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10 Things That Would Have Made Me Catholic.

I've been snatching moments with G.K. Chesterton's The Well and the Shallows, which opens with a chapter on "The Six Things That Would Have Made Me Catholic Had I Not Already Been One."

His examples include the Lambeth Conference and the Spanish Civil War. A little dated. So, I got to thinking and came up with my own list. There's a book to be written here, but in no particular order, I present:

The 10 Things That Would Have Made Me Catholic Had I Not Already Been One

1. Humanae Vitae and the defense of sacramental marriage. Seriously. This Church is either totally crazed or it's the only true Church.

2. St. Gianna Beretta Molla. Again, a Church that honors a woman who died for her unborn child in 1962 is either messed up or has something special.

3. Ecumenism done well. Read Touchstone or check out the Manhattan Project or read about the pope's approach to the Orthodox Churches.

4. The Arab Spring. Not so springy as the Solidarity movement.

5. Of Gods and Men. You have got to watch this film.

6. Amanda Marcotte. Just read Jennifer Fulwiler--forget the content, just note her language and manner of engaging. Then compare her style to Marcotte's vulgarity. Then back to Fulwiler's response. I'd rather be Catholic.

7. The iPod "Confession App" controversy. There are some things (e.g., God) that just can't be replaced.

8. The loss of religious freedom in the West. Just trace that history: Luther to today.

9. The men (and women) of Courage vs. Gay Pride.

10. John Paul II's contrition.

11. Oh... and that inscrutable factor: the grace of God.

Again, I don't have the time to defend or fully explain these. But they're what come to mind when I wonder: why am I still here?

What would you add or subtract? What makes you Catholic?

Strength in Darkness

The Catholic Company has brought me Strength in Darkness: Wisdom from John of the Cross. How appropriate. The editor's opening line is: "Have you ever had that abiding sense that you just can't get through something?" Why, yes! Yes, I have!

What follows are simply excerpts from the writings of John of the Cross, the great Carmelite reformer, a doctor of the Church, and friend of Teresa of Avila (note: friendship with a saint sure helps in becoming a saint yourself).

As someone who has struggled with depression recently, however, I would offer a word of caution. John may not be the man to read at the moment when that "abiding sense" of despair is strongest. Ask your confessor or a trusted friend first, because John's Dark Night can seem so challenging and so full of confidence that we less hardy souls may read him, shrug our shoulders, and abandon his way.

John encourages us that in darkness, we have received an invitation to go deeper and to go through whatever it is we are facing. The dark night is the only preparation for total union with God: "Furthermore, in this union for which the dark night is a preparation, the soul in its communion with God must be endowed and filled with a certain glorious splendor embodying innumerable delights. These delights surpass all the abundance the soul can possess naturally, for nature, so weak and impure, cannot receive these delights, as Isaiah says, 'Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor has it entered any human heart what he has prepared (Is 64:4).' As a result the soul must first be set in emptiness and poverty of spirit and purged of every natural support, consolation, and apprehension, earthly and heavenly. Thus empty, it is truly poor in spirit and stripped of the old self, and thereby able to live that new and blessed life which is the state of union with God, attainable by means of this night."

This, as the apostles said, is a difficult teaching. Who can bear it?

For the soul struggling with depression or intense suffering, John can be either the dearest friend or that well-meaning, but obtuse, well-wisher who stops you after Mass and says, "I've heard you're having a tough time. Don't worry, God sent you this for a reason."

I would save John of the Cross for a dark night that has begun to fade into morning: Once the worst has lifted (even if only for a moment), once you have a friend to read him along with you, then John's teaching has no compare. He can convince with the language of the heart: "In the first place it should be known that if anyone is seeking God, the Beloved is seeking that person much more...."

Once your heart is ready to accept this, then John of the Cross becomes the great spiritual director. He is able to prepare you for future suffering and give you hope that the dark nights you have known were not suffered in vain.

This review was written as part of the Catholic book reviewer program from The Catholic Company, and the reviewer received a free copy of the text in exchange for her opinion. Visit The Catholic Company to find more information on Strength in Darkness. They also have great resources on the new translation of the Roman Missal!

Chaput on Religious Freedom.

Archbishop Chaput (almost of Philadelphia!) has been urging the youth in Madrid to holiness in all sorts of venues. You've got to love this blurb from his address in the Madrid stadium during the “Noche de Alegría” (Night of Joy):

“Ultimately, it will not be how you feel that will determine how genuine and profound your encounter with Jesus is,” he told pilgrims.

“Instead, it will be determined by how much you are transformed into Him and how much you burn in the desire to bring Him to others, by announcing the Gospel, by serving the poor and the needy, by defending the unborn, by securing a culture that is not hostile to the growth of Christian families,” he said.

The address that really struck me, however, was on religious freedom. Ever since Health and Human Services mandated contraceptive coverage from healthcare providers, I've been chewing on the concept. What is religious freedom, anyway? Can it be that we've reached a point in American history when the very idea of religious freedom no longer has any real meaning? It's a bothersome thought, and I was feeling rather reactionary. I'm no extreme Tea Partier (I prefer coffee. Wah-waaaah.). I wear pants. I don't mind women wearing the hijab around the park (Miriam thinks they're all nuns).

But I just can't shake the nagging feeling that, in the West, our freedom to profess and practice our faith in public ain't what it could be. Or what we like to imagine it is. Chaput said:

"Religious freedom means being able to worship as we choose."

Unfortunately, I think most of us tend to stop there. But Chaput goes on:

"It’s also the liberty to preach, teach, and practice our faith openly and without fear. But it involves even more than that. Religious freedom includes the right of religious believers, leaders, and communities to take part vigorously in a nation’s public life."

He then distinguishes two premises that underlie our Western belief in the freedom of religion: First, we assume that, because human beings are free, we are free to believe or not believe in God. Second, we assume "
that questions about God, eternity and the purpose of human life really do have vital importance for human happiness. And therefore people should have the freedom to pursue and to live out the answers they find to those basic questions without government interference."

He's saying that if either one of these two premises is absent, so is the basis for our defense of the freedom of religion. I'm not so sure that the West in general believes in either premise any longer.

He continues:

"Freedom of religion cannot coexist with freedom from religion. Forcing religious faith out of a nation’s public square and out of a country’s public debates does not serve democracy. It doesn’t serve real tolerance or pluralism. What it does do is impose a kind of unofficial state atheism. To put it another way, if we ban Christian Churches or other religious communities from taking an active role in our nation’s civic life, we’re really just enforcing a new kind of state-sponsored intolerance—a religion without God."

He then presents a sort of survey of the state of religious freedom world-wide. You'll want to read the whole thing.

And if the whole thing leaves you a little morose, or even (heaven forbid) nostalgic, then remember this: This has all happened before. The Church has never taught that the world is progressing ever-forward; nor do we believe that "it's all going to pot." GK Chesterton offers some solace:

"Today this is the way the world is going, if there is any such thing. But in fact there is no such thing. A Catholic perhaps should have seen it from the first; but many a Catholic has only seen it in a flash at the last. There is no way the world is going. There never was. The world is not going anywhere, in the sense of the old optimist progressives, or even of the old pessimist reactionaries. It is not going to the Brave New World... any more that to the New Utopia. The world is what the saints and the prophets saw it was; it is not merely getting better or merely getting worse.... [It] wobbles.

"Now that is fundamentally what the Church has always said.... [She says] that we must not we must not count on the certainty even of comforts becoming more common or cruelties more rare.... We must not hate humanity, or despise humanity, or refuse to help humanity; but we must not trust humanity.... 'Put not your trust in princes or in any child of man.'" ~The Well and the Shallows

And so it is. The world is not our home, and so the betrayals and disappointments we suffer should drive us neither to despair nor to self-deception. We don't need to pretend that religious freedom is alive and well. We don't need to bemoan our fate for living "in such times." We only need, as Chaput concludes, one, total act of submission. But not to the world:

"We can’t change the direction of the world by ourselves or on our own. But that’s not our job. Our job—and especially your job as young leaders—is to let God change us, and then through us, God will change others and the world. We win the world by winning one soul at a time for Jesus Christ and his Church, starting with ourselves. We win the future by beginning right here, right now, in this time we have together.

"Ignorance of the world is a luxury we can’t afford. Being uninformed about the world and its problems and issues is a sin against our vocation as disciples. Love Jesus Christ as your brother and Lord. Love the Church as your mother. Know your faith, know the world and its struggles—and then open your hearts. Let God use you to bring others to the salvation that God intends for all of us."

Image source.

The Assumption of the Mary

The Assumption! (Before I start, I just have to point out the icon to the left. I loved it because, at first glance, I thought it was Mary up in heaven throwing down a rope so that we could climb up to be with her. It's actually Thomas catching her girdle as she throws it down to him. Ah, well. It's still beautiful.)

Today we celebrate the pledge of the resurrection of our human bodies: our belief that God took his Mother, Mary of Nazareth, body and soul to heaven at the end of her life. As she is now, so we someday hope to be.

There is always some angst over this feast day. We Romans of the West tend to think of it as "something we have to believe" because Pius XII said it was so in 1950. This is not the case, as Pius himself emphasizes repeatedly in his declaration (which is in itself a masterful and fascinating survey of the history of Church liturgy and theology).

The reasons we--and our brethren in the Eastern Churches--believe that Mary now lives in her resurrected body in heaven are based on the living traditions of the Church--our understanding of Scripture (particularly Revelation 12), the ancient liturgies and Church fathers, and the evidence of the earliest Christian churches in the Holy Land. Wikipedia actually has an amazing run-down of the what the feast is and is not for both the East and the West.

What the feast is not, for the West, is the commemoration of Mary's death. Pius XII left that question open--Roman Catholics are not bound to believe either that Mary died before her resurrection or that she was directly assumed into heaven without suffering death. The Eastern Churches, in general, hold--but not dogmatically, as is their custom--that she did physically die and then was raised to heaven on the third day after the manner of Christ himself. Pius XII chose not to define that dogmatically, for reasons unknown to this Philosopher Mom. The question was also left open by some Church Fathers, so maybe Pius just didn't see himself as setting in stone what the ancients left to heaven.

The point of today is not dogma. It is not wrangling. It is this: "As the most glorious Mother of Christ, our Savior and God and the giver of life and immortality, has been endowed with life by him, she has received an eternal incorruptibility of the body together with him who has raised her up from the tomb and has taken her up to himself in a way known only to him." ~St. John Damascene

And this:

"When this mortal thing hath put on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: Death is swallowed up in victory." ~St. Paul

As she is, may we also be! And to end: This icon (below) is also a favorite. Look! It's Jesus holding his mom's little tiny soul! How much do I just want to swaddle up and nestle in his arms? So sweet. So real.

Save me, Lord.

Today I remember, with the whole western lung of the Church, one of my Top 5 Gals: St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein): She wrote against Heidegger's claim that human life is an anxiety-ridden hurdling toward death. He made the case that the only "rational human attitude" is "a passionate ... consciously resolute and anxiety-stricken freedom toward death."

To which she replied: "By no means. The undeniable fact that my being is limited in its transience from moment to moment and thus exposed to the possibility of nothingness is counterbalanced by the equally undeniable fact that despite this transience, I a, that from moment to moment I am sustained in my being, and that in my fleeting being I share in [eternal] being. In the knowledge that being holds me, I rest securely. This security, however, is not the self-assurance of one who under her own power stands on firm ground, but rather the sweet and blissful security of a child that is lifted up and carried by a strong arm. And, objectively speaking, this kind of security is not less rational. For if a child were living in the constant fear that its mother might let it fall, we should hardly call this a rational attitude."

This reminds me (finally!) of that post I meant to write, based on a homily I heard this past weekend. That day was a darker day: I sat in a soaring, neo-Gothic church in old New Haven, cradling a sweet, sleepy Bella on my lap, lamenting my sins, nursing my grudges, and fighting back the latest anxiety attack and bout of depression. Rain fell gently outside, but my heart felt more like a hurricane. It seemed that all the water I'd been treading was covering my head again.

Then the priest climbed the high steps to read us the story of St. Peter's own walk on the storming waters of the Sea of Galilee. He saw Jesus walking toward the boat in which he and the other apostles were fighting the wind and waves. In a fit of love, zeal, and passion, he cried: "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water!"

"Come."

Peter stepped with bravado out of that little boat, the brave saint among the cowering and sinful band of brothers. In that moment, surely he felt so confident and unafraid.

But then, life happened.

The winds and the rain, the waves--the storm overwhelmed him. He could not go on. He knew he was going to die, and he sank. "Lord, save me!" Jesus said, "O you of little faith, why did you doubt?" And he helped the sinking leader of the Church back into that beleaguered little boat.

This is the parable of every life: we begin with a fervent promise, our Jesus Prayer, "Lord, whatever you want me to do, I will do it!"

"Lord, I would gladly give my life for you!" (Peter himself says this later, too, before he falls so grievously on Good Friday.)

I remember those moments: the heady days of intense silent prayer, daily Adoration, daily Mass, the thrilling discovery of John Paul II's theology, the life-long commitments made in the madness of youth. And there was nothing insincere about them. We--all of us--meant it: we converted, we we threw out our birth control, we kept our vows, we quit that high-paying career path, we decided to tithe more than we could "afford," we humbled ourselves and begged forgiveness from those we hurt; we swallowed all insults and responded in love. And it was good, because we were following the very words of God himself.

What we did not realize in those first flushes of sanctity--and what no one could have prepared us for--was that, when we follow Christ, death is not a distant possibility. It is a certainty.

(Thank you, dear Dominican priest!)

When we did realize that our brave choice was costing us our lives, we faltered. Life happened. We suffered for those choices. Our humility was repaid with more insults. Our openness to life was repaid with heartbreak at the death of our children. Our fidelity was repaid with infidelity. Our sacrifice was mocked. We sank and cried for help.

Life did not feel like sanctity anymore. It felt like failure. Surely, we thought, we deserved condemnation. O me of little faith.

Todd asked me, "When you read that story, do you think Jesus was angry with Peter?"

No. I have never thought that. It sounds more like a parent's gentle chiding, "Why didn't you trust me? Here I am." And Peter accepted that reassurance. He took Christ's hand and got back in the boat.

But, the father reminded us, we don't stay in the boat anymore than we stay with the initial feeling of zeal. We get out of that boat again and again. We sink over and over again. And over and over, we hear that gentle reproach, "Why did you fear? I am with you."

I would step out into the storm a million times to hear that voice every day. I know that voice: I have heard it in the darkest moments, at the point where I just want it all to end. Why does he visit us only in those moments? No, he is always there--after all, he was the one who called us to walk on water (impossible) in the first place. He watched our first, confident steps; he saw our sinking.

It was only when I sank that I wanted to hear him again, that I knew my limitless need. And his eternal mercy.

So, like Edith Stein, I want to respond to all the false bravado of our age. It is not in ridding ourselves of anxiety by our own firm resoluteness. It is in being held, like a child, that we can bear the transience of life, the endless changes, the suffering.

Save me, Lord.

Today I remember, with the whole western lung of the Church, one of my Top 5 Gals: St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein): She wrote against Heidegger's claim that human life is an anxiety-ridden hurdling toward death. He made the case that the only "rational human attitude" is "a passionate ... consciously resolute and anxiety-stricken freedom toward death."

To which she replied: "By no means. The undeniable fact that my being is limited in its transience from moment to moment and thus exposed to the possibility of nothingness is counterbalanced by the equally undeniable fact that despite this transience, I a, that from moment to moment I am sustained in my being, and that in my fleeting being I share in [eternal] being. In the knowledge that being holds me, I rest securely. This security, however, is not the self-assurance of one who under her own power stands on firm ground, but rather the sweet and blissful security of a child that is lifted up and carried by a strong arm. And, objectively speaking, this kind of security is not less rational. For if a child were living in the constant fear that its mother might let it fall, we should hardly call this a rational attitude."

This reminds me (finally!) of that post I meant to write, based on a homily I heard this past weekend. That day was a darker day: I sat in a soaring, neo-Gothic church in old New Haven, cradling a sweet, sleepy Bella on my lap, lamenting my sins, nursing my grudges, and fighting back the latest anxiety attack and bout of depression. Rain fell gently outside, but my heart felt more like a hurricane. It seemed that all the water I'd been treading was covering my head again.

Then the priest climbed the high steps to read us the story of St. Peter's own walk on the storming waters of the Sea of Galilee. He saw Jesus walking toward the boat in which he and the other apostles were fighting the wind and waves. In a fit of love, zeal, and passion, he cried: "Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water!"

"Come."

Peter stepped with bravado out of that little boat, the brave saint among the cowering and sinful band of brothers. In that moment, surely he felt so confident and unafraid.

But then, life happened.

The winds and the rain, the waves--the storm overwhelmed him. He could not go on. He knew he was going to die, and he sank. "Lord, save me!" Jesus said, "O you of little faith, why did you doubt?" And he helped the sinking leader of the Church back into that beleaguered little boat.

This is the parable of every life: we begin with a fervent promise, our Jesus Prayer, "Lord, whatever you want me to do, I will do it!"

"Lord, I would gladly give my life for you!" (Peter himself says this later, too, before he falls so grievously on Good Friday.)

I remember those moments: the heady days of intense silent prayer, daily Adoration, daily Mass, the thrilling discovery of John Paul II's theology, the life-long commitments made in the madness of youth. And there was nothing insincere about them. We--all of us--meant it: we converted, we we threw out our birth control, we kept our vows, we quit that high-paying career path, we decided to tithe more than we could "afford," we humbled ourselves and begged forgiveness from those we hurt; we swallowed all insults and responded in love. And it was good, because we were following the very words of God himself.

What we did not realize in those first flushes of sanctity--and what no one could have prepared us for--was that, when we follow Christ, death is not a distant possibility. It is a certainty.

(Thank you, dear Dominican priest!)

When we did realize that our brave choice was costing us our lives, we faltered. Life happened. We suffered for those choices. Our humility was repaid with more insults. Our openness to life was repaid with heartbreak at the death of our children. Our fidelity was repaid with infidelity. Our sacrifice was mocked. We sank and cried for help.

Life did not feel like sanctity anymore. It felt like failure. Surely, we thought, we deserved condemnation. O me of little faith.

Todd asked me, "When you read that story, do you think Jesus was angry with Peter?"

No. I have never thought that. It sounds more like a parent's gentle chiding, "Why didn't you trust me? Here I am." And Peter accepted that reassurance. He took Christ's hand and got back in the boat.

But, the father reminded us, we don't stay in the boat anymore than we stay with the initial feeling of zeal. We get out of that boat again and again. We sink over and over again. And over and over, we hear that gentle reproach, "Why did you fear? I am with you."

I would step out into the storm a million times to hear that voice every day. I know that voice: I have heard it in the darkest moments, at the point where I just want it all to end. Why does he visit us only in those moments? No, he is always there--after all, he was the one who called us to walk on water (impossible) in the first place. He watched our first, confident steps; he saw our sinking.

It was only when I sank that I wanted to hear him again, that I knew my limitless need. And his eternal mercy.

So, like Edith Stein, I want to respond to all the false bravado of our age. It is not in ridding ourselves of anxiety by our own firm resoluteness. It is in being held, like a child, that we can bear the transience of life, the endless changes, the suffering.

Stomach bug....

...is when you have three brilliant ideas for posts. And then can't think of them in the least. One had to do with Peter sinking, another with the ecumenical councils, and one is about the skunks we smell but never see.

Ah, well. Brilliance strikes like lightening, but rarely at the keyboard.

But I do remember this: Happy feast of St. Dominic!

Many blessings of joy and grace to all my dear Dominican friends, near and far. To Sr. Anna, Sr. Alexandra, Sr. Beatrice, Sr. Mary David, the Ann Arbor sisters, and Fr. Shanley, Fr. John Paul, Fr. Jonathan, and all those Dominicans we're getting to know at St. Mary's.

In honor of the Domini Canus, why not help this happy young lady become one of his daughters?

Hideous Kinky: Contra contraception.

Yet another tragic chapter in our political landscape, and this one is a hot ticket: I haven't seen so many ignorant ridicules of the Catholic faith on Facebook since, well, since two weeks ago. The Philosopher Mom hasn't had a political commentary in a while, and I thought it was time to give it a go.

As I scratched my head and tried to think charitably about Washington's debt ceiling wrangles, the Obama's Health and Human Services yesterday announced mandatory copay-free contraceptive drugs and counseling for all new healthcare plans:

"The Affordable Care Act helps stop health problems before they start," HHS Secretary Kathleen Sebelius said in a statement announcing the guidelines. "These historic guidelines are based on science and existing literature and will help ensure women get the preventive health benefits they need."

Oooh! Preventive care! That sounds great: women will now have free access to preventing the Fate Worse Than Death, pregnancy.

But wait, Philosopher Mom, Sibelius promises that these guidelines are historic, because they are based on (1) science! and (2) literature! (by which she means scientific literature). New benefits will include:

• Well-woman visits (Great!)

• Screening for gestational diabetes (Good!)

• Human papillomavirus (HPV) DNA testing for women 30 years and older (Wonderful!)

• Counseling for sexually transmitted infections (I'm still on board.)

• Human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) screening and counseling (Yes.)

• Breastfeeding support, supplies and counseling (Breast is best!)

• Domestic violence screening and counseling (Yes. Absolutely.)

• FDA-approved contraception methods and contraceptive counseling (Wha...)

Everything sounds good: Preventive care for STD's, HIV, HPV, and domestic violence. Breastfeeding is one of the best preventive measures against obesity, so science tells me.

But that third-to-last item doesn't fit in this list. Contraception is intended to prevent one thing, and one thing only: pregnancy. The assumption that pregnancy is a condition requiring prevention is barbaric, to say the least. The further assumption that it is in the state's interest to protect its citizens from pregnancy is totalitarian. These are philosophical objections, but medical appeals can also be made: even when approved by the FDA, the side-effects of some of the most common forms of hormonal birth control are, at best, sketchy.

Put philosophy and medicine aside, however. These measures are hardly a surprise, but are only a predictable symptom of our culture's general attitude toward female fertility (where are the calls for co-pay free vasectomies?).

The new guidelines are especially disturbing in their disregard for the public role played by religious institutions and devoutly religious members of society. The bottom line is here: “[U]nder the new rule, our [Catholic] institutions would be free to act in accord with Catholic teaching on life and procreation only if they were to stop hiring and serving non-Catholics,” says Cardinal Daniel DiNardo.

That is, in order to decline to provide contraceptives, an institution must prove that it (a) exists primarily to prosletyze; (b) employs primarily Catholics; and (c) serves only Catholics. While I have no illusions that most Catholic institutions will close en masse, the thought of even one such hospital or home for women being forced to turn out all non-Catholics is a tragic thought. Whether you ascribe to the Church's teaching on contraception or not, there is no doubt that these guidelines purposefully quarantine the Catholic (and Orthodox Jewish and devout Muslim) conscience. And that is a cause for concern to every American, fertile or infertile, sterilized or unsterilized.

But there is hope.

Because this has happened before. And we have the witness of those who stood firm in their conscience, without threat and without insult to their persecutors. They were mocked and misunderstood, by their co-workers and their families. But they remained faithful. They were more than faithful to a tenent: they allowed their hearts to break out of love for their country, their city, their friends. They did not condemn, but allowed themselves to be condemned by the world.

I will learn to love and to forgive. I will beg for the mercy of Christ. Because if I cannot love Kathleen Sebelius or Barack Obama, then my fidelity to any moral teaching is worthless.

My man.

The Art of Manliness seems to be making a comeback in the margins of the Interweb. You can find, hidden in cyberspace, all sortsof blogs dedicated to the revival of such skills as classy tattoos, shaving with a badger bristle brush, and holding the door for the ladies (or just women, if ladies are in short supply). It's a subculture, and it's pretty cute.

One Catholic blog is devoted to Castiglione’s “sprezzatura,” sometimes translated as "noncholance," as outlined in his Renaissance work The Art of the Courtier. Castiglione writes that the true gentleman exudes this quality: I have found quite a universal rule which in this matter seems to me valid above all other, and in all human affairs whether in word or deed: and that is to avoid affectation in every way possible as though it were some rough and dangerous reef; and (to pronounce a new word perhaps) to practice in all thing a certain sprezzatura [nonchalance], so as to conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it..."

I'm thinking that, from a lady's point of view, YES. There is something irresistable in the man who performs in a seemingly effortless way--appearing unpretentious and at ease in al things. This is true, I believe, about men I don't particularly like for other reasons, e.g., Frank Sinatra and John F. Kennedy. Is it sprezzatura that makes most male comics funnier than the women (Seriously. I'd watch Bill Cosby over Lucille Ball any day.)?

Thanks to a dear friend from long ago, I have a brief list of qualities in the true courtier. A guy can hardly exhibit the sprezzatura and still be a jerk, a dawdler, or a coward around the ladies. What think you?

Swift. This is not to say the masculine male is hasty, but rather that he doesn't Muck About. In romantic parlance, that means, "If you're going to marry the girl, ask her. If you're not, stop dating her."

Adroit, but Humble. It takes a person of considerable talent to not only court the lady, land the job, start the business, father the children, and hold the door, but also to do so with an effortlessness and humility that inspire others to seek their best.

Friend. He never fails to greet people with a smile and is ever ready to assist in times of sadness, confusion, or celebration. For those of us who know the Man personally, it is no understatement to call his friendship one of life’s privileges. And he's attentive to his mom.

Poised. While he always looks dapper, it is his grace of bearing and personal presence that truly reflect his inner self and make the stronger impression. In a time when many mistake accoutrements for the source of personal style, he reminds us that how we carry ourselves is just as (if not more) important.

Patron. His pursuits of objective truths through scientific study support his appreciation (and support) for endeavors in the arts and humanities, which—as he often reminds us—also speak to deep truths about humanity and God.

A whole man. Recognizing that we only know Truth insofar as we practice Truth, he is unabashedly devout, drawn to the Truth by the timeless “lens of Beauty” and the admiration of goodness. That worldview compels him to be actively involved in his country as a citizen and as a witness to the gift of all life.

Thank you to the men who are these things to us.