Tag: The Catholic Weekly

The princess and the fig tree

Halfway through Lent, we heard the Gospel reading where Jesus tells his disciples twice, in fairly stark and violent terms: If you do not repent, you will perish.

Then he tells them a story: “There once was a person who had a fig tree planted in his orchard, and when he came in search of fruit on it but found none, he said to the gardener, ‘For three years now, I have come in search of fruit on this fig tree but have found none. So cut it down. Why should it exhaust the soil?’

He said to him in reply, ‘Sir, leave it for this year also, and I shall cultivate the ground around it and fertilize it; it may bear fruit in the future. If not, you can cut it down.’”

If the fig tree (you and me) isn’t just failing to bear fruit; it’s exhausting the soil around it. It’s hurting the other trees and crops nearby by taking without giving back. It should be destroyed, says the owner of the garden.

The gardener (Jesus) agrees that the fig tree shouldn’t be allowed to go on this way. It must bear fruit—repent—or it should perish. But note something extremely important: he doesn’t just insist that it should repent. He doesn’t even just give it extra time to repent. He comes and helps it. He gives it what it needs so it can, if it will, turn things around before it’s too late.

This reading dovetails so nicely with a short book I recently re-read: The Lost Princess by George MacDonald. It’s not as well-known as his excellent longer “princess” books, the two Curdie books or The Light Princess, but I think it deserves more attention than it gets.

To summarize without spoilers: Two young girls are raised by disastrously indulgent parents. One girl, Rosamond, is a princess, who has become monstrously selfish and capricious, terrorising the whole household. The king and queen are at their wits’ end with their daughter’s violent temper, so they summon a wise woman to help them. She abducts Rosamond and takes her on a brutal journey of self-knowledge and self-control, with many trials and many failures.

Then we are introduced to the second girl, the daughter of a shepherd and his wife, who isn’t openly monstrous, but she is so profoundly self-satisfied, she doesn’t really believe anyone else is real. She, too, is taken in by the wise woman for cultivation, and at some point, the shepherd girl and the princess switch roles, with varying consequences. At the end, both girls are returned to their homes to live the lives they have chosen.

The story, being Victorian, is pretty openly preachy. The narrator frequently delivers little lessons about life directly to the reader, which was the style at the time. But if you think of it as a sermon with a compelling and entertaining story, rather than a story that preaches at you, it’s wonderful, and harrowing in the best way—and don’t get me wrong; the fiction stands up on its own and isn’t solely a vehicle for a message. It has some scenes and some imagery that have stayed with me for 40 years or longer, and that have not lost any of their power when I read again it last week.

One such scene … Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly. 

Image: Detail of painting by Julie Le Brun (1780–1819) Looking in a Mirror (1787) via Rawpixel (Creative Commons) 

Wonderful and ridiculous

Can you stand to hear a story that’s probably a little too personal for these august pages? Because I have one! And I do have a reason for telling it.

I’m 50 years old. I have 10 children, and the youngest one just turned 10. I have grey hair and wrinkles and a little arthritis, and I spend more time hunting for my reading glasses than I spend on almost any other activity. The other day, I couldn’t remember the word “fork.”

I also have a body that stubbornly continues to keep popping out ova every month, right on schedule. As far as I can tell, I could probably get pregnant again if I wanted to, which I most adamantly do not. I know the chances of carrying a healthy baby to term at my age are (unlike myself) much slimmer than they used to be, but they certainly aren’t zero. I look at my family history and I think, nah, I’m not taking any chances.

I really like walking past the diaper aisle without buying anything! I like being able to take medicine without freaking out about possible birth defects. I prefer to spend my days in agonizing worry over the 10 children I already have, thank you very much. I really don’t want another baby.

Well, maybe a little bit. I do like babies. I actually love babies. If we had another baby, I would adore him from the very first second I knew he existed, and it would be incredible. It would be amazing. It would be preposterous. It would be insane. It would be so nice.

These are the thoughts that run through my head every month.

So the other morning, I groaned as I dragged my sorry self out of bed to do what I not-very-funnily call “my chemistry experiment,” to see if I was fertile that day or not. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in my schlumpy old pajamas and thought how absurd it was that I still have to DO this. I’m so old! It’s so ridiculous! I am HALF A CENTURY OLD.

Then I thought, and how ridiculous would it be to show up at the OB/GYN with my grey hair and wrinkles and arthritis and a big ol’ pregnant belly? So I sighed, and did my dang fertility test.

I was chatting about this with some Catholic women my age, about how ridiculous it would be; and one of them said that, if I were pregnant, it wouldn’t be ridiculous. It would be beautiful!

Ladies and gentlemen, it would be both.

Two things can be true at the same time. In fact, most true things are at least two things at the same time. When we get ourselves into trouble is when we expect some human experience to be pure, unmixed, and clearly labelled as one thing or another.

Let me give you some more examples…. Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly. 

Image by Matthew McPherrin via Flickr (Creative Commons)

A Lent for this specific year

Lent is one of those seasons when the “Both/And” nature of the Catholic Church really asserts itself.  

The practices and purposes of Lent are ancient, timeless, universal. It’s a season when we’re invited to step into an ancient, continuous tradition of fasting, praying, self-denial that would not be completely foreign to Catholics who lived centuries ago. 

It’s also a time when we’re supposed to ask ourselves, “What am I in particular, in this specific year, at this specific time in my life, supposed to do so that I can come closer to God?” 

I have some ideas! Here are my suggestions for how to spend Lent in the year 2025. 

Refuse to dehumanize. Not even a little bit.

Undeniably, there are evil people in the world doing evil things.  These people are our brothers and sisters in Christ, with no exceptions at all. They are not trash, not termites, not scum, not excrement, not parasites, not a waste of skin.  

Dehumanization paves the way to oppression, every time. We must not participate, even for the sake of rhetoric, or our hearts will follow the lead of our lips.  

It is becoming more and more socially acceptable to refer to our opponents as less than human, because we see them behaving so abominably, and because they’re calling us even worse names. But as Christians, this should impel us to work harder to recall their humanity, not to give in. Christ did not despise us, and we’re obligated to pass that mercy on.  

Refuse to enjoy being angry.

There’s a lot to be angry about. But when we’re angry at another human being, we should steel ourselves against relishing that rage and delighting in our disgust.  

We can follow the example of Mr Dimble in the final pages of That Hideous Strength, who has just discovered how thoroughly Mark Studdock has given himself over to evil: 

“He seemed to Mark to be looking at him not with anger or contempt but with that degree of loathing which produces in those who feel it a kind of embarrassment—as if he were an obscenity which decent people are forced, for very shame, to pretend that they have not noticed. 

“In this Mark was quite mistaken. In reality his presence was acting on Dimble as a summons to rigid self-control. Dimble was simply trying very hard not to hate, not to despise, above all not to enjoy hating and despising, and he had no idea of the fixed severity which this effort gave to his face.” 

Relatedly:

Give up, or at least cast a critical eye on, doing things that will score us points with our crowd 

That’s one of the worst and most perilous reasons to do or believe something: For applause. Our foundational ideas can so easily shift along with the crowd without us even realizing it, and the crowd tends to demand more and more debasement.  

Times like these are a wonderful opportunity to halt, assess what our core values are, and ask ourselves: Why am I doing this? Why am I saying this? Why am I speaking to or about this person this way?  Just check in and see if anything has shifted in your heart since last year, or since a few years ago; and, if it has, consider whether our new personal standards make us a better witness to the Gospel, or worse. 

Swear off hate-socialising…

Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly. 

God loves me, full stop.

Follow my story as I pondered a great and baffling mystery, and then solved it—and then discovered a whole new mystery.

I was having some strange, inexplicable symptoms. I was sluggish and lacked energy. I wasn’t moving well, and I had lots of reflux. But mostly, and most strangely, my pants felt a little tight. What could it all mean?

I thought about it for a while, analyzed the content of the past several weeks, assembled and studied the facts at my disposal, and after a while, I arrived at the conclusion: Me eat too much food, and so me get little bit fat.

That’s it. That’s all that was going on. I had been super busy and distracted, so I stopped paying attention to what I was eating. That’s what happened.

Perhaps you are wondering why this whole situation was in any way a puzzle me. Most people, when faced with a clue like “tight pants” would pretty quickly arrive at the answer “more belly.” Most of my life, I would have done the same thing. So why didn’t I figure it out?

Because one thing was missing: The crushing shame and self-loathing that has always come along with a little bit of weight gain, my entire life. I was just a little bit bigger, and it was because I was eating a little bit more. There wasn’t any “YOU USELESS VERMIN” about it; but without that special ingredient of self castigation, I genuinely didn’t recognise what was going on.

A similar thing happened to me a few years ago. I had to get up and do something, but there was something wrong with my arms and legs. They hurt and felt weak and sore and unready. I didn’t understand what was happening to me for several minutes, but eventually it dawned on me: I was tired.

Same story as the weight gain: I didn’t recognize what was going on, because I wasn’t dragging myself through that familiar wretched landscape of second-guessing and guilt, where I accused myself of being lazy and interrogated myself about why I was so unwilling to do such an easy thing. Without this extra burden of self-loathing, I literally could not identify what I was feeling as simple tiredness. I was very, very used to being tired; I was completely unfamiliar with being tired and just accepting that as an objective fact, without tarting it up in an ugly disguise of self-blame.

If you had asked me, “Is it the worst sin in the world to eat cookies for snacks several days in a row?” or “Should a working mother of ten feel ashamed for being tired?” I would have answered: “What? No! Goodness, of course not!”

But deep down, I believed it. I didn’t even know I believed it for years, until I suddenly stopped believing it.

I’m telling you about my particular brand of crazy because I think most of us are like this, in one way or another…Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly. 

Image: Mosaic of the creation of Eve, Monreale Cathedral (public domain)

It’s probably not demons

A while back, I wrote about how unfortunate it is that we often waste the time and energy of priests, asking them to do things that lots of other people could do. A priest once told me that this is the hardest part of his job, the non-priest stuff. It’s not that he thinks he’s too good to do office work or manual labour or show up at a BBQ; it’s just that he knows there are things that only a priest can do, and he wishes more people would ask him for those things.

Lately, I’ve been seeing a related phenomenon; people asking priests to do things that not only other people can do, but that priests really aren’t qualified to do. This happens a lot in Catholic online groups…someone will ask for advice, and several people respond, “Go to a priest.”

They frequently tell people seek marriage counselling from a priest, rather than from a marriage counsellor. Some priests may happen to be trained or especially gifted in this field, but most truly are not. It’s not a question of holiness; it’s just that counselling and therapy are specialised fields, and you can’t just show up and be holy, and expect good results, any more than you’d expect a holy priest to be able to give you good advice when your lymphatic system isn’t working well, or your vision is poor. There may very well be some overlap with spiritual matters, but that doesn’t mean a priest is the best person to go to. And a good priest will know this and say so to the person who requests this kind of help from them.

More and more often; and this coincides with an alarming rise in the fascination with “celebrity exorcists,” I see Catholics encouraging others to go to priests when someone is clearly suffering from a mental health crisis. A common example; a worried mother posts in a social media group for Catholics, saying her child has always been difficult, but there has been a recent, extreme escalation of erratic or violent behavior, and the child isn’t responding to any normal interventions, and she doesn’t know what to do.

The last time I saw this scenario, no fewer than 20 other moms told her to run to a priest and request an exorcism. Sounds like demons! Go to a priest.

Let me be clear: this is negligent parenting…Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly. 

image source (Creative Commons)

Ethical shopping: What does it really accomplish?

My mother used to go to great lengths to be an ethical shopper. Some of this happened organically, because she had very little money to spend, and would buy second-hand whenever she could, and the money would stay right in her little town, no problem.

But some things need to be purchased new, and she decided that she would not buy anything made in China. She did not want to materially support the human rights abuses so rampant in Chinese factories. So, she simply stopped.

This wasn’t merely inconvenient; it forced really broad changes in how she shopped and lived, because she didn’t have the luxury of just spending more money (and more time) on goods that were ethically produced.

So, she ended up wearing clothes she didn’t like, just because they weren’t made in China, and having to budget very severely so as to be able to afford domestically made goods for the house. She even had to give up the satisfaction of buying some presents that she knew her beloved grandchildren would love, and settling for something that wasn’t as perfect, because the perfect ones were made in China. It was a sacrifice.

It’s not a sacrifice I’m willing to make. I am pretty maxed out just keeping my kids in clothes and supplies, and most times, I don’t even look at the label. We do buy used goods whenever we can; but for the most part, I’m looking for something in my budget that isn’t overtly offensive in appearance, and that keeps me busy enough.

I do have a few rules, though; I swore off shopping at Temu or Shein (or other retailers that are so cheap, they cannot possibly be paying their workers actual wages), and I swore off buying anything that says Nestle on it, because they’re so openly evil toward the poor in developing nations. Sure, it’s kind of random, but it’s what I’m doing right now.

My approach is not actually that much different from my mother’s, although she was stricter with herself. We both have a very clear idea of what we’re trying to achieve…Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly. 

All that matters is what’s in your heart, right? Not so fast

Many Catholics will tell you that taking the Lord’s name in vain doesn’t mean using it as a curse word when someone cuts in front of you in traffic. Instead—they argue—taking the Lord’s name in vain is when you use it to justify ugly human behavior.

They will try to convince you that taking the Lord’s name in vain is when you declare you are pro-life—because humans are made in the image of God—but then you refer to immigrants as sub-human. They say that taking the Lord’s name in vain is when you hold a protest sign that says, “God hates gays,” or when you insist that real Catholic women never ever say  “no” to their husbands.

The truth is, of course, taking the Lord’s name in vain is both these things.

What we say ought to reflect what we believe, and what we believe ought to be shaped by what we say. We are what we do, and we are what we say. We are what we believe, and we are what we hold in our secret hearts that only the Lord can know.

If we are in the habit of being gentle and loving and generous and self-sacrificial toward others, then why would we not make the extra effort to also control our tongue? Why would we not use our voice to be gentle, loving, and generous towards our fellow humans and also towards God?

Using God’s name in vain is what you were taught in beginning catechism class; and it’s also something more subtle and more comprehensive.

Here’s another example of an updated understanding of virtue that corrects one error but makes a new one: It has become common for enlightened Catholics to insist that modesty is entirely an interior disposition and has nothing to do with the clothes we wear.

I understand how we got here  … Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly (and for context, recall that, in Australia, their hot season is just beginning!).

What else can Trump do to persuade Catholics he’s on their side?

American Catholic voters, the cheapest of cheap dates, went absolutely bananas the other day on Michaelmas when someone on Donald Trump’s social media team posted the prayer to St Michael.   

Because I am slightly more sentient than a banana myself, I feel qualified to explain this phenomenon: This is called “pandering.” It is what you do when you are equal parts ignorant of and contemptuous toward something (like how Trump is ignorant of and contemptuous toward the Catholic faith) but you know that you need those people to vote for you, and you know a lot of them are absurdly gullible and desperate for affirmation. So you throw them a scrap and watch them scramble.  

On the same day the prayer made a splash on Facebook and X, Trump himself made a remark in person wherein he sounded more like his old familiar self, not praying humbly as in the St Michael prayer, but longing for “one really violent day” in which police could get “extraordinarily rough” against shoplifters who are allegedly swarming over our fair country.   

Trump himself, of course, is notorious for walking away without paying for what he takes; in his personal life and in his campaign; and despite the fear and frenzy he habitually tries to whip up—”[P]olice aren’t allowed to do their job. They’re told if you do anything, you’re going to lose your pension. You’re going to lose your family, your house, your car.”—both violent and property crimes (like the theft Trump constantly complains about) have declined dramatically across the entire country.   

But he shared a prayer! And on Mary’s birthday, he shared a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe! And the two failed assassination attempts took place on the feast days of Our Lady of Sorrows, and also on the Feast of St Henry, which, y’know, is probably also significant somehow if you have eyes to see! And Melania is Catholic! 

So very Catholic. 

As a Catholic, that’s all the evidence anyone could need. Sure, Trump’s no angel, but God’s been workin’ on his heart, and we’re clearly mere moments away from the best conversion you people have ever seen, a really big, beautiful conversion; you won’t believe your eyes. Not even the late, great Hannibal Lecter could have a conversion like this.   

Maybe you’re still somehow unpersuaded by the overwhelming evidence that Trump is doing the work of God. Maybe you’re still a tad skeptical that there is some kind of sincere searching going on in his soul.  

Frankly, I’m sad for you. It must be hard to live in such a cynical world when you can’t even see what’s so plainly right before your eyes. What would it take to make you see the burgeoning grace at work inside this happy warrior? What more could this lion of God do to melt your hearts of stone and show you who he really is? 

I have a few ideas … Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly. 

Image source 

Pro-life voters are now entirely free

For almost as long as I can remember, voters who understand the vital importance of the pro-life cause have had their consciences held captive by politics. Every election year, pro-lifers have been bullied, and have bullied each other, into voting for one candidate and shunning the other, with their very souls allegedly on the line.

People who more or less held the same views were invited or outright commanded to denounce each other as the enemy. But now that’s over. It’s done. We’re free.

Oh, folks on both sides are still arguing that it’s crystal clear we absolutely must vote this way or that way if we want to call ourselves pro-life. But now, neither party is willing to even fake an interest in actually being pro-life. The masks have come off entirely.

“But Simcha,” you may say. “I thought Trump and the Republicans were the pro-life party? Sure, Trump isn’t perfect but we’re looking for a politician, not a saint, and he’s clearly the only one who is willing to stand up to protect the unborn. At least compared to the alternative.”

Except that he just said into a reporter’s microphone that six weeks is “too short; there has to be more time … I want more weeks”; ie, the law should give women more time to decide whether or not to get an abortion (or, as often happens, more time to get pressured or coerced into an abortion). He said he would vote for just that in the upcoming Florida election.

Then, when people got upset, his campaign said he didn’t really mean it or really say anything and we’re just dumb for thinking he said anything.

He also said that, if he’s elected, his government will cover the cost of IVF for anyone who wants it, because “we want more babies.” IVF is intrinsically immoral because it replaces a sacred, creative act of love with a mechanised act of production in a lab. But even if that doesn’t bother you, IVF means millions of extra embryos are made, and then either imprisoned in a freezer indefinitely, or thrown away.

There is no IVF that is untainted by this wholesale murder of tiny humans. Babies are good; but cranking out babies like widgets and then throwing most of them away? That’s wrong.

This same Republican party absolutely lost their minds a few years ago when President Barack Obama said he was going to require Catholic employers to include contraception in their insurance coverage for employees. We were told this was a direct violation of religious freedom, and we must vote for Trump so he can liberate us from a government that would spend our tax dollars on the culture of death.

And now here we are. Maybe you will reply, “Well, this is all a shame, but you have to admit, he appointed judges to the supreme court who did what he promised, and they overturned Roe v Wade! Hard to argue with that as a pro-life win!”

Except that since this happened, the numbers of abortions have gone up. Yes, really. Why? My guess is this…

Read the rest of my latest (which I wrote before the debate, but nothing has changed) at The Catholic Weekly. 

Image: James Boast Creative Commons

Sometimes the secret ingredient is time

It’s one of my favorite stories, so I’m glad it’s apparently true. The Vienna Beef company makes a certain kind of hot dog that is bright red, and it has a particular smoky flavor and a particular snap when you bite into it. It was very popular, so they made it in exactly the same way year after year, decade after decade.

Eventually the company became successful enough to upgrade to a new facility, where everything was streamlined and efficient and top of the line. But they knew better than to mess with success: The hot dog recipe stayed the same.

Except it didn’t. The hot dogs produced in the new facility weren’t as good. The color was off, the texture was feeble, and the taste just wasn’t the same; and nobody could figure out why. They hadn’t changed anything—not the ingredients, not the process, not the order of operations. It was a hot dog mystery.

They finally solved it by painstakingly recreating how they had done it in the old factory—and it turned out that, at one point, the processed ground meat was slowly trucked from one part of the factory to another, through several rooms, around corridors, and on an elevator. It seems that this arduous process, which everyone assumed was nothing but an inconvenience that ought to be streamlined away, was an essential step. The meat got warmed slowly as it went, gradually steeping in the smoke and moisture of the rooms that it travelled through. When they made the production more efficient, they eliminated this part of the process. And that ruined the hot dogs.

The secret ingredient, it turned out, was time. I thought of this story as I sat chatting with an old friend, someone I’ve known online for over two decades, and we only met in person for the first time last week. When we first got to know each other, we were in the thick of having babies and wrangling toddlers, both fairly starry-eyed about the possibilities of how to build a Catholic marriage and raise a holy family.

Now we both have several adult children, and our “babies” are almost as tall as we are. We talked about what we expected our lives to look like, what we were so sure about, and how differently things have turned out. We talked about our struggles and also our successes, and how we seem to know less and less as time goes on.

And we talked about how sometimes, the secret ingredient is time…Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly. 

Photo by ArtHouse Studio