More on the pledge drive, which has blown me away, next week. I'm processing.
In the meantime, here's something I've been wondering vis-a-vis our recent discussion about the current dearth of Catholic writers. We might start by asking why some of our best "Catholic" writers aren't Catholic. Japanese novelist Kenzaburō Ōe’s A Personal Matter says more about being for life—all of life—than all the anti-abortion screeds ever written. Along with his wife, Ōe raised a brain-damaged child (and two others) into adulthood, and the theme of the wounded child, the imperfection that shatters our lives, runs through much of his work.
In spite of frail health and chronic illness, American journalist Katherine Boo journeyed to India, for four years immersed herself in the lives of urban slum dwellers, and wrote the sublime non-fiction work Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity.
In Days of Destruction, Days of Revolt, journalist Chris Hedges (along with graphic artist Joe Sacco) writes of America’s “sacrifice zones”: the Pine Ridge Lakota reservation in South Dakota; the indentured-slave tomato pickers in Florida.
These are works about humans, written by humans, that treat of the human condition. To be Catholic is to be curious about and affectionate toward other human beings, no matter how disturbing, wayward, and annoying we find them. Because that is how Christ finds us.
Any recovering drunk off the street will tell stories of his day-to-day life that are gripping, stimulating, thought-provoking, poignant, and grounded in the deepest morality of all; namely, that the problem is not other people; the problem is us. In his way, he tells Gospel stories: about demons being driven out, the blind being made to see, the deaf to hear, the lame to walk. Still bearing the wounds, but nonetheless, walking. Holding out a shaky hand to the next person.
And he is funny.
That is Catholic.
Film-maker Robert Bresson (Diary of a Country Priest, A Man Escaped) wrote that he wanted to help men and women “discover the matter they are made of.” "Where have all the great ones gone?" asked Andrei Tarkovsky. another Catholic-in-spirit film-maker. "Where are Rossellini, Cocteau, Renoir, Vigo? The great—who are poor in spirit?"
The great who are poor in spirit—that is really Catholic. Or as Thérèse of Lisieux prayed on her deathbed, “May I become little, more and more.”
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