The Day I Became My Mother: August 2010

Monday, August 30, 2010

Pride Goeth Before the Fall

"Humility is the root of all obedience; and patience is obedience made perfect." I read these words recently in Cardinal Henry Manning's work "The Eternal Priesthood". Apt words, too, as humility is something about which I have been forced, perhaps somewhat unwillingly, to ponder these past months.

Modern day interpertations of humility have, I think, somewhat skewed our reactions to the idea of humility so that it can take on a somewhat negative tone. Sometimes, we think more of humiliation, or shame, or being lowly (in a bad way). In this day and age, our society encourages us to be great. We want to be number one (or at least those of us at Notre Dame at the start of a new football season share that attitude.) Humility is not a trait that headhunters will encourage when one is searching for a job. We need to pump ourselves up, and to exaggerate our qualities and talents so that we will rise above the rest of the masses and be noticed by potential employers in hopes of achieving the great job and salary of a lifetime. No matter whether these traits we exhibit on our resumes are based in total truth.

Manning said something else though: “Humility does not consist in ignorance of truth. If a man is above the average height of men, he cannot help knowing it.” Now, recently, someone took offense at my posting of this quotation, thinking that I was making veiled comments about someone's less than average height. However, I was not; because I am not nearly clever enough to come up with those sorts of "read between the line" jokes. What I wanted to convey was that, in order to be humble, we need to openly and totally accept what is true about us. If I possess a fantastic talent, it is up to me to admit to that talent, but also to acknowledge the SOURCE of that talent. For example, I happen to be a fantastic violin player (which, of course, is an outright lie, since I am only able to play one piece with any accomplishment whatsoever, and that is "Drunken Sailor"). But, let's pretend that I am a virtuoso on the violin. In that case, it would be no good to go around saying that I absolutely suck as a violinist. There's nothing more annoying than proffering a compliment to someone, only to have him or her respond in a falsley modest way, in an attempt to downplay the talent that s/he actually possesses. False modestly is NOT humility. I don't know what it IS, but I hate when people respond that way. It makes me wish I had not offered the complimentary words in the first place and, in the end, I just want the person to go away.

Being humble means also admitting the not so good things about ourselves, as well as acknowledging THAT source. As a person of faith, I give gratitude for my talents and gifts to God, whom I acknowledge as the Creator of all good and beautiful things. That is why, in accepting a compliment, I am not being a pompous, proud jerk. I don't actuallly take the credit for my astonishing interpretation of "Drunken Sailor" but, rather, in receiving and accepting praise, give praise to Him who allowed me to have and develop this amazing ability. However, the same is not true for my screw ups. God does not create screw ups. When I fail in life (far too often these days), to be humble is to accept the truth--that it was I who fell short of the mark, of my own volition. To respond any other way is to live a life of falsehood. It is to deny the truth, and, therefore, to let go of any semblance of humility.

I can speak from personal experience in saying that not accepting responsibility for those failings is to opt for the path that spirals downwards. I do believe we were given a sort of road map to assist us in our time here on earth. Part of traveling through life demands that we look inward and discover what we have been given, and what we do possess, and find ways to use those things in order to give glory to God. The other part, which I think is much harder, is to acknowledge that our imperfect selves make huge mistakes, sometimes way too often. When we lack humility, we go on doing the same things over and over again, hurting others, and, just as equally, hurting ourselves. Until we openly and humbly look at ourselves truthfully, we will never get beyond those ugly things that hold us back from achieving our potential, and from carrying out that which were are here to do. I'm not sure, but I think pride might be the opposite of humility, and, you know what "they" say about pride? (In case you don't: it goeth before the fall.) As an aside, I always used to ask my mother who "they" were. She seemed to know "them" pretty well, as she always used to quote them. Well, they must be pretty wise, because they say a lot of things that seem to be true, and, regarding pride, and probably humility too, I think they're right.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Seriously! Who Writes Like That?

I have a friend who likes to use big words. In fact, his writing and his speaking style are what one might call diffuse or circumlocutory. Recently, he posted something causing me to respond "Seriously! Who talks like that?" Well, despite the arguments I expect to get to the contrary, I admire his knowledge and command of the English language, and my statements, therefore, are uttered more out of envy than anything else.

My own writing style is very straightforward, and my speaking style borders on the pedestrian. Basically, it's bland, blunt and boring. One doesn't need a dictionary at the elbow in order to understand what I am trying to convey. But there is very little beauty or rhythm in the prose, and perhaps that is why I have so few followers. No matter, that. I write more for catharsis than the great hope that I will be discovered as the next Hemingway.

I do enjoy coming across literary works employing language that is different from the way I, or society or modern culture expresses itself. My favorite example of this are the writings of Jane Austen, and, more specifically, the book Pride and Prejudice. I have not read this work for years, but I do remember my first attempt, as a teen. I recall, clearly, struggling with the opening lines: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters. When I finished reading that paragraph I was moved to utter "HUH?" and I am certain it was followed by the thought "seriously, who writes like that? Not only does Austen use such language to tell her tale but, also, her characters actually employ such a style when speaking! Consider this exchange between sisters, Elizabeth and Jane Bennet:

"Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life."

"I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak what I think."

"I know you do; and it is that which makes the wonder. With your good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough — one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design — to take the good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad — belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his."

After reading Pride and Prejudice, I often wondered if English people really took all that time to convey their thoughts, and if they were always so very polite. Years later, I had the opportunity to live there, and can relate with some authority that I have heard everything from a rather working class "OY, luv!" to an upper crust pronunciation of a monosyllabic word that took hours to utter. But I have never been privileged to be in the company of anyone who spoke as they do in Austen's books, unless they were on the stage. Simply, the answer to my question is "no".

I tried, on several occasions to emulate this way of communicating. However, here in South Bend, Indiana, it doesn't translate very well, and so now, to avoid causing guffaws or, worse, being thought of as unbelievably pompous and pretentious, I stick to the more well known phrase "It's as plain as the nose on your face," instead of saying "It is a truth universally acknowledged."

Economy was not one of Jane's literary traits. However, if she had just "got to the point", I am relatively sure none of us would have heard of her. The style of writing sparks the imagination and causes the reader to actually experience emotions and feelings. Gasp! And I don't care what anyone tells you--it is true for men as well as for women. The difference is that women will admit it. I love her style of writing, quite simply, because it is romantic. I don't think Austen necessarily caved in to the Romanticist movement of her century, but her literary technique is incredibly evocative. Here, Darcy proposes to Elizabeth: “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” WHO, in their right mind, would not want to have that spoken to them (unless by their stalker against whom a restraining order had been placed). All I can do after reading that is to sigh...heavily.

Perhaps the main purpose of language is to convey thoughts and ideas. But beautiful language does so much more than that, for it can penetrate and awaken the soul, bringing forth profound and impassioned emotions. That is why I love Austen's books. She does more than tell a tale, but, in so doing, draws us in and allows us to experience, with her masterful use of the English language, consummate and intense sentiments, as if we were actually there, in her story. In reading Pride and Prejudice, it is surprisingly easy for me to imagine myself, standing face to face with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, listening to him account for his love: "I cannot fix on the hour, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."

Monday, August 23, 2010

Through a Glass Darkly

I have been thinking a lot about mirrors lately. Soon, I have to move my big dresser mirror, and I'm worried about breaking it, not because I believe in the superstition of seven years of bad luck, but rather, because it was handcrafted by the Amish, was quite expensive, and I am worried about losing something that I really like a lot. For other reasons, I have been thinking about mirrors a bit more metaphorically.

Looking at my reflection has not been a pleasant experience these days. Too much sun has caused skin damage. I'm noticing more and more wrinkles around my eyes, and am constantly trying to hide the facial sag that comes with age. I am having a hard time finding any black hair underneath the ever-increasing stands of gray. But that's not really what I'm referring to. I'm talking about what I see past the accidentals. I'm talking about what I see underneath all of that.

I am no Scripture scholar, and, in fact, I find that, despite my years of studying theology, I tend to misinterpret Scripture or just plain miss the point. But there is no missing the point of 1 Corinthians 13, and it speaks of seeing through a mirror; echoing my thoughts and, in fact, stating them much better than I am able. So, instead of my usual ramblings, I thought I'd let St. Paul speak today. Even if you are reluctant to read scripture, or are not a religious person, this passage speaks volumes to all of us:

1 And I point out to you a yet more excellent way. If I should speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have charity, I have become as sounding brass or a tinkling symbol.

2 And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains, yet do not have charity, I am nothing.

3 And if I distribute all my goods to feed the poor, and if I deliver my body to be burned, yet do not have charity, it profits me nothing.

4 Charity is patient, is kind, charity does not envy, is not pretentious, is not puffed up, 5 is not ambitious, is not self-seeking, is not provoked, thinks no evil, 6 does not rejoice over wickedness, but rejoices with the truth; 7 bears with all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

8 Charity never fails, whereas prophecies will disappear, and tongues will cease, and knowledge will be destroyed. 9 For we know in part, and we prophesy in part; 10 but when that which is perfect has come, that which is imperfect will be done away with. 11 When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I felt as a child, I thought as a child. Now that I have become a man, I have put away the things of a child. 12 We see now through a mirror in an obscure manner, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know even as I have been known. 13 So there abide faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

Friday, August 20, 2010

A New Year, Not Quite the Same

Here at Notre Dame, we are amping up for a new semester. The first year students are all here, and I have been stopped on campus four times today to offer directions to them and/or their parents. It is a picture perfect, albeit rather warm day, which is fortunate for those moving in and for the parents, who are excitedly snapping photographs of every Notre Dame landmark: the Golden Dome with Our Lady atop, the grotto, the stadium, Touchdown Jesus (forgive me Lord), and other monuments that they might think are important or iconic.

With all things new, there is an accompanying feel of excitement in the air; and yet, I can't help experiencing a profound sense of sadness this time around. Notre Dame does not feel the same to me this August because of some losses we suffered in the past year. As with any University, things are fluid. People come and people go, and yet the community of Notre Dame, the spirit of Notre Dame, somehow has kept a sort of steady identity. However, a massive void has been created as a result of the deaths of three individuals who WERE Notre Dame. Their absences are felt keenly on this campus by many, and my heart is heavy as we begin a new academic year without them. Perhaps it is true that nobody is indispensable--I am certain that qualified and competent people can step in and perform their jobs and tasks. However, each of them was, in their own way, irreplaceable. Even though two of these individuals had recently retired, they were still as much a part of the spirit and mystique of Notre Dame as Touchdown Jesus or the Golden Dome.

I am fortunate in that I have had the honor and pleasure of knowing all three personally, and working with one of them.

Last August, just after the start of a new semester, we lost Jim Phillips. Jim was, for 34 years, the Associate Director of Bands. Before that, Jim was a "double domer", meaning that he received two degrees from the University of Notre Dame. To use a cliche, if you cut Jim, he would bleed blue and gold. Jim was dedicated to this place. I don't think I was ever in his presence when we didn't enter into a conversation about Notre Dame (usually discussing what needed to be changed--much to the chagrin of those around us.) Years back, when I was in charge of Breen Phillips Hall, quite a number of my young female charges were members of the marching band. Anyone who has spent any time around members of the marching band understand their uniqueness. They sort of form a culture of their own, in which they tend to have a lot of fun, but their activities and conversations are often times beyond the understanding of those of us who are "outsiders." Regardless, I can attest to the fact that, across the board, each and every one of these band students adored Jim Phillips, as Associate Director. They liked and admired him over and above the Director at the time. Suffice to say, he was universally beloved by all of the students he taught. At Jim's funeral, at the Basilica on campus, I ran into a surprising number of people who had, years back, been students and members of the band under Jim's direction. Their presence there was a testament to the positive influence that he had upon them. Clearly, they still held great affection and admiration for him.

Students, alums and fans live to see the band. It is difficult to describe accurately just how important the band is to the culture and lore of this University, but I can tell you that, when they march through campus on a Friday afternoon, preceeding a home football weekend, people will trample you in their attempt to get a good look as they file past, playing the Notre Dame Fight Song. To be associated with the band is to be an integral part of those intangible things that make up the Notre Dame spirit. Although Jim had recently retired, it was clear that Notre Dame, and his position with the band were intrinsic and significant to who he was as a person. His positive presence and influence are still very much a part of the Notre Dame Marching Band, and, whenever I watch them take the field prior to a game, I cannot help but think, quite sadly, of Jim.

On January 29th, one day after the Feast of St. Thomas Aquinas, we lost Dr. Ralph McInerny. Upon Ralph's death, a multitude of eulogies, obituaries and tributes were published and, as I admired him perhaps more than any other person I have ever met, I think I read every single one of them. I could not do justice to Ralph as many of these people have though. But I was fortunate enough to come to know him personally, and the times he spent talking to me are memories that I will treasure forever.

Dr. McInerny was one of the most eminent Thomist philosophers of our time. In fact, he once wrote an introductory book on Aquinas which he subtitled "A Handbook for the Peeping Thomist." He had a thing for bad puns. Notre Dame had the great honor of being able to retain Ralph as a professor here since 1955 and it would be impossible to count the staggering number of young lives who were positively affected by his unbelievable intelligence, his charming wit, his graciousness, his unwavering and courageous commitment to orthodox Catholicism, his willingness to act as a guide and mentor and, most of all, his genuine and sincere kindness.

What made Ralph special, in my mind, was his constancy in defending all things Catholic, often within this very university that claims to be just that. And, because he was a powerhouse in academia, he was never one to be taken lightly, much less ignored. I had a few occasions to talk to him about this, and would state, categorically, that his vision of what Notre Dame should be and what he hoped it would be someday again is a vision I share.

I arrived early for his funeral, thinking, quite rightly, that the Basilica would be packed. Somewhere in the midst of it all, I began sobbing uncontrollably, because I found myself feeling unsure as to whether we will see his like again here on this campus. There was a reception afterwards, and it was almost a joyful event. It was a veritable "who's who" of great Catholic scholars and eminent academics, many of whom stood up to tell stories of this giant of a man. I found myself sitting at table with Jude Dougherty, and related to him that the thing I loved most about Ralph was that, despite his fame and renown, he was still humble enough to be friends with the likes of me. I was somewhat flattered when Jude stood up, went to the microphone, and stole my line (getting a laugh in the process).

I stated in an earlier blog post that, when I used to leave my office, I would, from time to time, encounter Ralph in and around the library. I began to eagerly anticipate seeing him, and felt happily rewarded on those few fortunate occasions. True to his nature, he always had time to stop and chat, and sometimes offer up a really bad pun. I often thought, when speaking with him, that he was the sort of Catholic I really wanted to emulate. I still think that, now more than ever. I am certain that he was happily rewarded for the life he lived on this earth and yet I feel ineffably sad that this new generation of Notre Dame students will not ever have the opportunity to encounter him in the classroom and be personally touched by this amazing man.

In February of this year, Dr. Gail Walton, Director of Music at Sacred Heart Basilica, succumbed to cancer. Again, Gail was one of those people that was part and parcel of "Notre Dame". Years back, I worked in the Office of Campus Ministry and therefore, for a brief period, was able to call Gail a colleague. While I never had the fortunate opportunity to be a member of one of the many choirs which she directed, I was impressed with Gail on so many levels. As a musician and director, she was nothing short of brilliant. The music at Sacred Heart Basilica on this campus is some of the best you will hear anywhere in the land. As a teacher and mentor, she was beloved, again, by the countless numbers who progressed through this university. Many of those who sang in her choirs went on to have professional careers in music, inspired by her guidance and tutoring. Countless others today, work in church music as a direct result of their contact with Gail. Some even confessed to having converted to Catholicism because of their experiences singing sacred music with Gail's choir.

From the opening of the school year Mass to the graduation Baccaulaureate Mass, and with a multitude of Masses and liturgical events in between, one could always look forward to experiencing the most beautiful and expertly performed sacred music ever. When members of the Notre Dame community reflect upon the poignant moments of our time here on this campus, inevitably, we have to conclude that listening to the Liturgical Choir or one of Gail's other choirs at some very special event trumps just about any other memory or experience.

St. Augustine said in his Confessions: "What tears were shed, as I felt myself embracing the heart of the sweet melody of the hymns and canticles that re-echo in Thy Church! What psalm-melodies entered my ears, and truth poured itself into my heart and stirred up the flame of affection, and I wept with consolation." Sacred music allows us to transcend, and draws us ever closer to our Creator in the context of the liturgy. Gail Walton was truly one of the great masters, and it was her life's work to provide the music that aided us in that magnificent experience of transcendence.

Life goes on for those of us who are left behind. Notre Dame goes on, but it will never be quite the same.

To Jim Phillips, Ralph McInerny and Gail Walton: Resquiat in pacem.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

And On Into Autumn

“Then summer fades and passes and October comes. We’ll smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure.”

White Field at the University of Notre Dame

And so we are on the brink. The days growing ever shorter as the sun sinks ever earlier each evening below the horizon, leaving us in darkness now well before 9:00pm. A cold front blew through on Sunday evening, and for the first night in awhile, I turned off the air conditioning and opened the windows.

I have written about the seasons before; always in high praise of summer and low praise of any season that has anything to do with summer's end and winter's approach. Our students are starting to flow onto campus in huge masses, returning for a new semester. The parking lots are full; even where student parking is prohibited (aggravating, that). Restaurants now all have a standard long waiting period for a table, as parents who have accompanied their first year son or daughter take them out for their last meals before being exposed to dining hall fare. Tomorrow, the Marching Band will make it's first journey of the semester through campus, playing the hallowed Notre Dame Fight Song. People will file out of buildings in droves, all clapping excitedly along in rhythm.

Around these parts, people love the autumn. I grudgingly admit that it is a stunning season in the Midwest. Try as I might, my camera can never quite capture the brilliant beauty of the leaves as the trees begin to change. The mosaic of colors will be too outstanding to describe accurately. Anticipation here on campus will be high, as everyone awaits the first football game, showcasing our new, genius coach. Folks can't wait to pull out jeans and Notre Dame sweatshirts.

But I am not a member in the ranks of autumn lovers, nor, I fear, will I ever be. Yes, I marvel at the beauty of nature around us, and, typically, I will not miss a football game, either college or pro. Yet, even before summer's end, I find myself ever saddened by the darkening of days and the ever so slight warning in the breeze that, all too soon, the temperatures will descend and, along with them, we will be descending into the long, dark, dreary period called winter. If only I could freeze time and keep this day forever--the sun shining brightly against a brilliant blue sky and a warm breeze softly blowing. Thoughts of snow and ice should be miles away but, alas, I cannot help but dwell, perhaps unhealthily so, on that much despised (at least by me) season with it's relentless howling winds and frigid temperatures. Some days it feels as if we will never see sunlight again.

God give me the strength to get through it!

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Envying Converts

George Watt's portrait of Cardinal Henry Manning

I'm a Roman Catholic. There, the big secret is out. I was baptized in the Catholic Cathedral of St. Andrews in Grand Rapids, Michigan. However, I was not brought to the Church until I was four months old, causing Msgr. Poppell to scold my mother severely. He impatiently explained to her that, by waiting, she was risking my soul to baby limbo should I somehow succumb to death before receiving the saving waters of sacramental baptism. On that fateful day, my godmother, whom I don't remember (rest her soul) was late in arriving because she was slightly (very) intoxicated. Family members had to go find her at her home, dress her, pour coffee in her and get her to the church. There was some slight trepidation as she held me during the baptismal rite. Folks were concerned that she might drop the baby on her head, thereby sending me to that much feared baby limbo. My parents chose my eldest brother Tom as my godfather; something I saw as even more unusual than asking an alcoholic to be my godmother. I figure that, being the fifth child to come along, they more than likely ran out of willing participants. I often remind my brother that, as my godfather, he is responsible for me and is obliged to take me in should I need assistance. I think he is developing hearing difficulties, as he never seems to acknowledge that comment.

I like being Catholic. However, it may seem strange that I often wish I had been a convert to the faith rather than being baptized into the Church as an infant. Ever since attending Easter Vigils and witnessing the catechumens being baptized during the liturgy, I have greatly envied the converts and their spiritual odysseys.

Back in the mid 90s, I lived in London and worked with an American Catholic University who sent undergraduates there to study abroad. Just for fun, I audited a class with the students entitled Christianity in Britain. The class was taught by the Director of the Program, who happened to be an Anglican cleric. I often had to correct his rather skewed version of things Catholic but at least he was good natured about it. The students teased me, pointing out that if I was really serious about learning, I would agree to also complete the assignments; namely, two ten page essays. I cut a deal with them, telling them that I would write only one paper, but promised to make it a very, very long one. They seemed quite satisfied with this compromise.

I thought long and hard as to what I would write about. There were so many great figures in English history that influenced the course of Christianity in that country. I toyed with researching Thomas More, Becket, and the Tudors. Finally, though, I settled on the celebrated figure of Cardinal John Henry Newman, one time Anglican churchman who eventually converted to Catholicism--causing great joy amongst English Catholics and, I suspect, great consternation amongst Anglicans.

In the course of my research, I began reading the book "The Convert Cardinals" by David Newsome, detailing the conversion story of two individuals: John Henry Newman and Henry Edward Manning. I confess to never having heard of Manning; something which would not be surprising to most Americans, but would shock many Brits. In the process of reading this book though, I became far more immersed in and fascinated by the life of Henry Manning, and quickly abandoned any thoughts of writing on Newman.

Overnight, my passion became the life, actions and activities of Henry Manning, one time Evangelical, Oxford student, Anglican clergyman, Catholic convert and, eventually, second Cardinal Archbishop of the newly established diocese of Westminster. Manning became a powerhouse at the first Vatican Council and was the impetus behind Pope Leo XIII's momentous social encyclical Rerum Novarum. To this day, fourteen years later, I still find myself enthusiastically reading everything I can find by and about Manning. My "essay" ended up being much longer than agreed on, and although I handed it in (for an A grade I might add), I do not consider it finished.

Manning, an eminent and renowned Anglican, was ardently anti-Catholic and even more anti-papist. This is what makes his road to Roman Catholicism so remarkable and inspirational. According to many sources, Manning struggled for six long years with the Anglican faith in which he was raised and of which he was such a well known luminary and leader. One cannot begin to envision the internal conflict, self-doubt and torment that must have preceded his eventual conversion and acceptance of the Catholic faith. His decision to enter the Church resulted in the estrangement of family and life long friends, including the Prime Minister of England. This conversion must have been doubly difficult given that, during that period of the 19th century, English society was vigorously suspicious, and sometimes, downright hateful of all things Catholic Conversion to Catholicism oft times meant isolation from the intellectual life of England. During this process, Manning showed himself to be the most moral, honest and valiant of men. His path to Rome and his life and actions afterwards, as Cardinal Archbishop are, in my opinion, nothing short of heroic.

As a cradle Catholic, I cannot really claim to have suffered a similar estrangement of family and friends because of my faith. I have not had to deal with intense internal conflict, in the same sense that converts must experience such a tug of war inside their minds and souls. I was raised in the faith and therefore it has always been a part of me. For this reason, I think many cradle Catholics take their faith for granted. I have not had to sacrifice in order to claim the faith. I have never really suffered ridicule or been forced to be an apologist for my Catholicism. Next to Manning, my faith journey seems somewhat tedious and dull.

When one reads the conversion stories of the likes of Manning, Newman, Brownson, Hopkins, Waugh, Benson, the Wilberforces and Chesterton, it is difficult to resist the temptation to covet their conversion experiences. They sacrificed much on their road to Catholicism, and, in sacrificing, received a faith that was precious beyond words and of inestimable worth.

It was so with Manning who, upon embracing the faith of the Catholic Church, did so wholeheartedly and, perhaps to the dismay of his Anglican peers, never looked back. If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well, and Manning exhibited that maxim with every action and every word of his Catholic life. Perhaps it is easy to romanticize the lives of these great Victorian figures who converted to Catholicism, but it is reasonable to find their stories inspiring and, in a way, to acknowledge that which we share in common. Even though I cannot ever claim to be a convert to the faith, I do think that there is a necessity to daily re-commit oneself to what one believes. In that way, cradle Catholics are like the esteemed English converts from the 19th and early 20th century. Conversion does seem to take a lot of prayer and thought; however, once the leap is made, it's not necessarily a done deal. Doubt doesn't automatically disappear. I don't think that converts are magically endowed with the ability to be great mystics, and they don't instantaneously become saints (although it appears Newman might be an exception here--at least he is being beatified). I am certain that they need to re-commit themselves to their faith just as cradle Catholics are all called to do. Fortunately, we are blessed to have their stories and their examples to inspire us on our way.

The Convert Cardinals: John Henry Newman and Henry Edward Manning

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Vacation Week

I am taking a week vacation to get my apartment and, hopefully, my life in order. So, instead of my usual loquacious blogs, I thought I would let the photos of God's creation and other things do the talking. For those of you on the academic schedule, who are desperately and frantically grasping onto the waning days of summer, enjoy every last minute of it, before old man winter comes and wraps his icy tendrils around us and sinks us into the bleak and dark days of that long, frigid season.