Of the quantity of drink

"Every one hath his proper gift from God, one after this manner and another after that" (1 Cor 7:7). It is with some hesitation, therefore, that we determine the measure of nourishment for others. However, making allowance for the weakness of the infirm, we think one hemina* of wine a day is sufficient for each one. But to whom God granteth the endurance of abstinence, let them know that they will have their special reward.

If the circumstances of the place, or the work, or the summer's heat should require more, let that depend on the judgment of the Superior, who must above all things see to it, that excess or drunkenness do not creep in.

Although we read that wine is not at all proper for monks, yet, because monks in our times cannot be persuaded of this, let us agree to this, at least, that we do not drink to satiety, but sparingly; because "wine maketh even wise men fall off" (Sir 19:2). But where the poverty of the place will not permit the aforesaid measure to be had, but much less, or none at all, let those who live there bless God and murmur not.

This we charge above all things, that they live without murmuring.

Holy Rule of St. Benedict, chapter XL

*A hemina is equal to half a sextary. Now you know.
(A sextary is probably about the same as a British pint, or 20 ounces.)

The Green Leaves of Summer

“Is That All There Is” is one interpretation of Ecclesiastes (“This is what I have seen to be good: it is fitting to eat and drink and find enjoyment in all the toil with which one toils under the sun the few days of the life God gives us; for this is our lot,” 5:18).

“The Green Leaves of Summer” is another Ecclesiastes song from the sixties, and I like it better even if (or perhaps because) it’s schmaltzy. You can see a rough but poignant performance by the elderly Brothers Four singing at the Kingston Trio’s 45^th anniversary celebration here on YouTube.

In “Is That All There Is,” a young person looks ahead to death, anticipating disappointment. In “The Green Leaves of Summer,” an old person looks back at life, with gratitude, as “the green leaves of summer are calling me home.” My favorite lines:

A time to be plowin', a time to be plantin',
A time to be courtin' a girl of your own--
T'was so good to be young then, to be close to the earth,
And to stand by your wife, at the moment of birth . . .

Is that all there is?

A friend in her mid 30s tells me “Is That All There Is” is her favorite song. She especially likes the part about dancing and breaking out the booze and having a ball.

I was about 21 when Peggy Lee made the song famous. I didn’t like its theme, that every emotionally charged experience—even death—is bound to disappoint. I wanted to be more than dust on its way to ashes. When Peggy started singing, I would flip the dial.

But I knew then, and I know even more now, how a person could feel like that. Often enough, especially in late winter with yet another storm on its way, that’s exactly how things seem.

So, if that’s all there is, should we drink and dance? Probably, at least on weekends, and if we can party without destroying our health or driving drunk.

But what if that isn’t all there is? What if we are more than dust of the ground? What if an essential part of our human nature is a spiritual component that goes far beyond what we experience with our physical senses?

Well then, dancing and drinking may still be a good response (see caveats above). What religion doesn’t celebrate joyful feasts—not because that is all there is, but because, in the words of the Nicene Creed, God is the “maker of . . . all that is, seen and unseen”?

Books and films that break your heart

I don't much like little books of canned devotions, whether topical, annual, or penitential (never mind that I've written several). Novels and journalistic accounts and films are often a better way of reminding myself that I am dust and ashes. Here are some engrossing, heartbreaking accounts from places where hunger and death are part of everyone's daily experience. All are current and available from Amazon.

Novels
Dave Eggers, What Is the What (Sudan)
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Half of a Yellow Sun (Nigeria: Biafra)
Athol Fugard, Tsotsi (South Africa)
Khaled Hosseini, A Thousand Splendid Suns (Afghanistan)

Nonfiction
Greg Mortenson/David Oliver Relin, Three Cups of Tea (Pakistan)
Ǻsne Seierstad, The Bookseller of Kabul (Afghanistan)
Tracy Kidder, Mountains Beyond Mountains (Haiti)

DVDs
God Grew Tired of Us (Sudan)
The Devil Came On Horseback (Sudan)
Tsotsi (South Africa)

Almost Catholic

Today’s interesting read: Almost Catholic: An Appreciation of the History, Practice, and Mystery of Ancient Faith by colleague and friend Jon M. Sweeney.

Jon, like Thomas Howard a generation ago, is a cradle evangelical turned Episcopalian. When I was confirmed by an Episcopal bishop in 1982, Tom happened to be visiting my parish. After the service he said to me, “Welcome to this branch of the Catholic church.” Tom’s last book, published the year before he became fully Catholic in 1985, was titled Evangelical Is Not Enough. I wonder if Jon is on the same path.

Jon, like Tom, loves liturgy and literature. He practices assorted spiritual disciplines with an attentiveness foreign to most cradle Catholics. His notes include more novelists and poets than theologians—Flannery O’Connor, Graham Greene, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Evelyn Waugh, Oscar Hijuelos, Walker Percy, Richard Crashaw, and many others.

Unlike Tom, however, Jon has little time for hierarchy, favors experience over doctrine, and never mentions the Magisterium. Jon’s Catholicism is neither liberal nor lite (he apparently likes the current pope and is quite smitten with the catechism, stances Catholic liberals rarely take), but it is definitely post-modern. He tells us where he stands, makes no claims for absolute truth, shares with us his loves, and does all of this using words and forms harking back to venerable ecclesiastical traditions.

Sometimes feeling more like a collection of columns than a book, Almost Catholic offers interesting observations on topics ranging from the Sacred Heart of Jesus to the meaning of hell. The physical expression of spiritual experience—what Jon calls “the carnality of faith”—is a theme running throughout. Quoting Tertullian’s assertion that Jesus “loved his own flesh,” he comments:

To love our flesh as Jesus loved his own is to fill the physical events, stuff, interactions of life with spiritual meaning because they are indeed full of meaning. We can wash the dishes, repair shoes, prepare and eat a feast, and love doing these things—not because we’ve turned our mind elsewhere but because Christ showed us that physical life is marvelous. (75–76)

I am surprised at how little emphasis Jon gives the Eucharist. His “eleven steps to becoming a truly Catholic Christian” mention it obliquely, if at all—and yet, as Jon says when he finally brings it up in one of the last chapters, “there is nothing more central to Catholic faith than the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist” (200). That short chapter, called “Kissing and Eating,” makes a compelling case for gathering with other Christians for corporate worship.

Like Jon, I was “almost Catholic” for many years. I too loved liturgy and sacrament. Eventually, however, I felt that almost wasn’t enough, and I was confirmed by a Catholic priest. Jon writes, “Even as I envy the habits of devotion that often characterize the cradle Catholic, I can also see how being almost Catholic may even be preferable” (209). Well, a lot of people think being “almost married” is preferable to actually saying those vows, too—but is it even possible to be almost married, or almost Catholic? Or is Catholicism, like marriage, best understood by actually participating in it, risking diminished romance, multiplied struggles, and probable heartache? Jon's observations from the outside looking in are welcome and helpful. Should he someday decide to go totally Catholic, the church will be the richer.

Midlife sensory banquet

On our recent trip to see relatives in Arizona, I was frequently reminded of the different ways people take in information. According to the MBTI, people tend to be Sensors or Intuitives. Sensors gather information through their five senses. They are alert, observant, curious, often detail oriented. They are not likely to trip and fall over the coffee table simply because their housemate rearranged the living room—they go through life with their eyes open, living in the moment.

Intuitives, by contrast, seem to spend more time in the romantic past or imagined future than in the present. The visible world is, for them, a launching pad for theories, inventions, schemes, interpretations, ideas, brainstorms, patterns, theologies, impressions, connotations, imagination, dreams, possibilities . . . and with all of that buzzing in their brains, no wonder they occasionally forget to come in out of the rain.

If the human person is a combination of earth and spirit, the Sensor is likely to pay more attention to earth, the Intuitive to spirit. My husband and I and both our daughters lean toward spirit, while most of our relatives are solidly earth-based. We listened in awe last week as they talked extremely knowledgeably about minerals, gems, fossils, photovoltaic cells, cacti, reservoirs, beer making, jewelry design, energy conservation, rare birds, rock polishers, and on and on. These people see what’s in front of them, understand it, and know what to do with it.

As one relative, recently married into the tribe, said (referring to several cousins who are artisans and inventors): “Creativity runs in the family.” Then, turning to David, she asked, “Are you creative?”

I was startled. As a person with Intuitive leanings, I tend to think of creativity as relating to ethereal pursuits. A novelist is creative, as is an artist. David, a journalist and a musician, is creative in several areas. But unlike his creative cousins, he doesn’t often make things that can be seen, held, and manipulated, so a Sensor may not immediately see his creativity. Similarly, an Intuitive may not immediately see the creativity of the person who enjoys finding rocks, splitting them, and polishing their inner surfaces to reveal layers of sparkling color.

Sensors and Intuitives open up and enrich each other’s experience. This is especially true after age 40 or so, when Sensors get more interested in possibilities and Intuitives begin noticing the physical world. My metamorphosis began when, 20 years ago, an interior designer pointed out the flame stitch on a chair’s upholstery. Before then, I noticed whether a chair was red or blue, and I could tell the difference between leather and cloth or solid and floral. The flame stitch, however, was a revelation. Suddenly I began seeing it everywhere. I fell in love with it. I even started noticing other differences in texture and design.

The sensory banquet soon expanded to include food as well as upholstery. The girl who hated to cook started turning into the woman who enjoyed experimenting with taste and color combinations at the table. Every time my aged mother would come to dinner, she would look at her plate and say, “I can’t believe it. I never thought you’d be able to do this.”

Eventually I started noticing things my Sensor friends had known all their lives: for instance, that a dog is a much better companion if you train it and bathe it, or that a house can look really good if you put things away when you’re done using them.

Being an Intuitive, I’m not really sure what Sensors start discovering at midlife. I’m sure they have every bit as much fun as we Intuitives do. Maybe even more, since we keep can’t help thinking about the Next Big Thing, whereas they know how to savor the moment. All of us, though, can find joy in the improbable recipe for the human person. We are earth, and we are spirit, each ingredient equally vital to our humanity.

MBTI--a little background

The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) was extremely popular in the 80s, when the younger Boomers were trying to decide what to do and whom (or if) to marry and the older Boomers were afraid that, having passed the dreaded age of 30, they might actually turn 40 and have a midlife meltdown. Boomer that I am, I got very interested in this taxonomy of personality type, wrote One of a Kind (a book about it for parents), and led workshops for publishers.

The MBTI looks at three aspects of personality: what energizes us, how we gather information, and how we make decisions. In addition, it looks at whether we prefer gathering information or acting on it. Put these four factors together, and you get more than the sum of the parts—you get a fairly detailed and often uncannily accurate description of sixteen different kinds of people.

Of course, there aren’t really sixteen kinds of people, there are only two: those who love personality tests and those who think they are bogus. Well, maybe there are three types, if you include mine: those who love personality tests and think they are bogus if believed too implicitly or taken too far.

Still, such tests can help a lot of us sharpen our powers of observation. It’s easy to think everyone is either just like us or exactly opposite from us, without realizing that there’s a whole zoo of fascinating people out there who are simply other than us. A friend of mine, a highly prolific novelist, once told me she uses the MBTI to help create believable characters. It helps her maintain variety in her cast of characters, and it keeps her from unwittingly making an individual do something that a person with his or her personality simply wouldn’t do.