A Church with a Riparian Face: The First Commandment

Did your heart elate the other morning when video surfaced of a man in Rome who held to the first commandment of the Mosaic Decalogue and who took it seriously? Does it not astound you, reader, to wonder how many forms thirty pieces of silver can take?

Modern political respectability, approval by feminists, delusions of "integral ecology" and the like can all be obtained by ceasing to have "any strange gods before" the One True God. In a like vein, one need not commit genocide or sexual assault to merit damnation. One need only do anything other than love the Lord with one's whole heart, mind, and soul.

While the latest robber synod, with no authority to do anything, persists on the grounds where Saint Peter came to martyrdom, a man faithful to God entered Santa Maria in Transpontina, gathered up a few kitsche fertility statues, and sent them down to see poor Pope Formosus's fingers. Considering the relative modesty of this one action, it has resounded far more loudly around the world than the approach of some orthodox Cardinals, who seem to think writing a strongly worded letter and posting it by certified mail is a legitimate means of opposing heterodoxy.

No, the fellow who sent Pucker Mama for a dip had the right idea. Indeed, his actions reminded me of a night in my own life seven years ago which followed similar lines. One fine May night in Ithaca, New York, a few months prior to graduation and commencement weekend, a Cornell society to which I belonged invited a high ranking member of the Bush administration to speak to us and have dinner. This particular individual, who will not be named, had a great deal of involvement in the execution of the Iraq War.

Prior to the events a friend and I had drinks at the Statler Hotel bar on the ground floor. I drank a few martinis while he gunned down straight Hendricks, cucumbers and all. My friend, let us call him Pete, was a lapsed Greek Orthodox fellow who continued to curse his way through Divine Liturgy on Sundays for cultural reasons, but he was an over all atheist. Pete and I ran in the same circles and usually found ourselves in mutual competition for jobs, club posts, ladies' attention, and honors.

With Pete three sheets to the wind, we made our way to Mr. War Man's speech and then had a second round of drinks with him and some others atop the newly completed Physical Sciences building, a modern and ugly edifice which nonetheless offered a spectacular view of Lake Cayuga and the hills at dusk. People took their turns making irrelevant small talk with the figure: "Did I mentioned I speak three words of Arabic? I'd love to use that at your think tanks!" "I also have a great interest in the semiotics of democracy in the Middle East and I'd love to share my thoughts on that" "I'm a poli sci major and can't wait to make a difference the way you did!" I spoke to him about biking with a friend around the lake. He smiled and thanked me for not asking for a job. I thanked him for not re-instituting the draft, as I have little interest in physical exercise.

A similar view to where we were
source: visitithaca.com

At dinner the guest of honor somehow had surprisingly little to say. The subject immediately turned to religion when a Jewish frat boy seated across from my setting took notice to my making the Sign of the Cross prior to taking food.

"Do you guys really believe there are demons in your food?"
"What?"
"It just seems like you guys are into demons and vampire movies and snuff stuff."
"It's a prayer for a blessing, an act of Thanksg—"
"Guys!" interjected Peter. "It's a bunch of nothing! [The Rad Trad] is fine."

The table politely laughed but still, the frat boy persisted.

"I just don't understand some of your stuff. The things you Catholics are into is just so different from what everyone else is into."
"I don't think so. In fact I believe Christ fills a lot of basic human wants and desires. Things to aspire to, truth, beauty, purpose—"
"No, not what I mean."
"What do you mean?"
"Like your Communion. I mean, what's the point in that?"
"It's the Body of Christ."
"Yeah, but I don't get why you'd want that."
"Well, the Mass is a Sacrifice, like in the Old Jewish Covenant. It's the Cross made present again."
"I get that part. It's the eating part, dude. Like why would you want to eat some guy's flesh?"
"It's Communion with God, though. It's not cannibalism, but a way of—"
"Sounds like something was lost in translation. Some kind of symbolism."
"Not really. In fact the Greek word Saint John uses for 'eat' is—"
"Guys!" Pete interjected again, "He just got finished making some bread and told his buds to have something! Nothing more to it!"

The water glass left my hand and found its way into Pete's face. The frat boy was a fool, but Pete was a friend and knew better. An awkwardly silent moment passed, water dripping down Pete's drenched, curly Greek hair and onto his dinner jacket. With all eyes on him he leapt from his, grabbed me by the collar, and started to drive me to the wall. I took hold of his lapels and twisted the both of us to the floor. Before the first proper blows could be struck the police separated us and gathered statements.

A bureaucratic investigation followed. Friends put in calls to administrators on both sides to ensure there would be no hiccups concerning graduation. We were separately investigated by the university police, the real police, and school administrators, who ultimately decided our punishment. In America's most liberal town—Nader beat Bush in Ithaca during the 2000 election—every authority figure I encountered was a Catholic who voiced some degree of empathy with my actions. I was told to write a one paragraph paper.

Pete was less fortunate and was given twenty hours of community service and a ten page paper, all to completed by graduation in two weeks time. All this in the throes of final exams.

The man who threw Pansymama into the Tiber was not a hateful person. On the contrary, a fiery regard for truth ignited his actions, a disdain for seeing good and scared things trampled upon for misguided human respect. His deeds may in fact inspire the downtrodden faith of others.

Seven years later, Pete has returned to the Greek Orthodox Church.