The LORD possessed me, the beginning of his ways, the forerunner of his prodigies of long ago.
The sacred author of Proverbs, writing around 300-400 years before Christ, revealed that from His very beginnings God the creator was not alone. No, someone was with Him when He established the heavens, “beside Him as His craftsman.” In the fullness of time, that craftsman revealed Himself in the person of Jesus Christ.
Since the 6th century, this passage from Proverbs has been read on September 8th, which is the birthday of the Blessed Virgin Mary, because in some translations the text does not read “The Lord possessed me,” but rather, “The Lord created me.” And as we all know, Christ was not created.
This is where Muslims and heretics get confused. Some Muslim commentators argue that Christians worship our Mother Mary as part of the Holy Trinity. All Muslims regard Christians as polytheists, thinking we worship not one, but three gods. But some Muslims, citing the Koran, think we worship a god who is a Son, a goddess who is a Mother, and a god who is a Father.
It’s interesting about mothers and fathers . . . a philosophy professor wrote:
A mother knows she is a mother by virtue of giving birth. A man identifies himself as a father because he trusts his wife. Therefore, the father has a less existential relationship with his children. But this factor is needed so that he has the freedom to guide his children to their proper place outside of the home. Motherhood is imminent; fatherhood is transcendent. (Donald DeMarco)
We experience imminence and transcendence at Holy Mass. Bishop Johnston (Kansas City – St. Joseph, MO) wrote:
Imminence means that in the coming of Christ, God has drawn near to us; indeed, he has become “flesh and dwelt among us” (Jn. 1:14). He is, and remains, Emmanuel, “God with us” (Mt. 1:23).
Transcendence means that God is profoundly beyond us in His majesty, beauty, glory, and holiness. But transcendence also refers to the goal of our life’s striving: that we were made for heavenly dwelling places (cf. Jn. 14:2), and for an eternal life such that “eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor has it so much as dawned on man what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Cor. 2:9).
In modern times, transcendence in the liturgy has been suppressed. The vertical (looking up to heaven) has made way for the horizontal, where we look at each other. So much so that “human beings wrapped up in themselves” are not reminded of the eternal, the holy, the unseen things, and of heaven itself. Without transcendence at Mass, wrote Bishop Johnston, the faithful are given the impression that this world is all there is.
Too much imminence and not enough transcendence. Or to put it another way: There is too much “mommy” at Mass, and not enough “daddy.”
Speaking of mommies and daddies: When I was in 5th or 6th grade, I stole a cigarette from the piano teacher. She had a glass jar of cigarettes on her coffee table, so they kind of looked like candy. As my sister Mary Kay was getting her lesson, I slipped a cigarette into the top of my sock hidden by my pants.
After walking home, instead of lighting up down at the creek, I took the cigarette into the bathroom. That way I could look in the mirror and watch myself smoke like an actor in black and white movies. I didn’t even open the window because I wanted the smoke to billow around my head. When I opened the door, I was stunned to find my mother standing there. She asked me, “What were you doing in there?” Instead of whacking me, she sat me down on the edge of her bed and very gently asked me some questions: “Where did you get the cigarette?” “Did you like it?” “Why in the bathroom instead of outside?” I think that last question troubled her a bit. Perhaps she was being so gentle with me out of concern for my dim-wittedness.
Lest you think there was a limit to my stupidity, this happened a couple days before my birthday. Birthdays were big events in our home. We ate in the dining room instead of the kitchen, and we got to drink soda. We wore those silly pointed birthday hats with the elastic string that went under the chin. Nine children would sit at a long oak table with my mother on one end and my father on the other. I always sat next to my father on his right. My brother Mike sat on his left.
The day of my birthday arrived without any more mention of the smoking incident. I was having a great party, with loads of laughter and chatter and baby noises around the table. Amidst all the noise and fun, I thought to myself, “How can this be happening?” And I looked down the table at my mom and thought: “Maybe she didn’t tell Dad.”
But then came the moment of truth. When supper was over my siblings, all went upstairs to bring down my presents. My mom went into the kitchen to put candles on the cake. And suddenly it was just me and my father sitting there—alone. The raucous noise and laughter that was there just a moment before had vanished, and the two of us just sat there in the deafening silence. My father broke the silence—by offering me a drink of his martini. And I nervously chuckled and said something like, “No, I couldn’t do that. I’m too young.”
I can still picture the scene: The loosened tie around my father’s neck, the five o’clock shadow, his tired eyes. The silly birthday hat on his head. He looked at me and said: “No, go ahead, have a drink—it goes good with your cigarette.” I froze as time stood still. Then my father cracked a little smile, as if to say, “It’s okay.” And a dim-witted son was shown mercy. You see, my mother could tell I was sorry for what I did, and she interceded for me with my father. It was a classic family case of the feminine working together with the masculine. Of imminence working with transcendence.
My father was religious. My father drove us all to Mass and led the prayers at the supper table. When we were driving to grandma’s, my father led the rosary while driving the station wagon. He said the rosary super-fast. He would start the next Hail Mary before all the kids would finish slowly saying, “Holy Mary Mother of God . . .” My dad said it fast, but here’s the thing: he said it. He led the rosary. He led the family in prayer. He led the way.
About twenty years ago, a study showed that if fathers led the way in things religious, 75% of their children would retain the Faith (in varying degrees) as adults. If mothers had to lead, the percentage dropped to 1%. That of course was a politically incorrect study in our contracepting culture out to abolish the family and destroy fatherhood, but it does not negate the truth. Psychologists, criminologists, educationalists, and traditionally minded Christians all know this. They know one cannot get around the biology of the created order.
A priest noted that no father can replace what a mother gives, but when a child begins to move into that period of living outside the home, he (and she) looks increasingly to the father as a role model. If the father is indifferent, inadequate or just plain absent, that of course makes things difficult. And when children observe that fathers are absent from church, they will see it as a “women and children” thing and will respond in time by not going or going infrequently.
And so, let us thank the 2nd Person of the Trinity, who loves His Father and does His will. That 2nd Person is the Craftsman who works with wood up on Calvary in order to save His dimwitted brothers and sisters who keep falling into sin.
In the deafening silence at Holy Mass, hear Christ say to you: “Have a drink of my Precious Blood.” After you answer you are not worthy, hear Him say, “Go ahead, have a drink. It goes good with my Body.” Brace yourself as time stands still and the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are placed on your tongue. Then enter into the mystery, for though you have a God who transcends anything your finite mind can imagine, He is near. He is close.
Image from Wikimedia Commons
