Details have been changed to protect the privacy of the guy.
Details have been changed to protect the privacy of the guy.
There is a story about Baroness Catherine De Heuck Doherty, Servant of God, that--if I remember it correctly--goes something like this. Catherine's ministry began as a call to truly go and be with the poor, without reservation. She went to live in the slums and worked at various menial, low-wage jobs. The story as I heard it was that at one point she got a job as a cocktail waitress alongside women who knew nothing of her past wealth or privilege. She lived in the same sort of cheap housing as her coworkers, and was known to them merely as “Katie,” the waitress.
And that’s the entire story, almost. She spends a short season of her life as a waitress, learning to know love the working poor around her, before gathering others to begin the public ministry of Friendship House.
But the person who told me this story included a (possibly apocryphal) detail that stopped me in my tracks. I was told that Catherine was so concerned with making the women she was befriending comfortable with her that, knowing they were for the most part self-conscious about their lack of education and wanting them to be at ease with her, she went so far as to avoid having any of her books out on display in her rooms.
This is a woman who loved the written word. Catherine loved to read and loved to write, and published many books herself during her lifetime. But for love of her neighbours, in order not to put herself forward and make others feel their disadvantages too keenly, in an act of modest self-abnegation, she put her beloved books aside.
I think of that and look at the shelves of books I have carted from state to state and between countries, the friends whose appearance on my shelves marks the point a new habitation becomes “home,” and my mind boggles.
I thought of this story again today when I ran across this definition of modesty from CatholicCulture.org:
“The virtue that moderates all the internal and external movements and appearance of a person according to his or her endowments, possessions, and station in life. Four virtues are commonly included under modesty: humility, studiousness, and two kinds of external modesty, namely in dress and general behavior.”
I was looking for definitions of modesty for a discussion I’d come across on Facebook. The complete context and content of the discussion is not terribly important, except that it was instigated, as so many discussion of modesty are, by people publicly calling women at an event out for their “immodesty,” explicitly making a connection between immodesty and sexual sin.
But if you read over the definition of “modesty” at the above link, you’ll notice something it doesn’t do. It doesn’t mention sex at all.
And it is a definition of modesty that is larger than the realm of clothing. The virtue of modesty, says this definition, can be expressed through humility, studiousness, and moderation in dress and behavior. All four of these are concerned with what is appropriate for a person’s station, responsibilities, standing, and community. All are expressed through moderation.
From a personalist vantage point, I noticed another commonality. All of these sub-virtues have the effect of setting a person on equitable footing with those they most often interact with. You should know yourself, strengths and weaknesses, and not be preoccupied with desires to stand out and be special (humility). You should know what you need to and be as educated as befits your abilities and responsibilities---but without nosiness or meddling in things that aren’t your business or are outside your competence (studiousness). You should dress appropriately and moderately for your occupation, setting, and company, avoiding not only what will be actively offensive, but also what would just be superfluous and attention-seeking. And you should behave with moderation the same way, not seeking to cause offense, but also not seeking acclaim or undue attention.
This is all about being conscious and considerate of the value of the people around you and not seeking to set yourself apart from your peers as more important or worthy of attention.
It's about not trying so hard to be special.
And all that made me think of Catherine the Baroness, who became Katie the waitress because God told her to be one with the poor, setting aside whatever might divide her from them. Setting aside her books for love of them. Desiring more to know her companions than to be known by them--a strange thought in this era of over-sharing.
I am sure Katie the waitress was a witness to Jesus’ love among her new friends. I imagine she laughed and cried with their victories and sorrows. I know she gave sound advice and encouraged her coworkers to seek virtue—in dress and in other things--and to recognize the counterfeits the world offers in place of God’s love. There was nothing that could have made Catherine stay silent about the love of Christ for his poor.
But first, she shared their lives.
First, she loved.
I read so many words about modesty and clothing and what other people should or shouldn’t do on Facebook today.
Sooooo many words.
And I can’t imagine the Baroness, for all she loved words, having much patience with it.
What use is modesty, if it is not love? Not abstract love, but love-in-action, the love that is patient and kind, that does not boast and is not rude.
What is any of it for, if we are not loving our neighbors, the real actual people before us, in our homes and in our neighborhoods, in our streets and in our inboxes?
I don’t want to settle for a pale, preachy imitation of modesty. I don’t want to settle for loving mankind at a distance, setting myself above and apart from my neighbors.
I want to love like Katie did.
Arise — go! Sell all you possess. Give it directly, personally to the poor. Take up My cross (their cross) and follow Me, going to the poor, being poor, being one with them, one with Me.
Little — be always little! Be simple, poor, childlike.
Preach the Gospel with your life — without compromise! Listen to the Spirit. He will lead you..
Do little things exceedingly well for love of Me.
Love... love... love, never counting the cost
Go into the marketplace and stay with Me. Pray, fast. Pray always, fast.
Be hidden. Be a light to your neighbour's feet. Go without fear into the depth of men's hearts. I shall be with you. Pray always.
I will be your rest.
—The Little Mandate of Catherine Doherty
Yonge Street, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
What am I talking about? Let me explain.
First of all, on December 6th, we have St. Nicholas. As Wikipedia tells it:
In his most famous exploit, Nicholas aided a poor man who had three daughters, but could not afford a proper dowry for them. This meant that they would remain unmarried and probably, in absence of any other possible employment, would have to become prostitutes. Even if they did not, unmarried women in those days would be assumed to be prostitutes. Hearing of the girls' plight, Nicholas decided to help them, but being too modest to help the family in public (or to save them the humiliation of accepting charity), he went to the house under the cover of night and threw three purses (one for each daughter) filled with gold coins through the window opening into the house.
St. Nicholas stands as a lasting sign of the dignity of every person, boy or girl, rich or poor. Instead of just accepting--even reluctantly--the assumptions that trying to rise above your station is uppity, he came to the rescue. Instead of imagining that social order requires forcing anyone into prostitution, or that morality justifies jumping to conclusions about anyone based solely on marital status (or lack thereof), he made a change of status possible. And the part where he neither wants to draw attention to himself nor humiliate his beneficiaries--this shows not just a willingness to do a helpful thing, but to do it with the dignity of the beneficiary firmly in mind.
Then on the 8th there's the Immaculate Conception: Mary was conceived without sin, and it's true, she had nothing to do with that. She was the recipient of a unique grace, not the initiator of anything. But then her free will comes into play: the Angel Gabriel doesn't order her to bear the Christ Child but waits on her fiat. Once she bestows it, he leaves immediately. She was free from original sin, but then, so were Adam and Eve. The Incarnation still hinged on her free response to what she received.
And what was she consenting to? Not just a function, or a role. Not just a temp job--"ISO woman to serve as vessel for God's human nature for nine months"--but the Mother of a Person. Catholics honor her not just for being the "container" of God's human nature--a mere functionary-- but as the Mother of God the Son. Two real persons, two real body-and-soul beings, not a trick, or a disguise, or an assignment.
On the next day, December 9th, we have the feast of St. Juan Diego, and on the 12th, Our Lady of Guadalupe. According to the standards of his time and place, peasants had no business receiving private revelations from the Mother of God, much less coming into a Bishop's presence with a message from her. We celebrate a God who is "no respecter of persons"--a misleading way of saying "no respecter of the trappings of social position."
And then--Christmas! God becomes a human person. He doesn't come disguised as one, or take on the role of acting like one for a few decades and then cast off His human nature, or His human body, going back to being True God but no longer True Man. It's not a trick or a deception; it's not just that He had a job to do, a function to perform, before getting "back to normal." Describing what, exactly, it was that He did instead would require more theological expertise than I have, but whatever it was, it was a real Incarnation as a real human person, nothing less.
So happy Holydays! Happy season of extravagant divine confirmations of the dignity of the human person! Happy 4th day of Christmas!
Image credits: St. Nicholas, by Jacopo Tintoretto, via Wikimedia Commons
Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner, via Wikimedia Commons.
Author's photo of statue of St. Juan Diego at St. Mark the Evangelist, Hyattsville, MD
Ukranian, Adoration of the Shepherds, Wikipedia Signpost, public domain.
In the cold of winter, Christmas draws us to gather together in the warmth of family and friends. There’s a surplus of goodwill and cheer, enough it seems to make every bowl brim over.
But the absence of a single loved one can leave the season feeling empty and cold despite all the comfort and efforts of those surrounding us.
My husband’s maternal grandfather passed away this week. He lived a good life, a long life, and had a good death by almost any measure. “I’m not sad for him,” my husband told me this morning. “But I’m sad for the world that doesn’t have this good man in it.”
I could have said that there are other good men in the world, or reminded my husband that he can honor his grandfather by emulating his virtues. I’ve seen people respond to similar sentiments in that manner. But I think that would miss the point—not merely of my husband’s grief, but of Christmas itself.
The Church calls this “The Feast of the Incarnation.” God became flesh. We celebrate Christ’s birth because he became, not just “man,” but a man, one with particular parents, born in a particular time, in a particular place, known and recognized by particular people.
The Gospels themselves pull us towards this mystery of particularity by placing Jesus’s birth in the context of the family and world he was born into—the Christ came into this lineage, in this land, under this rule.
C.S. Lewis wrote:
After the knowledge of God had been universally lost or obscured, one man from the whole earth (Abraham) is picked out. He is separated (miserably enough, we may suppose) from his natural surroundings, sent into a strange country, and made the ancestor of a nation who are to carry the knowledge of the true God. Within this nation there is further selection: some die in the desert, some remain behind in Babylon. There is further selection still. The process grows narrower and narrower, sharpens at last into one small bright point like the head of a spear. It is a Jewish girl at her prayers. All humanity (so far as concerns its redemption) has narrowed to that.
This “scandal of particularity” has a particular significance for the Christian personalist. Could personalism have come to be without the development of the idea of “persons” caused by the early Church’s attempts to understand the Incarnation?
Christ became man, and man was raised with Him. The person of Christ assumed human nature as this particular man who was born, lived, and died in this particular way—and subsequently each and every human life assumes a remarkable significance.
If God chooses to work through the choices and and consent of individual persons, forming covenants and building bonds with individuals in the scriptures right down to the fiat of Mary that opened the door to Christ, then no person can be considered irrelevant or replaceable. It truly is something to grieve that the world no longer has the opportunity to know my grandfather-in-law, or my own Oma and Opa, or my sister-in-law’s mother, or a friend’s miscarried children.
Each person who passes, even those who are never named, leave an empty space in the world that belongs to them only, that cannot be simply filled by the next child. Do not doubt it is so, in this season when we celebrate the God who became a man like us so that we could know Him, however imperfectly, person to person.
I don’t think there are easy words of comfort for the grieving at Christmas. “Rachel is weeping for her children, and there is no consoling her.” At most, there is perhaps this: that loss coexists with gain, wheat and tares grow together.
When the magi came to the child Jesus, after their long journey to find him, they brought gifts—gold for kingship, frankincense for divinity…and myrrh for his death. There is Good Friday in Epiphany, and Easter in Christmas. Grief doesn’t contradict the “Christmas spirit.” The child born in Bethlehem was carried into Egypt to escape a massacre; he lived and knew loss and suffered and died.
He is God-With-Us, whether we weep or rejoice.
Come, Lord Jesus!
I heard a great voice from the throne saying, “Behold, the dwelling of God is with men. He will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away.”
And he who sat upon the throne said, “Behold, I make all things new.” (Rev. 21:1-5)
Candle image via PublicDomainImages, CC0.
Headstone and Wreath via MaxPixel, CC0.
That's Aleteia's way of putting it, and it's my favorite of all the headlines I've seen about Pope Francis' recent comment on the French Bishops' translation of the Lord's Prayer. The Holy Father approved of their approval of the French equivalent of "Let us not fall into temptation" rather than the unfortunate "Do not submit us to temptation."
As he so often does, Jimmy Akin has the most clear, succinct, and straight-talking account of what actually happened (and what didn't). More background information can be found here, in a Catholic World Report article by Christopher R. Altieri. (I would quibble, though, with that headline writer's use of "Pope Francis' confusing remarks." There's plenty of confusion, but it's self-inflicted, or headline-writer-inflicted. There's no cause to blame the Pope here.)
As a translator, I have a lot of thoughts about the whole kerfuffle (though I don't pretend to speak Aramaic, Greek or French, and my Latin's not very respectable, either). Still, I've long been fascinated by the business of translation itself, and how to skate carefully between clunky over-literalism and reshaping the author into your own image and likeness. There's a fine line, as the Italian has it, between traduttore (translator) and traditore (traitor.)
And as a personalist concerned with doing justice to the subjectivity of both original-language author and target-language reader, I find it even more fascinating.
The translator requires something more than an exhaustive dictionary. I find I need to take into account what the author was trying to say, what contemporary readers would have understood, and how to express that in the target language--with no loss of accuracy, connotation or style. And without being culturally or historically tone-deaf.
With liturgical translation, there's the additional concern of avoiding heresy and respecting long-established use, even when the words are not the ones you would have chosen. "Dynamic equivalence" has a bad name, and deservedly so, because it's been used as an excuse to ignore the author's--even the Divine Author's--meaning, and go spinning off wherever the translation committee's spirit (if such a thing could exist) might lead. Some texts approved in the late 1960s and '70s were often not translations at all, but covert "improvements"--like the way Credo was "translated" as We believe.
But there's a grain of truth in the idea of dynamic equivalence. Language isn't static--because persons aren't static--and equivalence is just what the conscientious translator is supposed to be striving for. Jimmy Akin has a good example--from elsewhere in the Lord's Prayer itself--of the kind of translation that's neither over-literal nor illegitimately "dynamic":
The previous petition in the standard Catholic version reads “and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
That’s not what the Greek literally says.
It says, “And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors” (Matt. 6:12).
Debts are a Semitic metaphor for sins, and the English translators have rendered this non-literally as “trespasses” to make the concept clearer to English-speakers.
Luke did the same thing for Greek-speakers in his version of the Lord’s Prayer, where this petition reads, “and forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive every one who is indebted to us” (Luke 11:4).
Notice how Luke shifts the first reference to “debts” to “sins” to make the meaning clearer.
Also note that, since Luke is divinely inspired, God doesn’t have a fundamental problem with using less literal translations to help people understand.
Here, the translator needs to know not only what a debt or a trespass is, but also the function of an ancient metaphor. And notice how Akin speaks of "helping people understand"--indicating concern for the text as it's taken in by the subject as well as whether it's objectively accurate. We could even speak of "excessive objectivism" in translation, as long as we don't get carried away, misapplying it to everything that's not to our own taste. And without a doubt, there's such a thing as excessive subjectivism. Treachery is the translator's ever-present temptation. But either way, there's far more in play than simply "getting it right" or "getting it wrong."
This fits in nicely with the Catholic view of the inspiration of Scripture. It's not a dictation theory: the idea is that the Divine Author saw to it that what He wanted written would be written, and the human authors, rather than just copying it down word for word, wrote in a way that reveals their own characters, cultural backgrounds, and life experience. Like a good personalist, He deigns not to squash the personalities of His puny "colleagues."
The Holy Father's point that God is not the one who tempts us is borne out by Scripture itself (James 1:13). The question of how to express that without treachery, heresy, banality, or inaccuracy--well, that's a matter of translation.
Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons