the “Kin-dom” in her writings, and it slowly began to sink into my own vocabulary. My stubborn Catholic instinct initially dismissed it as silliness, but now it’s the only way I think about the “Kingdom”. ^↩

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3 For the uninitiated, Jon is the dreamy hero of Game of Thrones; humble and courageous, Jon possesses strikingly tamed curly locks.^↩

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4 Once again, for the uninitiated, Joffrey is the main a-hole in the Game of Thrones universe; he is a teenaged sadist who thinks far too highly of his golden locks and does all manner of unspeakable acts.^↩

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5 Maybe most. Or all. I dunno.^↩

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6 A more accurate understanding of the Paschal mystery, methinks, as advanced by the earliest theologians: the resurrection does not so much signify unlocking the gates of paradise in some weird equation, but marks the radical transformation of reality, for death no longer has the final word on our existence, as Christ has proven victorious over death.^↩

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7 In writing this post, I realized I had no idea as to this word’s origins, but some Googling yielded liberation theologian Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz. Yay her!^↩

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8 Salvation becomes platonized insofar as it takes Plato’s two worlds -- the realm of shadows and the realm of Forms -- and turns them into earth and Heaven. ^↩

Good Enough, I’m Ready: Me and the Other Francis

by Erin M. Conway

This statue of Saint Francis Xavier
welcomes visitors at Xavier College Prep
in Palm Desert, CA

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I’m unapologetically fascinated by the Jesuits. Pope Francis, Greg Boyle, John Foley, ¹ Pedro Arrupe, Ignatius Loyola… I could go on and on about each of them, and I will if you let me. It will come as no surprise, then, that in honor of his Feast Day just a few days ago (December 3), I found myself reflecting on another of my favorite Jesuits, the other Francis: Saint Francis Xavier.

Growing up, I’d always been vaguely aware of Francis Xavier’s existence as an influential Jesuit (there are, after all, both a high school and college in my home state of Ohio that bear his name), but the first time I encountered him as more than the patron of a rival sports team² was in Chris Lowney’s book Heroic Leadership. Lowney tells the following story:

In the early years of the Jesuit order (when the company numbered only 10 men), the King of Portugal approached Ignatius and asked for Jesuits to travel to India as missionaries. "It was an opportunity no ambitious fledgling company could pass up. Twenty percent of the company (two Jesuits) was designated for India. One fell ill on the verge of departing. Informed that he was needed to replace his sick colleague, Xavier instantly replied, ‘Good enough. I'm ready’ or ‘Splendid. I'm your man’ as later Jesuit generations often rendered it. Within forty-eight hours he had patched up his extra pair of pants, visited the pope for a blessing, packed up his life and departed."

Because of this rapid change of plans, “no one briefed him about Asia before his departure” and he entered this great adventure without true knowledge of what was ahead. Nevertheless, the 10 year odyssey that followed cemented Xavier as the first and most widely known Jesuit missionary in history.³

I read this story a year into my teaching life at Xavier College Prep (XCP) and I remember being overwhelmed by the similarities between Francis Xavier’s journey to India and my own journey to Palm Desert, California, and the school that bore his name.

After three consoling years as a volunteer teacher in Baltimore City and a frazzled summer of trying to find somebody (anybody!) to hire me, XCP offered me a job in late July of 2012. I said yes, agreeing to take a chance on a school and a position that I realistically knew nothing about (I had applied to teach Theology and was hired to *probably* help the new Athletic Director). ⁴ Within two weeks of my own version of “Good enough, I’m ready,” I had driven back to Baltimore to clear out my storage unit, packed up my most essential possessions into my two-door Honda Civic, rented an apartment in a city I’d never visited and hadn’t even heard of less than a month before, said goodbye to my family, and journeyed 2,500 miles across the country.

Not quite 48 hours, but like Francis Xavier, I was called.

Standing in solidarity with my students at a Mass on the US-Mexico border in Nogales, AZ.

Beyond the initial resonance I experienced, however, the longer I sit with Francis Xavier’s story, the deeper my appreciation becomes for his experience and our similarities.

As an early Jesuit and as a missionary, Xavier watched his life be transformed each time he responded to God’s call to go somewhere new and build community. I too have felt my life transformed by each school I’ve worked in: Saint Ignatius Loyola Academy, Xavier College Prep, and Saint Martin de Porres. My work has taught me more about myself, love, solidarity, accompaniment, and friendship than I ever thought possible.

When called upon by God, Xavier left his best friend (Ignatius) and travelled around the globe to do the work God was calling him to. He left well aware that he would likely never return to his work in Rome or to Ignatius. It feels more than coincidental that I began my career at a school named for the founder of the Jesuits, and then, like Xavier, I was called to leave Ignatius and the students I loved with the knowledge that I would likely never return to the work I was first called to do.

And finally, before Xavier left for Asia he was never “briefed” on what was ahead of him, he simply agreed to the mission, trusting that what he knew was “good enough.” As I reflect on my own life as a missionary of sorts, I realize that I too was never truly “briefed” before any of my transitions. Although I knew I’d be teaching seventh grade English when I moved to Baltimore and had walked the hallways of my school, I truly had no idea what “being a teacher” really meant. Similarly, when I moved to Palm Desert, I’d never seen the school, the town, or any of the individuals I’d be working with for what would be the next three years. And most recently, when I returned home to Cleveland, I once again found myself accepting a job I hadn’t initially applied for at I school I’d never seen.

Some of my favorite companions on the journey --
friends and coworkers at XCP.

So where did my yeses come from? Because in each and every case, my yes to the call was emphatic. I may have not been “briefed,” but I also didn’t feel unprepared. I understood in my heart that whatever I knew and felt at that moment was “good enough.” I was ready. That is a yes that can only come from God. A yes that can only come from a heart captured by the Ignatian mission.

And so while I find solace in these connections, I think Francis Xavier’s story resonates so deeply with me because it also offers a continual challenge. Xavier died within sight of the shore of China, his ultimate dream mission. Can I continue to say yes even when my dream lies just out of reach? Is my yes as immediate if I know I will never actually reach my goal?

And when Xavier left his companion Ignatius in Rome in 1542, he did so with the knowledge that he would never see his best friend again. EVER. Could I ever truly leave the people I loved behind to do God’s work? Our world is smaller than Xavier’s was, and between discount airlines, social media, and FaceTime, no one is truly far away. But what if they were? Would I say yes with the same joy? Do I really trust God enough?

The yes to these questions are not as immediate but their challenge is the same. A life in Christ is not mine, it’s God’s.

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1 Father John Foley, SJ is the founder of the first Cristo Rey High School in Chicago, IL and the eventual founder of the Cristo Rey Network.^↩

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2 Cleveland Saint Ignatius and Cincinnati Saint Xavier, as the largest all boys high schools in the state of Ohio, are intense athletic rivals. My younger brother played both football and baseball at Ignatius, and as a result, I always thought of Xavier as just that team we wanted to beat.^↩

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3 Lowney, Chris. Heroic Leadership: Best Practices from a 450-Year-Old Company That Changed the World. Loyola Press, 2005. p. 130; 133.^↩

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4 Fun fact, I actually applied for the job that had just been given to either Dan or Dave but hadn’t been pulled from the JSEA job boards. (Editor's Note from Dan: Pooling our anecdotal memory, we think I had gotten my job separate from that posting, and then that fellow Restless Heart, Dave, had been hired for the posted job just as Erin and her excellent application came onto the scene. XCP smartly snapped her up, found some transitional duties for her, and then utilized her in excellent, fuller ways moving forward.)^↩

Craving Love

by Laura Flanagan

Among my parish administrative responsibilities is coordinating Confirmation for our eighth grade parishioners.¹ In the materials I distribute prior to the sacrament, I obliquely discourage the Confirmandi from choosing teen siblings as sponsors. This is not because I believe the teens to be inferior sponsors to many parish adults available -- some of our high school teens have a luminous faith life. Rather, it is because I want these younger siblings to make a courageous choice: to step outside their comfort zone, identify an adult whose mature faith they really admire, and take full advantage of the opportunity that the conversation-starters of the Confirmation program provide. I state to the parents that the Confirmandi can talk to their siblings anytime, and that they should encourage their child to use this opportunity to create a dialogue with someone they might not otherwise have as mentor and friend in faith.

The parent meeting runs simultaneously with the first half hour or so of our parish faith formation classes for K-8, and so our catechists tend to introduce the Confirmation process to the students at the same time as I discuss it with their parents. The adults nodded their heads in understanding, and no issues were raised, although perhaps a full half may never bring up my challenge to a child who proposes their teen sibling as a sponsor. However, after the concurrent class ended, one of our catechists approached me and asked about a student who had expressed a reluctance to follow the proposed avoidance of older siblings as sponsor choices. She wanted to choose her brother, a high school junior, because in her words: “This will force him to talk to me!”

At that moment, my eyes were opened, and I recognized the pure foolishness of my assumption that these students can talk to their siblings “anytime,” and that they must choose them as sponsors because they already have a close relationship. I know better -- or should have.

There are two distinct memories I have involving the brother who is less than two years my junior. The first involved piling onto a coach bus with our dad and about 30 senior parishioners at the ripe ages of eleven and nine to go on a parish pilgrimage to St. Meinrad Archabbey in southern Indiana (pictured here).² Rising early in the morning on one of the days on those Benedictines’ grounds, my brother and I decided to go for a walk. I don’t think we talked deeply about our lives and our faith; I’m not sure we talked much at all. We just walked out together and took in the beauty of the fog-covered hills and lake in the early morning, seeing the beauty of God in creation. The closeness didn’t need to be spoken.

The second memory: we had both returned to lead the same senior retreat at our former high school over a common break in our university calendars. He gave a witness talk. On the way home, we argued, largely talking past one another. Finally, I pulled over the car to ask, "Why did I not know any of the things you described in your retreat talk?" He replied, "Because you are not the person I want to tell these things to. I don't trust you not to judge me."

That statement certainly signaled a conviction. What had I done to make him think I would judge him for his faith experience? But I believed there was also a misunderstanding. I certainly didn’t want to know about his life just so I could judge the “worthiness” of my brother. Both this eighth grade parishioner and I were just sisters wanting to love and be loved better, to know the details of our siblings’ lives for their own sake.

We give these same eighth graders the opportunity for rudimentary liturgy planning of the school year’s opening Mass. I provide three to four options per reading, and inevitably, they settle on the same three readings each time… and there is a distinct theme to them. They elect classic passages about the love of God.

Always selected from the Old Testament: Because you are precious in my eyes and honored, and I love you, I give people in return for you and nations in exchange for your life. (Isaiah 43:4)

Unfailingly chosen for the second reading: Love is patient, love is kind… that passage which people have begun to associate with weddings. (1 Corinthians 13)

Perpetually appointed as our Gospel: This is my commandment: love one another as I love you. No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. (John 15:12)

They may pick passages which to me seem almost overworn, but the students see with fresher eyes for Scripture. They perceive why these passages are well-used, recognizing the profundity we may be tempted to gloss after repeated hearing. We don't always need to be hipster and go straight to the deep cuts of the Bible. These youths -- hormonal just-teens hovering between childhood and autonomy -- simply crave love. Really, of whom is that not true?

Even now, my other brother is famous for answers which contain as little information as possible, and volunteers almost no information about his life. It has been said that “He could lead a super interesting life, and no one would ever know.” However, he knows how to offer love. A few years ago, I came up with a theory about his behavior, and this past October, I brought it up to him. He essentially laughed to confirm it. Every year on my birthday, he calls me and is an unprompted fount of information about his life… because he knows that is what I will enjoy.

I like to think that I have become less insecure about my relationships as I grow, but he who has never over-thought an interaction with someone for whom he cares deeply, let him cast the first stone. My students are in most ways still children who need explicit expressions of the love of God, both directly from God himself, and from the ones who are supposed to love them most. I hope as we mature in faith, we may learn to recognize the love when less plainly expressed, but we will never cease to desire it in increasing measure. As St. Augustine unequivocally states in his Confessions (and referenced by a familiar blog title), our hearts will be restless until they rest in God.

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1 I want to delve into the downfalls of having to “administrate” sacraments, but that’s a discussion best saved for its own post.^↩

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2 If you are a fan of contemplation or at least the opportunity for it, you should definitely go to St. Meinrad.^↩