Count them, one, two, three, four, five. My sister trying to whistle using a blade of grass. Could she be any more hippie?
I can get absorbed for hours in looking through unpublished posts and re-discovering photos. These were from May of several years ago: before Wales, before Roan, before working two jobs and being diagnosed with fibromyalgia. But I'm not gonna say what you think I'm gonna say: that "everything has changed." Not on the surface, anyway. The rhythms and loves and the aspirations are the same as ever. This sweet, sort of desperate attempt at daily living is still strived for, always not quite finished, always looking forward over the horizon to what tomorrow brings.
But I can definitely say that each day and each year I grow a little bit in peace. And that's my favorite thing, by far.
Bonnie has a good post about the use and abuse of Saint Joseph statues when trying to sell a home. I don't disagree with what she writes: putting Saint Joseph in a place of honor where you can see him and remind yourself to ask for his intercession seems like a better idea than burying him upside down and out of sight. Poor, cold Saint Joseph! And it's certainly not recommended that people with no faith or only passing faith partake of the superstition when they've no personal relationship with Jesus, let alone St. Joseph! But it got me thinking about superstition in Catholicism, what it means, where it came from and why, and what its place is in our Faith.
I've always been a Catholic, and there's never been a time when I haven't been. There are no moving reversion or conversion stories to be told, though I certainly came to a greater understanding of my faith as I grew older, and that "conversion" is still happening today, and much needed.
I'm also a poet. I've been a poet as long as I've been a Catholic. I'm also a poet because I'm a Catholic; and this is why. I remember feeling as a child what the poet feels (and have since discovered others who have experienced the same): the stirring of the soul where the divine reaches into nature and seeing with some hidden, heightened sense, but for a moment, as one whose vision has suddenly cleared, how things really are. C.S. Lewis called it joy. We partake of this joy in the Mass, the Communion of Saints, though it doesn't always feel so obvious to us. Now, imagine that kind of earth-splitting revelation occurring in the everyday. An Annunciation of nature, as it were. When the certain slant of light on the grass or a glimpse of cloud or a line from a song shatter one's mundane existence and show the true face of the world. It's so beautiful it hurts. And it disappears just as quickly as it came, or else one would die from the joy of it.
To those familiar with this world, superstitions make a good deal more sense. There are connections between the reality outside our physical world and this one, and we aren't able to fully understand them, not until we're in heaven. It was these seemingly unconnected connections that helped Chesterton to believe in orthodoxy, which he expounds upon in the book of the same name in the chapter titled "The Ethics of Elfland."
To grasp the essence of superstition one need only read fairy tales. Fairy tales are infested with them! Why else should cutting off a cat's head save a princess from a wicked witch? There's no natural connection between the cat, the cutting of its poor head, and the princess and the magic of her evil stepmother. And yet, intuition accepts the precept without question. It is the kind of intuition that we see in children, which survives past childhood, if we are lucky and humble enough to let it. If we don't let accusations of "what superstitious nonsense!" tell us to stop looking for otherworlds in the back of wardrobes or down rabbit holes. (Or stop hoping that a dying god somehow killed death.)
Through this lens, superstitions make a little more sense. I don't think it's coincidence that the Catholic Church is accused of having superstitious rituals. Why should lighting a candle somewhere halfway round the world usher God's grace to a friend in need? Why should chanting an ancient conversation between a girl and an angel at twelve noon each day be more appropriate than at other times? Why, for that matter, should repeated words work as a spell and transform simple bread and wine into divine Flesh and Blood?
John Collier, The Annunciation
Here is what dictionary.com has to say about the word superstition:
su·per·sti·tion [soo-per-stish-uhn]
noun
1. a belief or notion, not based on reason or knowledge, in or of the ominous significance of a particular thing, circumstance, occurrence, proceeding, or the like.
2. a system or collection of such beliefs.
3. a custom or act based on such a belief.
4. irrational fear of what is unknown or mysterious, especially in connection with religion.
5. any blindly accepted belief or notion.
Let's look at the first definition, which I think is what most people mean when they are talking about it in context with Saint Joseph. "A belief or notion not based on reason or knowledge." Well, then what is it based on? A feeling? How about an instruction, from an authority you trust? Ah, now we're getting somewhere! As Catholics, we know that the authority of the Church grants legitimacy to what might otherwise be superstitions--things not based on reason or knowledge per se . . . like the example of the candle I mentioned above. But we also know that God reveals Himself through his creation, and so those who have not been born into the faith, or who lived and died before the faith was available to them, can come to know Him through nature, and in this way are not exempt from salvation.
Materialists say that men imbue things with meaning willy-nilly, but we know that meaning is there, whether we are granted the sight to recognize it or not. Some people, I think, are more sensitive to this "sight" than others. Particularly the mystics. St. Thérèse of Lisieux was given a superstition of roses. St. Teresa of Avila, a castle. Other saints were sent animals as messengers. Many of them talked. These "superstitions" repeatedly point to relationships. One relationship in particular.
A "custom or act based on such a belief" arises in solidarity with these saints, and those devoted to her ask, with St. Thérèse, for a rose, which may or may not be given. And people who wear a little vestigial garment around their necks are promised heaven. Not because scapulars have any rational connection, in and of themselves, to eternal life, but because something, someone, beyond our understanding has designated it so.
All of the sacraments are superstitious in this sense. A splash of water repels the devil like the Wicked Witch of the West. Making a sign in the air and saying the words, "You are forgiven," actually makes it so. The laying on of hands apprentice young men to the profession of Christ. And it's a very physical thing that consummates a marriage.
A name causes the very rocks to cry out. God becomes a man and suddenly, nothing physical is ordinary. Nothing is coincidence. Everything is significant.
So, why put Saint Joseph on his head? Is that just a meaningless superstition? Perhaps. But I like to think it came from somewhere, from some shrewd, pious, superstitious old lady, who knew him well. Perhaps she said, "Put him on his head, turn him upside down! That'll give him a headache, and remind him to pray and pray for you!" And as she cackles and walks away, you fancy you can see the vague figure of a Jewish carpenter, as she swings an arm around him in what can only be the most intimate of affections.
A closing note for the concerned: should the Church ever make a definitive pronouncement against all things superstitious, I shall drop my stance at once, at a single word from the Magisterium. How superstitious of me! c;
♥
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