'Tis the off-season for battle, or so it seems. Perhaps I am merely weakened too much to fight, and don't know it. Maybe I'm just being a REMF.
Remember, if you go toe to toe with the evil one, he will beat you every time. You think you're strong; you think you're cunning; you think you're wise; he is stronger, more cunning, and his deceit will match your wisdom and more.
When it all comes crashing down, what will you do?
Eloquence is not my thing tonight, but a warning is. Take care, because when you play heads up with him, he'll switch the cards on you. You can't beat him on your own. All you can do is offer yourself to Our Blessed Lord; cast yourself upon His strength and His grace, and there you will find refuge.
*****
Video bonus:
Showing posts with label spiritual warfare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spiritual warfare. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A Helpless Dancer
"When you dance with the devil, the devil don't change. The devil changes you." - 8 MM
I hear all this talk about finding common ground. When you stare evil in the face, don't you dare dance with it. No, you stare evil in the face and you stare hard, and you don't give up your ground. Don't ever think you can make a deal. Call evil evil, and fight it to its face. To paraphrase Hunter Thompson, You can turn your back on a person, but don't you ever turn your back on a devil.
Of course, the Notre Dame speech is just one example. It is the one in the front of my mind. It is the one that inspired this post, even though I've taken so long to get around to writing it (besides, 40 Days for Life is a fitting time to reintroduce it). Remember, when the devil offeres his hand and whispers sweetly in your ear, "Just one dance," you stop dancing. The title of the post? That's what you'll be if you take his hand. Say goodbye, as you dance with the devil tonight, don't you dare look at him in the eye...
Ab hoste maligno defende me.
I hear all this talk about finding common ground. When you stare evil in the face, don't you dare dance with it. No, you stare evil in the face and you stare hard, and you don't give up your ground. Don't ever think you can make a deal. Call evil evil, and fight it to its face. To paraphrase Hunter Thompson, You can turn your back on a person, but don't you ever turn your back on a devil.
Of course, the Notre Dame speech is just one example. It is the one in the front of my mind. It is the one that inspired this post, even though I've taken so long to get around to writing it (besides, 40 Days for Life is a fitting time to reintroduce it). Remember, when the devil offeres his hand and whispers sweetly in your ear, "Just one dance," you stop dancing. The title of the post? That's what you'll be if you take his hand. Say goodbye, as you dance with the devil tonight, don't you dare look at him in the eye...
Ab hoste maligno defende me.
Monday, October 5, 2009
More on War
The lust for battle can get you into trouble. It is easy to laugh at Major Powers when he says, "This is it. We're going to war."
Fr. Roberts once told us the story of the time he decided to work on humility, even though he "didn't really need to". He prayed for humiliations, and got enough of them that he hasn't prayed for them since. They don't stop coming (and sometimes I wonder if I'm catching the overflow, but that's another story...).
I'm not a warrior. The Saints were warriors. I fight because I don't know what else to do. Perhaps that is what it is about. Spiritual warfare is like the Sheewash Drive... "Takes it out of you."
We went down to 86th and Georgetown tonight. I was in the thick of things, and yet apart. The sun was setting behind the Planned Parenthood, and we stood watching it go down. A peaceful fall sunset, the air cool and the breeze gentle, the place was not open. People honked as they passed, some approving, some mocking, a few yelled from their cars. "You're not making a difference," and, "You're insane." Maybe we are insane. In the quiet there was no battle cry, but we stood and struggled, because we had no choice. We fought for breath. We fought in silence. And yet the violence that raged drained the inside of me. Persevere in prayer. Finish the race.
Take care. If you ask for discernment to know evil, if you ask for strength to fight, God just might give it to you. He will give you the grace you need, but sometimes... sometimes it hurts... sometimes it takes everything out of you, and leaves you with nothing to do but whisper, "Help." And then, in your weakness and emptiness, He does...
Fr. Roberts once told us the story of the time he decided to work on humility, even though he "didn't really need to". He prayed for humiliations, and got enough of them that he hasn't prayed for them since. They don't stop coming (and sometimes I wonder if I'm catching the overflow, but that's another story...).
I'm not a warrior. The Saints were warriors. I fight because I don't know what else to do. Perhaps that is what it is about. Spiritual warfare is like the Sheewash Drive... "Takes it out of you."
We went down to 86th and Georgetown tonight. I was in the thick of things, and yet apart. The sun was setting behind the Planned Parenthood, and we stood watching it go down. A peaceful fall sunset, the air cool and the breeze gentle, the place was not open. People honked as they passed, some approving, some mocking, a few yelled from their cars. "You're not making a difference," and, "You're insane." Maybe we are insane. In the quiet there was no battle cry, but we stood and struggled, because we had no choice. We fought for breath. We fought in silence. And yet the violence that raged drained the inside of me. Persevere in prayer. Finish the race.
Take care. If you ask for discernment to know evil, if you ask for strength to fight, God just might give it to you. He will give you the grace you need, but sometimes... sometimes it hurts... sometimes it takes everything out of you, and leaves you with nothing to do but whisper, "Help." And then, in your weakness and emptiness, He does...
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Papercuts
You said, you said that you would die for me
You must live for me too
I never thought bridge day would result in reflections on love, but here they are.
A man we met on the porch behind the restaurant was telling us that he would sky-dive in a heartbeat, but that base jumping was too much for him. It seemed a silly notion, but he explained that when you're in the airplane, thousands of feet above the ground, your mind cannot process the height, you cannot comprehend the distance you will fall, and so you simply jump. In base jumping it is different. You see the ground a few hundred feet below you, and you know very well that jumping from that height is not at all a natural act. Your mind is able to comprehend the distance, and the impending pain. So... do you jump?
Fuer dich, wuerde ich mich gerne vor einem Zug hinlegen.
I'm not sure if a German would ever say that. It is a saying I developed myself. Translated, it says: For you, I would gladly lay myself down before a train.
Funny notion, isn't it? Perhaps it is not as poetic as I like to think. Perhaps it is merely a morbidly explicit way of saying that I would die for you. That is love, is it not? To die? I never doubt the veracity of a man's claim that he would lay down his life for the woman he loves. To die for my faith, for my God, for my wife (hypothetical, you understand), for my son and my daughter, for my friend - this is a high and precious calling. I hope I will be able to, and I hope the same for you. To be able to make such a sacrifice is an extraordinary grace.
I wonder, though, how much we comprehend what we say, when we say we would die for another. Death is remote and shadowy, its sting is shrouded in mist, and it happens only once. You would leap from the plane; would you jump off of the bridge? You would die; would you take a papercut, or let your toes be crushed with a hammer? This is pain we know. This is pain we can comprehend. This is dying daily, to take a papercut every day of the week, every week of the year, to sting for another and smile. Remember, Christ died for us, but first He suffered for us.
So would you do it? Would you take a papercut for another? How big is your love, and how small? And if someone sliced your finger without meaning to, what would you do? Tit for tat, slice them back. Or bite your tongue until it bleeds. Why should you sin in your anger? Yes, perhaps it is good to say, "You cut me; it stings." Then again, perhaps it is good to pray, "Lord, this stings; have mercy on me, a sinner."
Too many today would die for another, not enough would live for another. The ugly spectre of selfishness and jealousy no longer lurks in the mist, but parades down the street and calls itself virtue. And we, we suffer for believing it. Papercuts? You deserve better. See, over here, no more pain, no sliced fingers, no smashed toes. But you'd die for her, you say, but only if in some grand display of pride, not in the daily battle of life. And the spectre's spawn curls round your feet, and whispers that the holy bond is unholy, that the tie that binds is already severed. And you believe and you follow.
Or, you could take the papercuts and pray. The beauty of life is found in the little pain, and the little love, and these become great grace.
Anima Christi, sanctifica me.
You must live for me too
I never thought bridge day would result in reflections on love, but here they are.
A man we met on the porch behind the restaurant was telling us that he would sky-dive in a heartbeat, but that base jumping was too much for him. It seemed a silly notion, but he explained that when you're in the airplane, thousands of feet above the ground, your mind cannot process the height, you cannot comprehend the distance you will fall, and so you simply jump. In base jumping it is different. You see the ground a few hundred feet below you, and you know very well that jumping from that height is not at all a natural act. Your mind is able to comprehend the distance, and the impending pain. So... do you jump?
Fuer dich, wuerde ich mich gerne vor einem Zug hinlegen.
I'm not sure if a German would ever say that. It is a saying I developed myself. Translated, it says: For you, I would gladly lay myself down before a train.
Funny notion, isn't it? Perhaps it is not as poetic as I like to think. Perhaps it is merely a morbidly explicit way of saying that I would die for you. That is love, is it not? To die? I never doubt the veracity of a man's claim that he would lay down his life for the woman he loves. To die for my faith, for my God, for my wife (hypothetical, you understand), for my son and my daughter, for my friend - this is a high and precious calling. I hope I will be able to, and I hope the same for you. To be able to make such a sacrifice is an extraordinary grace.
I wonder, though, how much we comprehend what we say, when we say we would die for another. Death is remote and shadowy, its sting is shrouded in mist, and it happens only once. You would leap from the plane; would you jump off of the bridge? You would die; would you take a papercut, or let your toes be crushed with a hammer? This is pain we know. This is pain we can comprehend. This is dying daily, to take a papercut every day of the week, every week of the year, to sting for another and smile. Remember, Christ died for us, but first He suffered for us.
So would you do it? Would you take a papercut for another? How big is your love, and how small? And if someone sliced your finger without meaning to, what would you do? Tit for tat, slice them back. Or bite your tongue until it bleeds. Why should you sin in your anger? Yes, perhaps it is good to say, "You cut me; it stings." Then again, perhaps it is good to pray, "Lord, this stings; have mercy on me, a sinner."
Too many today would die for another, not enough would live for another. The ugly spectre of selfishness and jealousy no longer lurks in the mist, but parades down the street and calls itself virtue. And we, we suffer for believing it. Papercuts? You deserve better. See, over here, no more pain, no sliced fingers, no smashed toes. But you'd die for her, you say, but only if in some grand display of pride, not in the daily battle of life. And the spectre's spawn curls round your feet, and whispers that the holy bond is unholy, that the tie that binds is already severed. And you believe and you follow.
Or, you could take the papercuts and pray. The beauty of life is found in the little pain, and the little love, and these become great grace.
Anima Christi, sanctifica me.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Functional Pacifism and the Lust for Battle
Truly sons are a gift from the Lord,
a blessing, the fruit of the womb.
Indeed the sons of youth
are like arrows in the hand of a warrior.
O the happiness of the man
who has filled his quiver with these arrows!
He will have no cause for shame
when he disputes with his foes in the gateways.
It occurs to me that the family is the basic unit of the Church, what one might call a platoon. The hierarchy of the Church can in this way be compared to military hierarchy. The comparison is apt, for although we think little on the war that surrounds us, we are indeed fighting - every day, every hour, all our life long we struggle. We have Hope of final victory, because we have Faith. Yet the battle is hard fought. With good reason is the Church on earth called Militant.
In simpler, rougher times, when men were men, women were women, and families were families, in a simpler age the family truly was the ultimate thing. A man had a need of a woman and children for whom to care. A man without cause, a man useless to any but himself, is lost indeed. There is, I believe, an inborn desire in a man to be necessary, to be gallant, heroic, and virile. He needs a woman not just for what she can give him - for her softness, beauty, grace, and kindness; he needs her also for what he can give her - his life.
Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ has loved us.
This is an extraordinary burden. I hesitate to speak much on marriage, for I am utterly lacking in direct experience, but I can observe others, and I know the desire in me. The family, in these simpler times of which I was speaking, was an army in miniature. A man with sons stood proud, a force to conquer the unknown, the foe both human and animal... and spiritual. Perhaps I idealize.
There is a real spiritual war, with casualties, victories and defeats along the way. We may rest at times in the consolation of a small battle won. We may suffer to see our Lord in those times when we have failed. We pour out our efforts for the salvation of souls, never seeing the whole, never seeing aught but that which entangles us at the present. We fight on, because we know the end, because we have no choice but to strive in love. We fight on, remembering that by uniting our sufferings to Christ on the cross, we may hope also to be united in the glory of Christ risen. In this fight, the family is paramount. Each father is a little Lieutenant, each mother a little Sergeant. And the children, ah the children. With what pain must a father send his children forth into the fray. With what agony must a mother wait for her little soldier's return from a perilous mission. Our weapons are unique. The sacraments sustain us, nourish us, and give us strength for battle.
I've been a functional pacifist for only a short time. I say functional, because while I am not opposed to war in an absolute sense, I yet abhor it in an immediate sense. I abhor the dehumanization of the enemy, be they japs, krauts, gooks, ragheads, hajis, or what have you. I abhor the making of war on civilians. My country has not fought a true defensive war (say what you will) in over one hundred and fifty years. It has not fought a constitutional war in fifty years.
So why am I talking about this, about my pacifist instincts (which will likely rile up a few people). This is why: there is in me, and I think in all men, a lust for battle. There is a desire to fight, to contend, to achieve a great victory - yes, to be heroic. But how to fight? Find a battle worth fighting.
This is the battle. Well did Dickens call his tale "The Battle of Life". This lust for battle exists for a reason. When we direct our desire to wage war away from nameless, faceless enemies whom we kill without knowing why, and to a named, twisted villain, truly the great Satan, then our war becomes holy. Then, in the silence, in the quiet of our hearts, we press on. At times we must rage against him. At times he will beat us down. At times we cry out in desperation. At all times we fight together. The family, the Church, we are brothers in arms. And so we stand.
Hope in God, I will praise him still.
a blessing, the fruit of the womb.
Indeed the sons of youth
are like arrows in the hand of a warrior.
O the happiness of the man
who has filled his quiver with these arrows!
He will have no cause for shame
when he disputes with his foes in the gateways.
It occurs to me that the family is the basic unit of the Church, what one might call a platoon. The hierarchy of the Church can in this way be compared to military hierarchy. The comparison is apt, for although we think little on the war that surrounds us, we are indeed fighting - every day, every hour, all our life long we struggle. We have Hope of final victory, because we have Faith. Yet the battle is hard fought. With good reason is the Church on earth called Militant.
In simpler, rougher times, when men were men, women were women, and families were families, in a simpler age the family truly was the ultimate thing. A man had a need of a woman and children for whom to care. A man without cause, a man useless to any but himself, is lost indeed. There is, I believe, an inborn desire in a man to be necessary, to be gallant, heroic, and virile. He needs a woman not just for what she can give him - for her softness, beauty, grace, and kindness; he needs her also for what he can give her - his life.
Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ has loved us.
This is an extraordinary burden. I hesitate to speak much on marriage, for I am utterly lacking in direct experience, but I can observe others, and I know the desire in me. The family, in these simpler times of which I was speaking, was an army in miniature. A man with sons stood proud, a force to conquer the unknown, the foe both human and animal... and spiritual. Perhaps I idealize.
There is a real spiritual war, with casualties, victories and defeats along the way. We may rest at times in the consolation of a small battle won. We may suffer to see our Lord in those times when we have failed. We pour out our efforts for the salvation of souls, never seeing the whole, never seeing aught but that which entangles us at the present. We fight on, because we know the end, because we have no choice but to strive in love. We fight on, remembering that by uniting our sufferings to Christ on the cross, we may hope also to be united in the glory of Christ risen. In this fight, the family is paramount. Each father is a little Lieutenant, each mother a little Sergeant. And the children, ah the children. With what pain must a father send his children forth into the fray. With what agony must a mother wait for her little soldier's return from a perilous mission. Our weapons are unique. The sacraments sustain us, nourish us, and give us strength for battle.
I've been a functional pacifist for only a short time. I say functional, because while I am not opposed to war in an absolute sense, I yet abhor it in an immediate sense. I abhor the dehumanization of the enemy, be they japs, krauts, gooks, ragheads, hajis, or what have you. I abhor the making of war on civilians. My country has not fought a true defensive war (say what you will) in over one hundred and fifty years. It has not fought a constitutional war in fifty years.
So why am I talking about this, about my pacifist instincts (which will likely rile up a few people). This is why: there is in me, and I think in all men, a lust for battle. There is a desire to fight, to contend, to achieve a great victory - yes, to be heroic. But how to fight? Find a battle worth fighting.
This is the battle. Well did Dickens call his tale "The Battle of Life". This lust for battle exists for a reason. When we direct our desire to wage war away from nameless, faceless enemies whom we kill without knowing why, and to a named, twisted villain, truly the great Satan, then our war becomes holy. Then, in the silence, in the quiet of our hearts, we press on. At times we must rage against him. At times he will beat us down. At times we cry out in desperation. At all times we fight together. The family, the Church, we are brothers in arms. And so we stand.
Hope in God, I will praise him still.
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