Rabbi Lord Sacks and AEI: My “Washington Examiner” Debut

Four months ago, I switched from the Weekly Standard to the Washington Examiner – but what a pity it would be if I had nothing to show for it! Luckily, if identity politics is not your cup of tea, it seems that it’s not Rabbi Lord Sacks’ thing either:

“Former British Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks warned Americans on Tuesday about the country’s growing social divisions and urged them to “renew the covenant” during the American Enterprise Institute’s annual dinner in Washington, D.C.

 

‘Today, one half of America is … losing a strong sense of the American narrative,’ Sacks said. ‘In place of a single collective identity, you find a myriad of ever smaller identities.'”

Read more of his speech at the National Building Museum (and watch the full video!) by clicking here.

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Image Credit:  “Judiciary Square Metro, Building Museum” by dbking via Wikimedia Commons / Flickr

Disclaimer:  Many readers know I wish to take conservatism’s future in a highly peculiar direction. Any news pieces I write for the Washington Examiner and other publications, however, do not necessarily reflect my personal views (especially with respect to other people’s quotes).

St. Jean Vianney: A Lesson in Living with Tradition

Come Confirmation time, looking for a patron can be quite the task. Not that some saints are less worthy of respect than others (hyperdulia to the Virgin Mary aside). But if one aims to go beyond the suggested list and avoid random selection, it is clear that some – based on their personal attributes – will be a better fit than others.

In my case, I had several. St. Thomas Aquinas appealed to my affinity for academics; St. Thomas More appealed to my sense of martyrdom, law, and authority. Knowing the people in my age group back then, my gravitation towards these male figures was already odd enough.

Yet, by mere chance, I stumbled onto the Wikipedia page of the Curé of Ars. And looking at his life, I was instantly drawn to him…so much so that he ultimately became my confirmation saint.

After years of commemorating his feast (the last time on Friday), I still don’t understand why it formed so quickly. But this mystery is even more puzzling given that, on paper, he stands out as the complete opposite of an intellectual:

• • He failed his Latin courses in seminary, partially stemming from the instability of the French Revolution and its effects on his education (especially as he was born into a recusant family).

• • If I read Abbé Trochu’s book correctly, one of Vianney’s main literary/devotional influences was a French translation of Alban Butler‘s Lives of the Saints. He would also have read other works related to his priestly training like “the Catechism of the Council of Trent, the Dictionnaire de théologie of [Nicolas Sylvestre] Bergier, the spiritual treatises of [Alphonsus?] Rodriguez, and the sermon books of [Jean?] Le Jeune, [Claude] Joly, and [Canon] Bonnardel.” But while staunchly orthodox, he was almost always more interested in moral practice than moral theory (compared to his friend and contemporary, Fr. Henri-Dominique Lacordaire, O.P.). [1]

• • And while the Curé’s sermons are useful for various reasons, some of their content – particularly his warnings against dancing – make him sound like another firebrand preacher to the contemporary ear. (In real life, his personality was very meek, and he often went into tangents during Sunday Mass.) [2][3]

But a closer look reveals that this simple man was actually quite complex:

He conversed with perfect ease with persons of the highest rank [as well as the lowest]…. “A gentle and frank gaiety and a delightful ease characterized his relations with his friends.” … [But Vianney also] was very observant:  many a shaft of mordant wit might he have dashed off, but he always refrained from doing so. However, “in the freedom of familiar conversation he occasionally dropped remarks of…piquancy; observations that were not devoid of a certain delicate irony.” These sallies never wounded because their sting was softened by the merry tone of his voice and the kindly expression of his face. [4]

And it is true that in the aftermath of the Revolution, he – through his poverty and asceticism – attempted to revive the traditional Faith in his parish. [5] (Abbé Vianney was particularly known for promoting Mass, daily prayer, Confession, and the Holy Eucharist.) But he was also known for his efforts to help the poor; he was given the Legion d’honneur partially due to his work with orphans – although he expressly tried to refuse the award.

Finally, consider this episode:

M. l’Abbé Denavit, one of the professors of Saint-Irénée of Lyons, came to Ars…in the hope of finding [Vianney] at fault…. He waited where the saint would have to cross the short distance between the church and the presbytery, and addressed him as follows: “Monsieur le Curé, I am one of those in charge of the Grande Séminaire of Lyons. I should be grateful if you would give me some advice to help me to acquit myself well.”

 

M. Vianney smiled rather cryptically, looked straight into the eyes of his interlocutor, and speaking in Latin, so as not to be understood by the bystanders, he said: “Declina a malo et fac bonum.” Having said it, he turned his attention to others. [6]

Thus, despite the circumstances, I – as a Catholic of a philosophical bent – am ever grateful for his example.

For in my experience, I have seen people return to the Faith – and specifically to traditionalism – via four main paths:  beauty, structure, continuity, and thought. All of them are, of course, important for Christian living. Yet, for those of us fond of the intellectual life, the Curé’s life reminds us that prayer, charity, and action – especially those done with joy – are what ultimately draw people to Christ.

Of course, this is not to say that intellectuals – or even traditionalists – cannot be charitable. (This, for example, is something to strive for – whether in Gabon or in the U.S.) For those who are weak (such as yours truly), it is important to stay away from near occasions of sin – especially when temptation is just an instant click away. And it is true that there are many complaints to be had about the state of the Church, although the circumstances may vary from age to age.

But raised in the wake of a secularist revolt, the Curé knew he had to go beyond critique; he had to do what was needed to try to convert every soul. What Vianney did not know through books, he knew through prayer and reflection (assisted by the gift of reading men’s hearts). What he couldn’t preach via words, he preached through example. And when he couldn’t reach the soul through deeds, he reached them through personal sacrifice and tears.

In this way, combined with his sense of prudence, he managed to both guard his parish against sin and open his doors to those who struggled – despite his unlearnèd status.

Similarly, any return of Catholic orthodoxy (and the fullness of our tradition) must not only draw from past thought – it must draw in the simple as much as the scholarly. In the attempt to regroup, it must not fully isolate itself from the world; in a spirit of charity and justice, it must also reach out to those in material and/or spiritual poverty. And most importantly for the traditionalist who wishes to bring Christ into this secular age….

One must not only deliberate; one must do!

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[1]  François Trochu, The Curé d’Ars, trans. Ernest Graf (TAN Books, 1992), 74; 139-140.

[2] A free online list of St. Jean Vianney’s homilies can be found here. Having seen some of them, they should be taken seriously by Catholics given: 1.) his earnest pleas for conversion, 2.) his positive recommendations for Eucharistic adoration and other devotions, and 3.) his admonishments against Hell and sin…among other reasons.

For a more authoritative set of sermons, feel free to buy from TAN Books or Mediatrix Press (thanks to Rick Yoder for the second recommendation).

[3] To be fair, his remarks against dances in the 1800s should be read in light of his admonitions against immodesty (yours truly can think of several modern equivalents, unfortunately). Not having read all of his work, I am not sure what he would think about dancing in general. However, such hesitation exists not only as some Puritan concern … even St. Francis de Sales mentions this tension between fun, virtue, and vice in the Introduction to the Devout Life.

[4] Trochu, 445; 461; 464. Although Abbé Trochu’s work is a rather plain hagiography (but an important one, given that he draws upon various official documents), the Curé’s snark appears almost as often as his kind, humble nature and his zeal for souls.

[5] I must note that when I say “traditional Faith” in the context of this sentence, I’m talking more about any orthodox religious practices done in France before the advent of the French Revolution. To call Abbé Vianney a “traditionalist Catholic” (i.e. a supporter of pre-Vatican II practices and/or ideals) as opposed to an orthodox Catholic (which he rightly was!) would be very anachronistic.

[6] ibid., 538-539.

(Cover Image:  Wikimedia Commons – please note that this picture was taken not in the actual basilica at Ars-sur-Formans but at another French church. I had to use this due to copyright concerns at the time of publication.)

No Other Love: Why I Remain Catholic

When I saw my friend, Rick Yoder, promote his latest post over at The Amish Catholic, I was compelled to think about my own path…and my inability to explain the Faith as clearly as I — and probably everyone else — would like.

And then, I came along this story from my Universalis breviary:

Blessed George Nichols, Richard Yaxley, Thomas Belson, Humphrey Pritchard (-1589)

 

Birmingham, [U.K.]

 

These four men were executed at Oxford on 5 July 1589. Two were priests: George Nichols, born at Oxford, and Richard Yaxley, born at Boston, Lincolnshire, both ordained at the English College at Rheims. Thomas Belson was a gentleman from Oxfordshire who worked as a layman to support the underground work of the priests in Elizabethan England and had previously been imprisoned and deported; he was 26. All three were arrested at the Catherine Wheel at Oxford, together with Humphrey Pritchard, employed by the widow who owned the public house; she was condemned to perpetual imprisonment. After examination and torture in London, the four were tried and executed at Oxford. Blessed Humphrey Pritchard, the barman, was taunted for his ignorance by some of the university men present at the execution. When he said that he died for being a Catholic, one of them shouted that he was unable to explain what being a Catholic meant. Blessed Humphrey replied: “What I cannot say in words, I will seal with my blood”. They were beatified by Pope John Paul II in 1987.

 

(Birmingham Ordo)

Hearing that a martyr too had faced this problem, I sighed in relief. Yet, I also thought of the other reasons in my particular case. At times, this has been the consequence of an attempt to restrain myself in the name of penance and charity (although I have been admittedly severe). Other times, I’m just tired and at a loss for words. But most of all, the reason why I find it so hard to defend myself is that it would require me to speak about the unspeakable.

I say this not because I was forced back into Catholicism — far from it! And I certainly don’t believe in the futility of apologetics; it has its place. (Here, I heartily apologize for my deficiencies in this regard.) The reason why I now believe, however, was because of something that I could not fully grasp. My interest in philosophy and theology only came about because I desired to conform to this new reality — this ultimate Truth. Therefore, I cannot fully explain why I am Catholic; I can only explain what kept me from choosing anything else.

Here, then, are my five non-Catholic items of choice, as per the (general) guidelines:

“What we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope,” George Eliot, Middlemarch [1]

“Christianity is too earnest to romanticize about pure humanity; it wants only to make human beings pure.” – Kierkegaard, Works of Love

And as a final note, a sonnet by John Donne.

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(Image:  Edward Burne-Jones, Love Among the Ruins)

[1] As an aside, this is only meant to convey a sentiment on my part that I have learned through bitter experience. I do intend to read Middlemarch one day, however, given its status in English literature.

Books in Little: End of an Era

Originally Posted in the University Bookman / Winter 2017 issue

Despite its status as one of history’s most powerful tremors, the Lisbon Earthquake of 1755 has barely left a trace in the unconscious memory of humanity. Once central to the discourse of the Enlightenment, it was overshadowed by the strife of war merely a decade later. But just as the quake defined an era, Seton Hall University professor Mark Molesky aims to do the same with This Gulf of Fire by reminding readers of its effects on European history.

Beginning with Sebastião José de Carvalho e Melo, Marquis of Pombal (1699–1782) and his decision to execute Fr. Gabriel Malagrida for heresy, Molesky introduces the setting through the lens of social change. He notes how Lisbon, once a city in decline, was poised to recover through the riches of Brazil. He notes the gap between Portugal’s religious culture and much of Western Europe. And there is the resulting struggle between Malagrida’s call for repentance versus Pombal’s rationalistic vision as Portugal’s Secretary of State of Internal Affairs.

But just as the preacher’s death heralded the end of the old order, so too did the events of that fateful All Saints’ Day. What should have been a solemn feast turned into a nightmare. Here, Molesky excels at chronicling the chaos through the use of extensive detail. Maps and illustrations help visualize the destruction; period and contemporary science explain the quake, fire, and tsunami nature wrought. And he effectively drives the narrative through various firsthand accounts—native, foreign, Protestant, and Catholic—to convey what an eyewitness called “the confusion … conceived by a human heart, but not described by a human pen.”

This balanced, holistic coverage continues as Molesky documents the aftermath and how it “brought about a revolution” both culturally and politically. Whereas religious Portugal turned to science before the tremors struck, many—like the British who fasted in supplication against future disaster—reacted by turning from science to religion. In counting the monies and lives lost, he tracks its economic and diplomatic effects as it inspired the first multinational relief effort in history. Finally, he weighs Pombal’s tenure, balancing his achievements in public health, city planning, and other forms of modernization against his negative effects on trade, property rights, and the ability to dissent.

Unfortunately in a work so grounded in the Age of Reason, Molesky notes the disaster’s intellectual fallout only within the last few pages. To his credit, he mentions the quake’s key role in countering Enlightenment tendencies towards philosophical optimism (as per Hume, Kant, and Voltaire’s critiques). Yet this analysis could have been extended: did the disaster affect believers besides reinstating old practices? Beyond the rise of pessimism, how much did it contribute to the questioning of rationalism itself? Focusing on the tremor’s immediate impact has its tradeoffs; with a different emphasis the author could have more fully brought together the several themes from the beginning of his work.

Still, Molesky’s text remains a thorough account of one of Europe’s greatest calamities, and one of its best modern treatments; its balanced approach and attention to detail make the work shine.

Open to Belief

Originally Posted in the Weekly Standard // October 31, 2016 – print issue
[modified second paragraph for easier reading]

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It’s no easy feat to condense the subject of religion, much less comment on its themes, within 256 pages. Similar efforts like Stephen Prothero’s God Is Not One and Huston Smith’s The World’s Religions have done so at nearly twice the length of A Little History of Religion. But Richard Holloway, retired head of the Scottish Episcopal Church, takes the challenge in stride. From Anglicanism to Zoroastrianism, he aims to provide a broad introductory survey while promoting the value of faith. And in a world haunted by secular and religious misapprehension, Holloway certainly has the best of intentions. Yet, for the beginner, does his book actually meet these two goals?

Well, yes and no. On the one hand, he deftly makes his knowledge accessible to the public: Starting with the origins of faith, he uncovers its symbols, its frameworks, and its psychological narratives. Emphasizing themes over chronological order, he covers the next 5,000 years, musing on everything from Krishna and Scientology to violence, authority, and the possible end of religion. In so doing, Holloway vastly improves upon his predecessors. Touching innumerable faiths and denominations, he goes well beyond both Prothero and Smith, including not only the major religions but also the minor cults of Mithras and Eleusis. Where belief and ritual may be emphasized over history (or vice versa), he attempts to balance all three, covering the good and bad alike. Holloway also engages the reader as narrative intertwines with narrative, all the while grounding the cerebral in ordinary, and sometimes deeply personal, experience.

On the other hand, he overlooks key points that could help seekers grasp today’s religious landscape. It is nearly impossible, of course, to survey the breadth (or depth!) of thousands of traditions. But although his text tries to maintain a holistic approach, Holloway applies it unevenly from one faith to another. By dividing primarily between East and West, he is forced to leave out substantial segments, such as African traditions, which don’t fit within his spectrum. And his overviews of the Indian and Abrahamic religions—as well as more modern faiths—fare better than those of East Asia. For while he covers the various beliefs of Confucianism, Taoism, and Shinto, he overlooks their ritual and customary aspects, summarizing the latter as merely “a love for the spirit of the land.”

These are minor points, however, compared with his underlying approach. While not fully explored until the very end, he asserts that a true appreciation of religion requires three principles: a critical mind, a radical openness, and an acceptance of the unity of all believers. Building upon the parable of the blind men who argue over an elephant without perceiving it in its entirety, he laments that people “confuse what is seen [God] with the one who is doing the seeing.” Denouncing fundamentalism as “a tantrum,” he views it as a rejection of humility and rational progress. And he believes that, without these three principles, such notions prepare the way for violence as people “[hide] God behind the thick fog of [religion’s] own cruelty.”

By minimizing theological division, however, Holloway obscures the complex relationship between faith and modernity. While he correctly warns the reader against blind obedience, he oversimplifies the liberal/fundamentalist divide as one of open-mindedness versus obstinacy. But if truth is timeless, then each religion constitutes a different structure of reality that cannot be easily dismissed in the name of social irrelevance. And this downplays the question of whether the faithful can avoid rigidity without following the elephantine tale to its extreme. As Stephen Prothero has noted, “What we need .  .  . is a realistic view of where religious rivals clash and where they can cooperate. .  .  . Both tolerance and respect are empty virtues until we actually know [what] we are supposed to be tolerating or respecting.”

Richard Holloway has nevertheless done a great service for students of religion. This is no dry textbook: With its conversational prose and density of information, it is a pleasure to read. A Little History of Religion may fall short on religious understanding, but the inquirer should use it as a factual resource—a starting point, not the final word.

Educating the Soul: Why Study Religion?

Originally posted in the Virginia Advocate // February 8, 2015

In her article for the Cavalier Daily, Kelly Seegers writes several good reasons for being a Religious Studies major. Whether it be the department’s top-notch faculty or its vast array of courses, faith remains relevant in today’s secular age. While morality is key to scripture, though, religion also has something no other subject can provide. Far from merely educating the mind, it is the only major that can educate the soul.

Now, I do admit my biases as a fellow Religious Studies major. My heart palpitates at the mention of Ethika Politika, First Things, Dominicana, or Communio. I read the Buddha’s “Fire Sermon” and the Upanishads as intensely as St. Augustine’s Confessions. Many of my friends know the difference between consubstantiation and transubstantiation. Finally, as mentioned earlier, I am a member of the local Chesterton Society. Religion not just consumes me; religion is my life.

Compare this, though, with the University of Virginia’s other fine majors. Many of them prepare for future careers or secular pursuits. Entrepreneurs head to the McIntire School of Commerce. Engineers, nurses, and architects head to their respective departments. The sciences – Biology, Physics, and all of the rest – help describe the universe through testing and experimentation. Humanities majors, like politics and English, explore how people interact with each other. Yet, while these disciplines are all valuable, they are limited in their ability to explain humankind’s attempts to transcend beyond itself.

There is a reason, then, why the Medievals crowned religion as the “Queen of the Sciences” and liberal arts. It is because they recognized that humanity and reason had its limitations, thus prompting the ancient search for causes of reality outside of Creation. As such, Religious Studies is not just about comparative surveys or ethics or history. It rather nourishes the spirit by exploring man’s continuing quest for meaning and Eternity – the latter of which the world certainly cannot give.

Religious Studies is therefore an honorable major in more ways than one. Faith and belief affect others every single day. Its various classes can inform all aspects of life. Plus, even the atheist can glean from religion as it provides a window into historical ways of thinking. Ultimately, however, it is worth learning because it allows people to encounter life outside of a temporal point of view. This is the unique perspective that no other major can provide, making it an excellent course of study at the University.

A Thought on Mysticism

Below is a theological ditty that has been on my mind for the past several years. This is not to trivialize any real differences, of course, but I am still awed by the commonality of this very impulse.

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Mysticism, in its most basic form across religions, seeks to remove the scales from our eyes.

To set man on fire;

To show the reality of man

beyond mere rationality

and pure reducibility –

To a sense of the transcendent,

to a sense of Wholeness,

maybe –

perhaps –

even to a sense of the Divine.

A Theology of the Selfie

Originally Posted in Unpleasant Accents // June 24, 2015

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The vanity.

The posing.

The infamous duckface.

Such is the prototype of the ever-notorious selfie. But this is not just fun and games. These images have fed into the stereotypes of our youth — supposedly brimming with greediness, sloth, and entitled behavior. The selfie is therefore not merely another trend.

It has become the Anti-Icon of the Millennial Generation.

But what exactly do I mean? I’m not defining “icon” in the way we speak of celebrities or American apple pie. The Church has icons of her own, particularly in the East — a tradition of paint, wood, and gold passed down through the centuries. They, however, do not exist solely as objects of art.

The icon is an aid, a catechesis, and a reflection of the Christian life. The Church Fathers recognized this in the Second Council of Nicaea (A.D. 787) insofar as “the incarnation of the Word of God is shown forth as real and not merely phantastic, for these have mutual indications and without doubt have also mutual significations.” And Eastern Christians like Metropolitan Hilarion Alfeyev continue to stress its relationship to the Life to Come on a “theological, anthropological, cosmic, liturgical, mystical and ethical” level.

The selfie — as Anti-Icon — must accordingly be its opposite. Its guidance is neutral, its moral aim not inherent. Its content may be beautiful yet become vain at its worst. And it certainly portrays not the Incarnation of God. Rather, it only reveals mortality — the flesh and bone of Man.

In writing this, I do not mean to say that we should completely condemn all selfies. It’s as absurd as banning mirrors from a clothing store or barring self-portraits from a museum.

 Even so, this demonstrates the power of the image in the Age of the Internet. It is true that the canvas reflects the trends of any society. (And lolcats are exempt from this as much as a Botticelli painting.) But in a world driven by memes, follows, and shares, it’s no wonder that many elders assume we think only in terms of viral popularity.

So, what, whom, or Whom are we reflecting anyway?

Man undoubtedly reflects the Image of God (cf. Genesis 1:27). Yet, in this culture, do we merely reflect the times? What society thinks of us? What one thinks of society? Do they show anything about the way we view ourselves? How is God reflected in the mundane, and does the mundane continue to reflect God?

Or do they hint that our thought is too caught up in an individualistic point of view to even care?

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P.S. As I was writing, I stumbled upon this review of Father Antonio Spadaro’s Cybertheology. This looks like a good starting point for anyone who wants to go more in-depth into this topic (although I’m not sure if Spadaro covers selfies per se!).