MAMA CHIMES IN: On Names and Kicking

by Ellen RM Toner

Ellie here. Hello! As some of you know, Jamey is not the only one in our household who likes to write. A tricky part of life since last June has been that I’ve been too out of it to really write much of anything, something I was distressed about because I have a wretched memory and writing is how I remember all the big things. And here we were growing a little person and I was going to get to the end of the nine months and it was all going to be a fog! (As Jamey has mentioned, I had HG, which means absurd amounts of vomiting and exhaustion all through pregnancy.)  I was so grateful when Jamey started this blog; he’s given us the written record I couldn’t.

Writer in training.

One thing I did manage to do every now and again was write to our little one. Of course, not enough! And not with any particular point or big reveal. But I’m glad of what we have, and I wanted to share a bit of that with you.

Sonya Magdalena Rose was born at home last Thursday. We have had some queries about her name, which we can understand, as we are decidedly not of Russian descent. (By the way, we know there are multiple ways to spell and pronounce her first name; we are saying it with an “OH” sound, as in, Hey SOHN-ya, I will PHONE-ya later!) In one letter that I wrote to her, I explained why we chose her names, what they mean to us. So, if you are curious about that (and a few other things, too), here it is.

Please do remember her in your prayers this Sunday as she is baptized and receives her name formally. And pray for us, as we start trying to get her to heaven!

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

21 weeks and 1 day

Dear Little Girl,

We have had quite a week, you and I! First off, I looked down a few days ago and realized that all of a sudden you were indeed quite visible from the outside. It’s taken a long time for you to show, but as of last Saturday I have officially gained my very first pound, and even went up three pounds in a week. This, I think, means that you have been growing outrageously. At our appointment with the Ob/Gyn last Thursday, the doctor most hilariously said that you weigh about 3 sticks of butter, with an extra pat or two thrown in. Way to go, little girl! You’re almost a foot tall now, too (10.5 inches).

Other important things that have happened: well, you surprised us a great deal by being a little girl instead of a little boy. It’s not that we wanted a boy more or a girl more; I just had this really strong feeling that we were having a boy. Turns out I was very, very wrong! I can’t believe I actually get to name a daughter Sonya Magdalena Rose. This is something I’ve been wanting to do for like, 5 years. Thank you, little girl, for giving me the opportunity! Just so you know, you are primarily named for the heroine of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Her name means “wisdom” and comes from the old Greek name, Sophia. She’s always been my favorite of any heroine because she is something most surprisingly good, lovely, profoundly redemptive and utterly generous. She’s not so much of a fine lady that she is not intimately connected with the ugly world and people around her, but her nobility of character means that she is never sullied by it. I think of her as the bright light that Dickens wanted all of his leading ladies to be, but they were usually too flat to be interesting. She is real. While I hope and pray that you never find yourself in such desperate straits as she did, I do hope that you have the chutzpah to meet adversity with her grace, and also to redeem the people around you by your strength and the beauty of your nature. As I’m sure you’ll hear from both your father and from me, Dostoevsky famously said that beauty will save the world. God willing, you will be a part of that.

You are also named for St. Mary Magdalen. Like Sonya, she was a woman in a profession that the world does not look kindly upon, but she was much beloved and defended by Jesus Himself, and in return showed him unstinting devotion and generosity. Again, while I don’t wish her hardships on you, I do hope and pray that you are the sort of person who will always give to others with unmeasured exuberance, rooted first and foremost in an unshakeable devotion to our dear Lord, knowing that He will always be there to defend you and lift you up when you feel like the whole world is against you. Magdalena means “lady from Magdala,” Magdala in turn being the name of a town that means “tower.” Finally, we are calling you Rose because it fits aesthetically with your other names, and because St. Rose of Lima has always been one of my favorite saints (which is why she is one of my Confirmation patrons). So, all things together, your name means something like The Wise Lady from the Rose Tower. I do so hope that this is the sort of thing that will interest you one day!

The night before we “found you out” was most especially significant for your dad, because he felt you kick for the very first time, at 20 weeks and 2 days. I’ve been feeling you inside me for about 5 weeks now, I think, but I’ll have to go back and check for sure. Whenever you get particularly active, usually in the evenings when I’m lying on my back (lying on my side makes me queasy, so yes, I do the “bad thing” and lie on my back), I’ll take your dad’s hand and put it wherever you’re kicking. But he’s never felt you move before! He did feel what we think was your back maybe two weeks ago, when you were curled up in a ball with you back pressing out against my tummy, and he could feel you all compact inside me. But that kick, little Sonya! It was such a special moment. So much of this pregnancy has not been the joyful miracle that I hoped for and pictured. It’s been such hard work, and terribly lonesome, and incredibly humbling. And I don’t mean humbling in the awe-inspiring and truth-revealing way that people sometimes mean it (or at least if it is that, I haven’t gotten there yet). I mean humbling in the abject humiliation kind of way. Not a whole lot of roses and happiness---just impatience and frustration and even anger at so many things, and also shame at my physical weakness. But when your dad felt you the first time, all of that melted away for a few blessed moments. It was everything I hoped for and more. You kicked or punched him so hard that he actually gasped and his whole body started in surprise, and he teared up, and all at once because you were known to someone outside of me, you became so much more real, not just to him but also to me. You were no longer something inside me or maybe inside my head that only I knew or experienced; the sphere of your little world widened the instant your dad felt you move, and because that sphere was suddenly enlarged, I could see you better, and know you better, because I know and love your dad so much.

I should wrap things up now, as that wonderful father of yours has again cooked us some dinner. Two weeks ago I offered to keep him company while he was cooking, and he said he “needed his own space” in the kitchen. Too cute! This, as you will one day realize, means that he has taken a huge step in owning the cooking process and the kitchen in general. And tonight I suggested we could go out for a bowl of soup (for me) and a burger (for him) and he said that he’s actually rather enjoying cooking lately and would rather stay home and make dinner. Oh Sonya. The ways in which this man has changed for you and me. Talk about miracles!

Love you,
Mama

On Guns

Sonya: But there was just another shooting in Florida.
Me: But the Texas shooting was stopped by an NRA instructor.
Sonya: But Japan is gun-free and has no virtually no mass shootings.
Me: But Switzerland is armed to the teeth and has virtually no mass shootings.
Sonya: . . . Does it seem like we both have some facts on our side?
Me: I guess so.
Sonya: I was really hoping we could wrap this up before lunch.
Me: Well, you're very young. I'm afraid the truth is that when it comes to complex issues, if your argument fits easily on a bumper sticker, it's probably lacking something.
Sonya: I think we all get that. But we're Catholics, we believe in Truth. There's such a thing as an actually right answer to every question.
Me: We also believe in both Free Will and Providence. Not just your will and mine, but the wills of seven billion people, all smashing into each other all the time, and all interwoven with the super-temporal Plan of God. It's insane to think that we can stuff the whole of the Truth into our brains and bring it bear on each individual question like a flashlight. What we can do is take an individual question and try to drag it out into Truth like the sunlight.
Sonya: So—that means, in practice, what?
Me: There is an actually right answer, but any given one of us might not be able to see every single side of it. You know the story about the blind men and the elephant?
Sonya: Of course. I have a lot of free time in the womb, you know.
Me: Yeah, about that: you could pretty much come out of there any time now.
Sonya: We're getting sidetracked.
Me: Right. As you know, I'm a strong advocate of respecting the position of one's opponent and talking things out rather than shouting slogans from behind police barricades.
Sonya: And that's awfully nice, but while you're politely listening to all sides of the argument, people are being shot every single day.
Me: If you're in a hole, it doesn't always help to dig faster. Part of the problem is that we tend to forget how tightly this issue is woven with larger issues. A conservative is coming from the subconscious premise that the defense of his home and family is ultimately his own responsibility; a liberal, from the premise that the State exists in order to defend those who can't defend themselves. Neither is wrong, but it's hard to point out the assumed premises of either without sounding as though you're making an ad hominem attack. In such a heated debate, it's easy to hear the other side calling you (respectively) a bully or a weakling, even if that's not what they mean.
Sonya: You're still very dexterously walking on the tips of the fence-posts.
Me: Would you really like to hear my own personal opinion?
Sonya: I'd like to, yes.
Me: I think life is beautiful and also horrible. The fundamental problem with both sides of this debate is that, deep down, people think there's a solution that will make everybody safe; but the truth is, the only safe place is the coffin. I think if we keep our guns, we're going to keep slaughtering each other. I think if we give up our guns, our own government or someone else's will start slaughtering us soon enough. No matter who wins, people will get shot and the losers will blame the winning side. The one thing we can count on for sure is that, in the end, gun violence will be stopped by the same thing that stopped sword violence: someone will invent something worse.
Sonya: Fuck, dude.
Me: Watch your language, young lady.
Sonya: Sorry, Dad. It's just. . .
Me: Yeah.
Sonya: So what are you going to do?
Me: I love my daughter. I'm keeping my guns.

On Love (or, Best Git Yer Mushin' Shoes)

World's full of pretty girls. Once Ellie and I officially began dating, I started training myself into a habit which I still maintain: every time I see an attractive young lady, I say to myself, "No one's as pretty as Ellie." This is partly because it's true. (No offense to my female readers.) But also, it's for the same reason that we say the Apostle's Creed every week even though we already believe it—to keep it ingrained on the very forefront of our minds, to keep it reflexive. The same reason that even (for example) the best soccer players in the world keep practicing basic kicks all the time even though they're already the best: because that is precisely what makes them the best. The Christian apologist Von Hügel once said, "I kiss my son not only because I love him but in order that I may love him." The more I act as though I love Ellen, the more I love her. It's the one and only good thing about the tribulation of hyperemesis gravidarum: it gives me ample opportunity to practice loving my beloved.

Love means to will the good of another. Like all things that are deeply true, it's complicated and painful. I love my daughter, and that's going to mean spanking her if she keeps trying to stick her fingers in the outlet. There are levels of good. At what point does true love mean letting Sonya Madga make a mistake and learn a hurtful (agonizing? crippling?) lesson? As with any big decision, I can't know that without praying to the Holy Spirit and seeking the counsel of people I respect; but I also can't pile my own culpability on Him or them. I'll make decisions, be wrong, and hurt the treasure of my heart sometimes. What's the alternative?

We met the Pope this one time. No big deal or nothin'. You hang around that town for a bit and it really comes home to you that il Papa means "the Pope" but also, you know—the Papa. My dad made mistakes, and I'll make mistakes. The Pope makes mistakes. (Except when he speaks ex cathedra, of course.) He's still our Papa. If he didn't care about us, he could just hang out in the Papal Palace and let us figure things out on our own, just as I could let Sonya play around with the outlets. Maybe I spanked her too hard. Maybe the outlets are some kind of new-fangled LED outlets that can no longer shock you, and I spanked her for no reason at all. Will she still grow up knowing I love her and I'm doing the best I can? Dear God, I hope so.

You, reader. I will your good. Most likely (let's be honest), you're one of my Facebook friends, and we already know and love each other in the world outside the Internet. But who knows! You could be reading this in 3000 A.D. as you crouch in a neon corridor exchanging photon-rifle fire with space heathens who insist that it's 3000 C.E. like the idiot heathens that they are. That's okay, I still will your good. And (um—sorry) theirs too. Stupid people think it's impossible to love your neighbor because we can't always feel nice fuzzy feelings towards everyone. Nooooo shit. That's not what love means. It turns out that God's not an idiot. He doesn't command us to be continuously fuzzy, but to will the good of all. And that quite often means sacrificing ourselves; but not always. After all, if the space heathens were suddenly to perceive the truth of Love, then they would stop shooting at you and you guys could all get together and party. But more likely, they'll torture you to death and then you and I can get together in Purgatory and pray for their souls.

Does that sound bleak? It probably sounds bleak. I'm waiting for my daughter and drinking bourbon, and I'm not inclined to soften things. I surely do wish that Sonya Rose could enter a world without hate. But if she did. . . would she ever grow up? Is it better that she remain a child for eternity? Maybe if I truly love her, I need to let her face the Evil, fight the Evil, fail and fall and get back up. God is Love, and wills our good. And boy, does He let us suffer. Willing my daughter's good, shall no doubt mean watching her pass through some hard, deep waters. But here's what Ellie has written on our wall as we wait for Madga Rosa to finally emerge from the womb:

"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you . . . When you walk through the fires, you will not be burned . . . For you are precious and honored in my sight. . .

And I love you" (Isaiah 43).

On Sex and Violence (or, We Have Powerful Friends)

So there's this movie called Return of the Jedi. Had a cult following back in the day, you may have heard of it. In the first act, Princess Leia gets captured by Jabba the Hutt and forced to wear this crazy space bikini which, for half my generation, first introduced us to the notion that girls weren't always big dumb-heads but could sometimes be intensely interesting in ways that we didn't quite understand. Then a bit later, she shorts out the lights and strangles him to death.

I was never a little girl, but I imagine that seeing this for the first time would be a pretty empowering experience. Not Luke, not Han, not even Chewie ends up whacking the Hutt, but the skinny princess with the silly buns in her hair. And even better, she kills him with the very chain that he himself put around her neck. You go, girl. (Or whatever they say nowadays.) Thing is. Before that empowering moment could happen, she had to be shoved down into the slime of degradation. You could've had Leia keep the bounty hunter costume and just blow up the palace with her thermal detonator, but it wouldn't have meant anything. The meaning of her ascension is derived from the demeaning that precedes it.

Now the very real and awful danger is, what I just said is absolutely artistically true, but there's also absolutely no way to draw a solid line at where the aesthetic begins to drift away from the ethical. In other words, exactly how much degradation can an artist depict before it becomes titillation? There's no algorithm for it. If life were an equation, we'd none of us be here. Free will is a frigging mess. It has to be. We've discussed before how difficult it is to give a cut-and-dried definition of pornography that objectively separates it from Art. Both undertakings call for nudes, and neither can succeed without challenging boundaries.

When Rhett told Scarlett that, frankly, he didn't give a damn, it was shockingly obscene. But try to think of a single word that could possibly shock an audience these days. Oh wait, here's one: the N-word. Which, come to think of it, Rhett and his contemporaries used as casually as we use the word potatoes. Standards float. If I passed Jesus on the street I'd probably think, looks like a cool guy but he could use a haircut. Good grooming is always good, but societies differ on the specifics of what constitutes it. This is what moral relativism fails to understand: things change on the surface precisely because the truths underneath are eternal. Everyone everywhere has always understood on some level that sex is sacred. And not despite that but because of it, every culture and religion has tried to find some way to make it special, to set it apart—in ways unique to each culture. The particulars, the trappings, change radically with place and time; the bedrock is universal.

Same with the portrayal of violence. In the fifties, the hero typically shot a villain once and the guy would grimace and hop off a balcony. By the eighties, Schwarzenegger was throwing a steel pipe through a villain into the boiler behind him and saying "Leddoff somm steeeeam" while the guy stood there bleeding and screaming and letting off steam. (Heh! It's still funny.) But compare it with some of the stuff in the Iliad and it's fairly pedestrian. Why, mathematically, is one of them eternal art and the other one basically exploitative (though awesome) garbage? There is literally an entire branch of Philosophy going back 4,000 years that has not yet conclusively settled that question.

T. S. Eliot in his great, strange "Choruses from the Rock" speaks darkly of modern heathens who spend their lives "dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good." Ain't no such. Because we're fallen, there must be systems to guide us; but they can never replace the necessity, and the responsibility, of individual human judgment. Was the Leia bikini exploitative? Mmmaybe. Was it necessary to the development of both her character and Jabba's? Mmmaybe. My real contention is simply that an intelligent case can be made in either direction, and infinite nothingness comes of contemptuously dismissing the enemy argument. It's worth talking about. Let's talk it through.

Also, Boba Fett died in the Sarlaac Pit.

On Anxiety (or, You Just Need To Relax!!!)

First, an admission. Until a couple of years ago, I was the sort of person who rolled his eyes at the thought of taking medication. My dad has extremely high anxiety, and his father before him had a nervous breakdown when Dad was in high school. I dunno if that's learned or genetic or both, but it sure as hellfire and damnation got passed on to me. Back in my wandering days, it manifested mostly as depression since I had no responsibilities about which to be anxious; but once I met Ellie and began trying to be an adult, I suddenly had other people to worry about and could never again fall back on "Well, I know a nice unlocked broom closet in a motel near here" if the rent money got too tight. It makes one fret, you know. On the other hand, it was also Ellie who finally talked me into investigating the medical option. Took me about two years to find one that really works; but boy, does it make a difference. Is it a crutch for my weakness? Sure, I guess you could say that. But at the end of the day, I'd rather admit the flaw and use the crutch than spend my marriage seething with stress and suddenly exploding until I'm more a source of fear than comfort to my wife and daughter.

Here's how I see the logistics. Your soul makes the choices that shape who you are, and those supernatural choices become electrochemical reactions in your brain: matter moved by spirit. (This is tangential, but just digest the fact that every single thought you've ever had is technically a miracle.) Your brain, however, is imperfect. No offense. Some imperfections are your own doing, like getting yourself drunk; some are beyond your control, like tumors or dementia; and some are a little of both, like a vice nurtured to addiction. But they all disfigure the shape cast upon the world by the light shining inside of you. For me, anxiety puts fangs on the face of my soul, and I don't like 'em. I can't speak for everyone, but I have limits to what I can accomplish by sheer will. Sometimes I need help. And also, I was being disingenuous just now. I can speak for everyone: sometimes, everyone needs help. Ultimately, being a Christian means accepting it even more than giving it.

St. Paul exhorts us to have no anxiety at all (Philippians 4:6). Great advice. Real helpful. Right up there with "Be ye therefore perfect, as your Heavenly Father is perfect" (Matthew 5:48). Thanks, Lord! No problem at all. Luckily, it turns out that God is smart. These aren't one-time commands like go do the dishes; they encompass the work of a lifetime. We have Penance because He's well aware that we're not going to be perfect for long stretches at a time. Nor will we always possess the peace of God which passeth understanding—or at least, we won't always "feel" it, in the emotional sense. (One of the most helpful things my old pastor Fr. LaValley ever said to me was that sometimes the Holy Spirit does His best work when you can't feel His presence at all.) Furthermore—if you believe in this sort of thing—anxiety is a favorite tool of the Enemy, and is said to be a possible sign of demonic oppression. Makes sense; God speaks in music and silence, Satan in noise. But every sandbag he throws on our shoulders will just make us stronger when we get to the peak of Mount Purgatory and we finally stand unbowed. What matters for now is the prayer, and the work.

I thought to write this quick little post because a few days ago I had a very brief moment of falling victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous, of course, is never get involved in a land war in Asia. But here's another one: never, ever decide that you suddenly feel better and no longer need your meds. It's a saddening and frustrating thing to have a friend on antidepressants who's finally starting to experience real solace and therefore goes off the very thing that's making it possible, only to find them curled up on the closet floor two days later. I've seen it, and I'm thankful it stayed in my memory. I do feel better, a lot better, these last couple of months. But that don't mean it's time to quit taking medicine, it means the damn stuff is working and it's time to keep taking it. When I got my first pair of glasses, I didn't say, "Hey, I can see! I guess I don't need these glasses anymore!" Believe me, I hope I don't need to be on meds forever. But no matter how hard I try, I can't will my way to 20/20 vision. We prayed for the relief of my anxiety, and behold, we found something that relieves it. If it doesn't come with wings and a thunderclap, can it still be the answer to a prayer? I rather think so. And I will never again roll my bespectacled eyes at the medication that helps me take care of my family.

On Drinking (or, Dringin'? Di' sumb'dy say dringin'?!)

I didn’t drink till I was twenty. Not for any moral reason; I just never felt like it. Liked my Dr. Pepper and my Combos. Still do. But then came the day my friend Domingo and I were hanging around his dorm room playing Mario Kart (more accurately, he played and I commentated), and this kid Neil from up the hall came by and asked if we could hide his bottle of Smirnoff. Seems he’d gotten wind that the RA was doing an inspection, and he somehow had the notion that Domingo was 21. A false notion—me and D. are the same age to within a couple of days—but we didn’t bother correcting him, and fortunately it turned out that he was wrong about the inspection too. There happened to be a bottle of OJ in the fridge, and I had my first screwdriver that night. Also my fourth. Thus was born the age of Mario Kart DUI, and half a lifetime of alcohol appreciation on my part.

There’s a story about my wonderful sister-in-law Sarah at the age of one or two, clumping up to the dinner table in her diapers and quite unselfconsciously stealing and chugging a houseguest’s half-full glass of beer. Now Sarah, having been raised around the stuff, is a young lady who will grow up understanding how to drink. My dad, on the other hand, is a borderline teetotaler; and if no one teaches you proper drinking, then you must sail the foamy suds of autodidacticism with all its appurtenant perils. It was years before I began to figure out that the exact moment when you feel like it’s time to start really drinking, is when you should take a break and have some water. It also took me many long pale moons to realize that good whiskey has other purposes besides gulping it down with Pepsi so you can spend the night jigging to the Pogues and seeking out new ways to replace your clothing with kitchenware and furniture. (And for the concerned, I can assure you that in the fullness of time, I indeed outgrew my tendency to wear lampshades on my head.)

My cousin Jes and I moved in together when I was thirty, and our buddy Simeon gave us a bottle of The Glenlivet as a housewarming gift. Jes decided he didn’t care for it, so I set myself the task of learning to enjoy a celebrated Scotch, neat, in a sober and adult manner. I had a small glass every night for, I don’t know, two or three weeks until the bottle was gone, sipping ruminatively and rolling the boggy brine across my tongue; and by the end, I had indeed developed a taste for it. It was also around this time that micro-brewing was becoming a macro-business, so I soon learned to appreciate good beer as well. (I remember visiting Domingo in Alabama once, with a trunk full of Vermont craft beers at a time when Alabamians had a choice between Bud, Miller, and screw yourself. That was a good weekend.) The benefits of an educated palate are—well, the same as any liberal art, the “unnecessary” arts of the free man. I’m still capable of enjoying Pabst (in fact, I’m literally drinking a PBR as I type this), just as I’m still capable of enjoying the Incredible Hulk; but I can also enjoy Veuve Cliquot and Hamlet, and so my cosmos is deeper and more multi-faceted than it was.

My beautiful wife and I just bought a house. I just celebrated my first anniversary at my job. We just got our ignition coils replaced, there’s a fluffy black kitten curled up at our feet, and our baby girl will be here any day. At the age of forty, I’m finally beginning to have a pretty normal and stable existence. But man, there’s a lot of strange years and miles behind me. I remember drinking Boone’s Farm Wine in Tuscaloosa and running out into the streets along with half the town when ’Bama won a big game; Mad Dog 20/20 at a Burger King in Seattle as I composed a travelogue in heroic couplets; Cristal with Ellie on our first married Christmas. I remember drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade after Jes and I got our black belts at the bonfire; Coors in Iowa before my second real street fight; Guinness on tap at the James Toner Pub in Dublin on our honeymoon. I remember cooking a breakfast of chili and Chinese stir fry in Bushmills Irish whiskey for me and Domingo in my first crap-hole apartment; some weird vanilla vodka with Ren and the boys in Burlington as we hurled each other into the pool; Eagle Rare bourbon after Ellie accidentally won us a tasting at the church auction. Damn near all my best memories revolve around beloved friends and alcohol.

There’s a reason Jesus’ first miracle involved the fellowship of the vine; there’s a reason communal drinking is at the heart of the Blessed Sacrament of the Mass. “Wine maketh glad the heart of man” (Psalm 104:15). You can bet we’ll raise our Sonya to respect the power and poetry of that finest spirit, and also to avoid abusing it. Alcoholism is a grave illness—but abusus non tollit usum, “the abuse of a thing does not take away its proper use.” Every evil is a good thing misused. If we remember the purpose of this lovely gift from God, and use it with restraint and dignity, then it can be one of life’s great joys. Friends, thanks for reading. I raise a glass to you all.

On Priestly Celibacy (or, Pictures In The Snow)

There's a sad and beautiful story about St. Francis of Assisi. He was fasting in the wilderness, alone with the ice which in Flannery O'Connor always means the Holy Spirit, and the Devil came to tempt him, as he does. For Francis, the lure was not a sin but a sacrament: the temptation of Holy Matrimony and Bernardone children of his own. He knew his vocation and he knew his vows, and he didn't leave his fast to seek a spouse. Instead, he drew pictures in the snow—one stick figure, and a smaller one. And he cried aloud that these sufficed him for a wife and child.

Secularists are absolutely right to insist that priestly celibacy is wrong—based upon their own wrong premises. It has no place in a world that is dry of the divine. No other sexually reproducing organism deliberately abstains from sexual reproduction, any more than orangutans eat only fish on Friday. In a heavenless cosmos, there can be no saints; and the priestly calling is to spearhead the charge toward sanctity. Like the U.S. Army Rangers, whose motto is "Follow me," the priest, the alter Christus, must call "Come, follow me!" (Matthew 4:19). Only in that context can the strange sacrifice of the presbyterium be understood. But without it, even secular society cannot reproduce.

In his Notes towards the Definition of Culture, T. S. Eliot argues that a culture is "the incarnation (so to speak) of the religion of a people." Now, we can dispute the ethics of Christendom. The average person believes that the Spanish Inquisition, for instance, was responsible for the deaths of more people than were alive in Europe. The average person decries the Crusades, never having heard of the Muslim invasions and the greatest cavalry charge in human history. But for our current purpose, we needn't compare ethics with Eliot's contemporary counter-examples, but only the aesthetic achievements of our respective cultures. Even if the Church had slaughtered as many innocents as the Union or the Reich, or a tenth of a percent as many, she still offers Handel's Messiah to set against Wessel's Nazi anthem. She still brings Michelangelo's Pieta to set against Lenin's tomb. She still holds out the Irish monks who bore the knowledge of the West through the Dark Age, to set against the bonfires of Berlin. Only clerical ignorance, it seems, allows the wisdom of one generation to pass on to the next. This seems particularly relevant now that the plights of Europe and Japan have forced us to invent the term "population implosion." The same secularists who denounce the celibacy of priests have cursed themselves to bear no fruit. Plain worldliness defeats itself.

The teachings of Christ, conversely, have a tendency to conceal enormous practicality beneath their otherworldliness. When He counsels us to take the lowest seat at the banquet, it is of course meant to encourage us in humility and self-sacrifice—but it also gives our host the occasion to say, "Friend, go up higher." In the same way, a priest's vow of celibacy carries the great practical benefit of freeing him from the obligations of a natural family, so that he can look upon his whole congregation as a flock of sacred children. But ultimately, that is only a side effect. After all, priests who have been ordained and married in Protestant ministries can receive a dispensation if they convert. The true purpose and significance of the vow lies elsewhere.

There is no remittance of sin without the shedding of blood (Hebrews 9:22, also cf. Leviticus 17:11). St. Francis sought martyrdom among the Muslims to no avail, but became the first recipient of the Stigmata. And those same supernatural wounds afflict every priest who stands on the altar of God, sharing in the single sacrifice of Calvary, upon which they lay their earthly nature as a holocaust. The highest natural vocation for a man is marriage and fatherhood. That is why the priest, who cannot always find the martyrdom of blood, instead offers up his flesh in a harder way, a way that crucifies his merely mortal destiny each day, throughout his life. By his blood, and not otherwise, we partake in the blood that remits our sins forever.

And what recompense does the priest receive? There's another story: one night, the people of Assisi saw the church of the Portiuncula ablaze. They came running up the hill with buckets of water to douse the fire. But inside, they found only St. Francis and St. Clare, sitting calmly, speaking of the love of God. And from their faces came such a radiance that the whole church glowed as if with holy flame.

Also, this. And this.