Everything is Oll Korrect!

An eclectic bibliophile's journal…

Category: non-fiction

St. Alphonsus de Liguori, How to Pray at All Times

Probably anyone who’s been Christian long enough to have listened to more than a few sermons has heard, time after time, that we should pray at all times. This is partly a generalisation of how every major Biblical figure seems to pray before and after doing just about anything of importance, as well as many specific instructions to pray frequently, but it’s stated most directly by St. Paul at 1 Thess. 5:17, “Never cease praying,” and by Christ Himself at Luke 21:36, “Keep watch, then, praying at all times, so that you may be found worthy to come safe through all that lies before you, and stand erect to meet the presence of the Son of Man.” When quoted directly, preachers typically qualify it as not literal, but nonetheless, how does one go about praying at all times?

This is the question that St. Alphonsus de Liguori answers in his short 1753 book, straightforwardly titled How to Pray at All Times. He begins by quoting Job 7:17, “What is man that You should magnify him: or why do You set Your heart upon him?” Though Scripture urges us to pray, nonetheless some Christians feel unworthy when approaching God in prayer, whether through consciousness of past sins or a sense of reverence. St. Alphonsus, though, says:

You should, indeed, devout reader, worship Him in all humility and prostrate yourself before Him; especially when you call to mind the ingratitude and sin of which, in the past, you may have been guilty. Yet this should not hinder you from treating Him with the most tender confidence and love. He is infinite majesty; but, at the same time, He is infinite love and goodness. In God you possess the most exalted and supreme Lord; but also a Friend who loves you with the greatest possible love. He is not offended – on the contrary, He is pleased – when you treat him with that confidence, freedom, and tenderness with which a child treats its mother. Hear how He invites us to go to Him and even promises to welcome us with His caresses: ‘You shall be carried at the breasts and upon the knees they shall caress you. As one whom the mother caresses, so will I comfort you’ (Isaiah 66:12).

What I like about St. Alphonus is that, in this passage and throughout the book, he constantly urges a familiarity with God, while still maintaining a sense of reverence; emphasises God’s compassion and mercy, while not ignoring the reality and gravity of sin.

He then moves on to when to pray, and the book’s title gives away the answer to this question. “Speak to God,” he writes, “as often as you can, for He does not grow weary of this nor disdain it, as do the lords of the earth.” In a few short sections, he then tells us to pray “in your trials,” “in your joys,” “after a fault,” “in your doubts,” and “for your neighbour,” illustrating each instance with words from Scripture. In the final chapter, he goes over some advice on the actual practice of praying constantly.

When I said this book was short, I meant it – at thirty pages for the main portion, it’s more of a treatise or long essay than a book. My edition, from Catholic Way Publishing, includes an appendix giving a routine by St. Alphonsus for regular prayer, as well as the Stations of the Cross with reflections and some common prayers, pushing the volume up to sixty-four pages. Despite its brevity, though, on a per-page basis it’s extraordinarily valuable.…

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Plato’s Dialogues: Phaedrus

Since I’m among the brave few who dislike the Symposium, I was a little disappointed at first that most of Phaedrus covers the same subject, love. However, it also covers a couple other things that I find much more interesting, and it’s also back to having just one interlocutor for Socrates. Rather than the more-or-less hostile exchanges that characterised the dialogues with the Sophists, though, this conversation is much more amiable, similar to some of the earlier dialogues like Lysis and Laches. Socrates’ discussion with Phaedrus isn’t a debate, but a conversation between two friends while out for a walk, albeit at a much higher level than any conversation I’ve ever had.

One interesting observation comes early on. Socrates happened to cross paths with Phaedrus while the latter was out taking a walk, and they happen to cross a river near the point where Boreas was said to have seized Orithyia. Phaedrus asks Socrates whether he believed the myth to be true, and he says this:

I should be quite in the fashion if I disbelieved it, as the men of science do. I might proceed to give a scientific account of how the maiden, while at play with Pharmacia, was blown by a gust of Boreas down from the rocks hard by, and having thus met her death was said to have been seized by Boreas, though it may have happened on the Areopagus, according to another version of the occurrence. For my part, Phaedrus, I regard such theories as no doubt attractive, but as the invention of clever, industrious people who are not exactly to be envied, for the simple reason that they must then go on and tell us the real truth about the appearance of centaurs and the Chimera, not to mention a whole host of such creatures, Gorgons and Pegasuses and countless other remarkable monsters of legend flocking in on them. If our skeptic, with his somewhat crude science, means to reduce every one of them to the standard of probability, he’ll need a deal of time for it. I myself have certainly no time for the business, and I’ll tell you why, my friend. I can’t as yet ‘know myself,’ as the inscription at Delphi enjoins, and so long as that ignorance remains it seems to me ridiculous to inquire into extraneous matters. Consequently I don’t bother about such things, but accept the current beliefs about them, and direct my inquiries, as I have just said, rather to myself, to discover whether I really am a more complex creature and more puffed up with pride than Typhon, or a simpler, gentler being whom heaven has blessed with a quiet, un-Typhonic nature.

Recall that Socrates will later be charged with corrupting the youth, and encouraging impiety. Yet, apparently there were “men of science,” which I take to be an ironic phrase roughly equivalent to calling the New Atheist twats “brights” or “fedoras,” who spent a good deal of time in trying to explain myths surrounding the gods rationally. Socrates, though, says that he accepts the common beliefs around these myths. That doesn’t mean he has no doubts, of course, but he focuses on other, more important matters first.…

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On Human Sacrifice in the Book of Judges

Recently, I’ve been working my way through Scripture, and one thing it’s reminded me of is how wild the Old Testament gets, particularly in the Book of Judges. It makes one fully appreciate why the sacred author says twice, including the very conclusion of the book, that “In those days there was no king in Israel: but every one did that which seemed right to himself.” The only times that Israel wasn’t a near anarchic, heathen-ridden mess was under the guidance of the judges.

Perhaps the most difficult incident, though, is Jephte’s sacrifice of his daughter, in the eleventh chapter. Now, whenever I come across a passage in Scripture that I don’t understand, I typically turn to commentaries. My edition of the Douay-Rheims Bible includes Bishop Richard Challoner’s notes, and I also use the iOS app Catena, which offers commentary by a number of saints and theologians. There’s something on almost every verse, and on important passages a few Church Fathers or other luminaries will weigh in, and you might end up with a few paragraphs worth of notes. This incident, though, prompted a free-for-all among the commentators. They do divide into a few camps, but it seems like every scholar to have ever picked up a Bible has felt the need to offer a word or two or two hundred on this.

Now, typically, I’d just share this sort of thing on Twitter. In this case, though, there’s just too much – I took a dozen screencaps on my phone and still couldn’t fit everything, and I didn’t want to leave anything out. It’s so interesting, though, and likely helpful for anyone troubled by the passage, that I couldn’t bear to just set it aside. So, I’m going to do something a bit different for this blog and offer it all here.

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Plato’s Dialogues: Symposium

Guys, I’m not gonna lie to you: if I hadn’t already committed to discussing every dialogue, I’d punt on the Symposium. I know, it’s probably Plato’s second-most famous dialogue, after the Republic, and love seems like as universally interesting as a topic can be, but it just didn’t grab me as every other work has so far. It is the first so far to have some storytelling to it; even the dramatic Apology is essentially just a record of one speech. I’m sure Plato chose the form carefully and with a purpose in mind, but I’m not really here for storytelling and much prefer philosophy written in the more straightforward style of, say, Aristotle or St. Thomas Aquinas. I think I’ve been receptive to the dialogues so far because, with only one or a few interlocutors, they feel almost like a single author developing an idea slowly, but with purpose. The Symposium, though, starting with someone asking for a second-hand account of the event in question, a series of loosely-connected speeches by multiple people, and an interruption by yet another group of people, making it oddly chaotic. Again, probably intentional, but not at all how I want to read this sort of material.

To get into the dialogue itself, though, one weird thing about Symposium is that it’s essentially all a double narration. Apollodorus is our primary narrator, and he’s been asked by a friend to talk about a discussion of love that had taken place some time earlier between a number of people at a party celebrating Agathon’s recent victory in a competition for a tragedy he’d written. Apollodorus wasn’t there himself, though, and furthermore this was a few years ago. Rather, he’d heard about it from Aristodemus, who had attended. We could hardly have a more unreliable account, then, and I could only guess why Plato decided to relate the dialogue this way.

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