The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips and walk out the door and get on with their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.

—Billy Graham

I’m not talking about unbelief. I don’t even think that statement is true anymore (the greatest single cause of atheism now is the dry, yeastless factuality of rational science; it upholds absolute demands on proof that preclude the astounding joy of faith. see yann martel for more.) I’m talking about the greatest single cause of belief.

The greatest single cause of cynicism today is anyone who acknowledges this or that with their lips and walks out the door and gets on with their lifestyle. That is what an evidence-demanding world simply finds unconvincing.

I suspect that, if you were to poll the world, the vast majority would acknowledge a higher power. That the people would say, “Yes! I do believe,” but that some of those same people, looking out, would say, “No! I don’t see it.” Because what is there to see?

I see an America where 9 of 10 believes in God and an America where 4 in 10 regularly attend church. And in that, I see an America where 5 in 10 acknowledge a higher power but do nothing about it. And in that, I see why God is only a word in the pledge of allegiance, a few letters on our dollars, a name more commonly cussed than invoked. I see a majority who say God but who do not mean it, who do not act it.

The greatest single cause of unbelief today is “believers” who acknowledge God with their lips and walk out the door and do nothing on their belief. “Believers” who say but do not do. “Believers” who claim faith but show no works.

I often deride politics. I say bureaucracy is a road to perdition, or at best a road to nothingness. But the political ones, I admit, do something. See the Obama signs still proudly propped in yards, in windows, on pins. See the crowds dancing in the streets. See them ready to act.

So you say you believe. That is good! But even the demons believe. (Not my words.) Will you separate yourself from the demons? Will you work on your belief? Will you walk out the door and re-create your lifestyle?

The greatest single cause of belief in the world today must be Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their hands and walk out the door having shown their beliefs through their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world will find almost unbelievable.

What do you want to be, anyway?

Merton fumbles and murmurs some humble triviality unworthy of being remembered or cited. Lax, in a retort as brief and violent as his name, challenges:

What you should say is that you want to become a saint.

Vaulting ambition? A personal Tower of Babel? Merton never thought so; he later wrote, “The biggest human temptation is to settle for too little.” Of course, this has the danger of self-centeredness, but it also has merit. World records never get surpassed without one daring to run faster than anyone has ever tried. But how to be a saint? Start working miracles? Start a religious order? Start working on your martyrdom?

I say this: aim not for the canon of Rome but for the canon of your calling (perhaps a physical version for you clowns, colonel, and cameramen.) If you’re a writer, what you should is that you want to become a saint among writers, like Shakespeare, Hemingway, or Rumi. If you’re a doctor, what you should say is that you want to become a saint among doctors, like Galen, Hippocrates, or Michael DeBakey. If you’re a corporate lobbyist, well, you’re damned and there are no positive examples, but what you should say is that at least you didn’t become an MTV (lack of) personality.

In these guilty moments, I scrub a gamut of cleansing efforts, from justification to vows to rationalization to amnesia. But never sanctification. Never from me.

And so, I need God. I need God to cleanse me. If He didn’t/doesn’t exist, I’d invent Him so I could have Someone worthy enough to wash me. I can’t accept absolution from dirty hands, especially not my own, the filthiest of all.

This sort of realization brings great doubt. When I realize how I want to believe in God and how useful He is, I realize I might be working into belief, not actually having faith. This is a great danger, believing something because it sounds good and helps. I hear it often in all churches. Conservative denominations like a wrathful God who demands Pharisaic perfection. Progressive orders like a loving God who accepts everyone. Fruit flies like a banana.

The pain of truth is that we might not like it. I believe that God does judge. He does have standards, and we fail to meet them. I don’t really like that, but a perfect God can’t be any other way. Fortunately for me and my filthy flesh, He also loves and gives a Way to help us satisfy His law. Through grace, mind you, not works. Certainly not through my works of dirt and mud.

Then again, all things can be worked for good.

In quintessential Catholicism, a nun at a college assembled a list of rules for her art department. But unlike indulgences or purgatory, these are good ideas. If you have any interest in creative production, you should read them.

Better yet, you should make them. For as much as I approve of Sr Corita’s mandates, I know that I need different guidelines to overrule my indiscipline. Here’s what I dictated:

1. Sanctify the workspace. Then work it. Holy ground needs a plow, too.
2. Do nothing else.
3. Stop, drop, and write. It is that urgent and you will forget it later.
4. Don’t write from the brain. Write from the soul through the brain and other nervous organs.
5. Try something bigger. Then bigger. And then better. (Risk then refine.)
6. If you’re pushing, stop. Find a better way. If you’re pulling, run. Then ride it.
7. Share.
8. Use everything you have and nothing more. You are enough.
9. Abandon a manifestation but never a vision. Incarnate it again. Again. Again. Until what you read is what you saw.
10. Joy.

On this day of rising, I’m waiting for my hot cross buns to plump. Yeast takes time. So does resurrection. We call it Lent and now it is finished and he is risen. (Note that I’m glad my pastries don’t need 40 days of preparation.) It may seem sudden but it is not so immediate. It was made.

Lent comes from a Middle English word meaning to lengthen, because the days are lengthening as winter steps off (no matter what these blizzards and freezes may scream, they are but parting shots). Spring takes time. So does resurrection. We ready ourselves with deprivation and discipline so that when the time comes, we may truly rise.

Do you believe in the story of Lazarus? That a man can rise from the dead? That you can rise from your coffins? Revival takes time. So do it. We celebrate the finale today, but always remember the preparation that came before the three nails and the rolling stone and the empty tomb. There was sacrifice before the triumph; there was pain before the glory; there was death before the life.

May you die now and live later, longer, all ways, through the Risen One.

ps: the hot cross buns were delicious.

Anyway, the filmmaker first asked for consent in 1984 to produce his vision. They said no, they weren’t ready. 16 years later, the prior contacted him and said, “It’s time.” 16 years. The filmmaker lived in the monastery for 4 months to film but also to participate in and absorb the ascetic monastic life. His careful, patient stay shines through, as he clearly understands the rhythm of the ritual.

The result is a truly beautiful film that entranced me. Not because it had great commentary (it had none) or some overarching moral (it spoke none) or even witty words (it was nearly silent). It was real and I was there. The patience of the monks and the filmmaker created something superior. Supernatural.

After that suggestory introduction, let’s move forward. America does a lot of things, but waiting is not one of them. I don’t think it requires much cajoling to convince you of the instant gratification nature in this society. Be it states insisting on moving up their primaries (a situation which, on a political side note, is so typical of the Democratic Party: holding these nice-sounding standards that prove to cause quite a practical mess in the end) or Uncle Ben’s instant rice or check cashing usurers. Can’t wait.

Too bad, because waiting is a great way to improve and become ready for what will come in good time. Had Michigan and Florida waited, they would have been keys to the election. Instead, they are disenfranchised and ridiculed for voting ineptitude (again, in Florida’s case). As I agonize about grad school admissions (or lack thereof), I’ve been compelled to consider what I will do if/when I get admitted here/there.

Quick, what’s the last thing Jesus did before starting to preach? What did the Israelites have to endure before they entered Canaan? What do you have to do between Selection Sunday and the best weekend of the year? Wait for it in agonizing fashion.

But of course there’s much to be done in the interval! Waiting is wasting if it lacks action. So be it bracketology or campus visits, the period of pause must be filled and fulfilled. Delay is not evil (unless we’re referring to the former House majority leader, but such condemnation goes without saying when it comes to members of Congress). It is an opportunity.

For a closing example, look at my mom. She had to pause her career for 20-some years to raise troublesome sons. During that time, she learned how to handle pretty much every delinquency known to man (or at least those known to boys), and now is well-qualified to do any kind of social work. In that time, she also discovered she could combine her passions for plants and counseling into horticultural therapy. And even though she could join the AARP, she’s starting a job she loves. Though I can’t say that I hope to wait that long.

Also, your waiting for new features will soon be rewarded.

Forced to do, well, nothing, I obtained a pen and paper, which, fortunately, are the core of my work materials. So I sat and drank chai and saw all kinds of opportunities for the day unfolding. I had brilliant story ideas which will certainly win literary honors (or at least be posted here sometime). I came up with a clever quip for the cute girl at the coffeeshop. I spilled tea on my pants. O, happy day!

After these epiphanies, the landlord returned my call and unlocked the door. Another triumph! I have never been so delighted to walk through my own front door (except after that sledding incident). The little victory spurred me to a mighty brew session followed by a mighty run followed by a mighty revision night with some mighty drinks followed by some mighty dreams and not followed by a hangover with any might whatsoever.

The point is that if you force yourself out of your usual world, you might find some mighty good things. Try it, but make sure you have people who can let you back in. Or be a better burglar than I am (for now).

Not coincidentally, it’s Lent. Eliminating something usually means replacing it with something else. How many Catholics would ever enjoy fried fish were it not for Fridays? The linguistic root of Lent came from the notion that the days were lengthening, that life was emerging. Just like a phoenix, we make way for life by rising through ashes and leaving them behind. The season culminates in a multi-layered celebration of life: Easter. The liturgical vivification is almost over, but there’s still time to replace many deaths with life. Lock yourself out and let inspiration strike.

Quick note on Lenten resolutions (versus resolutions in general): They’re great. The tradition of giving something up forces concrete, practical goals (often not the case for the New Year’s variety). The set time period demands being reasonable about what you can actually go without for that period (or to bet on who will be the last to quit the quitting.) It’s certainly long enough to form a good habit/lose a bad one. And it makes Easter more delightful than Mardi Gras.

In the beginning, there was art. There were sunrises, nocturnes, landscapes, still lifes. Finally, The Eternal Artist fiddled with figures and formed a pair fit to express His image. He saw that they were good and so decided to be fruitful and multiply, expressing Himself uniquely in each one of us.

But vandals dent, nick, erode, and beshame every expression, desecration which The Artist cannot abide. And so, on this day, he sends a Restorer to nudge each lump, mold each dent, and reform us all into the eternal creative vision of The Artist.

Even as we are, our art actually is all around: on the street, at the dinner table, among brothers, in the mirror. I see it in so many of you. I wish I could tell you each specifically. Whether you feel ruined or flawless, you are a masterpiece. And whether others look stained or unblemished, they are masterpieces. The Artist stands behind His work, and The Restorer has come to make it new again.

Upon rereading, I now see that I missed it. The blindness is not willful, but unwitting. And it isn’t blunt blindness to existence - they are aware of blacks - but rather an unawareness that the black man is a person. They see he is a body; they don’t see he has a soul. The narrator is metaphysically invisible, at least to whitey. I haven’t reread far enough to see if his racial compatriots also miss his inner self, but it seems like they might. And he might, too.

And there lies the locus of tangency to Urban Trappist philosophy. This inner invisibility is a plague. We do not see the great (wo)man inside us and so we resign ourselves, chaining them to a real future, deferring their dreams.

When Dracula looks in a mirror, he sees nothing. His body is invisible to his reflected eyesight. But give the man - er, vampire - credit; he knows his self. It’s a bloodthirsty, manslaughtering, undead self, but he knows it and what makes it tick. Thus he sucks, runs, sleeps all day in a coffin, and hides in a spooky castle lest he be crucified in his own way. I can’t applaud any other vampiric traits (well, maybe the ability to enchant virgins. and the bat-morph thing), but the Count certainly knows itself.

He who has eyes, let him see.