"Just Catholic"

We've all probably overheard a Christian of the evangelical persuasion describe themselves matter-of-factly as being "just Christian." The innuendo, of course, is that denominational distinctions are an unnecessary and distracting dressing from the real work of following Jesus. Thus there is a sort of proud (not necessarily bad) self-satisfaction that the "just Christian" is above such trappings; whether one is a Methodist or a Presbyterian or a Baptist isn't concerning to the so-called non-denominational Christian. Even the qualifier "just" in "Just Christian" of evangelical Protestant reductionism is essentially a form of unapologetic (Christian) Minimalism. 

For traditional Catholics, this Christian Minimalism is a foreign concept. Although some modern(ist) Catholic churches and architectural styles have sought to borrow from this kind of Christian essentialism and distilled the liturgical space to only what it deems "necessary," historical Catholicism makes no apology for it's opulence and adornment as a point of pride. To hell with minimalism--we are Maximalists the core. 

Architecture and liturgy do not exist in a vacuum, though. They reflect and manifest the law of belief in every gilded leaf and marble cherub. One may be able to distill Christianity into one great law, as our Lord did: Love God, love neighbor. But to attempt to apply the same principal to a religion as rich, deep, and theologically layered as Catholicism would be insultingly simplistic. Evangelical Protestants may be able to get away with this kind of distillation, because it is congruent with their low-church, anti-intellectual ethos. But there is a lot more to Catholic history, theology, spirituality, and liturgy than meets the eye.

That's why I smile a little when Catholics themselves use this kind of nomenclature. "I'm Just Catholic," they might say. I don't think we always realize just how much of the Protestant ethos we have absorbed as Catholics in not only our modern liturgy, but our worldview. This tends to manifest itself in comments like, "Jesus in the Eucharist is what matters," or "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," or "I'm involved in my parish," etc. 

To be honest, though, there's a kind of innocence (or willful ignorance, depending on the person) that seems...nice. The way you want to go back to a kind of Stand By Me childhood when things weren't so contentious and complicated and you could just walk for days on a railroad track looking for a dead body with your friends. When you could be "just Catholic" and qualifiers like being a "Pope Francis Catholic" or a "JPII Catholic" or a "Trad Catholic" weren't necessary. 

I envy that innocence a little, lamenting that I can't unsee all that I've uncovered as a Catholic digging for the truth of things for the past twenty five years. One of the worst parts of that is the kind of caste-system many of us have developed--whether consciously or subconsciously--as it relates to the other members of our corporal body; that is, each other.

If you're reading this as a trad Catholic, and you're honest with yourself, you probably look at yourself and your branch of the Church Militant as a kind of elite fighting force, not unlike the Marines. The ARMY, by extension, just Aint Ready (to be a) Marine Yet. Even within your own branch, there's the rank-banter. Like, "whose tougher, the MARINES or the SEALS?" Or you have people acting like top-brass while not even realizing or caring that the Merchant Marine or U.S. Coast Guard exist.

We don't always make these biases known, but we tend to have a kind of Maslow Hierarchy of Needs for our personal Catholic liturgical life. A lot of people were forced to take a look at their liturgical values and do a needs assessment during COVID when churches shut down and Traditionis Custodes was dropped on us. People were exposed to curious oddities in their youtube searches like the Canons Regular of St. John Cantius in Chicago, or found their local Society chapel open for business. 

As a result, we often unconsciously size up people, not as fellow "Just Catholic"s, but in a kind of liturgical caste system. I know you know what I'm talking about, because I unfortunately do it too. And if you don't, let me try to illustrate what it looks like using Microsoft Paint on my computer. Ah, here we go:

 

Now, this is just one hypothetical example I came up with, and may look different depending on your vantage point. You might be the "I'd rather die than participate in the New Mass" type and so you may have the SSPX at the summit and all the other limp-wristed modernists under your spike-studded thurible. Or you may be an Eastern-rite Catholic smirking at the fact that many Latin-loving Catholics don't even know there are 23 other rites beyond their own in the Church. Or you may be a patriotic American Catholic who has no issues with guitars at Mass as long as the priest gives a good homily. Or you might not ever want to set foot in a TLM because you "heard those people were 'not nice'." Whatever, you get my point. 

The thing is, this is such insider baseball, and I feel like I'm seeing more people in the Church who are getting so-called "red pilled" who are majoring in the minors and getting tunnel vision. I'm glad I traveled when I was younger, both across the U.S. and abroad, because it was good for me to see there was more to the world than outside my state or local community. But we also know people who have never left the town they grew up in, and have strong opinions about lots of things but not always the larger-scale ability to see outside their own walls. 

Whether you travel or never leave the state is kind of besides the point, though. Both are completely valid ways of approaching life. The issue is more when the globe-trotter comes home from Kathmandu and looks their nose down on their local community for being "ignorant," or when the local community shuts out an outsider simply because "he's not from around here."  Both are examples of the way we have trouble seeing outside our own bubbles.  

I really try not to have this kind of special-forces attitude attached to any kind of liturgical preference. Because we will not be judged (by God) on what liturgy we attend, but on the degree to which we sought to become holy in this life given the circumstances we find ourselves in. Not everybody has a FSSP, SSPX, and diocesan TLM within half an hour of them the way we do. I realize that colors my perspective, and belies my ignorance. Some people are lucky to have a mission chapel or even just a standard fare N.O parish within an hour or them if they are really rural. To feel that you cannot be saved unless you find a TLM is, I don't know...it just seems off base. 

I know many people who not only don't give much thought to the TLM, but are content to stay in their local Novus Ordo parish. For them it's not a matter of Aint Ready to Marine Yet, but being proud to be ARMY. And to be honest, a lot of these folks put me to shame in their personal piety, sanctity, and charity to others. I could use a little bit of that humble innocence. When did things get so complicated, anyway? 

All this being said, we are going to be down at the beach this weekend and I find myself in the First Friday/First Saturday conundrum. Do I go to the local casual vacation Novus Ordo and just put my head down and swallow my....pride? Do I drive an hour and a half four times to attend the TLM back in the city? Do I look up the SSPX RESISTANCE rogue "independent" priest down there for Communion (I'm not inclined to do this, just using it as an example of the complications we find ourselves in these days)? 

Some days, I find myself looking back longingly on my early days as a Catholic, when I didn't know any better that there was anything beyond being "Just Catholic." But those days I wept softly in my hands before Communion, whereas now my heart has scabbed over more and there are more layers to chip away at. Those days I read voraciously--the Catechism, the Fathers, the spiritual classics. Now I'm lucky if I pick up a book and make it through more than a chapter, so lazy and complacent I have become. Back then, I was excited to meet other Catholics in public and on the street--fellow pilgrims! Kindred souls!. Now I size people up, vet, view with suspicion: well, just what kind of Catholic are you now? 

There's something to be said to the awe and wonder of a new Catholic who hasn't had too much weight placed on their shoulders yet, whose innocence has been preserved--not from sin and a sordid past, but from the toxic in-fighting and lack of charity in our own ranks. Who recognize their ransom debt is stamped PAID and can think of nothing else but how grateful they are, like the Samaritan leper in today's Gospel who returns to give glory and worship to Christ while the other nine can't be bothered to.

I would love to go back to those early days to visit, get some perspective, feel a little more virgin and a little less jaded. Where the Mass was not something to scoff at or force yourself to stomach, but a pearl of great price you run home to sell everything you have to buy. Where I was more concerned with working out my salvation in fear and trembling than I was with what category of Catholic I am. If you figure out how I can reclaim this beginner's heart, please let me know. I do miss it.  

An Homage To Saint Martha

The beginning of the semester is always a very busy time for me at work. Part of my responsibilities in my role is coordinating events, and I'll be the first to admit it's not my favorite. As anyone who has, say, planned a wedding in a professional or hired capacity knows it can be stressful with a lot of logistics, planning, coordination, and moving parts. As someone who suffers from anxiety to boot, it's an especially burdensome task. 

The weird thing is, I'm actually pretty well-suited for it despite the stress. I'm organized, plan and pull people together well, leverage contacts, and am time-conscious. I do get anxious about the things I can't control, but the things I can I do a pretty good job with. As with many things, sometimes the anticipation and the unknowns leading up the event are worse than the event itself, and the past couple months for me has been no exception. And like a wedding, no one really remembers that the centerpieces were missing a bow, or you ran out of plates. All they remember is they had a good time. 

And that's what happened tonight. Thankfully the months of planning and keeping things organized on my end helped, even when there were a few unforeseen glitches. There was a lot of running around and coordination. But in the end, everything went smoothly and it was a positive and memorable night for those we served.

What's strange is I found myself over the past day or two for the intercession of a new (O.G.) saint in my spiritual Rolodex, and that was St. Martha. 

Martha, like Thomas and Nathanael, aren't always portrayed in the most flattering light in Scripture. They are kind of like the supporting actors in Hollywood; not your typical go-to for casting calls. 

In Luke's Gospel, we see the busy Martha contrasted with her serene sister Mary, who sits at the feet of Christ as he visits their home. Martha is somewhat indignant that Mary is not pulling her weight in the service department, but Jesus lovingly admonishes her,

"As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!" "Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her." (Lk 10:38-42)

Clearly there is a "better part" here, and Martha has settled for bronze. But I think she was just being who she was. One has to wonder how different the two sisters personalities may have been. It's also likely Martha was the older sister. It's always interesting when it comes to my wife and I how much birth order factors into our marriage; my wife is the youngest of four, and I am the oldest of three. As the oldest, I always felt a weight of responsibility--burden if you will--to "worry" about things that my brothers never gave thought to. My wife, by contrast, never worries about anything, and is used to just being "taken care of." 

The thing is, (needless) worry never really accomplishes anything; it's kind of like the mirage of social media where you think you are doing something noble and worthwhile and getting close to people, but you're really just wasting time in an echo chamber with internet strangers positing as friends. We spend a lot of energy worrying about the bad things that never end up happening, which falsely reinforces it's value in a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy: I worried--the bad thing didn't happen--worrying helped. It's not true. But it can be a real struggle to overcome that fallacy mentally. 

I'm not saying Martha of Bethany did this, but the always-perceptive Jesus is the one who says, she is "worried and upset about many things." Maybe she was concerned the bread was not rising fast enough, or that there wasn't enough wine, or the house was a mess, and all this was going through her mind in the other room while her sister, without a care in the world, took the privileged place on the floor at Jesus' feet. Mary is living in the world of the primary and macro, while Martha concerns herself with the secondary and micro.

Sometimes we want to be "the other sister." We may be a Martha that longs to be more contemplative, while a dreamy Mary might wish she had more practical skills in the kitchen. Personality wise, I have a "doer" shell while I think my core is in the realm of "being." I have a woman's brain but live in a man's body. I'm an introvert at heart, with strongly extroverted tendencies. 

But my work these past few months (and especially this evening at the actual event) had me solely in Martha's world. I was "worried and upset" about many (little) things. And so I found a soft-spot in my heart for St. Martha, for Christ loved her for who she was and sainthood was not beyond her. I thought she may understand my struggles, my anxious anguish, and could help me. So I prayed and asked for her intercession specifically. That's what's so great about the saints specifically, and Catholicism in general--there is a friend in Heaven for every occasion, every plight, every particular struggle and miracle needed. And I feel like she really came through in the clutch for me, because everything could not have gone better tonight.

So, this is my homage to the virgin Martha, whose less than flattering appearance in holy scripture is nonetheless honored and counted among the saints in Heaven and who had the privilege of serving the Lord Christ himself in her lifetime. We need Peters and Pauls. We need Teresas of Calcutta and Teresas of Avila. And we need Marthas in this life as much as Marys. 

Because, let's admit it: that food ain't going to cook itself.  

What Is A Bishop?

 My latest article at Crisis, What Is A Bishop?

When To Be A Legalist, And When Not To Be

I was listening to Paul's letter to the Galatians this morning on the way to work. It's a great, short epistle with a lot of meat on the bones.

In Chapter 2, Paul recounts his "calling out" Peter at Antioch over Peter's inconsistency and hypocrisy in not eating with the uncircumcised brethren for fear of being judged by the circumcised. One may recall Peter's initial strong faith in walking to Jesus on the water (Mt 14:29) but which lead to a kind of second-guessing and which causes him to start to sink (14:30). Peter of course recognizes the radical saving power of grace through Christ's passion, death, and resurrection, and yet I think there is perhaps a part of him that still finds it hard to let go of his identity as a member of the Jewish faithful and adherence to the Law. I would wager there is an element of that here in Acts 2: Peter "second-guessing" that he is truly no longer under the Law, but grace. 

Paul, ironically, has no issues preaching the radical grace of Christ and his resurrection. Of course, Paul was a "Hebrew of Hebrews" (Phil 3:5) and a Pharisee, no stranger to the Law and a stringent adherent to it. Just as much as Saul is knocked from his horse and immediately does a one-eighty from persecuting Christians to becoming one, with no second guessing whatsoever (radical obedience), he also immediately and unabashedly throws off the yoke of the Torah (taking on the yoke of the Torah was the mark of a true Pharisee) and takes on the yoke of Christ. For he recognizes that one can not be subject to the one while claiming the other, for "a person is not justified by works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ...because by works of the law no one will be justified" (Gal 2:16).

But Peter was almost a bystander in this instance, for Titus (a Gentile), Paul's traveling companion was the one whom "false brothers" (2:4) were trying to convince must be circumcised according to the Law. These Jewish Christians and their false gospel (Gal 1:6) were working counter to Paul's message of radical grace, and Paul has no problem confronting Peter and holding him up as an example of how not to conduct oneself as a Jewish Christian towards the Gentile Christians. 

It may help also to have some background on the Pharisees themselves. The Pharisees were so concerned with not violating the Commandments (a noble sentiment) that they enacted 613 prohibitions drawn from the Mosaic law, and 1,500 additional "fence laws" which served as a kind of outer protective hedge around the aforementioned 613. They were extremely religious, to say the least--again, a noble sentiment--praying the Shemoneh ‘esreh, the eighteen prescribed prayers prayed three times a day. But it was also distinct from the Sadducee sect, as it was geared more towards the faith of ordinary (versus priestly) Jews. The word Pharisee means "set apart, separated." As a Temple-sect of Judaism, after the destruction of the Temple the interpretation of the Law began to crowd out and take on almost more significance than the Law itself. This is why Jesus took such issue with the Pharisees and their crushingly burdensome yoke of interpretation.

It's fashionable to speak of Traditional Catholics today as "Pharisees." But to be honest, all stereotypes have a degree of truth. Nuevo-traditionalists (as opposed to those who with the whole Church simply practiced the traditional faith prior to the reforms of the Second Vatican Council) do often see themselves as "set apart, separated" (from "normie" Catholics and those who attend the Novus Ordo). Some can be suspicious of any kind of expressive or ejaculatory prayer, but are devoted to their missals for reciting prescribed prayers. Many on the extreme end in their religiosity see the New Mass as a kind of defilement, the way the circumcised would not eat with the uncircumcised as we see at Antioch in Gal 2:11-14. 

What does Paul say to Peter there? "If you, though a Jew, are living like a Gentile and not like a Jew, how can you compel the Gentiles to live like Jews?" Peter's pretense ("hypocrisy") is a kind of play-acting in which he claims the radical grace of God while acting as if he were still under the Law. A kind of "fence law" around grace which prevents one from accepting it without reserve. Ironic, since it was Paul who was the Pharisee of Pharisees, and yet who (rightfully) has thrown himself unabashedly on the law of justification by faith (Gal 2:16) and held nothing back. 

There is also a temptation towards creating our own Catholic "fence laws" around the core of faith, lay interpretations that get weighted disproportionately and zealously defended (and sometimes with a fair amount of rancor). What do I mean? I spoke about this a little in my post Extra-Catholica, but it also comes up over things like praying the Luminous Mysteries, the necessity of veiling at Mass or dress length, and neo-Jansenist tendencies. The self-appointed interpreters of the Law (of the Church) have moved into pride-of-place in certain Catholic circles so much so that "ordinary Catholics" (just like ordinary Jews in the time of the Pharisees) look to them before they look to the heart of the Church.

However, it is not hypocritical for a faithful Catholic to hold fervently as well to legal proscriptions when they fundamentally matter. This may be related to making sure one fasts for at least one hour (if not more) before receiving Holy Communion and should refrain from reception if they have failed to keep this fast. One must also sacramentally confess at least once a year as well (CCC 1457). The Church in her rightful authority requires, for instance, that the species used in the consecration be unleavened (bread) and (wine) free from impurities. If not, a valid consecration did not take place. If one were to not say the name of the individual, and not use the Trinitarian formula ("I baptize you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit" and use a substance other than water, the baptism is likewise not valid. These things do matter. In this sense, legalism is a good for the protection of the integrity of the particular sacraments. No Catholic should feel "bad" for insisting on an assurance of such integrity. 

Jesus admonished the Pharisees not because they were religious, but because their "fences" and interpretations became the focus of their piety; they became as religious pagans washing the outside of the cup while neglecting the inside (Mt 23:25), as the scripture says, "they changed the truth of God into a lie, and worshiped and served the creature more than the Creator" (Rom 1:25). 

Just as the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath (Mk 2:27), so too should our hearts be the core, infused with grace and pulsing with faith, while the fences of our piety and our holy religion stand as a bulwark against all that would threaten it. A fence must be solid and thoroughly secured to serve its function. But to the degree we find ourselves overly-busy with sanding, painting, heightening, adorning, barbed-wiring, and leaning on it while our heart languishes within its confines, it may be worth questioning whether one's piety has found its rightful home.  

If You Want To Get, You Have To Give

 

The past few months I've been feeling especially lonely. Although I'm not one for big groups, I like one:one interactions and connecting with people, both old and new. But it's a busy time of life for everyone, so sometimes these interactions are few and far between. 

As a writer (or rather, "one who writes a lot"), one of my favorite past times is letter writing. Before email, I would write letters to friends from wherever I was traveling in the world, or from home. I have a box full of letters received from people in my life in the attic. But like developing film, it's a past time that has gone by the wayside. I can't remember the last time I got a letter from someone in the mail, or even written one myself. Sometimes I'll get an email correspondence, but even that is getting rarer.  

Then it occurred to me: I was feeling sorry for myself, but it didn't need to stay that way. I could do something about it. So I found a Catholic organization in Texas that connects death row inmates with pen pals. I had corresponded and visited inmates at the state prison years ago, and would go into the county prison before COVID to read the bible to a group of about forty inmates once a month. But they never re opened after COVID, and so I just kind of forgot about it.

The Texas organization never got back to me (I don't know if it's still active), but the Order of Malta also runs a prison pen pal program, and they did respond to my inquiry and set me up with a prison in Montana to write to guys who are incarcerated. I sent off my first letter today to a young man who is doing five years in state prison for assaulting a police officer. I'll share my letter to him below.

Sometimes we think we need to do big things for God; but we often neglect the 'low hanging fruit' that is within our reach. Anybody can write as a corporal work of mercy. You can do it from the comfort of your home, all for the cost of a stamp. When I thought about how nice it might be for me to get a letter in the mail, how much more so for a man who has no family (this man's father is in jail, and his mother was killed) and no freedom? 

I realized that if you want to get grace (or forgiveness, or comfort, or love), sometimes you have to give it too. So that's what I'm doing. Thank you, Lord, for the grace and opportunity!

Dear D___,

How are you? Thanks for corresponding with me, and I hope this letter finds you well. I also wanted to thank you for giving me the opportunity to pray for you, and I hope you will do the same for me. 

Although I have been a Catholic for about twenty five years now, it was not always this way. I came into the Church at the age of eighteen, when God “adopted” me as his son through friendship with Jesus Christ, God’s own Son, when I was alone in the wilderness on a backpacking trip at the age of seventeen. Before that I had led a sinful life with various struggles and did not have peace, joy, or know how I could find the key to happiness. I explored Buddhism, Hare Krishna, and other esoteric religions. But it was God revealing Himself in Christ and in the scriptures (the Bible) that made me realize there was hope for me too, and that it is only in Christ that we are saved, for Jesus, it says in scripture, is “the way, the truth, and the life” (Jn 14:6).

I don’t know if you have any religious faith or not, but maybe we can talk about that in future correspondence if you feel comfortable doing so. I did want to share something with you from St. Paul’s letter to the Phillippians, which shows that despite one’s circumstances, the man of God can find peace and freedom. “I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength” (Phil 4:11-13). St. Paul was shipwrecked, thrown in prison, beaten, accosted, starved…but he maintained his peace and joy. Because, as he says, “What can separate us from the love of God? For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom 38:39). 

What’s interesting is that St. Paul was at first a persecutor of Christians, ordering them to be murdered. But Jesus appeared to him and chose him to spread the Gospel as an Apostle. Moses, likewise, was a murderer who assaulted and killed an Egyptian and was a fugitive on the run after the did. Yet God used him as well. King David was an adulterer and ordered a man to be killed as well. God can use any of us, despite our pasts. As King David prayed to God in the Psalms, “Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.” (Ps 51:7). 

Although I am married with three children, God must always come first in a man’s life. Because if he is not right with God, nothing else will fall into place correctly. Just as in recovery, one must turn himself over to a Higher Power (God) and admit he is not in control before sobriety can happen. 

I look forward to writing you in the future if you are able to write back. I will be praying for you as well. St. Dismas (the Good Thief) is a powerful intercessor. Here is a prayer you can pray for grace: 

“Glorious Saint Dismas, you alone of all the great Penitent Saints were directly canonized by Christ Himself; you were assured of a place in Heaven with Him "this day" because of the sincere confession of your sins to Him in the tribunal of Calvary and your true sorrow for them as you hung beside Him in that open confessional; you who by the direct sword thrust of your love and repentance did open the Heart of Jesus in mercy and forgiveness even before the centurion's spear tore it asunder; you whose face was closer to that of Jesus in His last agony, to offer Him a word of comfort, closer even than that of His Beloved Mother, Mary; you who knew so well how to pray, teach me the words to say to Him to gain pardon and the grace of perseverance; and you who are so close to Him now in Heaven, as you were during His last moments on earth, pray to Him for me that I shall never again desert Him, but that at the close of my life I may hear from Him the words He addressed to you: "This day thou shalt be with Me in Paradise."

I hope to hear from you soon. 

In Christ,

R

All Hail King ALDI

When I was growing up, my dad always did the grocery shopping for our family. This was not very conventional, but then again my dad was not a very conventional man.

I continued this tradition in my own family, for whatever reason. Unlike my father (who I think cooked a Taylor pork roll for himself back in the 1970's but was never known to prepare dinner for us; that was my mom's domain), I do about 80% of the cooking in our household, which I don't mind. I think it's because as a teenager I was up at 4am delivering newspapers, then school, then track or wrestling practice and by the time I got home I was starving. But we always ate late because my mom worked. So I probably subconsciously vowed when I grew up that I would take dinner-matters into my own hands.

I don't mind grocery shopping. At least now I don't, thanks in large part to a German grocery chain called Aldi. It wasn't always this way. I used to shop at the old-school, 1980's era supermarkets like Acme and Giant because they were close by and it was the bane of my existence. Prices were not competitive, lines were long and annoying, selection was sub-par, and the whole experience just sucked. Wegman's was a nice shopping experience (and Catholic owned), but it started to hurt the wallet; which is unfortunate because it was on my home from work). I don't mind picking up a loaf of bread or gallon of milk from Walmart, but I don't want to do all my grocery shopping there.

When I discovered Aldi, everything changed. It has literally been a godsend for our family, and I'm going to tell you why. But first a little history about the chain. 

The first Aldi store was opened in Germany in 1913, and came to the U.S. in the mid-seventies. “In the aftermath of the war, "scarcity and necessary frugality demanded the avoidance of waste," Dieter and Nils Brandes wrote in their book "Bare Essentials: The Aldi Success Story." "The principle was: less is better than too much. This applied to capital, personnel, size of stores." It sounds like the founding brothers were rather ruthless in their efficiency mind-set. 

The secret of the current Aldi model is in the details and mission, which squares with my own. I grocery shop with the same mindset I buy and use a car: to get from point A to point B cheaply, reliably, and efficiently.  I know a lot of big families swear by Costco, but after having shopped there a couple times with a borrowed membership card, I'm not sold (you buy in bulk, and the quality of food and meats is good, but the unit prices are not as competitive as you might think. I also hate the "mega-mart" warehouse feel) 

For those who may have shopped at Aldi, you may notice:

1) There are no "cart boys," since it's self-service. You pop a quarter into a cart to unlock it, and get it back when you return it. No biggy. 

2) The aisles are wide and relatively spacious. This is related to the next point, which is

3) Choice and brand selection is limited. I'd say 95% of items are Aldi brand. I have yet to buy something that was sub-par or lacking in quality, and that includes produce and meats. And I actually love the limited choice options for brands and things, since it's less I have to think about or mull over. Studies have proven that 'decision-fatigue' is a real thing. 

4) There are maybe two to three employees working in the entire store at any one given time, and that includes the check out people. They are expected to do many different jobs in the store, but from what I hear the pay is competitive and the working conditions are not too bad.

5) The check out people sit when they check you out, rather than stand. They are pleasant but don't make chit-chat, they just scan your dang groceries like lightening. 

6) There are hardly any lines, and if there are, they move very quickly. It's efficient, which I love. I have never waited in line for more than a couple minutes.

7) Everything gets placed in a cart, and you move over to an area where you bag your own groceries (I usually bring my own bags as well). 

8) I consistently spend almost 40-50% less on groceries than I would anywhere else. And no freaking coupons needed.

Grocery shopping is no longer an onerous, dreaded thing for me. It's in-and-out, with minimal wasted time, no choice-fatigue, no coupon-clipping or sales to think about. And I'm often coming in at less than $100 per trip for a trunk load of groceries (I usually go once a week or so). 

I'm glad Aldi gets people like me. We can afford to eat healthy and well. When you're on a budget, it's the little wins you're grateful for!

Three Days Grace: A Meditation On The Finding Of The Child Jesus In The Temple

 As anyone who undertakes the First Saturday devotion knows, Our Lady asks us to spend an additional fifteen minutes keeping her company while meditating (meditation being "prolonged reasoning with the understanding," according to St. Teresa) on the mysteries of the rosary. I have taken this to mean one can meditate on all five of the Joyful mysteries of that day, or focus on one in particular. I usually opt for the latter, and usually receive some insights by the Holy Spirit during that time that I may not have had otherwise. 

Yesterday (Saturday) I felt led to meditate on the fifth Joyful Mystery, the Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple. I'm sure none of these insights are novel, as someone more learned than myself may have illuminated them already, but for me it was fruitful.

In Luke's gospel, we see the Holy Family returning home via caravan from Jerusalem after the Passover. They had already gone a day before they realized the twelve year old Jesus was not with them (Lk 2:44). Doubling back, they returned to Jerusalem where the scripture says they "found him after three days" (2:46). 

This in itself comprised the bulk of my meditation. As a parent of a soon-to-be twelve year old boy myself, I would be beside myself. Now twelve year old boys two thousand years ago were probably more self-sufficient than today, and parents probably didn't have as much of the helicopter-like and exhausting vigilance they do today, but I nevertheless tried to put myself in the mind of St. Joseph in particular. 

As protector and provider, what must have been going through his mind: He was the foster father of the Messiah--no pressure or anything! He was the strong, silent type, never saying a word in scripture. What was going through his head? It was probably hard enough feeling that Jesus was not related to him by blood, but adopted, per se. Yes, he was chosen by God to be the husband of the Mother of God, but he was also charged with this responsibility. Did Jesus (who was under his watch) disappearing undermine his own confidence in his ability to carry out this role? What if something happened to the boy? And who do you pray to when the son of God himself is missing? "Jesus, help me find...you?!" Poor St. Joseph!

And poor Mary. If St. Joseph was grieved, the twenty-six year old Mary, who bore the Savior and was closer to him than any person on earth, must have been even more troubled on a purely maternal level. But as my meditation went further into her heart, I witnessed what I felt was a precursor to twenty one years later, when she once again would be separated from her beloved son for an additional three days. Did she know he would rise from the dead, that this was not an end but a test of faith and patient endurance? What were those three days like--both when he was a boy separated from her, and then as a man separated from the land of the living?

As I kept our Lady company, I tried to console her with seemingly empty words I wasn't sure I believed myself "Don't worry my Lady, we'll find him" and "I'm sure he's okay." Like someone trying to comfort a grieving friend when you don't know what to possibly say. She took my hand in hers as if I was the one in need of faith and consoling, and squeezed it gently. I had a vision of Jesus, years later asleep in the stern on a pillow, quietly napping as his disciples thought they were perishing (Mk 4:38). He knew they would not meet their demise. 

But did Mary know Jesus would ever be found again? Was she walking in darkness, while the whereabout of her boy were unknown and also while he lay lifeless as a man in a tomb. When a woman is pregnant, she knows she cannot stay pregnant forever, that the baby will come and it is just a matter of days, weeks, or months. But for Mary in these instances, what if she wasn't sure he would ever be found, or live again? How great that darkness, that silence, that vast ocean black as night! But perhaps God is impregnating us with faith, hope, patience during this desolate incubation.

When we finally find the boy in the Temple sitting among the teachers of the Law, a wave of joy washes over me upon seeing my boy Lord. But also a rush of relief, that this Good Friday ordeal and unbearable tension is finally over. For the past three days, nothing has mattered except WE MUST FIND JESUS, the way nothing matters to a drowning man except air. I'm beside myself; what was lost is now found.

But when I look over at Our Lady, she has a kind of...tiredness. Not annoyance, but a kind of weighty perplexion. In fact, both her and St. Joseph were "astonished," as she says, "Child, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have searching for you in great anxiety" (Lk 2:48). (In the Douay-Rheims translation, they had been searching for the boy "sorrowing." In the RSV, the NASB, the NIV, it was "anxiously" or "in great anxiety")

Now I love St. Francis de Sales and his pragmatic wisdom. But there is one saying of his that I've always struggled with, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. It is this:

"Anxiety is the greatest evil that can befall a soul, except sin. God commands you to pray, but He forbids you to worry." 

As someone who suffers from anxiety clinically, this is a heavy admonition to shoulder. I mean, I don't like it myself, and yet I fall into the worry-trap during stressful situations in which my anxiety gets away from me. To be accused of sin on top of it is even worse. 

But what is often left out when this quote is taken at face-value is in the preceding verse in Introduction To The Devout Life, where St. Francis says this:

"If any one strives to be delivered from his troubles out of love of God, he will strive patiently, gently, humbly and calmly, looking for deliverance rather to God’s Goodness and Providence than to his own industry or efforts; but if self-love is the prevailing object he will grow hot and eager in seeking relief, as though all depended more upon himself than upon God. I do not say that the person thinks so, but he acts eagerly as though he did think it. Then if he does not find what he wants at once, he becomes exceedingly impatient and troubled, which does not mend matters, but on the contrary makes them worse, and so he gets into an unreasonable state of anxiety and distress, till he begins to fancy that there is no cure for his trouble. Thus you see how a disturbance, which was right at the outset, begets anxiety, and anxiety goes on into an excessive distress, which is exceedingly dangerous" (XI).

Does Mary seem like the self-love type? The fretful type? One who rests on her own power and might of will? Not to me she doesn't. And so, her anxiety at not knowing where her son was was experienced as any human mother would experience it, yet buoyed by her supreme trust and confidence in God, not the kind of needless worry or anxiety St. Francis de Sales talks about. Were she not to have responded in the way she did--as if she was a Buddha from another planet, or unconcerned, it would not only undermine her humanity but our confidence in her as well as one we can turn to when we face similar trials. In the same way Christ, because he himself has suffered when tempted is able to help those who are being tempted (Heb 2:18). 

No, the "anxiety" of Mary was not the needless or useless kind that we in our imperfections subject ourselves to when we fall short in trust, faith, and confidence. The Greek term ὀδυνώμενοι used in Luke 2:48 can also be translated as to grieve, to be in agony.  

This is not your run of the mill anxiety, but the anguish of a mother being separated from her beloved son. But what if it was to prepare her for what was to come years later, not a mistake of human negligence but as a component of divine formula? Just as when he was in the tomb, she suffered the grief and agony of his death--not because it should not have happened, but because as someone so closely united to him she was resigned to it and entered full into the grieving and agony of that desolation of separation. She knew she had found her son once, three days after being separated from him; perhaps after his death, then, she knew in the silent, grieving astonishment of her heart that she would see him again.  

When to Follow the Crowd...and When Not To

When I was in high school, and before I was a Christian myself, I remember driving by the local Catholic church with my father one day. Mass must have just been getting out, as people were leaving the church en masse and walking to their cars. "Sheep," I muttered under my breath. "They're all sheep." As a general non-conformist and angsty punk-rock teenager who was ignorant of religion, it was a predictable response. But I remember it being visceral as well, a kind of disgust of "the masses" blindly following social norms and conforming themselves to something "good people did" (which was going to church). The fact that I remember using the term "sheep" was curious in itself, given the scriptural foundation for followers of Jesus. The reaction from my father--himself a Catholic, though one who left my brothers and I to our own discernment regarding religion--was swift, a kind of "How dare you" response. 

Curious also was my feeling of being conflicted over the scene and the competing emotions. I scoffed at groups of people all doing and thinking the same thing in uniformity, pitying them in a sense. But there was also a part of me that envied them. I wrestled with the human and religious questions as a teenager--why are we here? what is the purpose of life?, where do we go when we die?, how can I be happy?--but I was like an explorer without a map. Here were people honoring a prescribed mandate (to keep holy the Sabbath), and they knew where to go to do that (in this case, Our Lady of Mt. Carmel parish). 

Like many of the teachings of Christ, The Way is paradoxical--God gave us the Law through Moses and the fulfillment of the Law He gave to us in His son. Those who were once in darkness have seen a great light, for they now have a way back to God: through Christ. 

W.C. Fields said, "A dead fish can float downstream, but it takes a live one to stream upstream." We fight against our own concupiscence, as well as the allure of the world, the flesh, and the Devil. And as the Lord Christ makes clear in his teaching, “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it" (Mt 7:13-14). 

If we follow the ways of the world, we can be assured we are not on the narrow road. And so we are expected to follow Christ, who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and conform our life to his. As Catholics, we know we are meant to travel this road as a corporal body, not as individuals divorced from it. We account for our lives before the just Judge alone, but we do not get before the Throne on our own.

There are times when it is good practice to follow the herd, for sometimes it is for good reason. If you are driving on the highway and everyone is merging to the right lane because of construction, we would do well to follow suite. We all know that guy who insists on doing the opposite and then finds himself stuck with his turn signal on at the last moment, trying to make his way in to avoid the barriers. 

Likewise in the liturgy. As Catholics, we sit, kneel, stand at prescribed times, respond in unison at the appropriate times. It is not the place for following one's whims, or improv-ing with raised hands or free-wheeling vocal prayer. Were one to do so, they would not be praying with the mind of the Church in this context. 

And yet, even within the Church we are sometimes faced with scenarios in which we are called to swim upstream. When you look around you and everyone is receiving Communion in the hand, for instance, one may think this is what they should do so as not to stand out. But sometimes conscience dictates we do otherwise--either through refraining from receiving at all, or doing so by kneeling and receiving on the tongue. If you are blessed with a Latin Mass parish, this is a non-issue, as Communion in the hand is not given (which is how it should be). In this sense, conformity with established norms and practices is a light yoke, since it removes the tension and burden of having to buck the trend by being an outlier.

The Asch "Line Experiments" in the 1950's were an interesting case study, where 75% of 123 college-aged males answered a relatively simple question incorrectly when influenced by the majority. In the control group (not exposed to majority influence), the rate was 1%. "That intelligent, well-meaning, young people are willing to call white black is a matter of concern," he noted. 

In "The Hardest Thing For A Person To Do Is Go Against Their Tribe," I made reference to an Atlantic article from 2017 in which the author wrote,

“A man with a conviction is a hard man to change,” Festinger, Henry Riecken, and Stanley Schacter wrote in When Prophecy Fails, their 1957 book about this study. “Tell him you disagree and he turns away. Show him facts or figures and he questions your sources. Appeal to logic and he fails to see your point … Suppose that he is presented with evidence, unequivocal and undeniable evidence, that his belief is wrong: what will happen? The individual will frequently emerge, not only unshaken, but even more convinced of the truth of his beliefs than ever before.

“You spread stories because you know that they’re likely to be a kind of litmus test, and the way people react will show whether they’re prepared to side with you or not,” Boyer says. “Having social support, from an evolutionary standpoint, is far more important than knowing the truth about some facts that do not directly impinge on your life.” The meditation and sense of belonging that Daniel Shaw got from Siddha Yoga, for example, was at one time more important to his life than the alleged misdeeds of the gurus who led the group.

Shaw describes the motivated reasoning that happens in these groups: “You’re in a position of defending your choices no matter what information is presented,” he says, “because if you don’t, it means that you lose your membership in this group that’s become so important to you.” Though cults are an intense example, Shaw says people act the same way with regard to their families or other groups that are important to them.

The inference of conformity to the state of the world should be obvious. But it gets a little more gray when it comes to our duty as Christians within the Church. The strongest Christians are usually those who have weighed the evidence, determined the stakes, and discerned the costs of following Christ and do so anyway. This can include those who have a strong non-conformist personality but who nonetheless discern the truth of Catholicism. The weakest are those who go to Mass or believe "because I was raised this way," or "I don't know, it's just what we do" unreflexively.

And yet, in relation to Christ, he still refers to his flock as sheep--those who follow a voice they know, who act unthinkingly in a herd, who have an innocent desire to simply follow. The wolf, by contrast, is one who breaks in to the pen to cause carnage--instinctual, prowling, aggressive, and led by no one. 

In Matthew 10:16, Christ admonishes us to be "wise as serpents, and innocent as doves," and commends shrewdness as well (Lk 16:1-15). He tells his disciples regarding the Pharisees, "do everything they tell you. But do not do what they do, for they do not practice what they preach" (Mt 23:23). Again, there is this uncomfortable paradox: we are not to conform ourselves to the ways of the world, but to Christ and his teachings, which should be obvious. Less obvious is how we should conform our behavior of our fellow Christians within the Church.

As in many instances, the saints give us the example, as St. Paul gave to the Corinthians to "be imitators of me" (1 Cor 11:1). Were St. Thomas More or St. John Fisher to conform themselves to their fellow bishops during their time, they would have found themselves on the road to perdition. Were St. Teresa of Avila not to have urged Pope Gregory XI to return to Rome from Avignon, we may have a very different Church today. Even modern day followers of Christ like Fr. Benedict Groeschel found it necessary to establish a new religious order (the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal) to get back to the roots of their charism of poverty, though it would have been 'easier' to stay with the Capuchins. 

In all these instances, this was not a matter of conformity, but conscience. As Cardinal John Henry Newman wrote so eloquently, 

"The rule and measure of duty is not utility, nor expedience, nor the happiness of the greatest number, nor State convenience, nor fitness, order, and the pulchrum. Conscience is not a long-sighted selfishness, nor a desire to be consistent with oneself; but it is a messenger from Him, who, both in nature and in grace, speaks to us behind a veil, and teaches and rules us by His representatives."

And therein lies the paradox: that Christ speaks to us behind a veil, and yet teaches and rules us by His representatives, just as he commanded his disciples to do everything the Pharisees told them, but not to do what they do. And so we conform in the macro, and discern in the micro. 

My personality as a non-conformist has not changed over the years; it is both surprising and unsurprising that I became a Catholic twenty-five years ago as a teenager, and have remained so to this day by God's grace. In doing so, I have sought to conform my will to Christ's, and my life to the teachings of his Church. I follow the same road as those who have gone before me, rather than bushwhacking and getting lost in the forest. In that, I am a sheep.

But if it is God's will I be a saint, there may come a time in which conforming my life to that of those around me within Her walls and resting in that comfort is not enough, as our Lord told St. Peter, "when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go" (Jn 21:18). This applies to all who wish to follow Christ and be baptized into his death. For the saint must walk alone.