A baby is clothed with white in baptism. Little girls wear white gowns to receive their Lord for the first time in Holy Communion. Years later, they will wear another white gown as they walk toward their beloved to be united with him unto death.

During the Transfiguration, Our Lord’s clothing became “as white as snow.”

And in the eye of the beholder? The reflection of the light of beauty.

But we have to look.

Which brings us to this week’s “Pop Song Every Catholic Should Hear.”

Ablaze
Alanis Morissette

First thing that you’ll notice is some separation from each other
Yes, it’s a lie, we’ve been believing since time immemorial
There was an apple, there was a snake, there was division
There was a split, there was a conflict in the fabric of life

One became two, and then everyone was out for themselves
Everyone was pitted against each other, conflict ruled the realm
All our devotions and temperaments are pulled from different wells
We seem to easily forget we are made of the same cells

To my boy, all that energy, so wild
Love your hues and your blues in equal measure
Your comings and your goings-away
My mission is to keep the light in your eyes ablaze

Second thing you’ll notice is that
Often we think that there’s not enough
It might feel dark
It might feel lonely and you’ll wonder why you’re here
You may be overcome with darkness and a sense of hopelessness
But it won’t matter if you keep the core connected to the oneness

To my girl, all your innocence and fire
When you reach out, I am here hell or high water
This nest is never going away
My mission is to keep the light in your eyes ablaze

And this cord is unbreakable
This pilot light is there in your pocket
And this bond, beyond unshakeable
Even if we all forgot all at the same time
If we forget at the same time

To my boy, my precious, gentle warrior
To your sweetness and your strength in exploring
May this bond stay with you through all your days
My mission is to keep the light in your eyes ablaze

To my girls, all your innocence and fire
When you reach out, I am here hell or high water
This nest is never going away
My mission is to keep the light in your eyes ablaze

To my boy
(First thing that you'll notice is that everything is temporary)
To my girl
(Next thing you might notice is that we will always be a family)
To my boy
(My mission is to keep the light in your eyes ablaze)

“Look out, children.” When our children are very little, we are terrified that they won’t see danger. But when they start growing up, we are much more terrified that they won’t see beauty. “Look out, children.”

I remember when my children were small babies, they would sometimes pull me and my wife toward them with each of their little hands. Somehow babies instinctively know that there isn’t meant to be separation from each other. Alas, in the garden of Eden, our first parents believed a lie. And so children eventually come to find, because of our wounded nature, that there is a conflict in the fabric of life. The danger is that our children will believe the lie that this is the end of the story—that separation from each other is as inexorable as death.

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A devastating lyric that reminds us that “from the beginning it was not so.” No, on the contrary, “they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore, what God has joined together, man must not separate.” And this is the light that our children must gaze upon if we are to keep the light in their eyes ablaze: the truth that my wife and I are not two, but one flesh. It is in this “civilization of love,” as John Paul II puts it, that children learn to see and experience truth, goodness, and beauty.

Parents, if we want to continue to see the light in our children’s eyes: love your spouse.

In coming to the chorus, we should note that “Ablaze” has a very intentional lyrical structure. The song is arranged so that, in the verses, Alanis sings about the potential disillusionments that our children may find. These are the things which can cause them to cast their eyes away from the light of beauty. But in the chorus, she reminds her children who they really are. The lesson for us parents is this: our children will hear the lies of the world soon enough; the way they overcome these lies is by remembering the song that we sing to them of who they really are.

How do you keep the light in your eyes when you are overcome with darkness, loneliness, and a sense of hopelessness? The last lyric in the verse tells us, “it won’t matter if you keep the core connected to the oneness.” I don’t think we are meant to understand this lyric as saying that these struggles are meaningless, or trivial. Rather, I think the point is that the darkness itself will ultimately fade away…if.

If.

How to interpret the lyric “keep the core connected to the oneness?” Perhaps through the lens of St. Augustine. Alanis was raised Catholic. Which is to say, she is forever marked as belonging to Christ. Although she has wandered into Buddhism, we are called to remember her in our prayers—that she might be brought back, like Augustine, “with a twitch upon the thread.”

As St. Augustine professes, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart (cor) is restless until it rests in you.” The English word “core” comes from the Latin cor. This lyric then is ultimately Augustinian. As further proof, we need look no further than the episcopal motto of our Holy Father, Leo XIV, “In Illo Uno Unum,” a phrase taken from St. Augustine’s which translates to, “In the One, we are one.”

Nothing else matters “if you keep your heart resting in the One.”

A lovely lyric here that recalls to mind the exhortation of St. Catherine of Siena, “Be who God made you to be, and you will set the world ablaze.” We might be tempted to think of innocence as powerless, weak, and safe. But it is none of these things. Christ was innocent. Every Christian martyr has been innocent. There are only two responses to innocence: to be consumed by it, or to try to extinguish it, for innocence always comes as a purifying fire.

Hell and high water come to extinguish the blaze of innocence. Affirm to your children that when the waters rise—and they will—the nest in which they were raised is never going away. It sits, above the waters, always ready to welcome them home, there to be reminded who they are, until their innocence and fire are rekindled, ready to set the world ablaze once more.

Coming to the song’s bridge, Alanis reminds her children that their pilot light, the cord, the bond of parental love is ultimately “beyond unshakeable.” Importantly, it exists as a real relation of love. That is, it has an objective actual existence, and is not merely a kind of fact that is “true if I believe it.” No, this relationship is not merely in the mind of parent and child. On the contrary, “even if we all forgot all at the same time,” the reality of the unbreakable, unshakeable bond remains. And make no mistake, sometimes, parents and children do forget. Edgar Allan Poe cautions us, “That years of love have been forgot / In the hatred of a minute.”

If we do forget, it is this bond, which was always there, that recalls us to ourselves. The prodigal son comes to his senses by remembering the kindness of his father. Yet, perhaps he doesn’t fully remember how unshakeable this bond is, as he declares, “I no longer deserve to be called your son.”

His father has not forgotten. The cord is unbreakable—even by death itself. “Quickly bring the finest robe…because this son of mine was dead, and has come to life again.”

In the song’s outro, there’s an interesting musical counterpoint between the melodies of the verse and chorus. There is a callback now to the first lyric, “First thing that you’ll notice,” but now, because the chorus is sung to the child at the same time—reminding them who they are—we see the child’s viewpoint changing: “Everything is temporary.” Everything? No, not things that are meant to endure: faith, hope, love. The child notices that pain and loss are temporary, but “we will always be a family.”

If our mission is to keep the light in our children’s eyes ablaze, and we do that by reminding them who they really are, then let’s not forget to remind them who and what they are to us. In the book of Tobit, after his son removed the scales from his eyes, “Tobit saw his son and threw his arms around him, and he wept and said to him, ‘I see you, my son, the light of my eyes!’”

My mission is to keep the lights in my children’s eyes ablaze because they were first the light in mine.

I see you my sons. I see you my daughters.

Alanis Morissette performed this song while holding her daughter for the Jimmy Fallon show in 2020. It’s a lovely and charming performance. For some reason the show made the original video private, but you can still watch it as part of a reaction video below:

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Exactly.

It occurred to me that in the movie Groundhog Day, Phil performs every corporal and spiritual work of mercy. Yes, all fourteen of them! Don’t believe me? Well, ok, maybe the first one is a stretch.

To visit the imprisoned.

Phil visits the groundhog who is being held captive by the mayor of Punxsutawney. #JusticeForPhil

To feed the hungry

He feeds the homeless man. And he doesn’t just give him money for food, but sits with him and really notices his needs. When the old man is finishing up his bowl of soup, Phil says, “It gets hard down there at the bottom.” Perhaps there’s a lot more than soup being referred to in this comment.

To give drink to the thirsty.

He gives drink to the old man, but also to Larry and Rita.

Phil: “Who wants coffee? Get it while it’s hot!”

Rita: “Oh! Thanks, Phil!”

Phil: “Larry? Skim milk, two sugar.”

Even a simple generic gesture would be fulfilling the work of mercy, but he goes above and beyond and learned the exact way that his friends like their drinks. It is a great kindness to show someone that you have truly seen them.

To shelter the homeless.

He shelters the old man by taking him to the town diner. “Hello father. Let’s get you someplace warm.”

To visit the sick.

He visits with the old man, but “Dr. Connors” also visits Felix to fix his back. “He can even help around the house again!” “Well, I’m sorry to hear that Felix.”

To comfort the sorrowful.

Phil stays with the old man, and he seems to die happy. Phil comforts him by calling him “Father,” “Pop,” and “Dad.” We aren’t told anything about the homeless man, but on his final day, Phil gives him the gift of reminding him who he is. Whether the old man had any children, we aren’t told. What we are shown, however, is that on his last day, he had one son who walked with him, sat with him, and in the end, as he took his final breath, knelt by him. No father could ask for more from a son.

To bury the dead / To clothe the naked

Nurse: “Sometimes people just die.”

Phil: “Not today.”

Despite his heroic efforts. Sometimes people do just die. Every night Phil tries to save the old man again, and every night he covers him with a blanket--clothes and buries him--when he can’t be saved. This is shown more clearly in a deleted scene (below)

where Phil pens the following note which he leaves on the old man for paramedics to find:

Every night, by cold bricks glow

I watch the shadow rising

from this old man in the snow

At 8:02 we let it go.

To admonish the sinner.

After Phil saves the little boy falling from the tree, the boy doesn’t thank him, but just runs away. Without Phil, the boy would have ended up in the hospital (we see him there in a different loop). In justice, he owes--at the least--a “Thank You” to Phil. Instead he simply runs away without saying a word. Phil admonishes him that this is terrible behavior. “What do you say, you little brat? You have never thanked me!”

To counsel the doubtful.

Phil counsels Fred and Debbie and alleviates Debbie’s doubt that she should be getting married.

Phil: “Hey, Fred, how was the wedding?

Fred: “Well, I just wanted to thank you for making Debbie go through with it and everything.”

Phil: “All I did was fan the flame of her passion for you, Fred.”

Debbie: “You are the best.”

To bear wrongs patiently / To forgive all injuries

After catching the boy (hurting his back in the process), and receiving no thanks, he still shouts after the boy, “I’ll see you tomorrow!” Every day he willingly undergoes pain and suffering that he knows will result in a lack of proper gratitude.

To instruct the ignorant.

Far too many people fail to see the beauty of winter. Phil is not one of those people. Snow and ice are marvels, and Phil knows it. The town gathers around to watch him create a breathtaking ice sculpture. For Rita, he creates a sculpture of her face from snow.

Rita: “It’s amazing. It’s beautiful. How did you do that?”

Phil: “I know your face so well, I could have done it with my eyes closed.”

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To those who fail to see the beauty of all God’s seasons, Phil tells them, “When Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here among the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn’t imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter.”

To pray for the living and the dead.

Of course, Phil believes in God. “I’m a God, I’m not THE God.” When the old man dies, we see Phil look up to heaven. I think this is pretty clearly meant to be a prayer for the old man both now that he has died, and almost certainly a prayer for him tomorrow, and that Phil might somehow be allowed to save him. It’s the most heartbreaking scene in the movie.

Mother Teresa once said, “God doesn’t ask that we succeed in everything, but that we are faithful. However beautiful our work may be, let us not become attached to it. Always remain prepared to give it up, without losing your peace.”

Phil is faithful, night after night, knowing full well that, barring a miracle, he won’t succeed. That never stops him from being faithful, “every night by cold bricks glow.” And at 8:02, every night, though his work is beautiful, “we let it go.”

The lesson.

The movie makes clear that the reason Phil finally moves on is precisely because, in one day, he manages to fulfill the charge of an old quote that says, “I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it for I shall not pass this way again.”

In a sense, the movie flips this idea on its head and makes the demand of Phil that he will pass this way again, until and unless, any good or kindness is shown to any fellow creature.

The lesson is that we are to be faithful because, each day, there is so much good that we can do. Did we perform every kindness we could yesterday? No? Well, good news: we’ve been given another chance.

Today.

And tomorrow.

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Do you know what saint is under the altar at your parish? We should! I have written a letter to Pope Leo, asking him to declare a new plenary indulgence if you attend Mass on the feast day of the saint whose relics are under the altar. I’ll let you all know as soon as I hear back.

In the meantime, priests: tell your parishioners what saint’s relics are under the altar (if you know). Encourage your parishioners to attend Mass on the saint’s feast day. Lay people: ask your priest about the relics. Encourage devotion to that saint in your family.

Let’s be saints.

Most Holy Father,

I write as a lay Catholic and father of 8 to beseech you to open wider God’s floodgate of mercy, and grant a new plenary indulgence to the faithful who devoutly assist at Mass on the feast of the saint whose relics are in that church’s altar.

Throughout Her history, Holy Mother Church has seen fit to grant indulgences in order to encourage the faithful to works that will enliven their faith, hope, and charity. By granting this indulgence, I believe the Church will help the faithful to realize the following spiritual benefits:

A parish-wide devotion to the saint(s) whose relics are contained in the altar stone. In nearly 50 years of being a Catholic, I cannot recall an instance of a priest mentioning the name of a saint whose bodily relics lay within the church’s altar. In some cases, this may be the result of lost parish documentation, such that the priest himself is unaware. However, by offering this indulgence, and encouraging pastors to make this indulgence known to us, their spiritual children, no longer would the saint’s identity be lost or forgotten. On the contrary, by being made known and celebrated, parish families will keep alive within their living memory the glory of their saint. For, it is our saint, and our friend. Our friend whose body has been present at every Mass that we will attend at that church. Our friend who has been present when our grandfather received his First Holy Communion, and who will be present when our grandchildren receive their First Holy Communion.

How can we not have devotion to this saintly friend, remembering that at every Mass celebrated at this altar are laid two bodies: the First, already glorified; the second, reposing at the altar of the Lord until the end of time. How can we fail to trust the prayers of our heavenly friends when we invoke their intercession in the hope that at the end of all things, we might rise with them, glorified, and repose with them, body and soul, upon the breast of our Glorified Savior?

Rekindling the faithful’s honor for and veneration of relics. St. John Chrysostom writes that, “For not the bodies only, but the very sepulchers of the saints have been filled with spiritual grace.” The Council of Trent asked specifically for the faithful to be “diligently” instructed that “the holy bodies of holy martyrs, and of others now living with Christ…are to be venerated by the faithful” because through these relics “many benefits are bestowed by God on men.” What better way to enkindle the faithful’s desire to venerate relics than to make known to them the saints present at the altar, while encouraging them to participate in the Mass on that saint’s feast day?

Reminding the faithful of our true heroes. Holy Father, as you are well aware, our modern culture offers to us as heroes the powerful, the wealthy, and the famous. Our children are continually fed the lie that happiness consists in such things. The Church, in Her wisdom, has always recognized that Her sons and daughters must continually have before them models of virtue and holiness. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.” As St. Augustine notes “[F]rom that seed have sprung the crops of the church. They have asserted Christ’s cause more effectively when dead than when they were alive. They assert it today, they preach him today; their tongues are silent, their deeds echo round the world.”

As in every age, we must be reminded that such men and women once walked the face of this earth. And we must be reminded how they walked: with bloodied feet like St. Jose Sanchez del Rio, shouting “Viva Cristo Rey!”; singing Salve Regina, onto the foot of the scaffold, and into eternal life, like the martyred nuns of Compiègne; from a prison cell for harboring faithful priests, to be crushed to death while uttering, “Jesu, Jesu, Jesu, have mercy upon me,” like St. Margaret Clitherow; with an unborn child, and a willingness to sacrifice her life so that her baby may live, like St. Gianna.

In a word, we must be reminded that, truly, such men and women once walked with Christ’s feet, and we are called to nothing less than that, because there is nothing greater than that. What a joy to be reminded that our footsteps were their footsteps: to the altar of God, to be in Communion with Him.

The account of St. Polycarp’s martyrdom tells us that, “[W]e afterwards took up his bones, as being more precious than the most exquisite jewels, and more purified than gold, and deposited them in a fitting place, whither, being gathered together, as opportunity is allowed us, with joy and rejoicing, the Lord shall grant us to celebrate the anniversary (birthday) of his martyrdom, both in memory of those who have already finished their course, and for the exercising and preparation of those yet to walk in their steps.”

Holy Father, from the very earliest times the Church has “raised to the altar” her triumphant sons and daughters. I now humbly ask that you grant to us, the Church militant, a plenary indulgence so that we might seek them there, at the altar, on their feast days, to celebrate with them the Divine Liturgy.

You remain in my prayers, and I humbly request your Apostolic Blessing for myself and my family.

Your Holiness’ servant,
Timothy Clark
November 8, 2025
Feast of the Veneration of the Holy Relics

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Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you

—T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

Though I am a lover of poetry, I must confess that my first reading of Eliot’s The Waste Land left me confused and unsure of the meaning behind his many enigmatic vignettes. Famously, however, the poem was published with notes written by Eliot himself explaining certain allusions. In his notes, Eliot tells us those “lines were stimulated by the account of one of the Antarctic expeditions (I forget which, but I think one of Shackleton’s): it was related that the party of explorers, at the extremity of their strength, had the constant delusion that there was one more member than could actually be counted.”

This phenomenon—experiencing the presence of another person when you are at the edge of your strength—has been termed “the third man factor” after Eliot’s poem. It turns out that Eliot’s seemingly insignificant footnote became anything but. And while he was correct about the name of the explorer, he is almost certainly wrong in his characterization of this phenomenon as a “delusion.”

Shackleton certainly didn’t describe it in that way.

On the contrary, he writes, “I have no doubt that Providence guided us…I know that during that long and racking march of thirty-six hours over the unnamed mountains and glaciers of South Georgia it seemed to me often that we were four, not three.”

Would Shackleton be likely to have such a delusion? For those unfamiliar with Ernest Shackleton, he has been called “the greatest leader of men.” After his ship—fittingly named Endurance—became trapped and destroyed by pack ice, he and his men spent nearly two years living on ice floes and small boats at the most desolate place on planet earth. Shackleton fully realized that losing his nerve for one moment would inevitably result in the death of all twenty-seven of his men.

But Shackleton never did lose his nerve. Nor did he lose his men.

Not one. Twenty-seven men came home.

Delusional? Hardly. A delusional leader would get his men killed. The men of the Endurance survived precisely because they were led by one of the most fearless, clear-eyed, and methodical men to ever live. As another Antarctic explorer once asserted, “Scott for scientific method, Amundsen for speed and efficiency but when disaster strikes and all hope is gone, get down on your knees and pray for Shackleton.”

Is it not possible that Shackleton was deluded? I concede that it is certainly possible, even for someone of Shackleton’s fortitude. What seems impossible though is for all three men to independently share the same delusion. For, each of the three men confirmed after their harrowing trek, that each had experienced the presence of a fourth man. That this confirmation happened after the fact is critical, because it removes all possibility of the weary men convincing each other of the truth of a mirage. On the contrary, here we have all three men, months and years later independently confirming what they each experienced.

Three men, and yet a fourth angelic-like presence appears. This scene may sound familiar. In the book of Daniel we read:

“Was it not three men that we threw bound into the fire?” They answered the king, “True, O king.” He replied, “But I see four men unbound, walking in the middle of the fire, and they are not hurt; and the fourth has the appearance of a god…Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who has sent his angel and delivered his servants who trusted in him.

Indeed, throughout the Old Testament, we find many instances of angels being sent as messengers, guides, and guardians, as in the book of Daniel. Psalm 91 makes the startling claim, “[H]e will give his angels charge of you to guard you in all your ways.” That any angel—who are far above us in the created order—is sent to serve us is itself an extraordinary sign of God’s love and the angel’s humility. However, Jesus reveals—and reminds us—that God’s love is boundless. He reveals that angels are not merely sent as messengers when the need arises, but that each soul has their own guardian angel. “See that you do not despise one of these little ones; for I tell you that in heaven their angels always behold the face of my Father who is in heaven.”

You have your own angel.

I wonder if the Jews who heard this revelation gasped. I wonder if we do. We should. For, not only is God teaching us about himself and his angels, but he is revealing something about us: “Great is the dignity of souls, for each one to have an angel deputed to guard it from its birth,” as St. Jerome observes.

You have your own angel. Then, the three men walking across their own wasteland were not in a party of four, but of six. One may imagine that each man felt the presence of his own guardian angel. For, in every moment of their lives, these angels had been guarding and protecting them.

In his 2009 book, The Third Man Factor, author John Geiger recounts dozens of examples of angels—or what Christians would call angels—coming to the aid of those in extreme peril. Interestingly, as in the case of Shackleton, many of these individuals are those who trained to stay calm under stress: mountain climbers, sailors, and polar explorers like Shackleton. While this tends to belie the notion of delusions, perhaps we might be tempted to wonder whether our guardian angels intercede for us in only the most extreme circumstances?

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The Church teaches the opposite. The Church lovingly grants us a partial indulgence “to the faithful who devoutly invoke the care of their guardian Angel with a duly approved prayer (e.g. Angele Dei).” The Angele Dei requests that our guardian angel “ever this day be at my side, to light, to guard, to rule, and guide.” Although we may not realize it, at every moment of the day, until we take our last breath, our guardian angel is lovingly guiding us.

St. Thomas Aquinas, the Angelic Doctor, explains, “Man while in this state of life, is, as it were, on a road by which he should journey towards heaven…And therefore as guardians are appointed for men who have to pass by an unsafe road, so an angel guardian is assigned to each man as long as he is a wayfarer.”

I think it’s critical to remember that our guardian angels are beholding the face of our Father in heaven precisely because they answered, “I will serve.” St. Michael casts into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who wickedly declared, “Non serviam.” Ministering to us is for them neither toil nor drudgery, but their joy. It was this willingness to serve that led to their beatitude, and it is this willingness to minister to us on behalf of God’s providence that gives them their happiness.

Therefore, we should never hesitate to approach them; their service is their joy. Perhaps we might better understand this truth by reflecting on the name given to St. Michael, which means, “Who is like God?”

Isaiah tells us that Lucifer said “I will make myself like the Most High.” To this, Michael replies, “Who is like God?” Michael’s name is a rhetorical question, and yet, one may ask, in all humility, “Who is like God?” Jesus tells us that “the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.” At the Last Supper, He served the apostles by washing their feet. St. Paul tells us that He “emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.” Michael answers the question, “Who is like God” in his very person. His willingness to serve is precisely what makes him closer to God, whereas Lucifer’s unwillingness to serve is precisely what keeps him from being like God.

God’s entire providential plan is to make us more like Him, so that we can be united more to Him. Therefore, he has deigned to let men and angels share in the communication of His love. Our angel then delights in nothing more than sharing God’s love to us. The angel sent to Daniel tells him, “Do not fear, greatly beloved, you are safe. Be strong and courageous!”

It is reported that when Shackleton’s friends praised him, he would stop them by quietly replying, “I am not entitled to all the credit.”

The truth is that when we finally enter the kingdom of heaven, we must certainly echo those same words. For, when we look ahead up the white road, there will be another one walking beside us. But this time, our angel will not be our guardian—for there is no need of guardians in that place. Instead, our angel will ensure us, “Do not fear, greatly beloved, you are safe.”

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For several years, whenever I searched for, e.g., “CCC 2365” I would be directed to “scborromeo.org” and right to paragraph 2365. As someone who comes from (and married into) families who loves to argue (charitably of course!) about philosophy and theology, I returned again and again to the catechism and scborromeo.org.

I had been using the website for about 5 years before I finally had the bright idea of asking myself, “Wait, what exactly is the website St. Charles Borromeo?”

I clicked on their homepage.

“Wait, this is just a parish website in…Picayune, Mississippi?!?!” I had assumed that St. Charles Borromeo was some large Catholic non-profit that had been tasked with hosting the Catechism online.

You may be forgiven if you have never heard of Picayune. Not to belabor the point, but the word “picayune,” originally the name of a Spanish coin, has come to mean something small or seemingly insignificant.

You might think I was surprised by having never heard of Picayune. However, what surprised me was that I had. In fact, I had been there. That family I married into? Some of them lived in tiny Picayune, MS.

So, after using the site for years, when I visited little St. Charles Borromeo to attend a family wedding, it was almost like a homecoming. It felt a little like finally visiting St. Peter’s in Rome. And that isn’t as strange as it might sound.

You see, a couple of decades ago, the Vatican’s website finally did put the English translation of the Catechism online. The Vatican’s website has always prominently featured St. Peter’s. Indeed, the only Church ever prominently featured on the Vatican’s website is St. Peter’s.

With one exception.

When the Vatican finally hosted the English translation of the Catechism of the Catholic Church for the English speaking world, there on the bottom of the Catechism could be found, “Credits: Preparation for Internet done by Charles Borromeo Parish, Mississippi, USA.”

For years, I’ve wondered, “What is the story behind this?” So, last month I reached out to St. Charles Borromeo in the hope that someone there could fill in the details.

As I learned the history of this undertaking, two quotes kept coming to mind. The first is from the founder of Christendom College, Warren Carroll. “One man can make a difference.”

In this case, one man, John Meyer, did.

Meyer relates, “My wife and I moved…to Carriere, MS, which is just outside of Picayune. The closest Catholic Church was a charmingly small church in Picayune, St. Charles Borromeo. The pastor, without the aid of a parochial vicar or deacon, was a gentle Irish priest, Fr. John Noone. Picayune is in the Bible Beltway and the vast majority of the population was/is Protestant, so Fr. Noone often tailored his homilies to the defense of the faith, especially regarding topics that his parishioners were challenged on by their passionate Protestant neighbors and friends.”

In 1997, Meyer’s wife began attending RCIA taught by Fr. Noone to learn more about her faith.

Meyer admits that, “When I saw her heavily marked-up and annotated copy of the CCC, I was a bit taken aback. My formal education included primarily religious textbooks that periodically referred to the Baltimore Catechism. I was surprised to see the depth of the teaching of the faith in the CCC.”

In 1999, Meyer decided to attend RCIA with his wife.

While attending RCIA, Meyer explains, “I tried to find the CCC online so I could more easily search and study the class topics which were announced the week before and addressed in depth at the following class. Surprisingly, the only thing I could find was a UK English edition which, in addition to being different from the American translation used in class, was riddled with typos and errors.”

Meyer had an inspiration. What he called, “this wild idea…What if I created a website for St. Charles and hosted the CCC online?”

Make no mistake, dear reader, that was a wild idea.

That wild idea brings me to the second quote. It’s about a computer scientist who accomplished something that was widely considered to be impossible. “[He] was not held back by the conventional wisdom for the simple reason that he was unaware of it.”

Conventional wisdom would indicate this project would be spearheaded by then-Cardinal Ratzinger. One might imagine him giving weekly reports to Pope John Paul II, who had commissioned and promulgated this new Catechism.

In 1999, John Meyer was 5,000 miles away from Rome.

He had no official title in the Church.

He had no mandate.

What he had was a Catechism. In that Catechism, paragraph 1268, we find the astonishing truth, “The baptized…share in the priesthood of Christ, in his prophetic and royal mission.”

John Meyer was baptized. In virtue of that, he shares in Christ’s prophetical and royal mission, as do we all. Who has time to think about, or even remember the conventional wisdom when, after all, our King has told us we are called to serve in His great royal mission?

Fr. Noone readily approved Meyer’s plan to create a website for the parish, but hosting the CCC wasn’t quite as straightforward. Fr. Noone liked the idea, but as Meyer explains, Fr. Noone “told me to ensure I wasn't violating copyright in publishing the CCC.”

At this point in the story, it is necessary to praise the real prudence and fortitude that Fr. Noone showed. After all, he would be the one to be contacted by copyright lawyers if something wasn’t done in just the right way. Keep in mind, this was the early days of the internet where some of the thornier legal questions weren’t entirely clear. The easy answer then was “no.” Nevertheless, before him was his spiritual son, asking to make the Catechism’s doctrine more widely known. Fr. Noone no doubt recalled paragraph 25, “The whole concern of doctrine and its teaching must be directed to the love that never ends,” which is nothing other than the great royal mission.

"That okay and challenge got me working immediately,” Meyer told me.

Working immediately? Even without knowing whether copyright permissions would be granted? There’s that pesky conventional wisdom again, which Meyer simply had no time for. “I also took a leap of faith that I'd get the necessary approval(s),” Meyer recalls.

What did that process look like in 1999? Lots of cutting and pasting. No, not electronic cutting and pasting. Meyer explained to me that he “scanned torn-out pages of the CCC and used…[Optical Character Recognition] software to create text, which unfortunately resulted in LOTS of errors.”

It is certainly true that, in this world, there is not a single person who has examined every single letter, comma, period, footnote number, and yes, iota, of the Catechism more than John Meyer did over a nine month period in 1999.

He still didn’t have copyright permission. Nor was it obvious who to contact to obtain it. Nevertheless, he persisted and, after many phone calls, “finally reached someone at the USCCB who informed me that the USCCB did not control internet-based CCC copyright and that I'd need to request that approval directly from the Vatican.”

Approval directly from the Vatican for a seemingly random man in Picayune, Mississippi, USA?

How does one even go about contacting the Vatican?

Phone call? Email? Fax? Letter?

Yes.

All of the above.

That’s exactly what you do if you’re John Meyer, of St. Charles Borromeo Parish, Picayune, Mississippi, USA, who went to his mailbox one afternoon and found, among the usual bills and advertisements, a letter, addressed to him, postmarked from 5000 miles away.

The Vatican granted approval.

Inspired by his success, Meyer created a paragraph-by-paragraph search utility, “a unique capability on the web at the time. The word got out and, using today's vernacular, the website went viral.”

Among its first users, though, were the RCIA teachers at St. Charles. The RCIA program gained a new teacher as well: John Meyer, who would go on to teach RCIA for the next 15 years at St. Charles.

In 2001, Meyer was once again contacted by the Vatican. The Vatican had only two translations of the Catechism on their site: Latin and Italian. Would St. Charles grant, they wondered, permission to use the American Translation of the CCC that Meyer had painstakingly prepared?

Fr. Noone happily granted it. This incredible turning of tables might make one recall fables of mice and lions, or ants and doves. As those fables rightly teach us, “A kindness is never wasted.”

Almost a quarter century later, other than the USCCB’s site, St. Charles remains the one and only copyright approved American Translation of the CCC.

To this day, St. Charles’ current pastor, Fr. Bernard Papania, routinely receives “thank-you” emails from souls around the globe.

We might be surprised by the global effect of the picayune parish of St. Charles Borromeo. Then again, perhaps we ought to remember that none of us are ever meant to be insignificant. We—each of us—serve in the King’s royal mission, And our parishes, even if seemingly small and insignificant, bear the names of great saints. Perhaps we need only ask ourselves, “What would our patron saints do, if they were here?” St. Charles Borromeo parish believed their patron would exclaim with the catechism, “The whole concern of doctrine and its teaching must be directed to the love that never ends.” That is indeed from paragraph 25 of the CCC, but it is actually quoting another Catechism: The Catechism of the Council of Trent. That catechism of course was created over 500 years ago at the behest and under the direction of one of the Church’s greatest saints: St. Charles Borromeo.

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This is the oath that every new Swiss Guard takes on May 6th, when he raises his right hand, with three fingers extended for the Holy Trinity.

The last May 6th papal interregnum was between the pontificates of Clement XIII and Clement XIV. Our story today though is about another Pope Clement, and another May 6th. That story is the subject of this week’s “Pop Song Every Catholic Should Hear.”

In the heart of the Holy See
In the home of Christianity
The seat of power is in danger
There's a foe of a thousand swords
They've been abandoned by their lords
Their fall from grace will pave their path, to damnation

Then the one hundred eighty-nine
In the service of heaven
They're protecting the holy line
It was 1527
Gave their lives on the steps to heaven
Thy will be done!

For the grace, for the might of our lord
For the home of the holy
For the faith, for the way of the sword
Gave their lives so boldly
For the grace, for the might of our lord
In the name of his glory
For the faith, for the way of the sword
Come and tell their story again

Under guard of forty-two
Along a secret avenue
Castel Sant' Angelo is waiting
They're the guards of the Holy See
They're the guards of Christianity
Their path to history is paved with salvation

Then the one hundred eighty-nine
In the service of heaven
They're protecting the holy line
It was 1527
Gave their lives on the steps to heaven
Thy will be done!

For the grace, for the might of our lord
For the home of the holy
For the faith, for the way of the sword
Gave their lives so boldly
For the grace, for the might of our lord
In the name of his glory
For the faith, for the way of the sword
Come and tell their story again

Dying for salvation with dedication
No capitulation, annihilation
Papal commendation, reincarnation
Heaven is your destination

Dying for salvation with dedication
No capitulation, annihilation
Papal commendation, reincarnation
Heaven is your destination
In the name of God

For the grace, for the might of our lord
For the home of the holy
For the faith, for the way of the sword
Gave their lives so boldly
For the grace, for the might of our lord
In the name of his glory
For the faith, for the way of the sword

Come and tell their story
Gave their lives so boldly
Come and tell the Swiss Guards' story again

To state that the tension in Christendom in the 1520s was fraught would be a significant understatement. As the Catholic Encyclopedia notes, “it may be doubted if there was one man in ten thousand who would have succeeded by natural tact and human prudence in guiding the Bark of Peter through such tempestuous waters. Clement was certainly not such a man.”

Just a couple years earlier, Clement had made a secret treaty with the King of France, who was then at war with the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V.

Tragically, war broke out between Charles and troops controlled by the Pope. Even more tragically, only one day after a peace treaty was signed, Pope Clement violated the agreement and attacked imperial troops. Warren Carroll somberly notes, “One may search all of papal history in vain for a more imprudent or irresponsible act by any Pope.”

Nevertheless, eventually a second treaty was signed. By this time however, the imperial army was underfed and underpaid. Of those that remained, roughly 2/3 were German Lutherans who had no love for the Catholic Pope.

Thus began a mutiny.

This army would march to Rome and be paid by pillage and plunder.

“Then the 189
In the service of heaven
They’re protecting the holy line
It was 1527

At the moment the wall to the Vatican was breached, the Pope was praying in his private chapel. He was informed that he had, literally, seconds left to escape.

That he had this warning at all is due to the 189.

189 Swiss Guards who once swore an oath to “faithfully, loyally and honorably serve the Supreme Pontiff…so help me God and his Saints” were all that were “protecting the holy line” of papal succession.

42 of the guard were sent to lead the Pope, if possible, to safety.

147 of the guard stood.

Their last stand: a bloodthirsty horde of 20,000 against 147 Swiss Guards before the high altar of St. Peter’s.

It was 1527, gave their lives on the steps to heaven
Thy will be done!

Indeed, the guards gave their lives on the steps to heaven—the steps leading to the mother church of Christianity—but I have no doubt they remembered the words of Our Lord, “he that shall lose his life for my sake, shall find it.” So, it may truly be said that the guard found their lives on those steps to heaven. For those steps would lead them to behold the face of Him they protected in the person of His Vicar.

Thy will be done, “for the grace, for the might of our lord / In the name of his glory.”

Under guard of 42
Along a secret avenue
Castel Sant’Angelo is waiting

Between the Vatican and Castel Sant’Angelo an 800 meter long “secret” passage, which you may still visit to this day.

They’re the guards of the Holy See

One reason why this story is so moving is because of who Giulio de' Medici was. We may well be reminded of the words of St. Paul who rightly notes, “Indeed, rarely will anyone die for a righteous person—though perhaps for a good person someone might actually dare to die.” Let us make no mistake though. Again, Warren Carroll tells us that, “the Swiss Guard, in the noblest moment of their long service [gave] their lives to save the unworthy Pope…” These guards took an oath to protect, not the name of de’ Medici, but the name of Clement, the name of Peter, indeed, the name of Christ. As the military saying goes, “we salute the rank, not the man.”

Sometimes, I think we Catholics are dangerously willing to shout, “you are a de’ Medici!” instead of shouting, “Tu es Petrus!” The 189 shouted out the truth—Tu es Petrus—with their blood. We would do well to follow their example, if not with our blood, then at least with our words.

Dying for salvation with dedication
No capitulation, annihilation
Papal commendation, reincarnation
Heaven is your destination
In the name of God

The moving lyrics of the song’s bridge remind us that the guard understood exactly what their final stand meant. They would never capitulate, but make no mistake, they knew full well that there would be no Papal commendation for them. They knew full well this was their one life to live (no reincarnation), and they were laying it down. And why? Because they believed in something far better than commendation or reincarnation: they believed in the words of Our Lord, “Amen I say to thee, this day thou shalt be with me in paradise.” That day, no doubt, they believed heaven was their destination.

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And so, they stood.

Their final stand.

In the name of God.

The Pope was held prisoner in Castel Sant’Angelo for six months. The 189 had saved him, even though, in the end the final 42 guards were killed.

Let us make a final footnote on the “unworthy pope.” This same Clement, the seventh by that name, in the end defended the sanctity, dignity, and indissolubility of marriage against the attack by King Henry VIII. This, despite the fact that he, as Carroll notes, “before the sack of Rome never defended anything on principle.” Of course we will never know, this side of heaven, but I wonder if, just possibly, when deciding on Henry’s case if a de’ Medici thought back to the 189 men who refused to capitulate, and “gave their lives so boldly, for the grace, for the might of the Lord.” And if he did, then perhaps he remembered his own duty, not to the name de’ Medici but to Clement, to Peter, to Christ.

In just two years, on May 6, 2027, there will be another swearing in ceremony for the Swiss Guards. It will mark the 500th anniversary of the guards’ last stand. On that day, as they have for centuries, each man will raise his right hand and swear to “faithfully, loyally and honorably serve the Supreme Pontiff…so help me God and his Saints.”

Pray for them. Pray for the Cardinal electors. Pray for our new Pope. That is our duty as Catholics who have been Confirmed in the faith. We Confirmed are meant to be Soldiers of Christ. Perhaps sometimes we might forget this duty. If ever we do, might I suggest we remind each other of our soldierly duty by telling, again, the story of the 189.

Come and tell their story
Gave their lives so boldly
Come and tell the Swiss Guards' story again

Then, let us stand.

In the name of God.

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“If any one asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ you shall say this, ‘The Lord has need of it.’” —Luke 19:30

I am haunted by these words.

In the context of the Passion narrative, as we read it on Palm Sunday, perhaps we may see these words as a small detail in the overall story of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. However, it is worth noting that all three synoptic Gospels mention Jesus’ words, and they are nearly identical to each other. Luke and Mark include the fact that the disciples were in fact asked why they were untying the donkey, and that they did reply, “The Lord has need of it.”

It seems the Gospel writers themselves were struck by these words. They recalled, perhaps, Psalm 50, “For every beast of the forest is mine, the cattle on a thousand hills. I know all the birds of the air, and all that moves in the field is mine” (Ps. 50:10-11). God reminds us that He is perfect and has no “need” of anything. “Do I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of he-goats?” (Ps. 50:13)

What “need” can He have of us? Zechariah gives us the answer, “Behold: your king is coming to you, a just savior is he, Humble, and riding on a donkey” (Zech. 9:9).

Why is this the answer? Because in this one verse, we learn the three things necessary about our Master.

First, that He is humble.

Second, because of this humility, He will use whatever means necessary to accomplish His end. He doesn’t choose a majestic war horse, but a faithful, humble, lowly, donkey.

Finally, most importantly, we learn His end: that He comes to us.

As unfathomable as it may seem, this is the answer: Our Master’s “need” is to come to us. Every means, every other “need” He asks for, in His earthly ministry, ultimately is to fulfill the purpose of coming closer to us.

We see this clearly played out, when we consider, briefly, each occasion that Jesus asks for something as recorded in the Gospels.

“Fill the jars with water” (John 2:7) to the servants at the wedding in Cana. This “need” results in His first miracle, so that “His disciples believed in Him” and were drawn to Him.

“Give me a drink” (John 4:7) to the woman at the well. Yet, it certainly appears He never receives this drink. That was never the point. He asked this of her so that He could reveal, “I who speak to you am He” and to offer her living water: Himself.

“Bring them here to me” (Matt. 14:18) to the disciples when He asks for the five loaves and two fish. The crowd is hungry, yes, but that is not ultimately the reason why Jesus “needs” this food. He feeds them, so that, “They need not go away” (Matt. 14:16) from Him. “Abide in me, and I in you” (John 15:4).

“Make haste and come down; for I must stay at your house today” (Luke 19:5) to Zacchaeus. Obviously, Our Lord is not merely looking for lodging. He tells us precisely the reason for his “need” to visit Zacchaeus, “Today salvation has come to this house. For the Son of man came to seek and to save the lost.”

“Untie it and bring it here” (Luke 19:30) to the disciples when He instructs them to bring the donkey, so that he can come to His people as their “Just savior.”

“‘The Teacher says to you, Where is the guest room, where I am to eat the Passover with my disciples?” (Luke 22:11) to the disciples when he instructs them to go prepare the Passover in the upper room. The Teacher had need of this room so that from Holy Thursday night, until this world’s end, He would be able to come to us in the Sacrament of Love.

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In this same upper room, Jesus will enter, though the doors are locked, and institute the sacrament of reconciliation.

For Our Lord will come to us.

In our prayers, works, joys, and sufferings, He will come to us. These we offer to Him, with certain hope, that in some way “The Lord has need of it.”

The Lord has need of our joy. The Lord has need of our sadness. The Lord has need of everything offered to Him—for He will waste no means to come to us.

Hold nothing back then.

I am reminded of a scene I have always loved in C.S. Lewis’ “The Horse and His Boy.” The good and faithful horse, Hwin, has just seen Aslan.

Then Hwin, though shaking all over, gave a strange little neigh and trotted across to the Lion.

"Please," she said, "you're so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I'd sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else."

"Dearest daughter," said Aslan, planting a lion's kiss on her twitching, velvet nose, "I knew you would not be long in coming to me. Joy shall be yours."

Hold nothing back.

For what greater joy could be found than in some small way giving to the Master whatever He needs?

St. Therese writes on this same theme:

I had offered myself, for some time now, to the Child Jesus as his little plaything. [T]o use me like a little ball of no value which he could throw on the ground, push with His foot…or press to His heart if it pleased him; in a word, I wanted to amuse little Jesus.

“I had offered myself.” Hold nothing back.

For, the final occasion when Jesus asks for something is upon the cross: “I thirst” (John 19:28). St. Therese writes:

And every hour I hear Thy voice implore:
“I thirst — I thirst — I thirst — for love always!”

Every other “need” of Our Lord He uses so that He may draw close to us. As He is dying, He tells us of His final “need.”

Us.

The Lord has need of us.

“If any one asks you, ‘Why are you untying it?’ you shall say this, ‘The Lord has need of it.’”

If any one asks us why are we joyful, or suffering, or rejoicing, or mourning, or lonely, or comforted, we should say this, “The Lord has need of it. The Lord has need of me.”

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It was almost Christmas, 1955. The cold war was in full swing. Tensions were at a new level, with the Soviet Union forming the Warsaw Pact only a few months earlier.

Nuclear war was a real possibility.

The red phone is not merely the stuff of fiction. In 1955, that phone was sitting on a desk in the Continental Air Defense Command (CONAD). CONAD’s primary mission was to warn of an impending Soviet missile attack.

Colonel Harry Shoup knew that red phone was for emergency calls only. The only other person who had that number was a 4 star general at the Pentagon.

And the red phone was ringing.

Colonel Harry Shoup. Husband. Father. Decorated veteran of World War II and the Korean War.

Would the lives of millions of innocents be affected by that call?

He answered the phone.

“This is Colonel Shoup!” he nearly shouted into the phone.

A pause.

From the other end, the words came back that would affect the lives of millions of innocents for generations to come: “Is this Santa Clause?”

“Who is? What kind of joke is this?” Shoup demanded.

The small voice on the other end of the call stammered about his Christmas wish list, before beginning to cry.

That’s when Shoup realized the truth. This was no joke.

“And the people asked him, saying: What then shall we do?
…And the soldiers also asked him, saying: And what shall we do?”

Perhaps Harry Shoup thought of this verse before answering, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Have you been a good boy this year?”

Colonel Harry Shoup. Recipient of the Soldier's Medal for saving the life of another airman decided that cold Colorado December day to save a child’s hope and innocence.

He did ask though to speak to the child’s mother.

The mother quickly explained that Sears had printed an ad in the paper that ran, “Hey Kiddies! Call me direct on my Merry XMAS Telephone.” The advertisement quite ironically directed the kids to “be sure to dial the correct number.” They had. It was the number in the advertisement that was wrong.

In the first Christmas story, 2000 years earlier, soldiers had attacked innocents. On this Christmas, a soldier would defend innocence.

The calls kept pouring in and Colonel Harry Shoup would answer the call. Quite literally. In fact, he set up airmen to play Santa to children around the clock.

On Christmas Eve, some of the airmen couldn’t help themselves and on the board CONAD used to track aircraft, someone had placed a cutout of Santa’s sleigh.

Shoup wasn’t offended by the little joke at all. CONAD was supposed to track objects in the sky wasn’t it? No doubt to the airmen’s astonishment, Shoup was suddenly on the phone with a local radio station. “This is the commander at the Combat Alert Center and we have an unidentified flying object. Why, it looks like a sleigh!”

The radio stations loved it. So did the children. CONAD would report back every few hours about Santa’s current position.

The next year, CONAD reported on St. Nick again.

And so, a Christmas tradition was born.

You might know CONAD now as the North American Aerospace Defense Command, NORAD. As I write this, on Christmas Eve 2024, NORAD’s Santa tracker tells me that Santa is currently headed for Paris, France.

Millions of children have been delighted in the 70 years since the tradition began by calling NORAD to find out Santa’s whereabouts on Christmas eve.

Why? Because of one, Harry Shoup. Harry Shoup who had medals enough to cover his chest, a nearly 30 year distinguished career in the military. But Harry Shoup didn’t carry medals and accolades around to show others. In his later years, he carried a locked brief case. Some top secret papers perhaps? No. The many, many, letters from parents thanking him for giving their children some Christmas joy.

He would frequently read them, and remember that fateful December day. Colonel Harry Shoup. Or, as he became known, “The Santa Colonel.”

Colonel Harry Shoup, whose job it was to look to the skies. “And the soldiers also asked him, saying: And what shall we do?” Colonel Harry Shoup, who, like some wise men before him, watched the skies, and found a star to guide his way.

Merry Christmas!

“This is a lonely place...” (Matt. 14:15)

In the past few weeks I have returned, repeatedly, to this simple phrase in Matthew’s Gospel spoken by an unnamed disciple.

Where, I wondered, are the truly lonely places? Desert caves? Dense jungles, or high mountains? They are all lonely, to be sure, but even in these places we may meet other people, and certainly we will find plant or animal life. No, in the truly lonely places, we find much more desolation than this.

The lonely places are the past and the future. Here, in our imagination, we must travel alone. We bring ourselves—and only ourselves—to a world of our own making. Far too often, we look upon the land we have built and behold nothing other than the monsters we have created: doubt and fear.

In the past, we are terrorized by doubt. In the landscape of our future, every evil rises up before us.

Let us make no mistake: there are real battles that must be fought in these lonely places against doubt and fear.

“This is a lonely place, and the day is now over; send the crowds away to go into the villages and buy food for themselves” (Matt. 14:15).

Notice that Our Lord does not deny that it is a lonely place. Perhaps the disciples forgot what we ourselves often forget: even in the loneliest places, Our Lord is always present, and He will not leave us orphans. We are correct in our belief that we cannot bring anyone with us. But, there is One Who we need not bring with us, for He is already there, in His eternal present.

Our Lord does not send these people away in their time of need. Instead, He fulfills their need, reminding them, and us, that our “Father knows what you need before you ask him” (Matt. 6:8).

The Past: Faith

We may ask then, what do we need when we consider the past? In the past, we are tempted to doubt. To doubt what especially? We find the answer a thousand times over in the Old Testament. We doubt God’s promises to us. We doubt His words to us. We doubt His revelation to us.

In that lonely place, God offers to us “the shield of faith, with which you can quench all the flaming darts of the evil one” (Eph. 6:16). The Catechism tells us that “Faith is the theological virtue by which we believe in God and believe all that he has said and revealed to us, and that Holy Church proposes for our belief, because he is truth itself.”

We have faith in things unseen. Paradoxically though, this faith which God freely offers to us as a gift, illuminates our path, “for we walk by faith, not by sight” (2 Cor. 5:7). This then is the only way to avoid falling into the chasms of doubt when we travel to the past; we carry with us the light of faith.

The Future: Hope

What though of the fears of our future? Do we once again carry with us the shield of faith? It would seem not, for in our past we doubt what has been, and in our future, we fear what might be. And what is it that we most fear? That, in the end, we will fail to reach the goodness and happiness that God has revealed to us. In its most severe form, we may even fall into despair.

In our lonely past, God grants us faith, but in our lonely future, he gives us hope.

Hope is the mortal enemy of despair, for the object of hope is eternal happiness. Yes, God Himself, who gives us this hope in Him. St. Francis de Sales tells us, “Do not fear what may happen tomorrow; the same everlasting Father who cares for you today will take care of you then and every day. He will either shield you from suffering, or give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace, and put aside all anxious thoughts and imagination.”

“He will…give you unfailing strength to bear it.” What joy it is to realize that hope is itself a cause for further hope. For, God has given us exactly what we need in every lonely place to finally be united with Him: faith for our doubts, hope for our fears, in all the lonely places of space and time: peace. “Hope, O my soul, hope,” St. Teresa tells us, “You will rejoice one day with your Beloved, in a happiness and rapture that can never end.”

The Present: Charity

After the disciples tell Jesus that the crowd must leave the lonely place to buy food, He answers them, “They need not go away; you give them something to eat” (Matt. 14:16). Sometimes, we do meet others in the lonely places in the world: the hungry, the thirsty, the sick, the homeless, the imprisoned. It is then, in their lonely present, that we come to them with our cultivated virtues of faith, and hope, to finally perform the proper virtue of the present: charity.

“As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you; abide in my love,” (John 15:9) Jesus tells us. We are able to receive the virtue of charity from God only if we believe, with faith, the words He has spoken to us, and the hope to be united with Him. Yet, charity further perfects faith, and hope. As Aquinas so beautifully reminds us, “in the order of perfection, charity precedes faith and hope: because both faith and hope are quickened by charity, and receive from charity their full complement as virtues. For thus charity is the mother and the root of all the virtues, inasmuch as it is the form of them all…”

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“Taking the five loaves and the two fish he looked up to heaven, and blessed, and broke and gave the loaves to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds” (Matt. 14:19).

Our Lord told the disciples to “give them something to eat.” And how do they do this? Only through the charity of Jesus. He allows his disciples, and all of us, to participate in His love. Christ could have fed the crowd with no help from the disciples. Instead, He allows us to become conduits of grace. We can travel with him to these lonely places, where “Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall become straight, and the rough ways plain” (Is. 40:4).

“These Three”

Let us remember, then, that we are offered the perfect gift for every time and every place. “And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three,” a virtue for our past, for our future, and our present.

These three.

With them, we need not fear the lonely places. For, we are told by Matthew that Jesus came to this place quite purposefully: “He withdrew from there in a boat to a lonely place” (Mt. 14:15). When we come to these places, we need only remember that Jesus waits for us there.

Yes, perhaps especially there. For what places on this earth were lonelier than a cave in winter, an empty garden with drops of sweated blood, a cross upon a hill, or a tomb within a rock?

And yet, in such places do we find Him—waiting for each of us.

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This summer, several hundred thousand Catholic families in the United States lost their fathers. Indeed, my own children suffered the loss of their father this June.

No, I did not pen this article from beyond the grave; I am speaking of the transfer of our parish pastor.

Every year, with not a little trepidation, I read the “Clergy Assignments” to see if my spiritual father will, once again, be departing to some other parish to care for new spiritual children.

We moved to our parish in 2010. We have had three pastors.

And why? Because, in the United States, pastors are appointed by their bishops for a six year term, although this term can be renewed for another six years. Perhaps for many of us, this is neither surprising, nor shocking. This is the norm, after all, and many of us simply take for granted that the Church has proclaimed that pastors are meant to serve in short terms.

Perhaps though, if we dig a bit deeper, we can uncover the rationale behind these ecclesiastical term limits. After all, the Church rarely, if ever, proclaims a law—even those relating strictly to Her juridical and administrative practices—without also explaining to the faithful Her rationale and motivations behind the law.

Canon law does in fact speak to these issues. Canon 522 states, “A pastor must possess stability and therefore is to be appointed for an indefinite period of time” (emphasis mine). If you don’t normally pick up the Code of Canon Law as a little light reading, this sentence may surprise you. An indefinite amount of time is completely opposed to our experience.

What is going on here?

The answer comes from the second sentence of Canon 522, “The diocesan bishop can appoint him only for a specific period if the conference of bishops has permitted this by a decree.” I think it was a famous canon lawyer who, upon reading Canon 522 remarked, “Ay there’s the rub.”

The current Code of Canon Law was promulgated in January 1983 and took effect in November of that year. The National Conference of Catholic Bishops passed their “complementary legislation” two weeks before the new code would even take effect. Evidently, the United States conference of bishops believed having the possibility of fixed limits for pastors was of the utmost importance.

To be clear, in the 1917 Code of Canon Law, which was superseded by the 1983 code, the idea of appointing pastors for a definite period of time is not present at all. Indeed, the idea that a pastor should remain in a parish—barring a serious reason to the contrary—was simply the accepted norm throughout Church history. In fact, the current Code of Canon Law still upholds this as the Church’s normative approach. Canon 1748 states, “If the good of souls or the necessity or advantage of the Church demands that a pastor be transferred from a parish which he is governing usefully to another parish or another office, the bishop is to propose the transfer to him in writing and persuade him to consent to it out of love of God and souls.”

It is truly edifying (and perhaps surprising) to see how seriously the Church considers the transfer of a pastor. Note that the bishop does not inform the pastor of a transfer, but rather “proposes” it. Why merely propose? Because the Church recognizes that a pastor is precisely that: a pastor. He is meant to be the shepherd of his people, and their good father. The Church assumes that a bishop will not necessarily have a complete understanding of the individual needs of a parish in the same way that a pastor does. Therefore, Canon 1749 states, “If the pastor does not intend to submit to the counsel and persuasions of the bishop, he is to explain the reasons in writing.”

The proceeding canons explain that after this, the bishop can accept the pastor’s reasons or again “repeat the paternal exhortations to the pastor.”

We might ask why there is so much ceremony around what is, seemingly, extremely commonplace in our experience. In a word the answer is: souls. We read as much in Canon 1748. These protocols are in place for “the good of souls” and the “love of God and souls.”

In order to drive this point home, the final canon on the transfer of pastors states, “In cases of transfer…the salvation of souls, which must always be the supreme law in the Church, is to be kept before one’s eyes.” This maxim, that “the salvation of souls is the supreme law in the Church” is almost certainly the most well known, and often quoted canon. If we gloss over the fact that this is explicitly stated in a canon about the transfer of pastors, we do so at our own peril.

Since the salvation of souls is the supreme law, let us consider, then, the journey of one soul.

This little soul, call him Mike, comes into the world and is baptized by Father “A.” Six years later, father’s term is up. Mike is prepared for his First Holy Communion for a year, not by the only pastor he has ever known, but a new pastor, Father “B.” Five years later, Father “B” is moved. For the next two years, Mike is prepared to receive Confirmation, from a third pastor, Father “C.” Father “C” leaves when Mike is 18, as he goes off to college. Mike comes back from college with a degree and a fiancée. Mike and his fiancée arrive at their first pre-Cana session, where Father “D” tells him, “Hi Mike. It’s nice to meet you.”

This story is normal in our country: the priest who baptized you isn’t the priest who gave you your First Holy Communion, who isn’t the priest who prepared you for Confirmation, who isn’t the priest that presides at your wedding.

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Imagine how different the pre-Cana sessions would be with a priest who knew Mike his entire life—a true father. Someone who could say to him, “Mike, I’ve never seen you strive to be so virtuous. She’s definitely the one for you.” Or perhaps, “Mike, knowing you, I want to make sure you and your fiancée talk about this issue now, so that you don’t have tension in your marriage.”

Instead, the sad truth is that a couple may ultimately have more interactions with their caterer than they have had with their pastor. Sadder yet, we may treat our pastor in the same kind of transactional way. That is, we can treat our pastor merely as a sacrament dispensary rather than our spiritual father. “After all,” we say, “in a couple years, he’ll be gone, and someone new will move in.”

This is, though, a somewhat predictable response to the constant rotation of our pastors. We are told that we are a “parish family.” However, the father of a family isn’t simply a position to be filled. The specific reasons why the United States bishops conference established term limits are, frankly, somewhat opaque. One common suggestion is that it shields against a so-called “cult of personality.”

I don’t doubt that effect. After all, it is difficult to become attached to a “father” who you know will soon leave you. Therefore, we do not see them as true spiritual fathers to us.

And so, there will be a going away cake for your father after Mass one Sunday. If all goes according to plan, so the logic goes, neither we nor the pastor will feel any great loss at this, because we have created a firewall to shield us from the possible “cult of personality.” Some may see this as a feature; I see it as a bug. The truth is this: if the loss of someone whom we call “father” does not move us to sadness, then it seems that they are not much of a father in any real sense of that term.

The Cure of Ars tells us that “A good shepherd, a pastor after God’s heart, is the greatest treasure which the good Lord can grant to a parish, and one of the most precious gifts of divine mercy.” This is an incredible claim. However, it makes sense when we remember that “the salvation of souls is the supreme law of the Church.” Because, as Pope Paul VI reminds us in Christus Dominus, “pastors in their own name…are entrusted with the care of souls.” One of the most precious gifts of divine mercy, then, is a pastor who loves those souls entrusted to him.

Love, as we know, requires that the beloved be known. Hence, Paul VI notes, “In fulfilling their office as shepherd, pastors should take pains to know their own flock.” This perhaps is the most fundamental reason why the Church teaches that stability of the pastor is so necessary: so that he can better know, and therefore love those souls entrusted to his care, and thereby ultimately help fulfill the Church’s supreme law—salvation of souls.

If we haven’t yet understood the Church’s repeated instructions in this matter, Paul VI makes the matter quite plain. “Now the parish exists,” he tells us, “solely for the good of souls…Pastors should enjoy in their respective parishes that stability of office which the good of souls demands” (emphasis mine).

Much has changed in the 40 years since the bishops adopted the six year term for pastors. No doubt the bishops conference believed there were good reasons to adopt the measure at the time. There may well have been. However, it seems that after 40 years, the time is ripe for the USCCB to deeply reexamine those reasons and ask if this is truly serving the Church’s supreme law.

I urge them to look to St. Jean-Marie Vianney as their patron in this matter. He is, after all, the patron saint of parish priests. Pope Benedict XVI said of him that he was “a true example of a pastor at the service of Christ's flock.” Vianney is better known as the “Curé of Ars.” Perhaps this is fitting— that the patron saint of parish priests is known by the name of his parish.

He would remain at Ars for 41 years.

He prayed, “My God, grant me the conversion of my parish. I am willing to suffer all my life…I am prepared to endure the sharpest pains even for a hundred years. Only let my people be converted.”

The Church’s patron saint and model par excellence of pastors was the pastor of Ars— and only Ars.

He was never transferred.

Instead, Ars was converted.

His prayer was answered.

St. Jean-Marie Vianney, pray for us.

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Aristotle thought deeply about friendship.

I am, of course, aware that this statement seems as astonishing as declaring that the sun rose this morning. After all, St. Thomas Aquinas refers to Aristotle as “the Philosopher.” When we read anything that Aristotle has written, it is clear that he has thought deeply about it. What is astonishing though is that of the ten books in the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle devotes fully two to the topic of friendship. He writes more on friendship than any other subject in the Ethics.

In a word, it is one thing to speak about the depth of Aristotle’s thought on other topics, but quite another to speak of the depths he plumbs friendship.

Despite this, Aristotle raises a question (other translations render it “a doubt”) that he seems unable to answer in a wholly satisfying way for himself. He says:

“This gives rise to the question, is it not after all untrue that we wish our friends the greatest of goods? For instance, can we wish them to become gods? For then they will lose us as friends, and therefore lose certain goods, for friends are goods. If…a true friend wishes his friend's good for that friend's own sake, the friend would have to remain himself, whatever that may be; so that he will really wish him only the greatest goods compatible with his remaining a human being. And perhaps not all of these, for everybody wishes good things for himself most of all.”

This passage is achingly beautiful, for in it we find the virtuous pagan’s longing for the Incarnation—though he realizes it not. This, dear reader, is no less than the estuary of human reason meeting the ocean of Divine Revelation.

Aristotle has rightly identified multiple truths that seem inescapably true in isolation, and in profound contradiction when held together.

The truths are these. First, we wish our friends the greatest of goods, yet the greatest of goods would be to become a god. Second, friendship requires a certain equality between the friends, and therefore we need our friend to somehow still “remain himself.” Finally, we wish our own good primarily. How then could we wish the greatest good for our friend if it resulted in losing our friend?

The solution to Aristotle’s dilemma is found in the words of Our Lord, which we read during the sixth Sunday of Easter. “No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends.”

Such language would be utterly shocking to Aristotle. Aristotle recognized that true friendship involves a shared life. He is purported to have said that friendship is “one soul dwelling in two bodies.” Aristotle would argue that to be a friend to God would require sharing in His Divine life.

Sharing in the Divine life. This is precisely what Grace is, though sometimes we may forget. "For the Son of God became man so that we might become God," as St. Athanasius reminds us. The entire purpose of our lives is to fulfill our final calling of theosis, that we may, as St. Peter writes “come to share in the divine nature.”

Not only do we merely wish our friends this highest Good, but we are called to actively will this for them, praying that they too may come “to share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity.”

What though of Aristotle’s second truth, that “the friend would have to remain himself?” If our friend is transformed through grace in this life, does he remain himself? After all, St. Paul says of himself, “it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.” Aristotle may rightly ask whether St. Paul is claiming that theosis ultimately erases the uniqueness of each person.

Catherine of Siena wholeheartedly rejects such an idea with her famous exhortation “Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.”

If we think that Sts. Catherine and Paul seem to be in conflict, we need only remember this: Christ is infinitely good, and therefore His life is inexhaustible by any one of us.

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No two persons have ever been called to show forth Christ and bring Christ to the world in exactly the same way, but make no mistake, we are called to be other Christs.

In what is surely one of the most shocking passages in the New Testament, Christ says “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.” He does not say, “it is as if you did it to me.” No, “I was hungry…I was thirsty…I was a stranger…” This is so astonishing that not only are the wicked bewildered—“When did we see you?”—but the righteous themselves are equally shocked as they ask Him precisely the same question.

We ought to wonder at this. He is telling us that we are so intimately connected to Him, that we can truly live His life as ours.

Gerard Manley Hopkins writes on this theme

I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —
Christ — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

Christ plays in ten thousand places. In some He is thirsty. In some He is giving a drink to the thirsty. Sometimes He speaks with eloquence. Sometimes He is as mute as a lamb. Sometimes He carries, and sometimes He is carried.

But always lovely, for always Christ.

This then, is our answer to Aristotle: the more we live the Christ-life, the more we become ourselves, not less. For we are made in His image and likeness. As we move from grace to grace, so much more do we reveal of that original image that our souls were always meant to be.

Sometimes, we may look with awe on an old painting that is clearly a masterpiece. Yet if years of dirt and dust have dimmed its true brilliance, we wish to remove it so that we may behold the true luster and beauty as its artist always intended. So it ought to be with our friends. What we love about them we will surely love all the more as they reveal ever more who they truly are.

Then, far from losing our friend, we will ultimately share with them a friendship that the ancients could not have fathomed to hope for: a shared Divine life with Christ, our True Friend. For our Friend has prayed for us: “That they may be one even as we are one, I in them and thou in me, that they may become perfectly one, so that the world may know that thou hast sent me and hast loved them even as thou hast loved me.”

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This song was submitted to the International Songwriting Competition and (deservedly) won for best lyrics. Nevertheless, the song is largely unknown outside of the Carbon Leaf fan base. This is something of a travesty, as this song is, in my opinion, simply one of the greatest songs of war and peace that has ever been recorded.

I see you've found a box of my things -
Infantries, tanks and smoldering airplane wings.
These old pictures are cool. Tell me some stories
Was it like the old war movies?
Sit down son. Let me fill you in

Where to begin? Let's start with the end
This black and white photo don't capture the skin
From the flash of a gun to a soldier who's done
Trust me grandson
The war was in color

From shipyard to sea, From factory to sky
From rivet to rifle, from boot camp to battle cry
I wore the mask up high on a daylight run
That held my face in its clammy hand
Crawled over coconut logs and corpses in the coral sand

Where to begin? Let’s start with the end
This black and white photo don't capture the skin
From the shock of a shell or the memory of smell
If red is for Hell
The war was in color

I held the canvas bag over the railing
The dead released, with the ship still sailing,
Out of our hands and into the swallowing sea
I felt the crossfire stitching up soldiers
Into a blanket of dead, and as the night grows colder
In a window back home, a Blue Star is traded for Gold.

Where to begin? Let's start with the end
This black and white photo don't capture the skin
When metal is churned. And bodies are burned
Victory earned
The War was in color

Now I lay in my grave at age 21
Long before you were born
Before I bore a son
What good did it do?
Well hopefully for you
A world without war
A life full of color

Where to begin? Let's start with the end
This black and white photo never captured my skin
Once it was torn from an enemy thorn
Straight through the core
The war was in color

The overall conceit of this song immediately rang true for me the first time I heard it. I still look at old black and white movies or pictures and experience a much more pronounced psychic distance that isn’t there when the media is in color.

Grey images don’t represent the world as we know it, so in this sense, it’s similar to viewing an artist’s sketch of a landscape. At the same time, we feel like these black and white images are “historical” and so represent a snapshot in time that we may feel wholly disconnected from experiencing.

It is all too easy to see the grey figures as precisely that: ghosts. Historical phantoms that merely haunt the present. Ghosts and phantoms are grey. Fleshless. Bloodless. In our minds they always were.

This song serves to disabuse us of that notion. “Was it like the old war movies? Sit down son. Let me fill you in.”

Before the grandson—and all of us who hear the song—can understand anything that follows, we first must understand that these men were never phantoms. They are flesh and blood. The black and white photo, and indeed no photo, could ever “capture the skin.” These soldiers, sailors, and airmen put their skin—their flesh and blood—on the line.

As you listen to the song, notice that it begins with just voice and guitar. The drums begin just as the lyric “the war was in color” is sung. In that moment, the old man steps out of the present and back into the past. Throughout the song, the drums will represent the cadence and rhythm of war: marching feet, bullets, heroism, and death.

I imagine the grandfather in the song looking away from his grandson while he tells this story.

I imagine it because I have experienced it first hand.

My father rarely spoke about his time in war, but when he did, I remember him lowering his eyes and looking away.

I could tell he was reliving the moment.

I wonder if he did this so he would never bring the hell of the past into his present. Or, perhaps instinctively it was his way of protecting us, as he prepared to walk once again through the hell of war. He had traversed those roads without his family once before, and he would not now pull them from their home.

This is a haunting verse that first reminds us that wars must always begin on the home front. Shipyards, factories, rivets, boot camp. These speak of home. And this is the hell of war: that no matter how much the soldier wishes to defend his home and loved ones, war nevertheless demands the sacrifice and love from our homes. These pieces of home are sent to the sea, to the sky, carried as rifles, and shouted as the brave run, march, and crawl over corpses in the coral sand. And so, “If red is for Hell. The war was in color.”

Note that as this verse begins, the drums begin a much faster and syncopated tempo while cymbal crashes mimic the sudden explosions of war. This is probably the verse that clinched the songwriting lyrics award.

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For burial at sea, the deceased will be sewn into a canvas shroud, placed beneath the flag, and then released “into the swallowing sea.”

There are grim ironies between the two stories the grandfather tells of what he felt (“I held” / “I felt”) in the war.

In the first case, he held the bag that was sewn together with care and respect by the fallen sailor’s brothers in arms.

In the second case, the “stitch” was the crossfire of war. These soldiers were “stitched up” by the enemy. Of course, this stich is meant to be ironic in that it doesn’t mend, but instead rips asunder. What can be sewn with such a stich? Only this: “a blanket of dead.”

A final irony: this is not a blanket that provides any warmth “as the night grows colder.”

There were over 16 million Americans that served in WWII. Millions of parents hung blue stars in the window to show their child was serving in the war.

Of all the colors of war, the most terrible is this: the change of a star from blue to gold. In WWII, 291,557 stars changed from blue to gold.

Before the end of the war, hundreds of thousands of mothers would receive “the honor no one wants.” They would become, involuntarily, members of the “American Gold Star Mothers,” a group founded in 1928 to honor the mothers of fallen service members.

A blue star traded for gold means that a mother trades her hope for earthly reunion to hope for a heavenly one.

As the old man finally comes to the end of his story, the song comes to a crescendo with a minute long instrumental interlude. Here the old man is slowly, very slowly, returning to the present. The war is over, as the drums once again fade out.

But then, the old man speaks, “Now I lay in my grave at age 21.”

The old man hasn’t returned yet. He speaks in the present tense.

He likely joined at 17. Just a boy. Now, he is more than an old man. He lies in his grave. He will never be fully healed.

His words echo that of Frodo, as written by Tolkien, who knew something of the horrors of war. “I have been too deeply hurt, Sam.”

Finally, the old man fully returns to the present. He no doubt looks into his grandson’s eyes, and says

In this too, his wisdom echoes Frodo’s next words: “I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger. Someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.”

There was a very real possibility, 80 years ago, that tyranny would triumph over the west, and plunge the world into grey shadow. That it did not is a testament to “the names of those who in their lives fought for life…And left the vivid air signed with their honour.”

Of the 16 million+ US veterans who served, only around 70,000 are still with us. If you happen to see one, remember that a “black and white photo never captured their skin.” Then, perhaps we can offer them our hand, along with a heartfelt thanks for “a victory earned,” a grey shadow vanquished, and what we got to keep: a life full of color.

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Awesome is an overused word. This Monday, I was lucky enough to experience a total solar eclipse.

It was…awesome.

Although I think I could easily give a dozen reasons why I found it so moving, I will offer just two.

First, consider that a total solar eclipse is almost universally acknowledged to be one of the most incredibly beautiful sights in all nature. But we must stop for a moment to consider the fact that, for this beauty to even be possible, the sun and the moon need to be precisely the same relative size in the sky. We might simply take for granted that a planet’s sun and moon are precisely proportionate to each other. However, there is in fact no scientific explanation or necessity why this should be the case. Indeed, astronomers haven't observed any examples of this type of perfect moon/sun relationship elsewhere in the observable universe. The official explanation is: there is no explanation; it's just a very, very, lucky coincidence.

I would rather believe that God simply never tires of ways of delighting us.

Jesus tells us that we should become like little children. He further tells us that we are to be perfect, as His Father is perfect. It is the delightful things in nature like this that make me realize that God is, in a sense, most childlike. Children create little drawings or paintings and run to their parents exclaiming: "Look! Look at what I've made for you!"

God does the same.

He took the entire universe and fashioned it in a way that we would find pleasing and beautiful. In doing so, He too exclaims, "Look! Look at what I've made for you!"

The second reflection I would offer is this: God is the Great Romantic.

At the final moments of totality, as the entire sky is blackened all around, there is a moment—a split second—where I was able to see what is known as “the diamond ring effect.” It is at this moment, when the purest light you will ever see suddenly appears, that the sun reveals itself to become a cosmic diamond.

For the romantic, no deed seems too bold to show their beloved the extent of their love. “I will move heaven and earth” they tell their beloved. Only, for the Great Romantic, He does not mean this in any figurative sense.

When a man proposes, he will wait until the perfect moment and then unveil the ring to his lady, so that she can look on its beauty.

God does the same.

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Men will look for the perfect ring to bestow on their beloved.

God does the same.

Only, he is not content with offering a mere diamond of the Earth. Instead, He creates an entire solar system to propose His love for us. How bold is His love? What gems does He believe we deserve? Nothing less than this: the very sun and moon.

Every man who has shopped for a diamond for his beloved will remember that the most sought-after diamonds are those that have the fewest blemishes. This is known as the diamond’s clarity. A diamond sparkles the brightest when it reflects the light from the sun; the less imperfections, the more it can reflect the sun. We may say a diamond is beautiful precisely in proportion to how much it is able to show forth, not itself, but the sun’s light. A so-called flawless diamond is incredibly rare. Of course, there is no such thing as a truly flawless diamond. But, if there were, it would be a diamond that would not absorb any light for itself and would reflect back all the light of the sun. But God will not offer His beloved a ring with flaws. The truly flawless diamond would be one where the light wasn’t reflected back at all, but rather, the light and the diamond would be one and the same. That is what God offers us. The light is the diamond, and the diamond is the light.

That’s why there was a gasp, in that split second, from all of us who suddenly beheld the extravagant excess of Divine Romance, as He said to each of us, “Take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity.”

…My God, what is a heart,
That thou shouldst it so eye, and woo,
Pouring upon it all thy art,
As if that thou hadst nothing else to do?

…Teach me thy love to know;
That this new light, which now I see,
May both the work and workman show:
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee.

—Matins, George Herbert

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Saving so many lives is remarkable for anyone. Perhaps what is even more remarkable is the fact that Margaret, or Peggy as she was known, had passed away in 1788—64 years earlier.

On February 25, 1852, the HMS Birkenhead, a 210 foot iron-hulled ship set out from Simon’s Bay, near Cape Town, South Africa. It carried 643 souls. Sailors, soldiers, and some of their wives and children. Its destination: Port Elizabeth. A destination it would never reach.

The commanding officer on board that fateful night was one Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Seton of the 74th Highlanders. Margaret was his grandmother. And she, and her grandson, were about to change naval history.

Margaret was only 39 when she died. If we can still make out the words of her epitaph, etched by her husband, we would read: “Sacred to the memory of Margaret Seton who never intentionally gave pain to any living creature. Her judgment was sound, her perceptions clear, her taste refined, her integrity incorruptible, her beneficence unlimited. Had fortune placed her in a high rank in this world, the elegance of her manners would have graced, her virtues adorned, and her mental qualities added lustre to the most exalted station.”

Note that her husband doesn’t claim that she was merely worthy of the highest station. On the contrary, he asserts that the highest stations themselves would have received additional beauty and dignity simply by the fact that she held them.

The epitaph continues, “Human misery, in whatever shape it appeared, was sure to attract her tenderest regard. On these occasions, forgetting herself, she only thought of the distress of others.”

“She only thought of the distress of others.”

How often did Alexander Seton repeat those words to himself?

The Cape of Good Hope was originally named, “the Cape of Storms.” Ironically, on the night of February 26th, the waters off the Cape were quite calm and flat, which was why the sailors on board never spotted the uncharted hidden rock that lay just below the waveless sea that night.

The razor sharp rock acted as a can opener to the ship’s metal hull. The lower compartment was flooded within moments. Hundreds of sleeping soldiers in the lower deck awoke for a few brief moments—for the final time.

On deck, Colonel Seton immediately ordered his men to fall in to each side of the deck. Then, he quickly conveyed to his officers that they must keep discipline among the men. No small number of these soldiers were untried in battle, their fortitude yet untested, their virtue yet unknown.

It would be tested that night, and it would be made known the world over.

Ensign Lucas wrote of that night that, “Almost every body kept silent, indeed nothing was heard, but the kicking of the horses and the orders of [the ship’s captain] Salmon, all given in a clear firm voice.”

All the women and children were loaded into the ship’s cutter, with Colonel Seton, sword in hand, at the gangway keeping the way clear for the women and children, and preserving good order in his men. Beyond the cutter, only two other smaller boats were able to be used. This left hundreds of men still aboard.

The engine room now being flooded, the ship’s engines continued to turn with no way of stopping them. This would propel the ship once again into the hidden rock below. It would be the ship’s final death blow.

She broke in two. It was only ten minutes from the time she first struck the submerged rock.

She would be fully submerged in ten minutes more. The ship’s captain ordered that everyone should jump overboard and make for the three ships.

Colonel Seton however had realized what the ship’s captain seemingly had not: 400 men frantically swimming for 3 small boats would almost certainly endanger the lives of the women and children on board the boats.

And so, Alexander Seton gave one final order.

“The whole tenor of her life was one continued act of beneficence…Reader, from this example learn, that it is neither wealth nor high rank, but the virtues of the heart alone that tend to promote the happiness, and insure the esteem of mankind: If these are blessings of which thou art emulous, cherish the seeds of beneficence in thy mind, and cultivate the social affections, in the full assurance that thou shalt certainly obtain the prize if you faint not, nor ever weary in the course.”

Alexander Seton, Esquire, of the house of Mounie was born in 1814. For his first fifteen years, he was educated at home. By all accounts, we can conclude that Seton was almost certainly a genius. He studied advanced mathematics and chemistry, and even went abroad to Italy for two years in order to pursue these subjects with more rigor under a renowned professor.

He was greatly moved by art, literature, and poetry, and excelled in these as well. We are told that “had he been induced to publish his literary labors, these would have established his reputation as a writer and a poet.” He sketched, painted, and was an accomplished musician. He loved the beauty of the earth, so in addition to chemistry, he also excelled in geology and botany.

To all this, perhaps what is most astounding was his incredible facility for language. We have it on good authority that he was the master of no less than fifteen different languages. By the time he was a teenager, he had already shown himself to be greater than his Latin, Greek, and French tutors. He picked up languages whenever he traveled, so that he became fluent in Italian, Persian, Hindi, Sanskrit, and Hebrew, among many others.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that Alexander Seton was one of the most accomplished men in the British Empire. More important than this, though, his friends wrote of him, “His whole life was a brilliant example of that true Christianity which softens, while it elevates the mind and heart of those under its influence.”

His friends further tell us that “To his Mother he ever displayed the most devoted attachment…no amount of duty prevented regular correspondence.”

It would be no fancy of imagination to suppose that Seton then thought of his mother Janet, and his grandmother Peggy, and once again returned to the words on the epitaph. “Reader, from this example learn, that it is neither wealth nor high rank, but the virtues of the heart alone…thou shalt certainly obtain the prize if you faint not, nor ever weary in the course.”

And so, with sword in hand, Seton gave his final order: stand fast.

With the ship sinking below them, with sharks swirling around them, with the emergency boats rowing away from them, to the soldiers and sailors everlasting glory, they stood fast.

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One of the soldier’s would later remark: “The order and regularity that prevailed on board, from the moment the ship struck till she totally disappeared, far exceeded anything that I had thought could be effected by the best discipline; and it is the more to be wondered at seeing that most of the soldiers were but a short time in the service. Everyone did as he was directed and there was not a murmur or cry amongst them until the ship made her final plunge – all received their orders and carried them out as if they were embarking instead of going to the bottom – I never saw any embarkation conducted with so little noise or confusion.”

This night, on this ship, the law of the sea “Women and children first” was born. It has been said that the laws of the sea are written in blood. It was always the case though that these are laws written after a tragedy, by other men, in order to protect ships in the future. Not so on this night. These men wrote the law, “Women and children first” with their own blood, as their final, heroic act.

They stood fast.

Just before the ship finally plunged beneath the waves, one of Seton’s men shook hands with him and said, “I hope we shall meet ashore.” The man relates that, while giving his answer, Seton was “As cool and collected…as if he had been on parade.” Seton answered him, “I am afraid not, for I cannot swim.”

Many men were quickly taken by the sharks. Yet, such was their fortitude that even then they followed Colonel Seton’s final order as they refused to swim too close to the lifeboats.

Ensign Alexander Russell, who was piloting the boat containing the women and children was urged by one family to pick up their father who they could see in the water. Even so, the man refused to approach the boat. Ensign Russell, taking pity on the poor suffering family, jumped into the water to help the father aboard. Russell was well aware that the small boat was already at capacity. When he jumped into the water, he did so knowing full well that he must trade places with the father. Not five minutes later, Ensign Russell was dragged beneath the waters by a great white.

Alexander Russell was just 19 years old.

When morning dawned, of the 643 souls on board the ship, only 193 had survived.

Every woman and child on board the ship survived.

Every one.

One month later, the Morning Herald would write, “We venture to assert that the whole annals of Naval disaster afford no nobler instance of coolness, true courage, and steady discipline than was exhibited by the ill-fated [Colonel] Seton, and the officers and soldiers under his command. We defy the whole history of our race to produce a more striking instance of bravery and coolness than is here exhibited.”

In a very real sense, every man’s character is formed by the generations that come before him. Selflessness, courage, compassion, and charity are embers that must be passed from generation to generation. The world is set ablaze when others come into contact with these embers. This is certainly true of Margaret Seton. The words of George Eliot undoubtedly apply to her, “But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”

These embers formed Alexander Seton. “She only thought of the distress of others.” He in turn passed them to every man that fateful night. The embers traveled even to Prussia, whose king “caused the splendid story of 'iron discipline and perfect duty' to be read aloud at the head of every regiment in his service.”

“Women and children first” is informally known as “The Birkenhead drill.” Poets such as Rudyard Kipling, and Francis Doyle immortalized it in poetry. The latter concludes his poem:

They sleep as well, beneath that purple tide,
    As others, under turf; —

They sleep as well, and, roused from their wild grave,
  Wearing their wounds like stars, shall rise again,
Joint-heirs with Christ, because they bled to save
    His weak ones, not in vain.

If that day's work no clasp or medal mark,
  If each proud heart no cross of bronze may press,
Nor cannon thunder loud from Tower and Park,
    This feel we, none the less:

That those whom God's high grace there saved from ill —
  Those also, left His martyrs in the bay —
Though not by siege, though not in battle, still
  Full well had earned their pay.

We may well think Doyle right in his sentiment. For, while we do not know the last thing that Colonel Alexander Seton ever beheld in this life, we may, perhaps, look to his grandmother’s epitaph one final time. There, we may find a clue, not of what he saw last, but of what he saw first.

The final two lines of the epitaph read: “Blessed are the pure in spirit, for they shall see God. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

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Why should Pilate be amazed? He had Jesus viciously scourged. Did he misjudge how close to death Our Lord already was after this scourging? Perhaps.

But perhaps we ought to remember Our Lord’s words from the cross, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” What would St. Dismas have thought to have heard His voice? Would he have recalled the Song of Solomon: “The voice of my beloved! Behold, he comes, leaping upon the mountains, bounding over the hills.” Christ the bridegroom doesn’t walk. No, He runs to his beloved, calling each of us by name as He does so. The bridegroom calls in the Song, “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.” His Father sees us while we are “still a long way off.” Again, God does not walk, but He runs to us. “He ran to his son, embraced him and kissed him…Then the celebration began.”

Christ tells us that, “I lay down my life, that I may take it again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord.” He had made a promise to Dismas. To Adam and Eve. To Abraham. To his foster father, Joseph. Perhaps the truth is this: Christ finally lays down His life of His own accord because He could not bear one second more of being without His beloved. For today, this very day, Good Friday, is the one and only time that anyone can ever say to us, “I am dying to be with you,” and truly mean that declaration in all of its glorious senses.

The wedding guests awaited the Bridegroom for millennia. “O you who dwell in the gardens, my companions are listening for your voice; let me hear it. Make haste, my beloved…” Christ lays down His life because He is in haste—it is His wedding day. “Let us rejoice and exult and give him the glory, for the marriage of the Lamb has come...”

On the cross, “He had no form or comeliness that we should look at him.” But now is the time for the completion of all things. “It is consummated.” Now will His beloved finally behold the Bridegroom. “Let me see your face, let me hear your voice, for your voice is sweet, and your face is comely.”

No, Christ could simply not wait one second more.

He runs to meet us.

“My beloved is mine and I am his.”

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You can go ahead and reread that sentence again; I’ll wait.

Welcome back. It is, of course, the case that the vast majority of people believe that women are more emotional than men. A Gallup poll found that nine out of ten people claimed that was the case. Nine out of ten. I’m not sure you could get nine out of ten people to agree that ice cream is delicious. (It is.)

Are the vast majority of people mistaken in such a fundamental belief about men and women?

I think the answer is almost certainly yes.

And no.

As a thought experiment, picture the woman in the following sentence, “She became emotional as she delivered her prepared remarks.” Do you imagine the woman as tearfully speaking to the crowd? I would venture that nearly everyone that reads that sentence would picture exactly that. However, the sentence never mentions what emotion caused the woman to become emotional. After all, “emotional” simply means “pertaining to emotion.” Which emotion is precisely the information we need to know to accurately picture her. The woman may have been experiencing the emotion of anxiety, joy, anger, fear, or empathy, among others.

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It seems that we call women emotional because we tend to not distinguish between the various emotions. Indeed, more than this, very often we tend to conflate one or two emotions like sadness or joy with the word “emotional” itself. When we see sadness or joy manifested through tears, we claim that person is emotional, as if these are the only emotions that could make someone “emotional.”

Anyone that has ever watched a professional football game, though, can attest that they are certainly not without emotion. It’s rare to watch a game where there aren’t a few dozen plays that exhibit the players angrily screaming at each other. Aren’t these men being emotional? More than this, on almost every play, men will excitedly clap, scream, jump up and down, and celebrate the triumphs and tragedy of their team. In other words, for three hours, they will manifest the emotions of: disgust (especially if you are a Cleveland Browns fan), joy, fear, awe, sadness, anger, and apprehension.

Sit with a group of women watching Pride and Prejudice, and a group of Boston men watching the Red Sox, and then tell me which group was more emotional.

It seems then that it is not the case that either sex is significantly more emotional, but rather that each experiences specific emotions in greater degrees. If this is true, then we ought to ask the question: “why?” Why would God design men and women to experience specific emotions to a greater or lesser degree?

One clue to this puzzle may be found by reflecting on the way that men generally react to a woman’s tears of sadness.

Many men will tell you that they can’t handle the sight of a woman crying. “All of that emotion makes me feel so uncomfortable,” they tell us. The irony of course is that “feeling uncomfortable” is itself a strong emotion. A man may avoid a woman’s display of emotion because he believes himself above such emotions, but the truth is that any honest phenomenological explanation of his experience will inevitably rest upon the foundation of how this makes him “feel.”

Why should men feel uncomfortable? I think the reason is that men naturally feel that they ought to protect women. In more civilized times, most men believed that their strength was given to them by God in order that they could protect those weaker than themselves. “Women and children first” is the law of the sea. It is also the law written in the heart of every man through the natural law. The truth is this: men ought to feel uncomfortable when seeing a woman moved to tears. This is nothing other than our nature shouting to us: “her first.”

Woe to us men if we let our emotions overwhelm us, and we thereby succumb to cowardice. For, it would seem that God designed men and women’s emotions as He did as a kind of single complementary system. Women are generally much more empathetic than men. This in turn leads women to more easily express the pain, sadness, and needs that others are experiencing, not simply their own. Men, meanwhile, are generally more prone to the passion—emotion—that St. Thomas calls “daring.” Aquinas notes that “daring results from hope and is contrary to fear: wherefore whatever is naturally apt to cause hope or banish fear, is a cause of daring.” Precisely because men are less empathetic than women, we often need to be roused by a woman’s strong emotion in order to tell us: “Here is a fear. What will you do to help her banish it? What will you do to bring hope?”

God’s design is good. Very good. When we men see a woman expressing a strong emotion of sadness or empathy, it is our chance to reply with a strong emotion of our own: either fear, or daring.

In this, we can take the life of Our Lord as our model. At Cana, Our Lady, ever attentive to the smallest detail, knows that the bride and groom will experience embarrassment and shame because “they have no wine.” Mary is, of course, the most empathetic human person to have ever walked the face of the earth. It is her empathy that is the catalyst for Our Lord’s first miracle.

In the Gospel of John, after Mary and Martha’s brother, Lazarus, has died, his sister Mary comes to our Lord, weeping, and tells Him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” John tells us that, “When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.” Our Lord, the perfect man, does not walk away from the weeping Mary. Rather, He stands with them in their sadness. In what must stand as a rebuttal to all men for all time who believe that sadness is weakness, St. John tells us, “Jesus wept.”

But this, of course, was not the end of the story for Lazarus. “Daring results from hope.” Our Lord is our hope. “Lazarus, come out.”

The raising of Lazarus is the final miracle that St. John records before the Resurrection. In the Gospels, nearly without exception, whenever Jesus works a miracle, it is because of the action of a faithful soul. It is noteworthy that the first and last miracle St. John records are both a result of a woman coming to Jesus with emotional pleas.

In both cases, Our Lord’s response was daring.

At Cana, the miracle would begin His ministry. Fulton Sheen notes, “If He agreed to her request, He would be beginning His hour of death and glorification. To the Cross He would go with double commission, one from His Father in heaven, the other from His mother on earth.” In Bethany, as soon as He pronounced the words, “Take away the stone,” He knew that He must take the place of Lazarus in the tomb. As John tells us, “So from that day on they took counsel how to put him to death.”

Water became wine, and stones were taken away, because two women freely expressed their emotions, and one Man listened with daring and then acted with heroic courage.

So it must be with us.

Therefore, men, don’t be afraid to allow a woman’s emotions to awaken in us daring and the courage to act on behalf of the weaker and those in need. Don’t let the emotions that are proper to us men be dulled by walking away from her, only to then disparage the emotions proper to women. When we do so, we are passing a judgement, but it is not upon the woman; it is upon ourselves. Instead, walk with her. Take courage. Then, with daring, say to her: “Let’s take away the stone.”

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When I was six or seven, I read and re-read our family’s old beat up copy of “Butler’s Lives of the Saints.” I was endlessly fascinated by the astounding miracles worked by these friends of God, their inspiring witness in martyrdom, and their extraordinary acts of virtue.

The miracle worker, the martyr—the extraordinary—those are the saints. Those are the ones who are destined to go straight to heaven. As for the rest of us? Well, have you restored sight to the blind lately? Made the lame walk? I find it highly unlikely that you have been martyred, though if you have, leave a comment, I don’t want to miss that story. I’ve never met anyone that has done anything like that. Not one. Most likely, you haven’t either.

Sometimes, it seems all too easy to finish reading the lives of the saints, and think, “Another ordinary day. I guess that’s why no one will ever read about my life.”

But if we do find ourselves thinking this way, we will have missed the entire purpose of the saints’ lives. I once thought that to be a great saint, one had to perform great miracles. Short of this, one was surely destined to become a purgatorial guest at best. There is, of course, a great danger in this mindset. Jesus tells us that we are to “be perfect, as your Heavenly Father is perfect.” —Mt 5:48. If we find ourselves not performing astounding works, then obviously—so the logic goes— we are not meant to be counted among the great saints. In other words, we certainly can’t be expected to be among the perfect Jesus talked about. “That kind of thing is for Padre Pio, St. Francis, and the other stigmatists perhaps, but obviously not for someone like me.” This leads us to strive, not for the perfect, but for the “good enough.” This mentality lets us off the hook in obeying Jesus’ command—or so we think. For, the bar has been set by Christ, and if we lower it, we will find that every time we fall, it will fall ever lower with us.

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No, this bar is as immovable as God Himself. Note well the bar, though. It is not a calling to be a miracle worker. Indeed, there are many saints who have no recorded miracles, yet they are still great saints. St. Therese, called by Pope Saint Pius X "the greatest saint of modern times" has no recorded miracles during her lifetime.

It turns out, there is only one thing every saint has in common: each did the will of God. When I was younger, I focused on the miracles that the saints performed, and missed that the purpose of these miracles was not to show forth the sanctity of the saint—although it does—but rather the entire point was that this was how God’s will was meant to be accomplished. Jesus tells us that if we have faith the size of a mustard seed, mountains can be moved. And this is true, but sometimes God’s will is for the mountain to stay firmly in place.

”But,” it may be objected, “surely God’s will is that I perform great and heroic acts, even if they are not miraculous.”

Perhaps that is His will for us. Might I suggest, however, that God’s will for us is found far more often in what may be deemed “routine” and “ordinary.”

Perhaps as Lent comes to a close, as we meditate on the passion narratives, we may come to a deeper appreciation of following God’s will in the routine. St. Luke tells us “He came out and went, as was his custom, to the Mount of Olives; and the disciples followed him.” —Lk 22:39. St. John adds “Now Judas, who betrayed him, also knew the place, because Jesus often met there with his disciples.” —Jn 18:2. It was the routine of Jesus to go to Gethsemane to pray. We may gather from the gospel writers that He had done this dozens if not hundreds of times. Jesus knew of course what awaited Him there—His own death. And yet, He went because He always followed the will of His Father. This is a lesson for us: one day, like Christ, we will walk the road to Calvary, but if we have learned to unite our will to the Father’s, through the hundreds of routine duties of our lives, we can say with Him, “not my will, but thine, be done.”

There is a second “ordinary” lesson to be learned from Gethsemane. Jesus takes Peter, James, and John with Him to pray, but to the other disciples He says “Sit here, while I pray.” The other disciples sat down. Was this a very great deed? Yes, it was. The will of God was for them to simply rest. It is undoubtedly true to say that resting at that moment was greater than the most heroic act that any of them could have performed. Why? Because in that moment, that was God’s will. God’s will is always—always—perfect. Therefore, in that moment, yes, through sitting, they were performing the greatest and most perfect act possible for each of them.

That is all that any of us can do, and what all of us must do. The difficulty, many times, is truly believing that such small acts really matter to God. We tell ourselves that we follow God’s will in the “important” things, but we excuse ourselves when following His will in the “routine” and the “ordinary.” The challenge for each of us is remembering that by God willing something, there is no such thing as “ordinary.”

Nothing is unimportant. The belief otherwise is simply a temptation from the devil. Indeed, it is the temptation given to Jesus. Satan tempts Our Lord to perform miracles—turning stones to bread, and being borne by angels off the temple. Our Lord’s silence, though, for 40 days is important—because this was His Father’s will.

In the novel, “A Canticle for Leibowitz,” a so-called scholar in conversation with a monsignor spies a man shuffling along the road and says:

"Look at him! No, but it's too dark now. You can't see the syphilis outbreak on his neck, the way the bridge of his nose is being eaten away. Paresis. But he was undoubtedly a moron to begin with. Illiterate, superstitious, murderous....Look at him, and tell me if you see the progeny of a once-mighty civilization? What do you see?"

"The image of Christ," grated the monsignor, surprised at his own sudden anger. "What did you expect me to see?"

To believe that doing the smallest thing with love is somehow unimportant is to believe that God’s will is unimportant. Of this we can rest assured: if it were unimportant, God would not will it. If we are tempted to discount the “unimportant” things and ask ourselves, “What do you see in this small trifle?” We should, like the monsignor, shout back, “The will of Christ!”

Nothing is unimportant, “For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother, and sister, and mother.” —Matt. 12:50. This truth ought to astound us each time we hear it. Consider a mother lovingly gazing at her child as she rocks him to sleep. If we were to ask her what she was doing, she may truthfully reply, “I am being a mother to Christ.” We are told that the souls in Purgatory can be relieved by our good works. It is entirely possible that one day we will learn that many souls ultimately reached beatitude through the small, seemingly insignificant acts of motherly love. Many more may reach Heaven by the simple act of those who are willing to sit and kindly listen.

“Sit here…”

That may be how God wants you to become a great saint. After all, in the parable of the ten bridesmaids, the five that went into the wedding feast were the ones who sat and waited for the bridegroom. For Christ will never abandon those who wait patiently for Him.

He is the faithful bridegroom. And we? The miracle worker? The martyr? Better still: the beloved. For someday, He will tell us the time for sitting is over.

“Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.”

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The Graveyard Near the House
The Airborne Toxic Event

The other day when we were walking by the graveyard near the house, you asked me if I thought we would ever die
And if life and love both fade so predictably, we've made ourselves a kind of predictable lie
And so I pictured us like corpses, lying side by side in pieces in some dark and lonely plot under a bough
We looked so silly there, all decomposed, half turned to dust in tattered clothes
Though we probably look just as silly now

Bye, bye, bye, bye, bye, bye to all this dogged innocence
I can't pretend that I can tell you what is going to happen next or how to be
But you have no idea about me
Do you?

And it left me to wonder if people ever know each other or just stumble around like strangers in the dark
Cause sometimes you seem so strange to me, and I must seem strange to you
We're like two actors playing our parts
Did you memorize your lines? Cause I did
Here's the part where I get so mad, I tell you, "I can't forget the past"
You get so quiet now, and you seem somehow like a lost and lonely child
And you just hope that the moment won't last

Bye, bye, bye, bye, bye, bye to all this dogged innocence
I can't pretend that I can tell you what is going to happen next or how to be
But you have no idea about me
You have no idea about me
Do you?

Still, there's always a way around, there's something tying our feet to the ground
A moment passed, we hear how it sounds
Then it seems a little less profound
Like we're all going the same way down, yeah, we're all going the same way down
I'm just trying to write it all down

Cause I write songs, and you write letters
We are tied like two in tethers
And we talk and read and laugh and sleep at night in bed together
And you wake in tears sometimes, I can see the thoughts flash across your eyes
They say, "Darling will you be kind? Will you be a good man and stay behind if I get old?"

And then the letters all pass through my head with the words that I was told
About the fading flesh of life and love, the failures of the bold
I can list each crippling fear like I'm reading from a will

And I'll defy every one and love you still
I will carry you with me up every hill
And if you die before I die, I'll carve your name out of the sky
I'll fall asleep with your memory and dream of where you lie

It may be better to move on and to let life just carry on
And I may be wrong
Still, I'll try

Cause it's better to love whether you win or lose or die
It's better to love whether you win or lose or die
It's better to love and I will love you until I die

The lyrics from today’s song come to us from The Airborne Toxic Event lead singer Mikel Jollett. Jollett recently said, “If we were having a creative family sadness contest, I’m winning.” He’s not wrong. Jollett was born into the infamous “Synanon” cult. Technically, this cult would not be considered a satanic cult, in that its members did not literally worship Satan, or perform satanic rituals. However, the cult did continue the work that Satan started in Eden—breaking families apart. Synanon, like Moloch, demanded child sacrifices. Parents were required to hand over their children “at six months old to be raised by strangers.”

No marriages.

No mothers.

No fathers.

The children would speak to each other in hushed whispers, asking each other what these words meant.

From this devastating brokenness, our songwriter hails, but as we’ll see, that brokenness need not be the end of our story.

This is the fundamental question that the lover asks of her beloved, and which must be answered. Ultimately, this is the fear of every broken heart—and every heart is broken in some way — “will we ever die?” Not will “I” die, or will “you” die, but will “we” die. In other words, will there no longer be an “us?” Will we go on—but not as “we?”

Let us abandon any false romanticism here and speak only the truth, which is this: true lovers desire above all else for their love to be an eternal one.

And yet.

We are broken-hearted and therefore we doubt our worthiness to receive this love. And so, the lover here asks her beloved whether all loves are ultimately as fated as life itself, so that the desire for an eternal love is ultimately a “predictable lie.”

Her beloved has a somewhat macabre vision:

One wonders why the lovers look “just as silly now” as they would when they are half turned to dust? I think the answer is, just as their bodies are broken and battered in the grave, so their hearts are broken and battered by the wounds of the past. If one could see their hearts and souls, perhaps one would see tears and tatters, and wounds upon wounds in need of healing.

The beloved though is, nevertheless, taken aback by his lover’s question to him.

For a moment, he himself wonders whether lovers can really know each other, or are they “like two actors playing our parts.” This calls to mind of course Shakespeare, “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” And if it is the case that the lovers are merely actors playing their parts, then the graveyard really is all that there is in the end. They will become, as Shakespeare concludes, “mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”

For the married couple, replaying these “scenes” with each other, without stopping to truly listen to the other is what leads “us” to sans everything.

And yet.

We are broken, so not only do we sometimes see the beloved as an actor, but we see ourselves as one too.

Perhaps it is easier to remember the wounds of our past, than it is to hope for the scars of our future.

At this point in the narrative, the lovers have shared their wounds with each other. Although he has felt wounded by her question, and questions whether “she has any idea about him,” she does not retaliate. Instead:

Although he was initially wounded by her question to him, he finally realizes that her question was not doubting his ability to love, but rather she is doubting her worthiness to receive his love.

There is no more tragic scene played out within a marriage than this one: a woman questions whether her husband truly loves her, and her husband perceives it as an attack on himself. Then, the husband defends himself, when he ought to have defended his wife, for it is toward her that this doubt is directed. For the doubt is not “do you love me” but “ought you love me?” There is, perhaps, no more devastating question.

Here, because the woman responds with innocent love, “like a lonely child,” they both quickly recover and remember who they are.

As soon as those lyrics begin, the construction of the song itself changes. The drummer begins a series of stick clicks, reminiscent of a heartbeat that will continue unabated until the song’s completion. At the same time, a lone viola begins to play in harmony.

Finally, the man truly understands where the fear comes from. And he recalls:

They are tied like two in tethers because they are bound by vows to each of other. And so, they share their entire lives together, talking, reading, laughing, and sleeping. But sometimes before our eyes, the doubtful phantoms fly. The man realizes his beloved has seen these phantoms in her nightmares, and he at last understands the thoughts and tears in her eyes: is this tether tied forever? What if she loses her beauty as she gets old? "Will he be [a] kind…good man and stay behind?”

“Will I be a good man and stay behind?” Every man entering into marriage ought to ask himself that very question. Note that this is a question ultimately asked by the man, and not his beloved, as he merely intuits the “thoughts across [her] eyes.”

The fear that the man and woman share is ultimately the same fear reflected in the doubts each have about themselves. She fears that all love might be a “predictable lie” because she is unworthy; he fears fulfilling the prophecy through weakness and his inability to love her as she ultimately truly does deserve.

It is sadly the case that many of the loudest voices in our society proclaim that marriages ultimately fade as sure as life itself. We are told, over and over, about marriages that ended in tragedy, which is of course the same as simply saying: they ended. “The failures of the bold”—those who were willing, at one time, to believe in a life-long marriage, are held up for ridicule.

The man and woman who happily spend 50 years together in wedded bliss are never deemed newsworthy by the wise newspaper editors of The World. The lead headline of The World is that divorce is the inevitable outcome: for infidelity; for immaturity; for his faults; for her faults; for no fault.

Those are the “crippling fears” that we all can recite like “reading from a will.” How do we defy these fears? How do we become good men and women? St. Thomas Aquinas was posed the same question by his sister, and he gave the answer: “Will it.” St. Francis De Sales gives the same answer when he says, “As by studying we learn how to study, and speaking teaches us how to speak, running how to run, working how to work, thus does loving teach us how to love…”

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How to defy these crippling fears? Resolve to. Will it. The lover tells the beloved:

Ultimately, the lover defies every fear because his beloved deserves nothing less than his total gift of self—to the very end of all things. Though none of us can bear the wounds or fears of our beloved, we can, like Samwise, bear the beloved. “I will carry you with me up every hill.” Each of us faces a journey to Calvary. Sometimes we are privileged enough to walk with another. And when they are too wounded to continue, we are honored to take them in our arms and tell them, “You have walked a long way today. Rest now awhile. I have you.”

At end of the song, we return to the graveyard. The lover tells his beloved

Teenage lovers often carve their names into a tree. Perhaps young love needs a physical medium to carve remembrances on; it allows the lovers to return to the living canvas so that they can remember their young love as vividly as the day they wrote it. But perhaps mature love no longer needs a physical medium, nor indeed even the beloved’s physical presence to recall the lifetime of love they have lived together. In the end, the name of the beloved can be carved anywhere, and everywhere. Yes, even “out of the sky.” This memory, this love, is so strong, that it carries him even in dreams back to “the graveyard near the house” so that he lies still, once again, with his beloved.

The lyrics here are a play on the phrase “win, lose, or tie,” to illustrate that marriage ends only one way. It doesn’t end by someone winning, or someone losing. No, it ends by death, and death alone. There may be days when you pass by the graveyard near the house and forget that one day, many years before, there was a moment when you bent a knee, took a deep breath, and removed a small box from your pocket. You may forget that on that day, you held a ring and proclaimed to your beloved, “I will carry you with me up every hill.” In sickness. In health. For richer. For poorer. Win or lose. Every hill. That’s the choice. That’s the privilege.

The song asserts, like Tennyson in his poem In Memoriam: “I hold it true, whate'er befall; / I feel it, when I sorrow most; / 'Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all.”

What is lost is not love, but the beloved, and then only for a time, for Love ultimately conquers death itself.

Mikel Jollett wrote these lyrics while mourning the death of his grandparents—who were married for 72 years. Reflecting on his own marriage he says:

Our wedding day was a beautiful promise, but I think I became a husband not by wearing a tuxedo and reciting those breathless lines but later when I was able, finally, to add new features to the landscape of my mind: a quiet stream of patience and acceptance, a shady grove for tolerating the fear that once prompted me to run, an open valley of forgiveness, loyalty, belief in her and, above all else, a warm field we try to visit every day, joy. I love my wife with a deep passion, but after a short time I realized that the heart of marriage is an epic friendship.

Jollett came from a place of deep brokenness, but marriage is one way that we, the brokenhearted, begin to be mended.

But this should not surprise us. We all carry wounds and brokenness, but what a joy, what a gift, to remember that one place where we remain unbroken, is in the bond that joins us to our beloved.

For, in all the world, there is nothing that can join two broken things together to form an unbreakable bond between them—except marriage.

Previous Song:

What Other People Say
Demi Lovato (With Sam Fischer)

Thought when I grew up
I would be the same as the ones who gave me my last name
I would not give in, I would not partake
In the same old drugs everyone else takes

I'm better than that, I'm better than that
I'm living my life so I go to heaven and never come back
But look where I'm at, look where I'm at
I'm living the life that I said I wouldn't, I wanna go back

I used to call my mom every Sunday
So she knew her love wasn't far away
But now I'm all messed up out in LA
'Cause I care more about what other people say
I used to not take chances with God's name
But it's been so long since I last prayed
And now I'm all messed up and my heart's changed
'Cause I care more about what other people say
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
'Cause I care more about what other people say

I wish I could shelter the boy I knew
From the constant hell I put him through
'Cause I'm all grown up and I'm black and blue
I could use some tape, I could use some glue

I'm better than that, I'm better than that
I should be living my life so I go to heaven and never come back

I used to call my mom every Sunday
So she knew her love wasn't far away
But now I'm all messed up out in LA
'Cause I care more about what other people say
I used to not take chances with God's name
But it's been so long since I last prayed
And now I'm all messed up and my heart's changed
'Cause I care more about what other people say
Yeah, yeah, yeah
'Cause I care more about what other people say

Thought when I grew up
I would be the same as the ones who gave me my last name

I used to call my mom every Sunday
So she knew her love wasn't far away (far away)
But now I'm all messed up out in LA (out in LA)
'Cause I care more about what other people say
I used to not take chances with God's name (God's name)
But it's been so long since I last prayed (since I last prayed)
And now I'm all messed up and my heart's changed (and my heart changed)
'Cause I care more about what other people say (what other people say)
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah (yeah, yeah, no, no)
'Cause I care more about what other people say

There may be a more brutal song about the cost of sin, but if there is, I’m not sure it would be bearable.

I’ve written in these pages many, many times about the importance, and indeed mystery of one’s own name. “God calls each one by name,” the catechism tells us. “Everyone's name is sacred. The name is the icon of the person.”

This song answers the question of what happens when we become iconoclasts of our own name.

“Thought when I grew up / I would be the same as the ones who gave me my last name.” This name is her identity; it is who she truly is. In fact, when she was younger, she specifically rejected the very life that she’s now living. This is, sadly, a soul that has been sown among the thorns. This small soul may truly have claimed “I'm living my life so I go to heaven” before the thorns came.

I’m reminded of the sadness of Gollum, who has forgotten (or forsaken) his name and declares, “Poor, poor Sméagol, he went away long ago…and he’s lost now.”

What are the thorns that grew up and choked this soul? We are told in the song’s title: “What other people say.” Why would to “care more about what other people say” be so utterly disastrous? Because, in this case, they are the iconoclasts, inviting the hearer to destroy their name and their identity.

Mother Natalia, a nun of Christ the Bridegroom monastery, notes that immediately before Jesus undergoes his fast of 40 days in the desert, He hears, “This is my beloved Son.” And so Satan’s first temptations begin with “If you are the Son of God…” Satan’s first temptation for all of us, going back to Eden, is to make us doubt our identity as beloved sons and daughters of an all-loving Father.

Therein lies our true name.

“Fear not, for I have redeemed thee, and called thee by thy name: thou art mine.”

To each of us by name we are told, “This is my beloved son; this is my beloved daughter. Thou art mine.” But the terrible truth is this: we are free to care more about what other people say our identity is. And the moment we choose to do this, the moment we finally listen to the iconoclasts, is the moment when we choose to exchange our name, and His, for their name—and their name is Legion.

“I used to not take chances with God's name / But it's been so long since I last prayed.”

When one is living in a state of grace, there is a real and true mystical union between the soul and God. Again, the catechism tells us that “To pray "Jesus" is to invoke him and to call him within us. His name is the only one that contains the presence it signifies.” To not “take a chance” with His name means that we are aware of His presence within us, and we dare not invoke His name outside of prayer, and thereby recognition of this mystical union. His name then, when said with love by one in a state of grace, signifies His presence, and thereby this union. As this is a union of persons, it is mysteriously true, then, that the Holy name spoken by the grace-filled soul also signifies the person themselves, since they belong to this union. St. Patrick recalls this union in his lorica, “Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left…” 

To complete the destruction of our name, it is necessary then to abandon the Holy Name. Indeed, not to simply refuse to say the Name, but rather to utter God’s Name outside of prayer as a kind of dreadful renunciation of this divine union.

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In the end, the thorns of “caring more what other people say” that have choked the soul are finally, brutally, placed upon Our Savior’s head.

Demi Lovato has led a very troubled life, to put it mildly. Since I first heard this song, I have invoked God’s name in prayer, on her behalf. I would ask you to do the same. There’s no heart that is so hard, that it cannot be changed. Of the few lyrics that give hope, there is this: “And now I'm all messed up and my heart's changed.” Knowing that your heart has become hardened is a first step; perhaps the first step to removing a single thorn from His crown.

After Gollum said “Poor, poor Sméagol, he went away long ago…and he’s lost now.” Frodo replied, “Perhaps we’ll find him again, if you come with us.”

Perhaps Demetria Devonne Lovato will find herself if she listens to Who is calling her by name.

Perhaps she’ll remember once again the One Who gave her name to her.

Perhaps she’ll remember that she is called to union with the Divine One; that is her true name.

“This is my beloved daughter.”

Devonne means “divine.”

That is her true name.

It always was.

Once, several years ago, I read, “One day, you will pick up your child for the last time.” I think it’s one of the saddest sentences I’ve ever read. I’ve returned to that thought many times over the years. Lately, I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit.

“What,” I asked myself, “when faced with this kind of somber truth, ought a melancholic to do?”

The answer seemed clear enough. Follow that well-trod path I have walked many times before: utter denial of reality and a staunch refusal to accept difficult truths, followed by a dash of suppression.

Well-trod indeed. Perhaps we’ve seen each other on this trail and waved hello.

And so, I had just taken the first step onto Denial Lane when another thought occurred to me. “Yes and no.” The philosopher’s answer to every question.

“One day, you will pick up your child for the last time.”

Yes and no.

Hope.

Then I remembered exactly that. A quote from a chapter in C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity, entitled simply “Hope.” He wrote, “Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water.”

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I think every parent has a natural desire to pick up and carry their child. When they are infants, we naturally desire to pick them up when they are crying. As little children, we pick them up as they run into our arms. Notice that parents don’t merely hug their children, but they lift them up completely into their arms. Why? It’s as if we are telling our child that the very earth itself cannot touch them.

Not while we carry them.

To lift up our children so that they are free of harm from this world. That’s the desire—and no good desire is ever in vain.

Two of the most moving stories in the Gospels are about paralytics who are healed by Jesus. In the first, Jesus asks the poor man if he wished to be healed. He replies that he has no one to carry him into the healing waters. “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool.” The second paralytic had four people willing to help him. These four literally ripped the roof off the house where Jesus stayed, and lowered him below. Jesus tells the man that his sins are forgiven. After this, he heals the man’s body. Body and soul. In a word, the man’s friends carry the whole person to Our Lord.

The lesson is this: God abandons no one. But for those who are loved by friends and family, God wills that they too share in His Divine plan. He wills and desires that many are carried to Him. These four prayed Our Lord to heal their friend. They bore their friend on their shoulders, yes, but much more did they bear him in their hearts through their prayer.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.”

To carry our children’s burdens to Our Lord in prayer, indeed to carry them to Our Lord in prayer, through the roof of Heaven itself, this is how our desire for our children is ultimately fulfilled. For, the first time I carried each of my children, it wasn’t in my arms, it was when I traced the sign of the cross over them as they reposed under their mother’s heart, waiting to be born into the world. Each one I carried to Our Lord. Each one I have carried every day since. Yes, some I never had the chance to carry. Or rather, yes and no. No good desire is ever in vain. So I have carried them. And do carry them. Each day.

“Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool.” Children, you need never say that. Your father and mother will always carry you to the pool—the ocean—of Mercy.

“One day, you will pick up your child for the last time.” Yes and no. The truth is, dear children, the first time was the last time; your mother and I simply never put you down. Before we ever saw you, before we ever heard you, before we even held you, we carried you.

Yes.

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