I'll give you an example...

I shall caution my more intense readers that today is one of my sillier times. The heading, "I'll give you an example," was a favourite expression of my dad's. He was highly talkative, and ready with daily stories of co-workers, those who shopped in the store where he worked, etc.. He tended to go from stories to varied "sub-stories," and would often lead from one to the other with "I'll give you an example." He then might proceed (just as one example) :) to recall when he was six years old and a cheeky kid he knew took his kite.

Levity is more my style, and it may seem odd that I am indulging this at the beginning of Lent - but I think we need to laugh at ourselves, and I always did that well. I attended a wonderful choral Eucharist today (packed with not only regular worshippers but those who never see the inside of a church but wish to get smudged annually... never realising, I'm sure, how very appropriate the mark of the penitent is), and nearly had a fit of giggling. The reason was that, a few weeks back, a priest whom I know was telling some of us that, when the parade of those "coming for ashes" goes on, some respond to "remember, man, that dust thou art..." with "Thank you!" When he aptly added, "I've just reminded them they are going to die, and they say thanks," that sneaked into my subconscious or something, and I naturally nearly laughed aloud when the ashes were placed on my forehead today. (Vain little thing that I am, not to mention that I hardly want to advertise being a penitent in the public streets, let alone the Jewish Division of the library I was visiting after Mass, I carefully washed off the ashes before I left. I did, however, later read a typical theology forum debate, where the "ashes vs. no ashes" crowds debated whether wearing ashes all day was an example of Christian commitment or one of forgetting Jesus' injunction against the hypocritical Pharisees.)

Musing a bit, it occurs to me that, in one form or another (and they vary drastically), most devout Christians have some desire to evangelise in the "they'll know we are Christians by our love" mode. Some forms can be quite drastic - an example being radical evangelicals, who fear that those who don't make a decision for Christ are hellbound, who preach the need to be saved on any provocation or no provocation. (I walked past one today - he was standing on a street, reminding passers by that they were doomed. I have no idea how he could tell that none of us were "saved" - maybe our haloes weren't shining. This much I do know - he probably knew those who "misbelieve rather than disbelieve" if he saw ashes on their heads.) But most of us are not that extreme. To give you an example - Catholics of all varieties (and in this I include C of E, Lutherans and the like) normally do not feel any calling to try to convert unbelievers or non-Christians. Ever since the Counter-Reformation, and particularly since the French Revolution era, if anything Roman Catholics would be more inclined to seek to urge other (non-practising) Catholics to attend church and receive the sacraments than to seek to convert a Methodist or Jewish neighbour.

Overall, probably the most common idea of how to evangelise (and the one encouraged most) was "example." Yet that approach can lead to several fallacies. First, one must be careful not to over-estimate one's own importance (as very avid Christians sometimes forget.) It's highly unlikely that another is looking to you for example. I must add that great saints, whom the hagiography (ignoring that Jesus of Nazareth not only was not universally popular and respected but met his end as a condemned criminal... the Son of God charged with blasphemy... Prince of Peace with sedition) would make one think held everyone in awe at their holiness, are honoured by many who'd utterly flip if their children acted in the same fashion, or who would hold a low opinion of someone they actually knew who lived as many great saints did.

It's best, not only for one's overall mental health but for any area of commitment, ro remind oneself that there is no such thing as "how others see you." (Incidentally, any "helpful" sort who wants you to "see yourself as others see you" is only warming up for an ego game. She's only telling you how she sees you - and it always will be negative!) Moving from the sublime to the silly, probably the woman dressed in what I consider dreary, dowdy clothing thinks she looks professional - and finds my batik to be tacky or too youthful. Those who spout details of self-improvement kicks, who believe they may inspire others, can come across as self absorbed, superior / childish bores. The adult "class clown" may be seen as insufferable by some, as an utter riot by others.

If someone achieves legendary status, in any field, probably those who knew him years back, and perhaps in no way found him extraordinary, will recall how the marks of greatness always existed. I'm making this up - but let's say that someone who is now a famous artist was always working on drawing and painting, even in his earliest years. (In fact, most of us in the arts, acclaimed or not, had a passion for the art from childhood, even if we did not have early training or come from artistic families.) In a biography of the now acclaimed master, old friends or family members who are interviewed will speak of this passion with great esteem. Yet, when he was eight years old and forever pining for his easel, probably his mother was nagging him to go out and play - his siblings mocked him - his father wanted him to toss aside the oil paints and pursue a field with a future - young friends who were more interested in tossing a ball thought him weird. (If, instead of being a famous artist, he was later of the "starving artist" set - which happens often, even with those whose talent is great, and even in the rare cases where those in the pauper's grave are later legends in another era - the negative attitude will persist - and be mentioned even at his funeral!)

When John Paul II occupied Peter's throne, he canonised and beatified a massive number of people - in some cases, those who had not died that many years earlier. I occasionally read testimonies from those who had known them. I do not doubt the truth of the testimonies for a moment, yet I sometimes wondered if a trait which the old acquaintance now remembers as a wonderful example might not have been exasperating at the time. To give you an example... though the name of the Servant of God escapes me at the moment, I recall reading of a member of a religious Order (perhaps even a founder) whose contemporary spoke of how, whenever there were social settings, the Servant of God had managed to turn the conversation back to Christ. Edifying in memory, I'm sure - yet even I, who have been known to have some very interesting theological discussions in my day, and who even think it must have been fascinating to live in the times when debates over the Trinity, rather than football, made pub life spicey, doubt I would not groan if a bit of fun and relaxation were interrupted by someone who always turned social conversation back to Christ. (Lord have mercy, even Jesus Himself hardly avoided the social, and I'm not referring only to his turning water into wine, which makes him a man after my own heart. He must have been quite involved in social occasions, considering how many Pharisees complained about the company he kept.)

I don't recall the source or the priest's name at the moment, but, a few years ago, I remember reading an interview with a priest-friend of the Servant of God Fulton J. Sheen. The interview was with someone who not only thought very highly of Fulton, but indeed was giving testimony for his beatification. I was not surprised when, with no lack of love or respect, he mentioned two difficulties Fulton had with dealing with other priests socially. First, Fulton had certain causes which he considered very critical - and, if others did not share his commitment, he tended to go on about the matters, as if to convince them that they should see them as primary concerns. Second, Fulton, for all his academic brilliance, had a very simple, even childlike faith, and, as the priest mentioned, genuinely believed that there had been many miracles in his life. Fulton would speak of these not only from the pulpit or podium, but socially. His intention, as those very close to him knew, was to inspire people to faith and to trust in prayer. Still, to those unaware of this (and especially in view of the vanity to which he himself freely admitted), it came across as "look how special I am."

I'm not even going to get into such beloved heavenly friends of mine as Francesco and Caterina - who today would be assuredly "diagnosed" unfavourably by the growing crowd of pop psychology devotees. My point is that even the most devout and virtuous of people hardly are shining examples to all and sundry. My old friend Julian of Norwich is rather in vogue today - though for reasons that often have little relation to her true message. Yet I can only imagine the reaction of anyone were s/he to actually meet a solitary...

I'm not deriding the value of example, though I dare say that those who give the best of this are not seeking to do so. But the Church has endured purely because of divine grace - anyone with the slightest vision (inward or outward!) or acquaintance with church history is all too aware that it was not our shining virtues, at any time, which led anyone to God. The saddest part, of course, is that, though major shites may well have managed to pack pews or fill collection plates, the truly great saints, to whom there may be great devotion (from afar!) today were unlikely to have been valued when they were alive.

(Not that they would have had the slightest worries about 'how others saw them.')

Blessed Lent, all.