"What is Your Favorite Color?": The Question of True Knighthood

As fast she fled thro' sun and shade,

The happy winds upon her play'd,

Blowing the ringlet from the braid:

She look’d so lovely, as she sway’d

The rein with dainty finger-tips,

A man had given all other bliss,

And all his worldly worth for this,

To waste his whole heart in one kiss

Upon her perfect lips.

-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Excerpt: “Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere”

            I remember when I was younger being enamored by visions of chivalric mice, glorious banquets, and fierce fighting in the late Brian Jacques’ Redwall series. I would be lost for hours in that world—curled up in a chair or under the covers (flashlight, of course, required). I would have daydreams of charging into battle. I imagined myself as a badger, the toughest and fiercest of animals, laying waste to the vermin, crying out, “Eulaliaaa!” Those who are familiar with the series will no doubt recognize the famous warcry. I was all for knighthood.

            What does it mean to be a knight? We immediately drum up images of a man dressed in shiny, metallic armor, while riding a tall steed. The jousting lance is a necessary part of that picture. Flags blowing in the breeze, and stands crowded with peasants and other folk cheering on the tournament. Well, that’s certainly one image of the knight. But that image is the trivial one; it is both unnecessary and unessential to the idea of knighthood. There is a deeper, more profound idea behind knighthood. I wish to explore that meaning.

            I had the pleasure of being introduced to Roger Lancelyn Green’s King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table while I taught it to a group of 5^th graders. We are all familiar with the sword in the stone, the Round Table, Avalon, Merlin and his wisdom/sorcery, and so on. Green’s account is highly episodic, with each chapter treating sometimes the main plot, and sometimes an individual knight. It can be, at times, hard to follow. You are brought in this direction, and then that one, with the intent of trying to give you an encompassing view of the whole. I am normally not one for that style of writing or storytelling. I enjoy a main stream of thought and the satisfaction of staying on course. But there is something both tangibly and subtly different in this case.

            Many might say that the apex of the plot is found in King Arthur’s betrayal by Sir Mordred. I disagree. I think the apex of the story—the whole point of the story—is found in the Quest for the Holy Grail (cue pithy and witty lines from “Monty Python”). But no, no humor in this one. This one is serious, wonderful, and profound. As Green’s narrative progresses, you learn that in order to accomplish the quest, one must have a strong faith in God and a pure heart. This is necessary and essential to the quest. Many knights pursued this quest, and many failed.

            One such knight not only failed, but was actually denied success. There is no doubt that the name of Sir Launcelot is ubiquitous, and carries a certain understanding of betrayal and weakness. Sir Launcelot is the greatest of all knights, save one. He cannot be beaten by any feat of strength, and overcomes all odds—almost. With Sir Launcelot, you cannot escape the idea of great strength being paired with a fatal flaw. He is the medieval Achilles, and his heel? Queen Guinevere.

            We know that Queen Guinevere is the wife of King Arthur. Upon selecting her as his bride, Merlin had this to say, “…I would that you loved another; for by her very beauty shall come the end of Logres—when the best knight of your court shall love her, bringing shame upon her and upon himself.”[1] Because of his illicit love for another man’s wife, Launcelot brings shame upon himself. He retains his strength, but his soul is stained. His knighthood, thence his purity, is marred. It’s ironic that the blow to lay low Launcelot comes not from a physical weapon, but from the abuse of the original Gift. He is now barred from accomplishing the quest.

            I find myself wonderfully intrigued by one scene that occurs during Launcelot’s pursuit of the Holy Grail. At this point in the story, he stumbles across a ‘stone cross…and a slab of marble’[2] next to a locked and darkened chapel. Without a clue as to what it might be, Launcelot passes into sleep. I want to emphasize sleep here. In Green’s own words, “And so he fell asleep; [during that time]…half waking and half sleeping.”[3] This is no comfortable, deep sleep for Launcelot. He is tossing, turning, waking up, falling back asleep, and beginning again. I’m reminded of many a night in a cold tent. During his sleep, Launcelot sees activity happen around the marble slab—the appearance of an old monk and wounded knight. You participate in his cold, waking, sleepiness—creating an ethereal and haunting feeling. It reads,

[He] saw the the door of the chapel open and the ancient hermit, Naciens, who had brought Galahad to Camelot, came out carrying the silver candlestick, which he set upon the marble block which now seemed like an altar in front of the cross. Then, as Naciens stood bside the altar in prayer, suddenly the Holy Grail, covered in a fair white cloth, came gliding on a pure moonbeam and rested awhile near the candles—and their light seemed as dim as if the sun shone, and dim also was the light of the full moon in the glorious brightness of the Light within the covered Grail. The sick knight, crawling painfully on his hands and knees, drew near to the altar, and then, reaching out his hands, he touched the Holy Grail, and straightaway he was cured of his sickness. Then, as he knelt in prayer, the Holy Grail rose from the altar and passed on its way like the brightest star of Heaven, and was lost to view.[4]

           

The knight is overjoyed at being healed of his pain and suffering. In his ecstasy, he is bewildered how a knight, Launcelot, could remain so close to the Grail and be asleep. Naciens answers, “He is held to the earth by his sins.”[5] When Launcelot awakes, he expresses deep regret and sorrow as the reality of his wickedness dawns upon him.

            I was interested by the ‘anchoring’ effect that sin has on Launcelot—he is weighed down to the earth. Sin is not a ‘light’ burden—it actually weighs down the soul. It prevents the airiness and lightness that is required to join in the Angelic chorus. Though physically capable, or rather earthly sufficient, he is woefully insufficient with regard to his spiritual aspect. I can’t help but be reminded of Adam. Adam is made ‘earthly’, or lowly, when he betrayed his duty and obligation in protecting Eve. He is cast from the heights, and lowered to the ground. He is anchored by his sin. Yet, there is One who enters time who is not weighed down by sin, and is able to be raised up. As one reads the Old Testament, you begin to become aware of many prefigurations of Christ. Christ is the new Adam. Christ condescended to take on the form of man, and become through this condescension, a son of Adam. But unlike Adam, Christ is not weighed down. He is able to be raised up. We see a repeated reference to this “raising” in the Gospel of John. Christ will be raised up on the cross, and we will be raised up into heaven. In like manner, the more perfect knight is Galahad. And who else could Galahad be but the son of Sir Launcelot.

            I mentioned before that Sir Launcelot could be bested but none, save one. That one is Sir Galahad. The last chair of the Round Table, called The Siege Perilous, has been reserved for Galahad alone. On the back of the chair has formed the words, “THIS IS THE SIEGE OF SIR GALAHAD THE HIGH PRINCE.”[6] Sir Galahad is the most pure of all the knights of the Round Table, and consistently demonstrates an absolute trust and faith in God throughout his tales. It is for him to complete the Quest of the Holy Grail. It is for him alone to accomplish that task.

            I am blessed to work in a school that is connected to an architecturally beautiful church. We have regular mass, and weekly Adoration. I could not help but to bring my 5^th graders back into the church to read the final chapter of the Quest for the Holy Grail. You will understand why as you read,

Galahad knelt on the first step, and the Grail Maiden went up and placed the Holy Grail in the centre of the altar. Then Naciens the Divine Hermit came and took the Grail in his hands and after he had prayed, he brought it to Galahad and said, ‘Holy Knight of God, I who have been the Priest of the Grail these many years give the Holy Grail into your hands that all things may be fulfilled…’

Then Galahad took the Holy Grail in his hands, drew away the cloth, and drank of the Holy Wine. After this he rose to his feet and set the Grail upon the altar: and it seemed to all who saw him that his face shone with a great light…

Then Galahad held the Spear so that the drops of blood fell into the wounds of the Maimed King: and at once Pelles was cured of his sufferings, and his flesh was…whole…

Then, [Percival] took [Blanchefleur] in his arms and kissed her; and there in the Chapel of the Holy Grail Sir Galahad, who now was the Priest of the Grail, blessed them and made them man and wife.

Then Galahad set the Grail upon the altar and knelt once more in prayer. And as he knelt, his life was accomplished, and his soul was taken up to Heaven so that his body lay dead before the altar. Then the sunbeam descended from above, striking clean through the roof of the chapel, and the Bleeding Spear and the Holy Grail passed up and vanished from sight, nor were they ever again seen upon this earth.[7]

Forgive me the long and extended quote, but sometimes it is far better to let the beauty of the original shine forth unmitigated by extra commentary. The Quest is accomplished. Within a short spell of reading, we receive the Institution of the Eucharist, the sacrament of Holy Orders, the sacrament of Marriage, and the Annointing of the Sick. Sir Galahad, having accomplished this most important of quests, offers up his spirit at the foot of the altar. What Adam was intended for, Christ accomplishes. What Launcelot prevented himself from enjoying, Galahad dutifully performed. Whenever I approach the sanctuary, I now think of the quest. I think of kneeling before the High Prince and being healed. I think, and I am reminded that I am also Launcelot.

            What happens with Launcelot? Does he wander off and is lost to all hope? Mercifully, no he is not. Launcelot is lead to the castle where the Holy Grail is found. He is led up the steps to the sanctuary, to the Chapel of the Holy Grail. But he is not permitted inside. He is barred from tasting, of being satisfied by the contents of the Holy Grail. Yet, he is permitted one thing. He is permitted to receive a glimpse, a small yet resounding glimmer, of the holy light proceeding from the Holy Grail. As Naciens speaks, “Sir Launcelot!...Come not here, for you are not worthy to draw near. Behold now the Holy Grail! But from it you may not drink!”[8] He is effectively denied this pleasure because he fell from grace. This is hard to suffer, but he is allowed the hope received through the view. We, too, are permitted this hope.

            Again, I ask what is knighthood? Is it really just prancing around on a groomed horse, of white or brown, with the edge of a lance piercing the breastplate of one similarly dressed? I cannot but think not. I think there is more than just mere coincidence that it is on the feast of Pentecost that the knights renew their chivalric vows. I’m inclined to believe that the true knighthood is the virtuous, faithful life. The quests are our daily crosses. We are daily weighed down, but we are daily invited to rise up. The prayers will be answered, grace will be found, and our quests accomplished because One has destroyed the weight of sin. I would not have fathomed this as I roved the world of Redwall in my mind. It was a prefiguration of what I would eventually conceive of as true ‘knighthood’.

This image and understanding continues to grow in my understanding. Many fit the label of knights. But I am beginning to see a specific group as especial heirs to Sir Galahad. The Archdiocese of New York used to display posters depicting black and white photos of World War II. The only thing shown with color is the stole around the neck of a priest administering last rites or communion to a fallen soldier. The caption reads, “The World Needs Heroes.” Indeed, the world needs knights.

           

---

[1] Page 52

[2] Page 307

[3] Page 308

[4] Page 308-309

[5] Page 309

[6] Page 274

[7] page 331-333

[8] Page 325

A Theology of ‘Perhaps’: A Catholic Response to Leithart and the Future of Ecumenism

In November of 2013, Peter Leithart published a controversial article in First Things entitled “The End of Protestantism.” The article lived up to its provocative title, proposing in the opening lines that, “The Reformation isn’t over. But Protestantism is, or should be.” Acknowledging the positive fruits and necessities of the Reform, Leithart nevertheless proposes that Protestants need to “envision new ways of being heirs to the Reformation”—a way rooted in positive theology as opposed to the negative (or anti-Catholic) theology which has defined Protestantism for the last few centuries. This would be achieved, muses Leithart, through a return to the original catholicity of the reformers and a reform of the Reform, thereby correcting the errors of contemporary and often non-liturgical denominationalism.

            Both exciting and precarious, Leithart’s project offers new insights into ecumenical discussion. Nevertheless, his project suffers the susceptibility of becoming an “in-house” conversation within Protestantism, thereby leaving out one of the more important players in western ecumenical dialogue—Rome. While most Roman Catholics would laud Leithart’s attempts to “catholicize” Protestantism through a critical and corrective analysis of the Protestant tradition, they would (and do) simultaneously see his project in exactly the manner I have described it—an in house dialogue on the “other” side of the Tiber. After all, how could the Catholic Church, with her robust magisterium, correct herself in like manner? Granted, in not doing so, frustrated Christians (including Leithart) deem her a haughty obstacle to ecumenism. Yet if she were to do so, would not she be guilty of a far greater haughtiness—the presumption that the present age trumps all others, and, even worse, that present knowledge can override the Spirit working in and through history? A critical (and perhaps corrective) analysis of the past may be necessary to assuage the wound of division that threatens the claims of the Church, yet that very same analysis could inevitably undermine the credo which makes her the Church. What is a Catholic theologian to do?

             

I. Essentialism, Relativism, and the Middle Distance

Two opposite and equally perilous positions threaten the Catholic theologian examining ecclesiology. Some, on the one hand, purport a Church in possession of all truth with a capital “T”—fully revealed, fully understood, and fully transcending any historical context. On the other hand, some suggest that the truth of the church changes constantly with history and peoples, all ultimately being subject to revision. As Nicholas Lash writes in his book Theology on the Way to Emmaus, “The opinions with which we are presented in these matters are often exceedingly stark: either unwarranted metaphysical assertion or unrestrained relativism; either ‘absolute knowledge’ or ‘mere belief.’”

Lash proposes, in response to such impasses, a theory of “middle distance”—looking neither from the peak of an all-transcendent mountain (which is impossible) nor independently from amidst the thicket of the present (which is absurd). Instead, the theologian must recognize his own subjectivity and historical contingency, while simultaneously acknowledging the shoulders upon which he stands. He must “transcend present circumstances sufficiently to discover something of where we have come from,” all the while realizing his inability to entirely transcend where we are. This position is undoubtedly uncomfortable, disallowing the theologian to “pick a side” in the insufficient and inappropriate “liberal/conservative Catholic” divide. Yet this balance is necessary, for it simultaneously recognizes historical disconnect and what Rowan Williams calls “the recognition that some sort of conversation is possible across surprisingly wide gaps in context and understanding” (Why Study the Past, 29).  This middle distance is only possible, however, if the theologian embraces a disposition of ‘Perhaps.’

II. A Theology of ‘Perhaps’

In the introduction to his acclaimed Introduction to Christianity, Joseph Ratzinger posits that in every person there exists a disconcerting but inevitable mix of faith and doubt. Every thoughtful Christian asks, “But, perhaps it is false;” and every staunch atheist likewise ponders, “But, perhaps it is true.” Nothing ex Cathedra can ever eliminate this “perhaps”—in fact, this ‘perhaps’ keeps theologians employed. The ‘perhaps’ in the heart of the believer calls the theologian, with the Church, to an examination of conscience. If doctrine goes unheeded, ought the Church change her teaching, or simply re-articulate her teaching in the language of the times? Without this ‘perhaps,’ and thus without this question, all evangelization becomes impossible, and theology devolves into contemporary politics—a shouting match between two platforms.

The ‘perhaps’ of the believer also reminds the theologian of his roots—that faith is not a list of tenets (a.k.a. a partisan platform) but a relationship with a person—the person of Jesus Christ. Thus the purpose of doctrine and dogma is the preservation and expression of the memory of this person—expressed first and foremost in His own historical contingency, and subsequently in His transcendence and enduring Presence as Lord of History. If all doctrine is, therefore, the memory of the person of Jesus Christ, language of “revision” and “change” becomes far less appealing. Instead, perhaps the words “rediscover” and “develop” prove more adequate. The person of Jesus can never be altered, yet how that Person is received through faith can be adapted according to historical circumstances—so long as that adaptation remains faithful to the person of Jesus in history.

This “perhaps”, however, does not negate the need for dogma—quite the contrary. If the Church is to remain “the Church” in any real sense of the term, then dogma must also remain dogma because the person of Jesus is a real, historical person who cannot be “made to order” according to contemporary needs. Of course, the question arises: who do we fundamentally preserve in “preserving Jesus”—the Jesus of the Gospels, the “historical Jesus”? Ratzinger writes in his essay “Seven Theses on Christology and the Hermeneutic of Faith”: “The center of the life and person of Jesus is his constant communication with the Father.” The Sonship of Jesus, which reveals his relationship to the Father and therefore his person and nature, must be the heart of any Christology, and therefore any doctrine. Thus, for example, the philosophical language of Chalcedon, far from imposing paganism on the purity of the Gospels, in fact retrieved the very heart of the Gospel and re-articulated that reality in order to preserve that reality. The homoousias so controversial in the fifth century successfully preserved the central aspect of the person of Jesus: his Sonship in relation to the Father. Likewise, any contemporary attempt to re-articulate doctrine must primarily seek to re-articulate that Sonship of Jesus in order to preserve that Sonship.

III. Liturgy as Middle Distance

This simplification of the Christological question, however helpful, does not resolve the dichotomy between classic “liberal” and “conservative” archetypes, for both seek to preserve the Sonship of Jesus, with the former deeming ancient language an obstacle to that preservation and the latter deeming that same language essential to preservation. Yet Ratzinger offers another criteria which may aid in mediation. He writes, “Since the center of the person of Jesus is prayer, it is essential to participate in his prayer if we are to know and understand him.” The gap between history and dogma is first and foremost bridged through a hermeneutic of prayer—the lex orandi, the encounter between Jesus Christ and the disciple. This prayer precedes all conciliar creeds, for the creed renders explicit what the faithful know implicitly in prayer. This prayer, however, is not merely the private prayer of the individual, but that prayer bound to and inseparable from the prayer of the Church: the liturgy. When the Church prays “Do this in memory of me,” the whole mystery of the person of Jesus Christ becomes present in bread and wine, and the faithful encounter the totality of revelation in a single moment. If ever there were an acceptable “essentialism”—a moment which transcends the historically contingent thicket of the present—this is it. In the liturgy, the believer encounters the Person of Jesus Christ preserved in the maternal memory of the Church; and sent from this source, the believer seeks to relay this Person to the world. This is the mission of the Catholic theologian in every age.

IV. The Future of Ecumenism

            What aspects of this memory, then, can be corrected or refreshed? Peter Leithart has proposed that Protestantism has forgotten its catholic roots, and therefore needs a new reformation; and it should be no surprise, given where our inquiry has led, that his solution emphasizes liturgical reform. This, perhaps, proves the greatest virtue or vice of Leithart’s project. Perhaps he desires to move toward a common Protestant liturgy—one which recognizes the centrality of the Eucharist as the reformers themselves did. Thus perhaps he hopes that, common liturgy “in hand,” a Protestantism of common and catholic substance can then begin productive dialogues with Rome, as has been the case for years between Rome and Constantinople.

            Yet the question remains, as was posed in the introduction: can the Catholic theologian “move toward the center” to the same degree? We are now equipped to rephrase the question: to what degree can the liturgy “move toward the center”? Indeed, while the Roman Catholic Church can adapt liturgy to cultural practices and norms, as evidenced beautifully in, for example, the Anglican Ordinariate, she cannot adapt the very heart of the liturgy—the relationship between the Father and the Son revealed in the Eucharistic mystery. And lest one mistake this mystery for an independent constant in the field of liturgical experimentation, the Catholic Church also cannot sever this essential mystery from the history to which it is bound. Just as an event remembered cannot be separated from the faculty of memory, so too the Person remembered in the liturgy cannot be separated from the faculty preserving that memory—the Petrine office, the creed, and the communion of saints.

This conclusion undoubtedly frustrates ecumenical efforts on every side. Yet this conclusion does not render the Catholic immune from penitential history—a fortressed elite patiently waiting for others to forge the Tiber. Though they can never repent of the chair of Peter, the Real Presence in the Eucharist, or the credo which affirms their prayer (to do so would be to repent of Jesus Christ himself), Catholic theologians must nevertheless place their hands into the wounds of the divided Body of Christ, realizing, as Thomas did, that we are as responsible as they. With this realization, the Catholic theologian must look for ways to integrate Luther, Calvin, Zwingli, and others into the large and eclectic body which is the Catholic Church. They must seek to incorporate the richness of the Protestant tradition within the embracing colonnade of St. Peter’s. They must not wait, dwelling in the illusion of a Promised Land (as, perhaps, was previously the case), but rather must “put out into the deep” as a fellow ship in via. The Catholic theologian can never aband

on his own ship—as Leithart and others perhaps hope—yet he also can never abandon other ships to their own devices. Rather, he must seek to bring the myriad vessels of Protestantism under a single captain, to journey together toward the eschaton with Peter at the helm.

The God of Luther and St. Therese: A Lenten Reflection

This morning while receiving my ashes, I was reminded of the story of the woman caught in adultery. We recall in John 8 how the woman is brought before Jesus to be stoned on account of her sins. Jesus, after writing in the sand, says to the scribes and Pharisees, “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” But no stone is cast—the scribes and Pharisees go away “one by one.” St. Augustine most beautifully writes, “There are left only two: miseria et misericordia.”

Miseria et misericordia—misery and mercy. These are all that remain. There is nothing in between—no pride, no adornments—simply grace. How often, I thought this morning, do I approach Lent with a “works righteousness” mentality: I need to do this and give up that and sacrifice this. Now, giving things up and fasting and doing works of charity are good and essential during the whole liturgical year, and especially during Lent. I mean to take nothing away from them. Instead, it is the mentality which is the focus of my concern. How often I look back at Lents of the past and say, “I gave up such and such, but I failed,” or “that was a bad Lent”—as if the priest collects a scorecard on Easter Sunday. In fact, looking back, I do not think I have ever actually succeeded in Lent—never made it flawlessly to the end.

Thus every year, in the days leading up to Ash Wednesday, I seek ways of remedying last year’s Lenten failures—give up more, give up less, give up something different, do something positive, etc. Yet this year during my pre-Lent reflection, I received inspiration from two unlikely yet undoubtedly kindred souls: Martin Luther and St. Therese.

Anyone who knows the legacy of these two souls would likely never mention them in the same breath: the one a sixteenth century reformer who ended up on the wrong end of a bull of excommunication, and the other a Carmelite doctor of the Church who never left the cloister. Yet scratching the surface of their lives a bit more, we may discover some interesting similarities: desires for sanctity, struggles with scrupulosity, and a beautiful theology of grace. Both Luther and Therese wrestled with their imperfections, with merit, and with mercy. And thus they concluded:

Luther: “I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God's hands, that I still possess.”

Therese: “In the evening of this life, I shall appear before you with empty hands, for I do not ask you, Lord, to count my works. All our justice is blemished in your eyes. I wish, then, to be clothed in your own justice and to receive from your love the eternal possession of yourself.”

Theologian Mickey Mattox, who first connected these two great people for me in his book Changing Churches, writes, “One can only regret that this wonderful saint (Therese) was not around to meet with Martin Luther as the controversy over the Ninety-Five Theses unfolded… Each of them expected to appear before God with empty hands, and hoped at last to be clothed in God’s justice alone” (65).

            Though the differences between the two theologians are as plentiful as their similarities, I think their theology of grace remains central to mere Christianity—and to my Lenten preparations. I will always enter Lent with bold initiatives, and I will likely always fail. Yet so long as these bold initiatives are rooted in my love for God, and so long as my confidence is always in Him alone, I can be assured that my Lents will be “successful.” For in my desire to love Him, I do in fact love Him; and in my weakness and sinfulness, I can still be confident in His love, for His power is made perfect in weakness. Thus it is with joy and hope that the Christian hears, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

In remembering that we are dust, we remember that in God alone rests our joy and hope. It is as if we begin Lent every year with the words, “Remember that you are misery, but more importantly, remember that He is Mercy!” In embracing this Lenten call and in making it our prayer, we surrender the work of our sanctity to God. God does indeed make progress in me. Yet it is because of His work in this unworthy servant, not my own. Only with this mentality can the pilgrim enter Easter Sunday every year with confidence and joy, for he will bring neither pride nor adornments, but only empty hands—only miseria to greet the overflowing abundance of misericordia.