Philosophy
Secrets of Peace
Our summer RV trip is over, but its events are now part of our shared memory and language. It was a vacation unlike one we’ve taken before, and it found its anchoring in the many holy places we visited along the way. These green hills, leafy valleys, and empty fields were the places where saints tread.
Pilgrimages are an ancient tradition, and while they cause us to think about pious processions, they do not have to meet a certain standard. Trundling down interstates, state highways, and country lanes, we found these spots nestled in the milieu of small towns across America. They are ordinary looking churches, built upon land where extraordinary lives were lived.
Religion, theology, and prayer are often regarded as boring. They are imagined to be dusty historical events without relevance in our lives, and to some, a colossal waste of time. Why drive hours to see an empty field when you can fly to an island or experience the thrill of a roller coaster. These generic-looking places are not worth the trip.
What’s missed in this misguided opinion is that these sites hold a treasure that cannot be found elsewhere. In a busy and loud world, these holy places are set apart. There is no need to worry about work, no deadlines to meet, no chores to complete. You are free to just be still and silent. These are intentionally slow places.
That’s not all. Standing in the field where St. Kateri lived is a profound statement on sainthood. It did not appear special, it looked like a field in my neighborhood. The short hike through the woods to the natural spring from which they drew water looked like the woods in my backyard. That is precisely the point. Sainthood, holiness, and goodness doesn’t require us to relocate to Italy or to spend all day within the sanctuary walls. Collecting water, cooking meals, mending houses, all of these chores are the ordinary path to sainthood.
Even more profound is to stand in the place where St. Issac Jogues ministered, was enslaved, and was murdered. It was all too easy to look down the hill where they dragged his lifeless body and threw it into the river. The same river that he and St. Kateri, decades apart, navigated as part of their daily life, the riverbed that served as his grave. To the average American, driving along the New York Throughway, it’s a generic river and a green hillside. The real story, is so much more interesting.
Peace is a difficult thing to find in life. But to spend quiet moments in these places, to experience the serenity, is a clear sign of the holiness that is present. All of us are not called to spend our lives in these places full-time, there is other work and witness that must be done. But a great secret in life is that we do best when we take the time to travel to these places and experience a real physical connection with our heritage. The Catholic Church in America today is only possible, in part, because of the heroic virtue of these saints. To be where they were, to see what they saw, to understand how close they were in proximity to our lives, is a special thing.
All Things Bright and Beautiful
Over the last several months, I’ve spent a lot of my time ruminating on aesthetics. This particular branch of philosophy focuses on the nature of beauty and taste. Society usually thinks of beauty in terms of physical looks and attraction, and only in the context of what that beauty can do for it. But aesthetics recognizes beauty for what it truly is, a good unto itself.
I find aestheticism to be an easy way to communicate to my children about the things of God. Latin chant, holy architecture, a brilliant sunset, the green canopy. All of these things are beautiful in and of themselves, sharing a good that is not consumed, but savored and evergreen. To paraphrase the poem by Cecil Francis Alexander, all things bright and beautiful are the things made by God.
This makes a clear contrast with the things of evil: darkness, fear, oppression. Things of an evil or dark nature drag us down or cause us to shrink inwardly. An unmistakeable marker, the dark things in life destroy beauty and leave us feeling sad.
Perhaps the greatest good thing in the world is the human person. We, hopefully, want to be good ourselves, and for our children to be good. It’s why we spend nearly every minute of every day working to form them into good people. But being good isn’t just saying no to yourself. It’s choosing to engage with the bright and beautiful. What’s the point of life if it’s filled with emptiness, sadness, and a sense of meaninglessness? Joy is not the absence of sadness, it’s meaningful sorrow as we long for the good things, for justice, for mercy, and for reconciliation.
Why we naturally gravitate to things that are not bright and beautiful is a paradox. We are made in God’s image and likeness, and invited into relationship with Him. Indeed, His passion, death, and resurrection were not for His edification, but done out of a love that is laser focused on enabling us to live a life centered in Him.
The truth is, among all the bright and beautiful things God has made, we are intended to be one of them. We get to choose, in ways big and small, whether we will take our place among the good things, or if we reject Goodness itself. Our beauty is core to our nature and true to our being, if we are willing to get out of the way and share our goodness with the world in which we live.
Bloom
Early last winter, Alison planted tulips in our backyard. There was an area of dead space where a sandbox sat for untold years. My yard is very shady and struggles to thrives, so instead of fighting the uphill battle, it became the default planter for our tulip bulbs. After months of cold hibernation, the bulbs are starting to bloom.
For the moment, the view is lovely. Every season has its merits and its beauty, and the pure brilliant white of crystalline snow has given way to the symphony of floral colors. I know, though, that before too long, the flowers will fall to the ground and all that’s left will be green leaves.
All of that work, months of waiting in cold darkness, and the tulip bulb produces a single flower per year. For the rest of its time above the surface, its leaves pull in as much sunlight as it can to produce next year’s flower. In a way, it feels like a waste. 11 and a half months of plainness and anonymity for two weeks of color. What’s the use?
If you want permanent beauty, buy art. Landscapes, flowers, even abstract pieces offer bursts of color that can be enjoyed and interpreted day after day. This is not the role of the tulip. The tulip is to remind us of the magic of creation all around us. The lifecycles in our biosphere that quietly roll on, year after year, without our intervention. If the tulip were in bloom for weeks or even months, it would lose some of its sweetness. The yellows, reds, and pinks would fade into the landscape. The point of the tulip is to savor its richness while it is in full bloom.
The tulip is just one flower. There are countless varieties, each on their cycle, that grow out of the ground, leaf, and flower, before starting the cycle all over again. They bloom at different times throughout the season, offering wave-upon-wave of new growth. They are meant to be appreciated, enjoyed, and savored apart from all other flowers.
Our existence within creation is filled with these little delights, scatted throughout the calendar and seasons. Little reminders of God’s goodness, and the brilliance of His work not only in us, but in the created order. There is a time and season for everything, and we are given the grace of experiencing it all, year after year.
Open to Discomfort
Perspective is the hinge on which our lives turn. We see this in the story of every saint. These men and women faced adversity of every type and kind, some more cruel than others. They lost friends, family, endured exile, suspicion, and torture, gave up the quiet and the comfort for the uncomfortable. Through that crucible, they were remade.
I’ve written many times about comfort and trust, two themes that play out more poignantly each month in our world. It’s easy for us to forget the anxiety of our parents and grandparents as they endured two global wars for freedom, the threat of nuclear apocalypse, and economic collapse. Life today is no simpler, but it is markedly comfortable.
When we’re comfortable, we drift towards mediocrity. Unchallenged, we fall into a malaise in which there is little movement, small momentum, and no growth. The periods in our lives that we look back on with the greatest satisfaction are the times in which we pushed through the difficult things and came out the other side, shockingly, better.
Wincing from pain or shying away from difficulty is a natural reflex. It’s our humanity’s attempt to shield us from danger. But glory is not in idleness, nor is it in sameness. Glory is in the discomfort, where we are pushed to our limits and, at that moment, come into contact with the grace from God to surge us to the next higher level.
Being open to discomfort is an act of courage, and a recognition that we are called to constant renewal. We cannot be truly good, or make room for the better part, if we do not let go of and clear out the things that hold us back.
Freedom
Political science, philosophy, and human history is full of yearning for just governments. While it would be ideal for the perfect government to always act justly, perfectly balancing individual liberties, free markets, and the collective good, our broken human nature puts that possibility unreachable. Governments tend, more often than not, to ignore their citizens and instead focus on the constituency of one: themselves.
Hard as it is to admit, we tend to get the governments we deserve. In democracies, elected officials represent the people who elect them, in nearly every sense of the word. Countries are big places, and there are the selfless and the selfish, the serving and the self-serving. It shouldn’t offend of sensibilities to see in our government a mirror, although it might nudge us closer to virtue.
The story of Christianity, and the reason the religion is so difficult to accept, is its raw paradox. God, the omniscient and omnipotent, uses His power to… become a human. God, in His completeness, chose to create and dignify humanity and is at pains to have them live in relationship with Him. He is the ultimate bridge-builder and chasm-crosser, and His relentless and loving pursuit of us confounds the human mind.
This timeless truth extends further. We long for good rulers and governance, though it is never within our grasp. What does it say that our King governs justly? He only prohibits things that hurt us, no matter how sweet they might seem. He gains nothing from obedience to the Commandments; He’s already complete. Instead, He gives us guardrails for our own good, edification, and glory.
When we look at our government and see ourselves reflected, it fills us with a sense of uncertainly and unease. How much happier we would be to look in the mirror and see God’s goodness reflected in ourselves.
Push Harder
For the last six years, I’ve built out my collection of pocket knives. The result is an incredible set of American and Italian hand tools designed and built to perfection. Each one is unique, and most are built to last beyond my lifetime. It’s a joy to manage the collection, and select the knife that I’ll carry for the day. This Lent, I gave it up.
I picked one knife that, starting Ash Wednesday, would be the only knife I would carry. For the most part, I haven’t interacted with my collection at all. I think about the other knives three or four times throughout the day, which offers me simple reminders of the season we’re in.
Last weekend, for Laetare Sunday, our pastor had a letter in the bulletin about the significance of this mid-point. The starkness of bare altars and violet vestments give way, for a moment, to flowers and pink vestments. It’s a reminder that though we are observing the penitential season of Lent, the victory is already won. It’s also an inflection point, where we turn our gaze from the desert towards Jerusalem.
When I picked just one knife to carry, I chose one that was easy. The locking mechanism is simple to operate, the blade moves freely, and I knew I could just send it off to be sharpened when all was said and done. That note on Laetare Sunday offered me a new idea. What if it wasn’t easy?
Having no choice in my daily knife is a reminder, but what if I chose a knife that wasn’t easy to open? What if I chose one that I had to mindfully open because its mechanism was built for tolerance, not speed? What if I chose a knife that, at least until I use it much more, would be difficult to open? It’s a shift; easy to hard, Good Friday is coming.
I liked the idea of layering in one more tangible reminder, in the middle of breaking down boxes or cutting a thread off a shirt, of what I’m actually here for and what I’m working towards. Life should not be hard all the time, but choosing something slightly harder, and ignoring the path of least resistance, is a sure path to growth.
Reign
It is said that discipline is destiny, though it is one that few choose to pursue. Discipline is uncomfortable, difficult, and at times, unpleasant. Its fruit, however, is the sweetest of all. A man who fully commands himself is not subject to the agenda of another.
Life is a blank canvas, shaped by our daily choices. Everything about us flows from our choices, and the consequences that they bring into our world. At every daybreak, and even at every moment, we have the power to alter the course of our lives by our choices.
Self-control and discipline, the things Pope Benedict XVI talked about as self-mastery, is not easy. Though it may not be easy, we have sovereignty over our lives. Will we sell that sovereignty for a bowl of beans or a fleeting thrill, or will we reign as kings, and live like one?
These Better Things
The relationship between Creator and created bends the mind. For centuries, theologians and philosophy have plumbed the depths of the reality of God. A Creator who is both perfect in and of Himself, but still chooses to enter relationship with the broken created. Not because they will make Him better or more perfect, but because of the reality of love means that we do for others with no expectation of reciprocity. He engages because His love for us means He wills the best for us.
So many of our plans, designs, and ideas are about elevating ourselves and our lifestyle. It’s the height of responsibility and maturity to build a stable household in which our children can grow, thrive, and launch. But when we compare our plans to those of God’s, we are instantly put in our place. It’s not that we cannot conceive or perceive the good, it’s because our creative and imaginative capacity is dwarfed by the capacity of Love in wanting the very best for us.
There are difficult days in life, and though they could not possible compare to the hardships that Catholics face around the world, or that Jesus endured in His penultimate act of self-giving, they are a challenge to bear nonetheless. We yearn for stability, clarity, and certainty, but when the losses stack up day after day, week upon week, and year after year, it’s an act of moral courage to continue to choose hope and trust.
The wages for hope and trust, for working as if it all depends on us, but trusting because it all depends on God, is a glimpse into the perfection of His design. A series of broken experiences, bad relationships, and difficult employment, in hindsight, are the perfect sequence that unlocks the vocation you were made to live. Regret and pain suddenly are anestized, as they are seen for what they were: specific preparation for the grace and mission to which we are called.
God is at work at every place, and in every moment. Though we may not choose the uncomfortable and downright terrifying experiences that we must undergo, they each slot into place in God’s plan. Not a minute was wasted, not a moment of discomfort was for naught; He makes all things new.
Trust is an easy word to speak, but a daily challenge to endure. He offers us a shared yoke, a place of rest; but to offer our yes to His generosity and His plans, we have to be willing to let go of our own smaller plans. It is the grandest bargain any of us are offered, and the last stumbling block to overcome before we get a foretaste of the greatness for which we were made.
Some Noble Purpose
Earlier this week, I paused my workday to pray the Rosary. This is not a discipline that I’m consistent with, but I do think that it should be part of my daily routine. There is so much going on, taking a pause for fifteen minutes of calm meditation is a good antidote to the otherwise chaotic nature of my workday.
It was an ordinary work and school day, and frigid outside as winter ought to be. I settled onto the couch, facing the exterior window, and prayed on Hallow as a gentle snowfall could be seen through the window. It was a refreshing moment of peace, a connection to nature, to see the slowness and stillness of the entire scene.
On the other couches were my children, participating to varying degrees. This time is not for perfection, but encounter. That this rhythm of prayer, this island of peace in the middle of their day, is inscribed in their hearts. So even when they are older and out of the house, their heart will ache for these quiet moments.
As I considered all of this, the beauty of nature and the stillness of the children, I was reminded of my sense of purpose. Life is unpredictable and the future is totally unknowable. But I am here for a reason. God designed me into His plan for some noble purpose, if only I will offer my own fiat.
Believe
The heritage of our Catholic faith is deeply rooted in ancient peoples. From God’s first interaction with Abraham on the plains of Nineveh to today’s global Church, our history is collected in the stories, families, and prayers of billions of people throughout history.
A great struggle for the modernist mind is to accept truths that cannot be concretely verified. The Church has many treasures, relics, and traditions that add substance, character, and charism to its ministry. But in a digital age separated by thousands of years from the original events and primary sources, the question of belief is a stumbling block for many. How could all these things be true?
This doubt, when it extends beyond reasonable inquiry, is particularly rich given the context of our social media age. Fake news, state-actor misinformation, and AI hallucinations fuel tens of thousands of rumors and inaccuracies by the hour. Yet, we question unchanging messages that have been handed down for eighty-five generations across cultures and nations?
It’s important to remember that, as an institution, our history and the primary events of salvation history occurred in ancient times. Perhaps that is a blessing, as it was a cultural structure that was better prepared to adjudicate fact from fiction. Truth spread far and wide, like the four canonical Gospels through the early Christian communities, while the non-canonical Gospels and epistles fizzed out. Imagine Jesus had come for the first time in 2025, and how difficult it would be, with technology and bad actors, to sort out what was real and what was not.
These cultures, before mass literacy, were vitally dependent on accurate memorization of events and passing them on to generations. This treasury of history was central to the tribe and nation’s survival, and permitting the insertion of creative imaginings would have been deeply destructive. There were stories and fables in one category of oral storytelling, but historical events had to be jealously safeguarded.
There have no doubt been artistic liberties and embellishments added to certain events, like the ancillary details surrounding the birth of Jesus. Most of these are a sort of imaginative prayer, intended to add further narrative context and depth to the scant details two paragraphs in the Gospel give us. The important thing, however, is that these additions do not contradict the core truth, nor do they distract from the central mystery. Whether they actually happened or not, it does not really matter because the main tenets are not dependent on them.
Believing is a hard thing, but it’s also an act of trust. Test all things, as St. Paul instructed, but once they stand up to rigorous inquiry, hold fast and believe.