waiting

suburban catholic economics

It was like a
sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the
lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same powdered
sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

— Gate A4, Naomi Shihab Nye

Being poor is a lot of waiting.

It’s a lot of waiting in line at the food pantry, the soup kitchen, the DMV, the Social Security office, the temp agency.

To be rich means you can get in the fast pass lane—you are used to never waiting. You show up at your leisure, and expect the red carpet to unfurl. The rich have endless PTO, the poor are fired when the buses run late.

So I think Advent is a time all of us can begin to cultivate that poverty of spirit—that our lives are not lived in the fast pass lane, that we are, really, ultimately, in the stripped-down truth of the universe, poor creatures, waiting on a Savior. History is God’s story, and God is the ultimate actor in the story of the universe.

But we are not merely objects for God to work God’s plan out on. We have been baptized into God’s own life—we, too, are protagonists in the story. And this is the paradox and the tension faith rests in: we are waiting for a God who will save us—waiting for the voice of the angel to relieve us of our barrenness we have no say over—and we are also members of Christ’s body, able to be God’s hands and feet in the world, for our brothers.

Harry Murray (see below for more background info on your favorite Catholic Worker’s favorite Catholic Worker) cited Tolstoy in a recent talk. To paraphrase: Tolstoy said that Christians often arrange their affairs so that all will go according to plan, whether God is is real or not.

This is what our friend and extended community member Paul would call: “Suburban Catholic Economics.” The Suburban Catholic Economist sayeth: We must be safeguards of our own security, since God cannot be trusted to save us. God cannot be trusted to provide—we must provide for ourselves. Cast ourselves upon the mercy of God, the way the poor cast themselves upon our own mercy? That sounds like foolishness! No thanks.

In contrast, as my friend wrote to me, to hope in God—to believe in Advent—to live in hope, is to live in a world that accounts for loss but does not seek to avoid it, rather lives somehow in a world beyond it. And because the Christian lives in hope in God the good things we have been given—warmth, good food, rich lives, laughter, spirit and joy—are not ours but Gods, and meant to be given from God through us. We live in an economy of God’s gift.

We see this most fully in the Eucharist—the priest offers the bread and wine, which are not his, but the fruit of the earth and work of human hands—and it is not the priest’s power who consecrates the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ but God’s action. The work is God’s—we show up and make ourselves available for God to act.

If you asked most Catholics where the first inkling of the Eucharist is in Sacred Scriptures, many of them might tell you Melchizedek, the King of Salem, who offers bread and wine in honor of Abraham’s victory over a king who was the commander of a lot of smaller kings and tribal lords. Abraham defeated him with just 318 men—the author of Genesis wants you to know the exact number, because it is impressive.

Abram’s 318 men take down a coalition of kings, rescue Abram’s nephew Lot, and restore to the King of Sodom his kingdom. Melchizedek blesses Abram:

“Blessed be Abram by God Most High,
Creator of heaven and earth.
And praise be to God Most High,
who delivered your enemies into your hand.”

The economic fallout of this moment is often limited to noting that Abram “tithes” his property and gives Melchizedek a tenth of his victory spoils from war. This is used as a proof text for the practice of tithing to one’s parish, dropping envelopes of cash or checks in the collection basket.

But the economic implications of the Eucharist actually go far beyond payment and repayment—money in exchange for liturgy or blessing—they are about introducing an entirely new mode of exchange. Since Abram has won back the King of Sodom’s kingdom for him, Abram could take pretty much everything from him. The King of Sodom owes him one—or rather, owes him everything. But Abram tells the King of Sodom he will take nothing of his property, nothing of his kingdom, say what his 318 men have eaten. This seems partially because Abram does not want to be in the debt of the King of Sodom, but also because Abram was not going to war for the typical reasons one goes to war: to enlarge your power and wealth. He had a different mission. The blessing that God has bestowed on Abram calls him to a different way of living with his neighbor. The economics of war, of competition, of storing up grain in his barn—Suburban Catholic Economics—are not his economy. Rather, he is living in an economy of blessing—of gift.

We read this small vignette of Melchizedek, but not its context. The story that it interrupts and completely transforms by its interruption. Perhaps this is why it is most properly a sign of Christ—because Christ comes, an irrational sign, in an inconvenient season, and transfigures the story we’re living entirely.

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Mr. Brown’s Bylines

“Brown, who is always one’s friend in a disaster, applied a leech to the eyelid, and there is no inflammation this morning though the ball hit me on the sight.” John to George & Georgiana Keats, May 1819

—Writing from friends and fellow writers whose words have been a friend to me: leeches on the sore eyelids of our hearts—

Sofia Carroza, “This Is Your Brain in a Digital Age,” Church Life Journal

This is a printed version of a talk Sofia gave at a summit I attended at Mundelein in November. It was an illuminating experience, as it brought communicators and evangelizers from all walks of life together. Some nodded along to Sofia’s talk, as her research and concerns are the soundtrack to our digital anxiety. Others were more challenged, perhaps not as accustomed to neuroscience’s critique of the digital.

Compared to other species, human infants are born with remarkably immature nervous systems; while nearly all neurons are present at a child’s birth, they form connections or synapses with one another at an explosive rate over the next few years, contributing to the brain’s tripling in weight in infancy. Nor does this process end in childhood, as synapses are gradually pruned away and organized into stable neural circuits over the course of decades.

The formation of this neural architecture is not solely a function of genetically encoded and inherited factors. Rather, it relies heavily on the experience a child has in her environment, especially of her caregivers. Each loving interaction helps shape a child’s neural circuitry through mechanisms of activity-dependent neuroplasticity, or changes in brain structure brought about by neuronal firing. The high-pitched baby-talk her parents use in infancy forms the language centers in her cortex; their skin-to-skin contact scaffolds her autonomic regulation; their gentle soothing of her outbursts teaches her to regulate her own emotions. Through this protracted and dyadic process of child development—which entails radical dependence on decades of embodied care—the brain achieves the unparalleled complexity and individuality that we see in adults.

You can read the full paper here.

Thomas Graff, “Winsome Waywardness,” Catholic Artist Connection’s Wait for the Lord Series

A broader reading of Matthew 18, however, reveals a more brooding savior: one whose parable of a shepherd’s disproportionate love for a lost sheep is inspired most concretely by concern for the maltreatment of children: “See that you do not despise one of these little ones” (Mt 18:10); “[w]hoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea” (Mt 18:6).

Read Thomas’ full reflection here.

Harry Murray, “Effectiveness or Fruitfulness” The Dustbowl Diatribes by The Maurin Academy

Harry Murray, your favorite Catholic Worker’s favorite Catholic Worker and author of the (in his own words) “worst-selling book on the Catholic Worker,” shares his brilliant and gentle insights into hospitality—into the solidarity that comes from living in a correctional facility with your neighbors and the sorrows and joys of opening one’s door to others—and the spiritual fruitfulness of civil disobedience. It’s a long episode, but it’s balm for the soul.