Our People

On the importance of not being earnest

Retreat to Clergy of the Military Ordinariate, Fourth Conference

By Most Rev. Anthony Fisher OP
Auxiliary Bishop of Sydney
29/11/2005

The Name of the Rose, the mediæval novel by Umberto Eco, relies for its surface plot upon the discovery of a previously unknown work by Aristotle on laughter and the attempt by some very earnest monks to suppress it, if needs be by murder. The film of the same name depicts a sombre environment of broken vows and broken faces – you might have been forgiven for concluding on the basis of the film that no one with normal noses or teeth existed in fourteenth century Europe, at least not in the monasteries. In any case, they weren’t given much to laughing. It is an all too common caricature of religious people – serious people with serious dental problems, like the typical vicar and his wife.

There is, of course, something to be said for seriousness in religious matters. St Ephraem of Syria memorably said, “Laughter about holy things is the cause of the ruin of a multitude of souls.” Given St Ephraem’s great gift for word plays in his homilies and hymns, it would be strange if he hadn’t made the odd joke. Perhaps “cynicism” is a better description of what he condemns – the sneering and giggling about religion that is often a prelude and accompaniment to a complete loss of faith. C. S. Lewis describes it in a chilling fashion when the subject of temptation in the story is led by his demon to a circle of freethinkers who are constantly making fun of other people’s views. As Lewis puts it, “Where ‘the joke’ is always taken to have been made.” Nothing is sacred. Nothing is too elevated to be brought down a notch. It is, though, a self-directed, indulgent sort of humour that lacks human fellow feeling or the moral imagination that flows from it. Such an atmosphere is not joyful, it drives out real joy and playfulness for its counterfeit.

St Thomas has an instructive passage on laughter. In question 168 of the Secunda Secundæ of the great Summa, he deals with Eutrapelia, or playfulness, a virtue whose description he derives from Aristotle’s Ethics. His Christian authority is the monastic journalism of St John Cassian. One of the fathers with whom John talks recommends that monks take a break from the work of contemplation every so often. Because the object of contemplation, God Himself, is so elevated, the human spirit tires and would snap like a bowstring always pulled tight, if it were not to be relaxed occasionally. The Angelic Doctor, as he is wont to do, sets up a number of ethical rules for playful speech. First of all, the diverting pleasure ought not itself be sinful or otherwise injurious: you shouldn’t, for instance, make jokes at the expense of someone’s reputation. Second, the diverting jest shouldn’t completely overturn the task at hand. Third, it ought to be in harmony with the human circumstances: laughing and joking while a bishop was talking to you, for example, would undoubtedly be sinful. Perhaps a better example might be joking during the Ode at 6pm in the RSL Club: times, places and occasion ought to be respected. When these conditions are met, then not only is laughter permitted, it is a positive good, a virtue.

He goes on to ask, having dealt with the sin of excess in this matter, over-playfulness, whether there is a sin in a lack of mirth. He says, “In human affairs, whatever is against reason is a sin. Now it is against reason for a man to be burdensome to others, by offering no pleasure to others, and by hindering their enjoyment… Now, a man who is without mirth not only is lacking in playful speech, but is also burdensome to others. Consequently he is vicious and said to be boorish or rude.” (IIa IIæ q168 a4 Resp). It is well to keep in mind that the virtues we often esteem in our brother clergy, such as good humour, hospitality and affability, are indeed real virtues, and their lack real vices. Simple companionability is the foundation of all fraternity, religious or otherwise. Sitting down with a glass of wine or a nice cuppa and just chatting is the bedrock of any society. I don’t think St Thomas is suggesting that we all have to be stand up comics, frequent punsters, or the life and soul of every party, but we have to be available for our fellows. So he used to pay for the Dominican students to go on picnics.

Jesus also loved eating and drinking with his friends. Partly this reflected the fact that Jesus was a Jew. We have lots of incidents that suggest this in the Gospels: Jesus’ relatives, especially his good Jewish mother, seek to ensure that his ministry does not get in the way of his having proper meals (Mk 3:20f; cf. Jn 4:31); Peter’s mother-in-law, cured of her fever, gets up immediately to serve them supper (Mt 8:14f par.); having raised Jarius’ daughter, Jesus’ first direction was to give her food (Mk 5:35ff); and his dear friends Martha and Mary squabble over serving the dinner (Lk 10:36ff; cf. Jn 12:1ff).

Jesus loved to party. He was forever at wedding feasts, pharisees’ dining tables, eating with tax collectors and sinners, ‘at home’ with close friends like Lazaraus, Mary and Martha, or hosting picnics for five thousand or so in the hills. This was not just in times of leisure, though he clearly enjoyed those to the full. His most precious moments are marked by eating and drinking. His first great sign is turning water into wine (Jn 2:1ff); his most recorded miracle is the multiplication of loaves and fishes (Mt 14:13ff par.); and his last wonder before his ascension is the huge haul of fish (Jn 21). All these miracles marked crucial points in his ministry and were all of end-time proportions: abundant, magnificent, divine in their extravagance. Not just food and drink, but more than anyone could need or want. A foretaste of the heavenly banquet promised by Isaiah, dreamed of by a people who eked out a subsistence on marginal lands, permanently at risk of starvation. As his ministry comes to its climax, he takes his closest friends aside for a last meal, a meal that would complete the great Passover by investing it with a new significance, his own Pasch, a meal he would direct us to perpetuate in the Eucharist (Mt 26:20ff par; cf. Jn 6 and 13). Before returning to the Father he dines again with despairing disciples in Emmaus (Lk 24:13ff), with confused apostles as they gather on the Sunday evening (Mk 16:14), with his nearest and dearest at the lakeside breakfast (Jn 21). And all of this partying, replete with significance, came very naturally to a man who loved to party.

Jesus loved food and drink. This particular aspect of his temperament coloured his theology and preaching. Jesus was not a patristic theologian, or a scholastic theologian, or a liberation theologian, or an ecotheologian. He was a culinary theologian. When he wanted to describe the kingdom of God, or the afterlife, or forgiveness, or ministry, or himself, time and again he chose images of food and drink, feasts and parties. He told us parables about vineyards, grapes and wine (Mt 9:17 par; 20:1ff par; Lk 10:34; 20:9ff; Jn 15:1ff); about wheat (Mt 13:3ff par; Jn 4:35ff; 12:24), yeast (Mt 13:33 par.; 16:5ff par.) and bread (Lk 11:5ff); about oil (Lk 10:34; 16:5ff), mint, dill, cumin (Mt 23:23 par.), mustard seeds (Mt 13:31f par.), figs (Mk 13:28ff; Lk 13:6ff), eggs (Lk 11:12), fish (Mt 13:47ff) and a fattened calf (Lk 15:23ff). He preached about eating and drinking together and table manners: when throwing a party, don’t only invite the same old crowd (Lk 14:12ff); when someone invites you to dinner, don’t presume to take a place of honour (Lk 14:7ff); don’t be too fastidious about cups and pots (Lk 11:39 par.); when out on the mission, accept any hospitality you are offered (Lk 10:7 par.); and so on. He described prayer as asking our Father for our ‘daily’ bread (Mt 6:11 par; Lk 11:5ff). Forgiveness is like a father holding a feast to celebrate his prodigal son’s return (Lk 15:11ff). Christian life is about bearing fruit and yielding a harvest (Mt 7:16 par.; 12:33 par.; 13:23 par.; Lk 3:9; Jn 12:24; 15:5). Preaching should be savoury like salt (Mt 5:13). Christian leaders should be wise stewards who feed their household at the proper time, or shepherds who feed Christ’s sheep (Mt 24:45ff; Jn 21; cf. Lk 16:1ff). The kingdom of God is like a wedding party (Mt 22:1ff; 25:1ff; Lk 14:15ff) and in that kingdom Jesus’ disciples will eat and drink at his table (Lk 22:30).

How does Jesus describe himself? My food is to do the will of my Father (Jn 4:32ff); I am the bread of life (Jn 6). And how does he leave himself for us? Again, as food: his body and blood, under the species of bread and wine, the staple foods of life. Jesus the party-goer is remembered in the meal, the celebration, the party (1 Cor 11). Jesus the foodie and drinker is present in the food and drink (Mt 26:26ff par; Jn 6:48ff).
Lots of people did not approve. In Matthew and Luke’s gospels we hear he was spitefully called ‘drunkard and glutton’ (Mt 11:16-19; Lk 7:31-35). On the face of it the complaint against Jesus was a straightforward one, the perennial ‘religious’ motif I identified in this morning’s conference as non-Christian: good, religious people are ascetical; they hate the body and all its pleasures; holy people abstain from anything that makes them smile; no-good, irreligious, self-indulgent people bib and tuck and laugh enthusiastically. Some such notion may well have been behind the complaint of the Baptist’s men (Mk 2:18ff par): that Jesus is too worldly by half; that the end-times should be heralded, indeed inaugurated, by abstinence. But on the lips of the Scribes and Pharisees it meant rather more: it was an echo of the sayings in the Wisdom Books that winos and over-eaters come to nothing or worse (Prov 21:17; 23:20-21; 28:7; Ecclus 31:12-42; 37:32-34) and of the Old Law that said such lads would best be executed (Deut 21:18-23). Gluttony and drunkenness were a symbol of a rebellion so profound it was capital, mortal, deadly, and Jesus would get his comeuppance.

No matter how hard we try, this old Manichean impulse to suspect anything that might constitute fun and ban it if possible always creeps in the back door like Fred Flintstone’s cat. These days the beast often takes on a health, environmental or social justice aspect. You can’t enjoy Christmas dinner because people in the Third World are starving, and if you do you must feel very guilty about it. You can’t eat that fish: they’re endangered species. You can’t eat bacon: it’s full of cholesterol. Cholesterol even comes in two varieties now: mortal and venial. Lurking beneath is, I suspect, that ancient idea that austerity of life can’t include any pleasure. Pleasure just isn’t right. If it feels good, stop it! St Thomas deals with this objection to listing eutrapelia as a virtue. “Austerity as a virtue does not exclude all pleasures, but only such as are excessive and inordinate.” (ad 3) Deriving innocent pleasure from the temperate use of God’s gifts – according to their due order and purpose – is not only not sinful, it is positively virtuous. It draws us closer to God. Look at Jesus.
An often-neglected duty is that of hospitality. Guests, especially houseguests, can put a strain on us. Those monastic stories of unknowingly entertaining the Lord or the saints and angels in the form of a poor man, less frequently in the form of a cleric, and the corresponding iconography exist precisely because of the burden that hospitality can easily become. As the old Jesuit adage goes “Venit hospes, venit Christus. Crucifige eum!” Mediæval hagiography is filled with stories of religious earning the enmity of the husbands of pious wives by drinking their best wine. This story is from the life of Blessed Jordan of Saxony, a thirteenth-century Master General of the Dominican Order:

A devout French lady was in the habit of showing hospitality at times to our brethren, an action which did not altogether please her husband. Once while she was entertaining Master Jordan and his companion, her husband came in, and barely cloaking his wrath joined them at table. But discovering shortly that the best wine had been drawn for their use, he called out in a temper to the servant: ‘Go and fetch some of my own special wine -- you know which cask I mean.’ This was said in cutting irony, for the wine in that cask was sour and past use, but he meant in this way to annoy his wife and spoil her guests’ dinner. The servant retired to the cellar, drew a measure of wine as bidden, and returned with it. When the master of the house tasted it he found it had a capital flavour, and bawled out more vexed than ever: ‘You fool, why did you not bring the wine I particularly mentioned?’ The astonished domestic could only stammer out that he had done so. The command was a second time given very precisely, and with the like result. Furious beyond bounds the master leaped up from the table, drew the wine for himself, and found it capitally flavoured as before. Then he learnt that the wine which heretofore had been sour and unfit to drink had through Master Jordan’s merits lost its acidity and become vastly improved in quality. Malice gave place to friendship, and from thenceforth he let his wife entertain the brethren hospitably.

These issues were not unknown in New Testament times. Before parishes were marked out and presbyteries built and clerical salaries introduced – even as late as 200AD clerical salaries were considered an outrage and an heretical innovation of the Gnostics – Christian priests and deacons relied on the free offerings of the people for food and accommodation. The earliest layer of ministry seems to have been not the fixed leadership of the local churches, but the wandering, celibate prophets like Paul, Barnabas and John the Seer. Hospitality to these itinerant ascetical preachers was how the Church enacted her universality in the first centuries. When there were disputes and schisms such apostles and prophets were literally left out in the cold. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock!” might be thought of as having its life situation in the first Christian ministry. Hospitality then is not just an ethical imperative or a precept of charity, but pertains also to the nature of the Church as Catholic. When we entertain strangers the bonds of faith and communion that we know exist theoretically are made incarnate. It is an analogue of the Eucharist in our daily life.

 It is also especially important for the clergy to look after one another these days, not as unpaid psychotherapists listening to each other’s hurts (though that is often in order too), but just by being around and doing things together: sharing a meal, going for a walk, or taking in a movie or concert. So very frequently even those who live in the same house arrive exhausted from pastoral engagements and “veg out” rather than have yet another conversation. Even more, if people live in different houses: getting into your car and driving to visit someone can appear quite a task sometimes (especially in Sydney). Many of you live many miles from the next military chaplain, at least the next Catholic one, and maybe many miles even from another Catholic priest or deacon. To get together with your brothers to share joys and sorrows, or just to share their company and perhaps have some recreation, can seem more trouble than its worth. Beware. They need you and you them, and if there is no communion even with your brother clergy you are not likely to be much good at mediating communion with the Trinity and the Church to others. We need other friends and supports also.

The question of laughter and pleasure also touches on the nature of Christian joy. It is an unappealing phrase, I grant you, conjuring up the born-again, service smile of a McDonald’s waiter. There is a characteristic something in the lives of the saints that is redolent of an inextinguishable joy. There is another story about Blessed Jordan, much loved by novices:

When on his way home to his convent with a fresh batch of novices, as they were all saying Compline together, one of them fell to laughing, and the rest catching on joined in right heartily. Upon this one of the blessed Master’s companions made a sign for them to be quiet, which only set them off laughing more than ever. When the blessing had been given at the end of Compline, the Master turning to this friar rebuked him sharply: ‘Brother, who made you their master? What right have you to take them to task?’ Then addressing the novices very gently, he said, ‘Laugh to your hearts’ content, my dearest children, and don’t stop on that man’s account. You have my full leave, and it is only right that you should laugh after breaking from the devil’s thraldom, and bursting the shackles in which he held you fast these many years past. Laugh on, then, and be as merry as you please, my darling sons.’ They were all much relieved on hearing him say so, and never again indulged in a hearty laugh without a good reason.

And again,

When on his way to the General Chapter held in Paris, in company with a batch of our brethren, one morning the blessed father sent them all out into the town to beg bread for their breakfast, bidding them join him at a neighbouring fountain. When they met again they found that they had scarcely enough for half their number. Then the Master, breaking forth into joyful strains of the praises of God, exhorted the others by word and example to do the same, and presently they were all filled with such spiritual gladness and holy joy that a woman standing close by took scandal at the sight, and rebuked them, ‘Are you not all religious men? Whence comes it that you are merry-making at this early hour?’ But when she learnt the real cause of their mirth, and saw them rejoicing over their want of food, she was deeply touched, and hurrying home brought them bread and wine and cheese, saying: ‘If you were merry and gave thanks to God for such a miserable pittance, I want you now to have greater cause for rejoicing.’ After this she withdrew feeling highly edified, and begged for a remembrance in their prayers.

The theology and practice of Jesus ‘glutton and drunkard’ is certainly not one of Stoic endurance or of fatalism or ‘grin and bear it’. Though it has its ascetical side, as we saw this morning, feasting and fasting are sides of the same coin. A child once prayed: “O God, make the bad people good and the good people nice.” People often think religion is about a cranky repression, a sour-faced self-discipline, a morose and censorious attitude to life, a constant and pessimistic consciousness of evil. And certainly we can admit of no ignoring the problems of the present or the sufferings of the world. Yet to the scandal of his contemporaries, to the scandal of so many ‘religious’ people, Jesus does not preach such darkness: he is the Light; such heartlessness, he is Love; such lostness, for he is the Way; such meaninglessness, he is the Truth; such deadliness, for he is the Life. Holiness of life and real joy are not mutually exclusive. In fact, it seems you can’t have one without the other. Jesus preaches the importance of not being earnest, not taking ourselves too seriously, being able to laugh at ourselves and with others. Catholicism is, it seems to me, a high cholesterol religion. “I come that you might have life, and have it to the full” (Jn 10:10). While the bridegroom is with us we must party! (cf. Mt 6:16ff par.; 9:14ff par.).