Is Disney a Cult?

Today, I’d like to address a topic that likely will make people upset. If I cause you to become angry, I apologize. But here’s the question I have to ask: Is Disney a cult?

Let me explain. A couple months ago I attended a trade show in Orlando. My wife joined me on the trip, along with a business associate and his wife. Since the Disney conglomerate owns about three-quarters of central Florida, it’s possible to stay in a Disney-owned hotel without actually planning to visit one of their many theme parks. The four of us stayed in a place called “The Disney All-Start Movie Resort,” which is a sprawling complex of hotel/motel type structures, but unlike other typical touristy hotel/motels in Florida, this one has 35-foot tall fiberglass cartoon characters everywhere.

Hey, I like Disney animated movies just as much as the next guy. But when you get up early in the morning and groggily walk out of your hotel room looking for a cup of coffee and the first thing you see is a 3-story high dog character from “101 Dalmatians,” you no longer need coffee to wake up because six quarts of terror-induced adrenaline now courses through your veins.

If this whole Disney thing is indeed a cult, I suspect my business associate friend and his wife have already enrolled in the “Church of Walt” Seminary to become ordained ministers. I was vaguely aware they regularly traveled to Orlando for vacations a couple times each year, but I didn’t know they were, well, card-carrying DFs. (Disney Fanatics.)

My friend seems so normal otherwise. I mean, we can have a great two-hour lively discussion about the perfect technique for hitting a 7-iron — you know, normal stuff. (And if you think having lively discussions about the endless minutia of golf is a sign someone is a card-carrying GF [Golf Fanatic], you’re wrong! Talking about golf for hours is almost as much fun as talking about baseball for hours. My BF card is always in my wallet.)

Anyway, there’s something called the Disney Vacation Club. It’s a lot like being a member of an exclusive country club, except a whole lot more expensive. My friend and his wife are members, and I think the initiation ritual involves getting Mickey and Minnie tattoos on strategic body parts. Their membership is something they can pass on to their kids in their wills. It’s also something on which they have to pay property taxes each year. (These last two statements contain no exaggeration, which, if you know me, cannot be said about anything else here.)

When my friend and his wife begin talking about the features of Disney theme parks, hotels, restaurants, shops, etc., their eyes light up as if they had LED lights implanted in their skulls (which, I think, might be another aspect of the initiation ritual).

When I returned home, I discovered many other people also are Disney cultists, er, I mean, Disney Vacation Club members. I could tell because as soon as I mentioned where we stayed in Orlando, a large smile spread across their faces and the LED lights came on. A few unbuckled their belts and gave me a glimpse of their Mickey and Minnie tattoos.

For a while, I was uncomfortable. It all seemed too weird. But then I started thinking about it. I came to realize that Uncle Walt simply wants me to be happy. Mickey and Minnie, Pluto and Goofy, are really my friends. What could be better than “The Happiest Place on Earth”? Yes, it is indeed wonderful. And as it turned out, the LED implants didn’t even hurt that much. Would you like to see my tattoos?

Pet Peeve: Leaving Mass Early

Trivia question: Who was the first person in history to leave Mass right after Communion? Answer: Judas Iscariot.

No, I’m not kidding. Think about it. Jesus instituted the sacrament of the Eucharist at the Last Supper. He held up the bread and said, “This is my body,” and then he held up the cup and said, “This is my blood.”

Then, right after He distributed the bread and wine to His disciples—which now had become His actual body and blood—Judas got up and left. Judas didn’t go back to his pew and pray a little. He didn’t listen to any of the parish announcements about the upcoming potluck supper and the revised children’s choir rehearsal schedule. And he didn’t join in singing the recessional hymn. (Two verses only. I mean, let’s not go overboard and sing EVERY verse.)

Nope, by the time the solemn ceremony in the upper room was concluded, Judas was long gone. Presumably his car was not blocked in the parking lot, so he was able to make his getaway rather than sit behind the wheel seething with frustration as he waited for everyone else to come out.

Sound familiar? C’mon, be honest. Many of our fellow Catholics have this weird notion that once you receive Communion the Mass is over. But to paraphrase that great Catholic theologian, Yogi Berra, the Mass ain’t over till it’s over.

When someone leaves Mass right after Communion (the ol’ “chew and screw,” as it’s sometimes called), how much actual time is he or she saving? Six minutes? Nine minutes? Seriously? That’s it? A person offends the Lord and insults the parish priest just to gain a measly nine minutes? Wow.

And what exactly is accomplished with those extra six or nine minutes on a Saturday evening or Sunday morning? Do they get out of the parking lot first? Hurray, I guess there’s a prize for that.

Do they get a table at the Sunday brunch buffet a bit sooner than others? Congratulations, I’m sure the restaurant would’ve run out of food if they got there nine minutes later.

Do they get home quicker, which allows them to spend the rest of the day sitting around watching mindless junk on TV? God must be so pleased with their devotion to Him.

OK, I’m getting a little too snarky here. Sorry.

The point I’m trying to make is: The Mass is the most awesome event on earth: Jesus Christ becomes truly present in the Eucharist, body and blood, soul and divinity. At Mass, God’s people gather to offer praise and worship to Him, and to be spiritually nourished by Him. Is it really such a burden to remain in church until the Mass is completely concluded?

Our Sunday obligation only takes up about one hour every week. If we add on some time before and after Mass for driving, let’s call it two hours each week—out of a total of 168 hours in a week. That works out to be slightly more than one-percent of the entire week. Heck, some people spend more time than that each week combing their hair or deciding what shoes to wear.

Is that extra nine minutes saved by leaving Mass right after Communion really worth it?

Obviously people who leave Mass right after Communion are not doing it for the same reason Judas left the very first Mass right after Communion: to betray Our Lord. But leaving early certainly does not honor Our Lord. It certainly does not show Him much respect.

So if you always remain in church until the very end of the recessional hymn, that’s terrific. Please try not to be as snarky as I am toward those who leave early.

And if you are one of the folks who does leave right after Communion, please think about it for a minute. It really looks bad; it insults the priest; and it shows little respect for Jesus. 

When it’s all said and done, is that measly nine minutes really so important?

More Lessons in Forgiveness

In last week’s Gospel reading, we heard the famous parable of the Prodigal Son, a powerful lesson about God’s overwhelming love and forgiveness. Although the young son engaged in scandalous and disrespectful behavior, when he came to his senses, his father immediately forgave him. The father explained his joyful embrace of the wayward son when he said, “This son of mine was dead, and has come to life again; he was lost, and has been found.”

In this week’s Gospel reading, we have another example of God’s overwhelming love and forgiveness: the story of the woman caught in adultery. Jesus’ opponents, the scribes and Pharisees, brought a woman caught in adultery before Him, and demanded, “In the law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. So what do you say?”

It’s obvious the scribes and Pharisees were tying to trap Jesus. They didn’t particularly care about the woman, or the Law of Moses, or that justice was served. Their only motivation was to force Jesus into a no-win situation so that no matter what He said, they could use it against Him.

If Jesus replied that the woman should be set free, they could accuse Him of ignoring the Law of Moses. If Jesus replied that the woman should be executed, they could accuse Him of being hypocritical about His message of forgiveness. (And speaking of being hypocritical, we know the scribes and Pharisees were full of baloney because they brought only the woman before Jesus. The Law of Moses clearly spelled out that both parties in an adulterous relationship are guilty. Where was the woman’s lover? As far as I can figure, it’s pretty hard to commit adultery by yourself. If she was “caught in the very act,” as the Pharisees claimed, why didn’t they apprehend the guy and bring him before Jesus, too? The answer is obvious: they were hypocrites.)

Anyway, at first Jesus did not reply. Instead He bent down and started writing with His finger on the ground. This is the only place in the Bible that records Jesus writing—but we’re not told what He wrote. (Another on my long list of questions to ask God when I get to Heaven. I think my list now numbers well over 8,000.)

I’ve often speculated about what Jesus wrote. Maybe He wrote down the name of the woman’s lover, who may have been standing there in the crowd clutching a stone. Jesus finally looked up and offered the famous line, “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Then, as the angry throng pondered those words, Jesus bent down and started writing again. Maybe at this point He wrote the names of the leading Pharisees’ mistresses. No one knows for sure. But we do know how the crowd finally responded: “They went away one by one, beginning with the elders.”

After everyone left, Jesus said to the woman, “Has no one condemned you?”

“No one, sir,” she answered.

Jesus then said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and from now on do not sin any more.”

As with last week’s parable of the Prodigal Son, Jesus’ main lesson this week is forgiveness. But while the Prodigal Son is a stark story of pure forgiveness—the father forgave his son completely and started a joyfully celebration—the story of the adulterous woman touches on a couple of additional ideas.

The first is that we must forgive in order to be forgiven ourselves. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, “If you forgive others when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins” (Matthew 6:14-15).

Jesus’ actions in this week’s Gospel obviously saved the woman’s life. But His actions also started the process of saving the souls of the judgmental mob of men (assuming, of course, they were interested in entering into a saving relationship with God). Only when they understood that they too were sinful—maybe the first time they ever considered that possibility—could they become capable of offering forgiveness to someone else. And only when they offered forgiveness to someone else, as Jesus taught in the Sermon on the Mount, would God Almighty offer forgiveness to them.

Jesus included the other idea addressed this week, I suspect, specifically for the Law and Order folks in the world (a group in which I consider myself a member).

The first 95-percent of this story might cause some people to say something like, “Yeah, but wait a minute, Jesus. If you let her off the hook, you’re condoning sin. And if you let everyone do whatever they feel like doing, you’re not only setting the stage for anarchy and chaos in society, you’re also mocking the whole concept of right and wrong. If there are no consequences for committing sin, then you’re in effect saying there is no difference between righteous living and sinful living.”

Jesus made sure we L&O folks do not overreact—as long as we read to the very end of the episode. He said to the woman, “Go, and from now on do not sin any more.”

This one sentence confirms that Jesus has not abandoned the concept of right and wrong. Certain things are right, and certain things are wrong. There is a YUUUGE difference between righteousness and sinfulness—such a huge difference, in fact, that Jesus came to earth specifically to bridge the gulf between holy God and sinful mankind.

If you’re ever tempted to think Jesus does not take sin seriously, just remember why He died on the cross. Jesus offered up His sinless life as a ransom for our sinful lives. He died to pay the price for our sin. His Passion and death occurred for one simple reason: Jesus takes sin seriously—deadly seriously.

Jesus also takes love seriously. So much so that He offers forgiveness to people who don’t deserve it: the Prodigal Son, the adulterous woman, me, and you. A person who can look up to Heaven while being tortured to death and say, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing,” is a person who takes love very, very seriously.Next week is Palm Sunday, and the Gospel reading will be the lengthy account of Jesus’ Passion, the culmination of His love for humanity. As Lent draws to a close, let us focus on Jesus and His overwhelming love for us, and the overwhelming forgiveness He offers to us. Let’s make this year’s Easter celebration the most holy and joyful ever.

Spring Ahead, Fall Apart

This weekend we make the always exciting switch to Daylight Savings Time (DST). This is known as the unofficial start of spring. It’s also known as the official start of “How Dumb Are Americans Week”, since millions of citizens will spend at least seven days unsure of what time it is.

The premise of DST is fairly straightforward: we want an extra hour of sunlight during the day. Back in the early part of the 20th century (or the nineteen-hundreds, for those of us who find the “ith century” thing confusing), the United States Congress passed a law requiring the sun to stay in the sky an extra hour. When the sun blatantly ignored the new law, numerous F.B.I. agents were dispatched to place the sun under arrest. When none of them returned with the sun in handcuffs, Congress decided in 1918 it would be easier, not to mention less fatal for law enforcement personnel, to institute Daylight Savings Time instead.

So each year in the spring, late on a Saturday night, the people of America move their clocks ahead one hour. Or at least they’re supposed to move their clocks ahead one hour. However, considering the current front-runner for each party in the presidential campaign, it’s safe to say a large percentage of American citizens — umm, how can I put this gently? — have the same IQ as toenail fungus.

If many folks really think either the female reincarnation of Richard Nixon, except with even more paranoia and a longer enemies list — or the man who embodies five of the Seven Deadly Sins (six, if one of the Deadly Sins is “goofy hair”) would make a good Commander-in-Chief, then what are the chances they’ll figure out how to adjust the time settings on a multitude of electronic devices?

For those who are able to set every one of their clocks and electronic gizmos correctly, the beginning of Daylight Savings Time often brings out two ugly personality traits: “dual time droning” and “lost hour lamenting.”

Dual time droners will spend the next month reminding everyone of what time it would have been without DST. “Yeah, it’s 5:30, but it’s REALLY only 4:30. Yeah, it’s 7:15, but it’s REALLY 6:15. Yeah, it’s 9:22, but it’s REALLY — Ack! It’s. Really. Time. To. Stop. Choking. Me!”

Lost hour lamenters act as if they’re the victim of an armed robbery. “The hour we lost the other night really hurts,” they moan. “It’s not fair. We were supposed to gain an extra hour last fall, but I didn’t feel it.”

Unfortunately, most folks were not thinking ahead last fall and didn’t deposit their extra hour in the bank. If they did they could have received it back in the spring with interest. On Saturday morning, if you look very carefully, you will see a handful of forward-thinking souls filling out withdrawal slips at the bank and collecting exactly 64 minutes and 28 seconds.

It’s interesting to watch an entire nation, normally obsessed with time-keeping accuracy, wander around in a fog for the better part of a week. You’ll see it beginning on Sunday morning: people strolling into church five minutes before the service ends. It will continue on Monday: school children standing at the end of their driveways for hours because their parents got confused and sent them out to wait for the school bus shortly after midnight.

Most of all, you’ll see chaos in the workplace: employees sauntering into the office just before lunch time and blaming their tardiness on Daylight Savings Time. (The rest of the year I have to come up with different excuses.) 

Maybe we could turn our clocks ahead an entire year and completely skip the presidential election. That would prove Americans are not so dumb, wouldn’t it?

Do You Choose Door No. 1 or Door No. 2?

Imagine there is a new game show on daytime TV. A contestant is selected at random from the studio audience. The person comes up on stage, and here is how the game is played: the person must choose either Door No. 1 or Door No. 2. Behind Door No. 1 there are two possible options: either a prize of one million dollars or nothing. Behind Door No. 2 there also are two possible options: either nothing or a large, angry man who comes through the door and punches the contestant right in the face.

As you might suspect, the ratings for this show are not very good. Even the dumbest contestant will choose Door No. 1 every time (and doesn’t it seem there must be a screening process for game show audience members, whereby anyone with an I.Q. higher than 80 is not allowed in?).

It’s really not much of a choice. The possibilities behind Door No. 1 are either something good or nothing. And the possibilities behind Door No. 2 are either something bad or nothing. Every person who ever plays the game obviously will choose Door No. 1. After watching a few people win either the million dollars or nothing, viewers at home will change the channel.

This game show scenario is a modern-day version of Pascal’s Wager. Blaise Pascal was a famous 17th century French mathematician, inventor, and Christian philosopher. He was a genius child prodigy, which means he was way too smart to be selected as a game show audience member.

Pascal devised an argument in Christian apologetics, which has become known as “Pascal’s Wager.” He explained that God either exists or He doesn’t. People should choose to believe God exists because if they’re right, they “win” eternal joy in Heaven, and if they’re wrong, they lose nothing. However, if people choose to believe that God does not exist, if they’re right, they win nothing, and if they’re wrong, they lose everything in the form of eternal torment in Hell.

So this is similar to our fictitious TV game show, except without all the flashing lights and music and commercials every six minutes.

Many atheists sneer at Pascal’s Wager, acknowledging the logic behind it, but insisting they cannot “force” themselves to believe in a deity they know does not exist. Even some Christians criticize Pascal’s Wager, claiming that choosing to believe in God simply to “win” a prize and avoid torment is a selfish reason to have faith.

But here are a couple things to consider. First, if our motivation for seeking God is indeed selfish—the desire to have eternal joy rather than eternal torment—God is OK with that. He knows we’re weak and sinful and self-centered. If we at first draw near to Him with less than ideal motives, eventually we will come to understand how majestic and righteous and perfect God truly is, and our motives will change and become more noble and less selfish. We will stop thinking about ourselves and seek God for His own sake, out of pure love for Someone who is infinitely good and merciful.

Second, despite what many atheists think, there is NO scientific proof that God does not exist. Science studies only the natural world and has no authority at all to comment on supernatural phenomena. If someone honestly and openly studies the many philosophical proofs for God’s existence (for a start, search Aquinas and Kreeft), he will discover the question is not nearly as clear-cut as modern atheism insists. He just might reach a point where he can sincerely consider Pascal’s Wager and realize there is no downside to believing in God’s existence. 

So it’s a rather simple choice: do you choose Door No. 1 or Door No. 2? At the end of our earthly journey, when the door we choose is finally opened, we will discover that faith in God is so wonderful, a million dollar prize will seem like ten cents.

We Should Identify With Prodigal Son’s Father

This week’s gospel reading is possibly the greatest of Jesus’ many parables: the Prodigal Son. Over the years I’ve written about the parable of the Prodigal Son many times. When I think back on my young adult years, back when I was an atheist alcoholic, it’s very clear I was living the life of the younger son in the parable. I didn’t demand my inheritance in advance (talk about chutzpah!), but I definitely sponged off my parents’ hard work while living a life of non-stop partying and zero studying at college.

When I became a Christian and repented of my sinful ways, and began to support myself and my children by finally working hard (what a concept!), I was a lot like that younger son who humbly asked his father to let him return to the family estate, not as a son but as a mere hired hand. I was humbled enough to want only a steady job, with which I could pay my bills on time and prove to my wife that I had really changed.

After many years of sobriety and church-going and writing essays about the Christian faith, I slowly began to realize I had taken on many of the traits of the pious older brother. Remember him? He’s the one who was obedient, but who became angry and resentful when the younger son was quickly forgiven for all his transgressions.

It’s not that I didn’t want sinners to call on the name of the Lord and repent and turn their lives around. It’s just that maybe at times I was a little too judgmental. Like the older brother, I often focused on cold justice and fairness: if some punk screwed up his life by making reckless choices, well, then that was his problem. If he came to his senses and repented, great, but he still needed to experience some of the painful consequences of his bad behavior. I think my attitude at times was a little too self-righteous and condescending—just like the older son in the parable.

The younger son was a screw-up, and he knew it. When you’ve squandered a pile of someone else’s money in a short period of time, and when all your so-called friends have disappeared, and when you’re forced to eat scraps from a pig trough to survive—then no one has to point out to you that you are a sinner. You know it.

The older son, however, also was a screw-up, but he DIDN’T know it. His sins were not so obvious. Outwardly, he did as he was told, he was very responsible, and he never caused his father any trouble. His sins were internal rather than external. His sins were sins of the spirit, not sins of the flesh. His sins were the deadly sins of pride and anger and jealousy. And his sins kept him from fully embracing his father’s all-encompassing love. The older son’s bitterness and resentment were like a prison, which kept him locked up emotionally and unable to fully enjoy life. And all-the-while the older son was certain he had done nothing wrong and all his frustration was being caused by the unreasonable and unfair behavior of other people.

In many ways the older son had a more daunting problem than the younger son. How do you repent of sins you don’t even know you are committing?

So, over the years I’ve written about this fascinating parable, first looking back and identifying with the prodigal younger son, then more recently identifying with the judgmental older son. The parable has been a great vehicle for recognizing sinful attitudes that would otherwise go unnoticed.

Our parish has a Men’s Spirituality Group, and a few years ago we studied Henri Nouwen’s fascinating little book, The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming. (If you’ve never heard of the late Fr. Nouwen or this book, please check it out. It will be well worth it.)

In the book, Fr. Nouwen discussed a whole new dimension to this famous parable. Besides the typical interpretations, where people identify with one or both of the sons, Nouwen suggested that we are called ultimately to identify with the father.

Even the most basic analysis of the parable of the Prodigal Son acknowledges that the father in the story represents God, whose love and forgiveness are unconditional. But the idea of us identifying with this God-like, unconditionally loving character took me by surprise. The way Nouwen explained it, though, made sense. At some point in our lives, we all will be in a position of authority, whether parent, teacher, coach, supervisor, or just an older person with a lot of life experience.

There will be people in our lives who will need our unconditional love. They may not be our offspring, and they may not have screwed up their lives quite as dramatically as the younger son in the parable, but they will need our love. And the one thing they will NOT need from us is “conditional” love, the love that says, “OK, I’ll forgive you and embrace you, IF you agree to do such-and-such. Or IF you promise not to do so-and-so again.” Conditional love is merely a contract, a business arrangement. It is not genuine God-like love.

The unconditional love God offers us—the same unconditional love demonstrated by the father in the parable, and the love that we are called to share with others—is a joyful love. It’s not a calculated business deal; it’s not a self-righteous demand that the sinner grovel for a while first, in order to pay the price for his sinful ways. Instead, it is a genuine delight that the other person has reached out and wants to change his ways and restore a broken relationship. There are no conditions. There is only pure joy. 

That’s the supernatural love and forgiveness God want to share with us. In turn, we must share this same kind of love and forgiveness with our family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. It’s the only way we can fully share in the joy of God.

Two Different Views of Vacation

Back in January, when I returned to work after a week’s vacation in Florida, people bombarded me with questions: “Did you rent jet skis?” “Did you go para-sailing?” “Did you jog on the beach?” “Did you use the hotel gym every morning?” The answers to these questions were: “No,” “Are you insane?” “Oh, you’re funny,” and, “What’s a gym?”

It dawned on me that people have two very different views of vacation. Some folks think vacation is an opportunity to do all sorts of adventurous activities that aren’t normally available at home. These people fill each vacation day with so much stuff, their daily schedule is as busy as a presidential candidate visiting a primary state, except with more opportunities to get injured.

If I took that approach to my vacation, when I returned home from vacation I would need a vacation.

Other people, like me, have the opposite view of vacation. We see it as an opportunity to actively engage in the one thing that is not possible to do the rest of the year: nothing. To folks like me, vacation is the once-a-year chance to relax, do nothing, think about nothing, and find out if it’s really true that moss will grow on a human being if he stays motionless for seven days straight.

Here are questions my co-workers should have asked me: “How many naps did you take?” “How many times did you go in the hot tub?” and, “How many times did you eat out at a restaurant?” The answers are: “Six,” “Fourteen,” and, “I can’t count that high.” (“I can’t count that high,” also is the answer to the question: “How much weight did you gain?”)

Now, I understand that some people will point out that if you’re going to do nothing during vacation, you might as well do nothing at home and save all the money spent on air fare, rental car, hotels, and over-priced tourist trap restaurants. However, I’ve tried that in years past, and it doesn’t work. First, outdoor pools and hot tubs are not quite as enjoyable in Connecticut in January as they are in Florida in January. Call me a wimp, but going outside in my bathing suit when it’s 16 degrees is not my cup of tea.

More importantly, when you vacation at home with the desire to do nothing for a week, it lasts about half a day. At home, all those zillions of chores and projects you’ve been putting off are staring you in the face. And you can’t use the excuse that you have to go to work tomorrow so it wouldn’t make sense to start a project now. A little voice in the back of your head keeps saying, “C’mon, you should paint the bedroom. There’s plenty of time.” Or, “C’mon, you should fix that squeaky step on the stairs.” Or, “C’mon, now is the perfect time to replace the kitchen faucet that drips.” (On second thought, that little voice may not be coming from the back of your head, it may instead be coming from across the breakfast table.)

Also, vacationing at home means you are dangerously close to your place of work. It’s a sure bet that at some point during the week a co-worker will call and plead, “Can you please come in — just for a few hours — and help us fix this problem? Please?!!” That scenario does not happen when you’re out of state. 

So, although some of my co-workers were puzzled that my vacation goal was to do nothing, when I returned to work I was refreshed and raring to go. And that gung-ho attitude lasted quite a while this year — almost half a day.