Canon 976

Many non-Catholics do not accept the Catholic position that one must strive to do good deeds as part of their path to salvation. They point out that “Christ died for the forgiveness of my sins” and that “His Blood covers my sins.” Therefore, one is saved only by faith in Christ, and good deeds play no part. In fact, the greatest “good deed-doer” without “knowing” Jesus has no salvation in his future. This tradition is called “Sola Fides,” “Faith Alone” and was promoted for the first time in the history of Christianity by Martin Luther and his followers almost 1500 years after the birth of Christ

One of the most common arguments against the value of good works in the life of the Christian uses the scripture telling the story of the “good thief,” the thief who was saved on his cross, merely because he acknowledged Christ. Obviously, the argument goes, he could do no good deeds since he was hanging on a cross and about to die. Yet Jesus promises salvation to him. Proponents of this tradition often use another tradition, called “Sola Scriptura” (”Scripture Alone” being the only source of God’s word and inspiration in contradistinction to the magisterial tradition of the Church) to deny the validity of Catholic teaching with which they are uncomfortable and have been taught through their tradition to view as “man-made.” Such a person might say, “Did the thief on the cross go to Heaven? Jesus said unto him ‘Today thou shalt be with Me in paradise.’ He attained Heaven by simply believing that Jesus was who he claimed to be. Faith and faith alone!”

Actually, a complete reading of these few verses of scripture (and scripture alone) shows this interpretation to be inaccurate.

(Citing Luke 23:39-43):
Jesus’ communication with the two thieves begins with the first thief who “railed” at him: “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” But he is rebuked by the second thief, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?” Obviously, this second thief does fear God, and recognizes the severity of his present condition. In this, he is already showing faith. In his rebuke of the first thief, he is defending faith, which is itself an act of faith.

The second thief continues, “And we indeed (are condemned) justly, for we are receiving the due reward for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” In this statement, we see several key elements of contrition: admission of guilt, acceptance of penance, and recognition of God’s justice.

“And then he said, ‘Remember me when you come into your kingly power.” Here, at last, is his statement of faith in which he recognizes Christ as his Lord. If this last statement had been the only statement he made, then perhaps there could be an argument for his attaining heaven “by simply believing that Jesus was who he claimed to be. Faith and faith alone.” But he does not make this statement in isolation.

This man does not merely have faith. He is publicly confessing his guilt, he is accepting death as the just consequence for his sins, he is recognizing the justice of God, he is acknowledging the Lordship of Jesus, and he is expressing his hope in Christ’s mercy. Far from being merely an expression of faith, his entire monologue, concluded by Jesus’ promise and blessing, is a mirror of the Catholic Sacrament of Penance and, being done publicly, is an act, that is a work, of inspired teaching for the benefit of the crowd as well as for we who read of it today.

So far from being a proof against the inutility of works, this biblical scene taken in its entirety is a witness to the complimentary nature of faith and works. And — dare I say it? — its form is quite Catholic.

Amnesty International has confirmed its new pro-abortion stand, using the same lack of logic as the abortionists who have manipulated its leadership to support horror.

How can an organization claim to stand for the right of all people when it opposes the basic right to life of the most innocent? Can anything they say be believed? Can they be trusted? I think not. All support, but especially Catholic support, for the organization should stop, and be turned over to a new organization without bloody hands.

There is a translation problem regarding the Latin word “defective” which stems from the nuances in which the word is used in Latin and English.

In English, “defective” has a nuance that leans heavily toward the negative and often permanent. “The car was defective” means that there was a flaw or a broken part, not intended, that caused it to fail. “My hearing is defective,” indicates that there is some sort of damage that prevents it from being at 100%. We rarely say something like, “I appreciate the gift, but your selection of style is defective” without asking for trouble.

In Latin, the word “defectus” can mean “a failing” or “a disappearing,” and is usually used in reference to dimming light, as in “The light was failing.” It is used to describe, for example, a lunar eclipse.

The Latin word “defectus” derives from the verb “deficio.” An understanding of this verb sheds light on the normative usage of “defectus.” “Deficio” means “to do less than one might.” Hence, it has been used to refer (in no particular order) to a) a person who abandons his cause, his side, or his family; b) running short of supplies which need to be replenished; c) a solar or lunar eclipse; d) the ebb and flow of the sea, or of time.

Note that the sense of the Latin “defect” is that it is not referring to something that is broken, but something that is temporarily not what it should or could be. It does not focus on the interfering medium itself, but on the thing that is being interfered with. Even when referring to a person who has abandoned his family, the implication is that such an abandonment is ultimately in appearances only, since it is impossible to separate oneself from ones own blood.

When the word “defectus” is used in a document of the Roman Catholic Church, it always refers to a regrettable missing of potential. The focus is on the fullness of the nature of the thing being described, and the thing that is “eclipsing” that potential. For example, the tendency to give into temptation is a defect of humanity. This does not make humanity expendable, but points to the fact that this tendency prevents the individual person from being fully human, in the sense of God’s intention for humanity. One would not say that human nature is broken, but that it is eclipsed, or dimmed.

So, in English, the sentence “It is defective” is often followed by “Throw it out.” A defect lessens the value of the thing. In Latin, to say something is defective is to identify it as being impeded from actualization without an implication of reducing its value, which comes from its nature, not its current state.

Therefore, when a community of faith is describes as “defectus,” it is being recognized as containing within itself the Glory of God by its nature, but that something is preventing that glory from shining to its fullest potential.

Imagine, if you will, lamps of equal size and brightness, but under baskets whose openings are of varying size. Is one lamp better than the others? No. Is one lamp brighter than the others? No. But the lamp without the basket sheds the light which reveals the baskets over the others, so that they may be removed and the lamps shine as one.

They do not need to be fixed, they need to be freed.

There is a magnolia tree, old and sheltering, growing in a backyard in the middle of the Bronx. From the center of a concrete patio, its gray-white trunk and branches twist with emerald leaves into a pale blue sky. In the Spring, its pink and white blossoms sweeten the air; in Autumn a golden carpet cushions the visitor’s feet.

I grew up in the house by that tree. Long afternoons were spent cradled in its branches, hidden from sight. It was the sanctuary of my childhood, where I thought of nothing but being where I was as I was. There, I approached, inasmuch as is possible for any human being, the meaning of “I AM,” and knew it held me more surely than any branch.

That house was sold many years ago and the tree humbly went along. I made sure that I went to visit it one last time, just before the movers came. I hadn’t really visited for years, but I knew I had to before I never could again. The scents and sights and sounds returned as the tree filled my senses. It even gave me a parting word: the name “Ian,” my newborn son’s name, written cryptically in the scars of its old bark.

I will always remember that tree with a memory that makes both it and me present. In fact, just to hear the word “magnolia,” or to see a picture of one, makes everything about my childhood spent in that one tree present again and as real as it ever was.

The Cross is like that tree: a wordless signpost to memory. It is no coincidence that scripture even refers to the Cross as a tree. Christ died “on a tree,” and they “took him down from the tree and laid him in the tomb.” It is a visual, silent marker, never spoken, but pointing the way along the path through the great, sepulchral silence where all things gather and where memories enjoy their resurrection.

Like a tree that is thrust into the earth upon which we are chained, the Cross is a key. The Cross, an instrument of death, became the tree of life when Jesus became its fruit. The victor eats the fruit of the tree of life. This tree recalls our fall; it provides our rising. As a key it unlocks our chains, so that we may walk freely on earth and soar to heaven. It unlocks the Tabernacle, and gives to us the Bread of Life. And on the altar sheltered by its arms, memory becomes reality, the past becomes now, and we are at Calvary, and the tomb, and the stone rolling away.

We see the Cross wherever we turn, if we but open our eyes. The Cross is in the sword and the olive branch. The Cross is in the sun’s rays and the horizon. The Cross is in our resting and our rising, in our form as we plead for mercy and offer our praise. We rest beneath its branches and hang upon its arms. The Cross is the mystical and wordless marker to the gateway in our hearts and it unlocks the door between memory and hope so that we may open it to Christ.