T is for Transubstantiation

This is a word that was invented by Catholics during the Council of Trent in the late 1600’s, but was by no means an innovation to Catholic theology. It’s a concept that Christians up to a certain date have believed since the beginning, but only felt the need to articulate and find a word for during the continental Reformation. Much like all rules, there’s no need to define them until someone breaks them. The only reason there are signs posted around hotel pools saying “NO HORSING AROUND” is because someone, somewhere, horsed around a hotel pool. At that point, a rule which may have seemed arbitrary to a casual hotel attendee was enshrined in hotel law.

“Transubstantiation” may be among the most intimidating of terms when it comes to Catholic vocabulary. However, all it means is that the substance of the bread and wine become “transformed” into the body and blood of Christ. It doesn’t mean that the physical appearance changes. Aristotle laid down the best terms for this discussion- he put forth the notion that there was a difference between substance and accidents. Substance is what a thing actually is, while accidents point to what a thing appears to be. Therefore, when Catholics talk about Christ’s body and blood being present in the Eucharist, they mean he’s actually there, even if he isn’t visibly there. And that you're not likely to consume him and think to yourself, “hmmm… tastes like Jesus.”

There are those, like Bill Maher, who argue that “You can’t be a rational person six days of the week and put on a suit and make rational decisions and go to work and, on one day of the week, go to a building and think you’re drinking the blood of a 2,000-year-old space god.” Atheists and fundamentalists have this in common, as evidenced by the fact that John Knox published a whole treatise based on the premise that he “affirmed the Mass to be, and at all times to have been, idolatry.”

So are Catholics cannibals? Or idolaters? Or are people that invented the doctrine of the transubstantiation as a trump card against the continental Reformation unconcerned about the needs of the average person who prefers smaller words? Hardly.

Jesus, being God, is omnipresent, meaning that he’s with us in our experience of nature, in our daily lives and in the special moments upon which we reflect. But he’s also a bit harsh about how we’re supposed to ultimately experience his presence. In John 6:53, he says pretty blatantly, “unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” That’s a little more hardcore than other verses you might have read on Tim Tebow’s eyeblack. As a matter of fact, I’m constantly curious as to how non-Catholic preachers prepare to preach on this passage, a homiletic dodge that has only been around for about 400 or so years.

So how do we figure out how to eat the flesh of Jesus and drink his blood in order to attain eternal life? He’s pretty clear, via the testimony of St. Paul (who very obviously wasn't there when the issue was ordered, but related it to us through oral tradition):

I Corinthians 11:25- “the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, "This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me." In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, "This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me."

So what is his body and blood that we have to consume, lest we have no life in us? He pretty much spells it out at the Last Supper.

Aristotelian mental gymnastics, pronouncements from the Council of Trent based on them, and other philosophical efforts are helpful when it comes to defining what we mean by transubstantiation. However, as with most Christian beliefs, an idea such as transubstantiation is not an invention, but more accurately a more concise and practical way to define what Christians such as St. Paul and the Christians with whom he consulted have believed from the beginning.

A final note- Eastern Orthodox Christians do not typically rely on the term “transubstantiation” to articulate their beliefs about the Eucharist. The Reformation didn’t really happen East of Constantinople, so it wasn’t necessary to come up with a word to define what Eastern Christians of good will have believed from the beginning about Holy Communion. When people “horsed around the pool” in their scene (the Eastern lung of the Church), it was more in the areas of atheism, dualism, and Gnosticism (think Stalin). There wasn’t as much of a need to come up with a word for what Christians needed to believe to be considered Christian. They knew what what the Eucharist was in their guts, and knew the stakes of the game. It was worth risking one's life for, as many an Eastern Christian has under many a hostile regime.

"Transubstantiation" may have surfaced as a term relatively recently in Church history, but it is far from being a new concept. And perhaps especially for those who study philosophy, it may be the most adequate way to explain one of the Catholic Church's greatest mysteries.

G is for Genuflect

In which direction should one kneel and cross themselves when settling into a pew? I asked this question of a 7th grade religious ed class that I taught a few years ago, and I got a diverse set of responses: toward the pastor, toward the altar, toward the front of the building, toward the abstract Picasso-esque painting hung just behind the presider's chair...

The proper place toward which Catholics should genuflect when entering a Church is the tabernacle, the place where consecrated hosts are reserved. Consecrated wine isn't preserved, it's chugged, which is great, because that would be really difficult to store properly.

This, of course, makes life difficult for observant Catholics when the tabernacle gets moved to one side or another of the altar, or perhaps to the back of the Church or a broom closet. I recall a visit to a parish when I asked what I assumed to be a regular attendee where the tabernacle was. Her response to me: "Why?"

Fortunately, many incoming priests understand the importance of reserving consecrated hosts at the front of the sanctuary, so that all in attendance for Mass or other forms of prayer can face them as they pray. Genuflection, for the physically able, should involve the taking of a full ground-hitting knee (I've done it with a babe-in-arms, it's not as hard as it looks, you lazy Americans) accompanied by the Sign of the Cross. When the host is exposed in a monstrance, two knees and a Sign of the Cross is the recommended standard.

Of course, there are always those who are rushed to get to Mass, and arrive there just before the Gospel reading. To you I say: you're already making a scene by your lateness- why not embellish with a genuflection to compensate for what others might perceive as your lack of piety? Do it on the outside chance that the Church lady sitting behind you might think to herself, "yeah, that family was late, but at least they give a rip."

P is for Paraclete

Many a confused person has heard the Holy Spirit referred to as “the paraclete,” thought that the person using the term had said “parakeet,” and wondered why it is that the third person of the Trinity is depicted in art as a dove instead. The word “paraclete” means “advocate” or “counselor,” and refers to the role of the Holy Spirit when it comes to our relationship with God. As Jesus tells his disciples in John 14:26, “The Advocate, the holy Spirit that the Father will send in my name--he will teach you everything and remind you of all that (I) told you.”

K is for Kyrie Elieson

Almost all of the Mass that Roman Catholics celebrate in English is based on Latin texts, but one Greek-based phrase always shows up at the beginning in the Penitential Rite, wherein we pray “Lord have mercy, Christ have Mercy, Lord have mercy,” or in Greek, “Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.” Even if you attend a Latin Mass in the Extraordinary Form, this portion of the Mass will still be in Greek. Not to be confused with the Mr. Mister song of the same name.

D is for Dogma

According to the bumper sticker, it may be tempting to think of dogma as the thing the person in front of you ran over with their karma. In the non-Catholic world (and even sometimes within the Catholic world), when someone is referred to as being “dogmatic,” it usually is a reference to their attitude rather than their position. Dogma, in a post-enlightenment world, usually has the same connotation as close-mindedness.

According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, dogmas are “lights along the path of faith, sure signs of truth; they illuminate it and make it secure.” (CCC 89). In other words, when the Church defines a dogma, it does so with its full authority, as a theological guardrail to keep us from going off the path and into a ditch. A dogma such as Papal Infallibility, for example, was defined in order to remind us of the Holy Spirit’s promise that the gates of Hell will never prevail against his Church, no matter how sinful leaders within it may be. It’s not a testament to the virtues of any particular pope himself, but rather to the promise of Jesus to St. Peter in Matthew 16:18.

Very likely, you’ve heard the word “dogma” used in casual conversation with a far more negative connotation than the word “seat belt;” however, the popular concepts are not too far apart. Understood properly, dogma is disseminated by the Church in order to protect us, rather than merely constrict us. If anything, the idea of dogma should reassure us that we are in safe territory when it comes to discerning the truth.

C is for Catholic Guilt

Many people who invoke this phrase do so to try and indict the Catholic Church for its perceived overbearing and fun-hating ways (i.e. “If those sisters hadn’t rapped my knuckles with a ruler in parochial school, I wouldn’t have so much Catholic guilt about living with my boyfriend.”) Oddly enough, as of this writing, there is not so much as a Wikipedia entry for Protestant guilt, despite the fact that movies from “Footloose” to “Inherit the Wind” paint Protestants as the ones who make everybody feel bad about anything that might smack of entertainment or inquiry. I challenge the reader to find the employment of alcohol, dancing and gambling on a Protestant campus as an ecclesial fundraiser.

II Corinthians 7:10 tells us that “Godly sorrow produces a salutary repentance without regret, but worldly sorrow produces death.” Godly sorrow is sorrow for our own stupidity, rather than sorrow for the fact that someone told us that what we did was stupid. Perhaps there were strident nuns who were awfully harsh on certain individuals at certain points during their education, but the melodramatic angst of the anti-nostalgic can lead to an exaggeration of how bad it actually was (i.e., the all-too-common sentiment that “a judgment of my actions is a judgment of myself and my family, and how dare you, a mere human, question my standing before God, which I feel indignant about but uninspired to thoroughly explore?!!” It’s not uncommon to find lifelong reluctant or ex-Catholics who moan about the hardships that they endured in grade school. Likewise, it’s not uncommon for outsiders raised in strict Christian households to wonder why Catholics seem to think they had it worse than anyone else.

Guilt, Catholic or no, is an indication that there’s still a conscience buried within us somewhere. Two responses are available to us: 1) suppress it and assume that the discomfort we feel is somehow the result of an irrational pain that our superiors were arbitrarily trying to inflict upon us, or 2) that maybe, just maybe, the wisdom of the Church was wiser than our hormones, attitudes or whatever caused our rebellion against her, and maybe, just maybe, it might be good for us to suck it up and listen. If we don’t, there’s a good chance we’ll just end up feeling guiltier.

B is for Baltimore Catechism

Baltimore was the first diocese established in the United States, and the Baltimore Catechism became the standard educational text for Catholic formation from the mid-1800’s all the way up to the 1960’s. Some cradle Catholics relate childhood horror stories about having to memorize large sections of the work; others lament the fact that since it stopped being used in classrooms, an entire generation of Catholics knows more about recycling than the rosary. Perhaps the most readily available version today is the red-and-black covered “New St. Joseph Baltimore Catechism,” a Q&A format resource geared toward younger people that is kitschy, pedagogical and altogether extremely helpful about questions that many new and returning Catholics are sometimes afraid to ask, and that catechists are sometimes at a loss to answer.