But first a note: Friends: We're heading into Advent tomorrow - a Sunday when we don't fundraise. But we really need more to pick up our pace. Today. We're about halfway to where we need to be, and a lot is riding on your contributions - nothing less than our ability to continue our work into 2026. Many people have asked me over the years how we manage. And I tell them that it's easy. I have great confidence in our readers. Please make that a reality again this year. These are challenging days in the Church and the world. Let's do all we can to face them. At TCT, we will. Are you ready to join us. - Robert Royal

Now for today's column by Fr. Raymond J. de Souza.

Only a few years ago - more than twenty years into my priesthood - I discovered the Eucharistic Prayers for Reconciliation. They have been in the Roman Missal for decades now, but many of us priests leave unexplored the treasures of the Missal - votive Masses, Masses for various needs and occasions, solemn blessings, etc.

The story of those reconciliation prayers is linked to the Holy Year 1975, and marks a fruit of the liturgical reform at a tumultuous time. That story itself is worth recalling about the prayer that is at the heart of the Mass.

For some 1600 years, the Roman Canon (Eucharistic Prayer I) was the only "anaphora," as it is properly called. The liturgical movement of the 19th and 20th centuries expressed some longstanding concerns about the prayer, namely the strange absence of the Holy Spirit, and that its literary structure was less than cohesive. Yet it had been consecrated by more than a millennium of use, venerable on that ground alone. In any case, the rubrics of the Tridentine missal had it recited sotto voce, so it was not heard by the congregation. Depending upon the Latin fluency of the priest, it was quite possible that even he was unconcerned with such matters.

After Vatican II, the decision to have the anaphora recited aloud and in the vernacular languages raised a question. Was the Roman Canon suitable for such at every Mass? The view that prevailed was that it would be burdensome for priests and people alike, and so new eucharistic prayers were drafted, some from ancient sources, others composed latterly.

The Church, as she often does, found it difficult to strike a balance in the new usage, and so the Roman Canon disappeared almost entirely in practice, though the anaphora itself remained in its primary place, largely untouched. There are a few priests who still choose to use it in all Masses, which remains an option.

The new missal of Paul VI included four anaphoras. The briefest of them (II) attracted the most enthusiasm in use, likely for that reason.

The third, to my mind, is of superior literary quality, with its soaring opening - invoking all persons of the Trinity, the work of Creation, the enduring covenant of salvation, with a "pure sacrifice" being offered "from the rising of the sun to its setting" - and its concluding image of the Church as a "pilgrim on earth" constantly offering its "oblation" of the "the sacrificial Victim" by which she is "nourished by the Body and Blood of your Son and filled with his Holy Spirit."

The fourth anaphora presents a sweeping account of the history of salvation, rendered in language suffused with Biblical language and images. In the "fullness of time," one can almost hear Jesus preaching in the synagogue at Nazareth. (Luke 4) The relevant rubrics restrict its use to Ordinary Time, and I find it suitable particularly for Sundays during the year.

The additional prayers are, to my eyes and ears, welcome additions. From a strictly literary point of view, I find that the Roman Canon is euphonious in Latin in a way that it is not in English; famulórum famularumque is pleasing to the ear in a way that mere "servants" or even "servants and handmaidens" is not. It retains its venerable status, and I use it when that is the desirable criterion, but more often prefer the other options.

Options were abo...

by David Warren

But first a note from Robert Royal: So, you're feeling thankful after turkey day. And I won't badger. But we still depend on you. So please, be generous. There's you. There's The Catholic Thing...

Now for today's column...

Good news! Owing to a combination of demographic realities and public scandal, universities are progressing into a phase-out, around the United States and the world.

The cause of their extinction will be that they are no longer attractive to anyone, and too expensive even to consider. Their former beneficiaries are thus abandoning them out of self-interest, and with luck, they should soon cease to clutter our educational landscape.

They are not, of course, completely worthless. Nothing is truly worthless in God's green world, and much can be recycled. But they are nearly worthless in comparison to the extraordinary "investments" poured into them from public (taxpayer) and private sources.

Indeed, not even a degree from, say, Harvard University, is entirely worthless, for it will be printed on one side only, so that the reverse side will serve as superior notepaper.

These are developments that were devoutly wished for - although not by quite everyone - at least since the beginning of the XIIIth century, when Oxford and the University of Paris were being officially incorporated.

Bologna (or "Baloney" as we say in America) was founded more than a century before that, but only as the pre-eminent medieval law school. Its pretensions were thus limited, at first. To seek the deeper sort of wisdom, one generally became a monk.

Thus, "objectivity" was encouraged, nay imposed, by the Church. To look more completely into truth, one had to stand with one's mind outside it. That's why the "higher" education of the learned took place outside the catastrophic mess in which the world was always entangled. Colleges were confined within cathedrals and monasteries, where seminarians could be guided, and not left loose to become a public danger. Heresy was not to be encouraged.

While daggers and swords date (according to the archaeologists) to several thousands of years before the medieval past, cannons had not yet been invented (in China!), and the outer world was at least free of the noisier sort of anthropogenic explosions.

But secular universities put the world on the path to A-bombs. Learning was put at the service of psychotics, seeking political power, and has been increasingly dedicated to their convenience, in the time ever since.

It was discovered that the young, when partially and later completely freed from religious discipline, were truly "kids," who tended to run wild on university campuses. Then, as now, they became the psychological playthings of the worst kind of professors.

We have had eight centuries or more of student riots, as even a casual review of the history will affirm. But we have had as much experience of morally corrupt faculty.

These universities were, again, from the beginning, secular institutions, even though some of the better ones fell under the influence of the Church, and were told sometimes to follow religious, and Christian, decrees.

Or to be perfectly candid, they were created by liberals, often within the Church, bent upon experimenting with young minds, and with the confidence that this would serve a liberal agenda.

"Reactionaries," i.e., those without a liberal agenda, were slower off the mark, crippled by the fear of hubris.

This agenda hasn't changed very much since the Xth century. It will not change until the original cause of decline has been removed: the reckless spread of "learning."

This was a departure, in spirit, from the intentions of the old "Black Monks" of the Benedictine tradition, and even of the first Cluniac reformers, who longed for nothing more than actual reform, which, as the literate used to know, is a return to first principles.

By comparison, the sometimes dangerously proud, "cool" men in black from the new monastic orders, could be damnably...

But first a note from Robert Royal: Today is a day specially set aside for giving thanks. And all of us at TCT - Dominic Cassella, Brad Miner, Karen Popp, Hannah Russo, and myself - thank each of you personally for being readers and supporters of our work. It's such a joyful time that we bring you two reflections on the day - Stephen White about feasting properly in spite of everything, and Michael Foley, in a lighter but still important vein, about being worthy of using other living things for our food. Enjoy and Happy Thanksgiving!

Now for today's columns.

Feasting at the End of the World

By Stephen P. White...

There is something fitting about the date of Thanksgiving. I don't mean that there's anything particularly special about the fourth Thursday of November except that it invariably falls in the last week of Ordinary Time. And so our secular holiday corresponds with the close of the liturgical year. This produces an interesting juxtaposition in which a celebration of God's bounty and blessings is set amidst a liturgical barrage of readings about the end of the world.

Take, for example, the readings for today: Thursday of the 34th week in Ordinary Time. In the first reading, we see men break into Daniel's home, denounce him before the king, and have him thrown to the lions. We know the story ends happily for Daniel, but not for his accusers or their wives or their children. "Before they reached the bottom of the den, the lions overpowered them and crushed all their bones."

The Gospel for the day is taken from Luke, and it's apocalyptic from start to finish. "Jesus said to his disciples: 'When you see Jerusalem surrounded by armies, know that its desolation is at hand.'" and it gets worse from there: Woe to pregnant women, people falling by the edge of the sword, being trampled underfoot, or dying of fright.

The Lord promises to return in glory and exhorts the faithful to stand erect, but the whole scene sounds awful, and one gets the distinct sense that Jesus fully intends for it to sound awful. When the Son of God warns of "terrible calamity," and "wrathful judgment," and "nations in dismay," it is prudent to take him seriously.

In the United States, of course, we generally hear the readings for Thanksgiving Day, not for Thursday of the 34th week in Ordinary Time, and these readings are much less likely to sour one's stomach before the turkey is even in the oven. The readings for Thanksgiving Day are all about gratitude for God's blessings.

We hear from the Book of Sirach how the Lord tends the child even in the womb, and of joy and peace and the Lord's enduring goodness. We hear from Paul's first letter to the Corinthians how God pours out his grace and every spiritual gift. In the Gospel (also from Luke), Jesus heals ten lepers and the Samaritan alone among them returns to give thanks: "Stand up and go; your faith has saved you."

No lions; no crushed bones; no terrible calamity or wrathful judgment. Just grace, healing, and glory to God for blessings bestowed.

This juxtaposition between these two sets of readings, the wide variance in tone, might seem jarring, even contradictory. But we Christians know that the futility of this world, which is passing away - both in the transience and material corruption we experience every day of our short lives, and in the tumultuous, terrible, no doubt awesome end to come - in no way negates the goodness of this world or of this present life.

These are extraordinary gifts, given to us by a loving God, for our use and enjoyment. He made this world for us, and He made us capable of enjoying it.

Of course, being a stiff-necked, ungrateful race, we tend to make a hash of these gifts. We worship the gift to the exclusion of the Giver. We lose sight of the proper end for which all these wonderful means are intended. We hoard and waste His gifts, both of which are species of ingratitude.

We even, some of us, teach ourselves to despise His gifts in a misguided attempt to compensate for ...

By Robert Royal.

But first a note: There's an old French saying: reculer pour mieux sauter, which means "to step back to jump better." It's got many uses, not least in the Church. When we find ourselves at an impasse, it's wise - and often more effective - to look carefully at what we've done in the past as we confront the future. Today's column tries to recover some often misunderstood things about St. Francis of Assisi who lived at a time of political and religious turmoil different than our own. But he faced them with an attitude and a spirit that is worth getting to know better because it's something quite different than the remedies that don't seem to be doing much in our day.

At The Catholic Thing, we're all in favor of aggiornamento, the term Vatican II used for the Faith facing up to contemporary challenges. But that won't succeed without something we also pursue, ressourcement, the Council's wish to recover the ancient sources. We're committed to pursuing both of these necessary paths today and into the future. Please join us in these endeavors. We can't do it without you. Make a donation - there's a monthly option if a one-time lump sum is too much. But do something. The work is urgent and the time is short.

Now for today's column...

Pope Francis left the Church with multiple controversies, some that he inherited, some that he induced. Indeed, amid the complaints about clericalism and "backwardists," the considerable presence of LGBT and feminist concerns in recent Church pronouncements, we might ask where to find a more robust, dare one say militant and masculine Catholicism - much needed given the challenges from renascent Islam and Western decline. Much of this might be viewed in light of the late pope's decision - as a Jesuit! - to take the name of the little poor man of Assisi, St. Francis.

I've been thinking about these questions while reading Augustine Thompson O.P.'s Francis of Assisi: A New Biography, which is "new" not only because it's relatively recent, but in that it takes an interesting path towards identifying the "historical Francis." Which is to say, insofar as we can reconstruct him from the more reliable sources, amid the traditional myths and recent "Francises": the hippie Francis, the Francis of a poor stripped-down Church, the environmentalist Francis, etc. And while Thompson doesn't entirely dismiss the old stories or modern romanticized versions, he offers correctives worth the attention of any reader concerned for historical truth.

To take a prominent instance, most people believe that the saccharine "St. Francis Prayer" ("Make me a channel of your peace") is by St. Francis. It was actually composed around 1912, in French. And more significantly, "Noble as its sentiments are, Francis would not have written such a piece, focused as it is on the self, with its constant repetition of the pronouns 'I' and 'me,' the words 'God' and 'Jesus' never appearing once." Thompson reports that the discovery of all this is quite often very painful for his students, who have been led to believe otherwise.

As this example shows, Thompson is meticulous about sources and clears up numerous misunderstandings. In fact, this biography is also "new" in that it has a curious form. It's - nominally - just under 300 pages, but only the first half is biography. The second half consists, not of footnotes, but of brief discussions about questions raised, chapter by chapter, among the scholars. As such, it's an invaluable guide for anyone who wants to approach the real St. Francis instead of the one often concocted to serve contemporary agendas.

Clearly, it's not easy to map what Francis did in the thirteenth century onto our current age. But there are multiple interesting points of contact. For instance, as per the "Francis Prayer," the saint did seek "peace" among the Italians of his day, who were almost perpetually at war, not only among the different city-states (in which Francis had fought himself), but also betwee...

By Randall Smith.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Friends: God calls to His people through many means, even within His Church. Professor Smith, who teaches theology - one of the harder disciplines - is without doubt correct that many people have to be well on the way to Christianity even before they get to theology proper. Given the situation that we're in, we need to be laying out all avenues for those with eyes to see and ears to hear. At TCT, we take that to be a central part of our charism. The Thing is many things and more than things. Please, join us in this great work. Make your contribution to The Catholic Thing. Today.

Now for today's column...

There are many reasons people come into the Catholic Church, but a common one is their experience of its beauty: the beauty of the art, the architecture, the music, and the liturgy. Too often, those whose goal is "evangelizing" ignore the beauty expressed and embodied in the Church's artistic tradition. Why?

There are few more effective tools for encouraging people to take the Church seriously than hearing the angelic sound of Monteverdi's Vespers of the Blessed Virgin or Josquin des Prez's Missa Pange Lingua; appreciating the superb paintings of Fra Angelico and Caravaggio; or contemplating the transcendent beauty of the Cathedral of Chartres and the Duomo in Florence. Experiencing any of these would be a good first step, but there is so much more that this step would be like dipping your toe in a vast ocean stretching out beyond the horizon.

I teach theology. I believe in the importance of helping young people gain an "understanding of the faith." But I can't do what great art and architecture can do to inspire the awe appropriate to the transcendent mysteries of our faith.

A STEM colleague of mine couldn't understand why the university required so many literature courses. He was a devoted Catholic and a daily communicant at Mass, who understood why we had theology courses, but not why we had so many required literature courses.

I told him that I preferred that our students take more courses on Dante, Chaucer, and the poetry of John Donne than simply taking yet another course to satisfy a theology requirement. "No, no, no," he said. "All they need is a course on composition and writing." He saw no need for any formation of the Catholic imagination to help move the passions and fill the hearts of our students with the glories of the Christian artistic tradition.

Even many "conservative" Catholic institutions spend precious little time introducing their students to the artistic treasures of their tradition. "Let's read a few more books," seems to be the guiding principle. Reading is great. But people in universities, professors and students both, can get "lost in their heads." We need to be "brought back to earth" - not in the sense of becoming less idealistic and more "pragmatic." This rarely brings people "back to earth" in the right way.

A better way arises from a deeper appreciation of the Incarnation. And there are few better ways to help students understand the mystery of the Incarnation - of what it means for the Word to become flesh with its mysterious marriage of the eternal and the material - than to introduce them to the beauty embodied in the best Christian art and architecture.

We wonder why young people leave the Church. Could it be because we haven't connected them emotionally and spiritually to her beauty? Young couples come back to beautiful churches when they want to get married. They travel to places around the world and visit the great art and beautiful churches.

When universities want to recruit new students and build a sense of devotion to the school, they make sure to take them to the beautiful traditional buildings on the campus. Those are the ones the students will proudly keep coming back to visit. They will bring their friends and say things like, "I had several classes in that building," knowing that their friends will consider them fortunate...

By Brad Miner.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Friends: Dostoyevsky made one of his characters say, "Beauty will save the world." There are many days when it seems doubtful that he was right. But it's worth always keeping in mind that there are deeper realities than the day-to-day controversies - even in the Church - which may ultimately decide what happens in this world and the next. Today, Brad Miner takes us through a masterly account of some of the works of a man who may have been the greatest Catholic artist ever - and in multiple media.

Here at The Catholic Thing, we've always said that part of our mission is to recover the Catholic cultural tradition, the richest in the world, both for its own sake and for the light it brings to our world. There's so much that needs doing in our circumstances that we have to do more, better, longer than perhaps ever before. If you find that prospect challenging, please help us take The Catholic Thing to even greater days. Just click the button. Do your part.

Now for today's column...

There's another basilica called St. Peter's in Rome, located near the Colosseum. San Pietro in Vincoli ("St. Peter in Chains") is a minor basilica that gets its own share of visitors, many of whom come for just one reason.

Therein lies the "tomb" of Julius II, although the late pope is not interred there. Julius (Giuliano della Rovere) now lies in the other St. Peter's, the world's greatest church, next to his uncle, Pope Sixtus IV.

Julius, who had no small opinion of his august self, wanted a grand memorial to his life and papacy, so he brought Michelangelo Buonarroti to Rome to design it. The great, 30-year-old artist accepted with gusto, visualizing it as his life's great work. And it's to see this (especially its central sculpture) that people come to San Pietro in Vincoli.

What they see, however, is a work very much diminished from the original vision of Julius and Michelangelo because problems arose.

Julius decided that, having Michelangelo in his employ, the artist was just the man to illuminate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Michelangelo had begun to work on the tomb in 1505 but was forced to put the project on hold in 1508 to climb the scaffolding in the Chapel and begin painting what many consider the greatest achievement of the Renaissance (if not in the whole history of art), a project he worked on for four years, completing the ceiling on October 31, 1512.

Julius was relieved. Now, he assumed, he'd live to see the tomb that would be a monument to his monumental life. Michelangelo's original plan was for an enormous, free-standing, three-tiered sort of wedding-cake structure featuring 40 statues. It would be 23 feet wide, 26-1/4 feet tall, and 36 feet deep, and fairly dominate the interior of the new and equally enormous St. Peter's at the Vatican, then under construction. And it might have worked if sited there, but it was not to be. Because it was at this point that the project came to a halt.

Why is not entirely clear. To be sure, the construction of the new St. Peter's was a drain on the Vatican treasury, and its then-chief architect, Donato Bramante, was no friend of Michelangelo, and he may have convinced Julius that overseeing the construction of one's own tomb was bad form for a holy man.

And there were wars, of course - with Julius leading the army of the Papal States. And, on the gloomy horizon, religious dissent that would lead to the Protestant Reformation.

The Vatican balance sheet was sliding into the red.

But Julius would not abandon the tomb project. In fact, he issued a bull (February 19, 1513) declaring that Michelangelo would be the only one to craft his tomb - a very high-powered back-to-work order. Michelangelo had finished his work on the Sistine Chapel a few months before. So now, Julius must have thought: Now he can finish my tomb!

Two days later, the pope died.

Michelangelo did finish the "tomb" in 1545, just two years before Pope Paul III would name him Chie...

By John D. Grondelski

This year marks the centennial of the institution of the Solemnity of Christ the King. Pope Pius XI published the encyclical Quas primas on December 11, 1925, which sketched the theology and announced the new feast of the "Kingship of Our Lord Jesus Christ."

Contrary to this year's protest rhetoric, America does have a king. All men have a king, because the Kingdom of God encompasses all men. As the Preface for the feast observes, Christ presents to His Father "an eternal and universal kingdom."

The claims of Christ's Kingship might seem to most people today inflated, even triumphalist. They are an offense to a modernity that makes its peace with secularism, something of which even some clerics urge us to see as a positive development.

But one should not forget the historical context that motivated Pius XI. The world had passed less than a decade since the "Great War," which didn't acquire the appellation of "First World War" until a Second one outstripped it. The horrors of World War I profoundly marked that generation, shocked that a Europe which prided itself on its mission of exporting "civilization" could be so basely uncivilized.

Nor were the pope's concerns limited to the Marne, the Argonne, and Amiens. As nuncio, then-Archbishop Ratti was the last diplomat who stayed in Poland to witness the "Miracle on the Vistula," which halted the Bolsheviks' Western offensive in 1920. The Battle of Warsaw probably saved Western Europe from Communism for a generation.

The papal diagnosis of the previous decade - both of the mutual butchery of Europe's old order as well as the threat posed by the new regimes - was man's abandonment of God and His Law: "[T]he majority of men had thrust Jesus Christ and his holy law out of their lives; that these had no place either in private affairs or in politics."

That same dismissal of the Deity and Divine Law also would send men down futile rabbit holes of human-designed peace and security, culminating in the risible 1929 Kellogg-Briand Pact, which solemnly proclaimed war to be forever outlawed - just a decade before the next World War. Pius XI had a different vision: "[A]s long as individuals and states refused to submit to the rule of our Savior, there would be no really hopeful prospect of a lasting peace among nations."

A century later, those of us stuck in the postmodern condition may imagine the pope's warnings to be quaint in a world where "democracy" demands a strict separation of church and state, exiling God from the public square.

The truth is that democracy demands no such thing, though we pretend that it does to avoid the demands binding every human being by virtue of natural law - another reality unfortunately consigned to unjustified silence.

The Gospels may speak of the "things of God and the things of Caesar," but - while respecting the legitimate "autonomy of created things" - Christians never understood that division to make both sides equal, as if there were things of Caesar that were not first and always things of God.

The human temptation to build a world without God dates back to man's origins. It was, in fact, the temptation of the first sin: to be as gods, by which we, not God, defined good and evil. It was also the temptation of Babel: to reach heaven by human means.

It is precisely against those temptations that the Kingship of Christ stands. His is a Kingship rooted in spiritual truth, grounded in "justice, peace, and love." It is a Kingship that recognizes man's desire to reach Heaven is fulfilled through his union with the Crucified and Risen King, not by human self-sufficiency.

Contrary to those who would argue claims of human freedom, Quas primas explicitly connects "the blessings of real liberty" with recognition "both in private and in public life, that Christ is King."

The problem of genuine freedom is arguably a leading moral problem of our day. Is freedom the end in itself, self-justifying so that whatever is done freely is good? Or -...

By Robert Lazu Kmita.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Friends: We are finishing the first week of our end-of-year fundraising, and we've already come a good way. As always, I like to get back to our main business as soon as possible - bringing you the very best commentary on things Catholic. But that, among other things, depends on you. So let's do this. Let's lay the foundation for TCT in 2026 - and beyond.

Now for today's column...

In recent months, we have heard a great deal about traditional liturgies being canceled in certain dioceses. Of course, this is nothing new. The tenacity of certain bishops, however, in eliminating not only these liturgies but also the groups devoted to preserving and transmitting the Catholic liturgical treasure cannot fail to worry us.

First, it must be said that the core of the heated debate surrounding the right of the Traditional Latin Mass to exist is not liturgical in nature. A certain vision of the evolution and state of the world over the past centuries - marked dramatically by the collapse of Catholic monarchies and by revolutions, Marxism-Leninism, Nazism, and the two World Wars - has generated the idea of a complete "readjustment" (i.e., aggiornamento) of the traditional categories of Christian theology and morality, as well as of divine worship.

The premise of this vision is sensitivity and understanding of modern man, who is allegedly no longer capable of receiving the Gospel as transmitted through the traditional means that the Church has employed for nearly two millennia. Hence, the "updating" of the entire Christian religion would be a necessity imposed by new historical conditions. Regardless of how it is phrased, this is the main argument of the "reformers" - often accompanied by the claim that "We no longer live in the Middle Ages!"

The second reason for the changes, systematically denounced by the lovers of Tradition and the defenders of continuity and immutability in divine worship, concerns the theological core expressed in the liturgical and sacramental forms, which were directed against the Protestant tsunami by the Council of Trent (1545-1563).

Critics insistently claim that these forms no longer meet the new needs. Fundamental notions such as "sacrifice," "symbol," "penance," "reparation," and the like have been bracketed under the influence of a confused ecclesiology. Thus, it is no longer clear whether the Catholic Church is still the one true Church founded by Our Lord Jesus Christ - the only community in which salvation is possible.

This, of course, leads us to the third reason for the liturgical reforms: the ecumenical one, which represents a notable departure from the teachings and ecclesiological style that existed before the Second Vatican Council. In this case, the goal is not so much to adapt to the sensitivity and understanding of modern man as to adapt to the requirements of dialogue with other Christian denominations - a dialogue in which openness and the desire to minimize differences (unfortunately, at the cost of diluting traditional teachings) are dominant.

Thus, although any form of communicatio in sacris with members of other denominations was strictly forbidden to Catholics before the Council, today joint prayers and meetings like those of Assisi and Abu Dhabi have become the norm, while the voices of the few Cardinals and bishops who raise concerns are quickly silenced.

In such a context, the Liturgy of the Ages - characterized by its monarchical and hierarchical principle, and by the sacredness and reverence faithfully preserved by the clergy and the faithful devoted to Tradition - remains the target of those convinced that it represents an outdated, sclerotic form, incapable of overcoming the current crisis.

In the excellent volume edited by Joseph Shaw, The Latin Mass and the Intellectuals, even the hierarchs charged with overseeing the activity of the Ecclesia Dei Commission (suppressed by Pope Francis in 2019, with its responsibilities t...

By George J. Marlin.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Friends: With all the online infighting over who's a "Nazi" or a "Fascist," almost no one stops to think why it is that we regard such political formations as wrong. Today, George Marlin, recalling the trials of real Nazis, explains the need to resort to divine law and natural law. But to do that brings with it certain other public judgments as well. At The Catholic Thing, we'd be glad to see that, and labor towards it in various ways. And that's the reason for our end-of-year fundraising, which is moving along. But I have to be frank and say we need to step up the pace and need many more of you simply to step up. Our business manager, Hannah Russo, just reminded me that this week TCT turns seventeen. So by my reckoning, we're still in our early youth - and plan on having many years ahead. Please help us to make that a reality so that TCT can continue to appear every day, now and for a long time to come.

Now for today's column...

Exactly eighty years ago yesterday, the War Crimes Tribunal convened a trial to prosecute twenty-four Nazi leaders - a legal procedure with continued relevance for us today. The driving force behind the creation of the tribunal was American President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Shortly after America entered the war, he said, "It is our intention that just and sure punishment shall be meted out to the ringleaders responsible for the organized murders of thousands of innocent persons in the commission of atrocities which have violated every tenet of the Christian faith."

The November 20, 1945 indictment of the 24 Nazi ringleaders consisted of three parts. Part one accused the defendants of conspiracy to wage a war of aggression and violation of international treaties; these were "crimes against peace." Part two charged the defendants with violations of the laws and customs of war as embodied in the Hague and Geneva conventions and as recognized by the military forces of all civilized nations; these were "war crimes against peace." And finally, part three accused the Nazis of the extermination of racial, ethnic, and religious groups and with other atrocities against civilians; these were "crimes against humanity."

The arguments of the defense were essentially two. First, it was claimed that at the time the various acts were alleged to have been committed, the "crimes," which the defendants were now being charged, had no statutory basis: either in German law or international law; that the legal basis of indictments had been created after the fact. Since "ex post facto" laws are constitutionally prohibited by each of the Allied Powers, they could hardly have validity in a court convened by those nations.

The defense's second argument was that the accused ought not to be charged with the consequences of following the orders of Germany's lawful leaders. Hitler's supreme authority had been confirmed equally by appointed judges and elected legislators, and he was able to boast of the Nazi Party: "We stand absolutely as hard as granite on the ground of legality."

It was, however, perverse legality. Beginning with the decree for the Protection of the People of the State (1933), which obliterated the personal freedoms formally protected by the Weimar Constitution, the Nazis promulgated a series of legal outrages. There were "Racial Purity" laws that forbade marriage between Jews and non-Jews. There were laws that forced the registration of "alien races" and genetically "less valuable" individuals; and laws that expelled Jews from government employment and permitted the "Aryanization" of Jewish assets. From such "hard as granite" laws, Hitler and the German leadership fashioned the Final Solution.

Yet, despite the enormity of these Nazi atrocities, the legal dilemma at Nuremberg was very real. In establishing a case against the defendants, especially on charges of "crimes against humanity," the prosecution had no pre-existing statutes sufficient to the task. B...

By Michael Pakaluk.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Friends: When I meet many of you in person, I often hear how much you love reading The Catholic Thing. And I often reply: so do I - and I read it a day before you do, when I don't write it myself. And just look today at what Michael Pakaluk has given us all! How can you not support that? You know how. There's the Button. There's you. There's The Catholic Thing.

Now for today's column...

The Church is a poet, in the strict sense, since through the Spirit she makes poems, that is, beautiful, created objects. Her sacraments and liturgical year are poems: they have meaning and even tell a story. Likewise, each parish church is a poem, and each liturgy celebrated there. And every faithful Catholic must be zealous for this poetry.

At least, so much I have gained by pondering Newman, Doctor of the Church. Newman traced the origin of his beloved Oxford Movement to a longing for this poetry. It was an attempt to recover the poetry that properly belongs to the Catholic Church.

It began in 1827, with the publication of John Keble's book of poems, The Christian Year. Few know this book today. Evidently, it played its role and departed. Yet historians say that, with perhaps 1 million copies sold, Keble's was the most popular volume of English verse in the 19th century.

The Christian Year contains a poem for each Sunday in the liturgical year, and for various feasts, such as St. Stephen's and Holy Innocents. Christian families used it as a breviary, reading aloud the poem for the week and memorizing it together. In doing so they would also pray, because, as Keble says in his Dedication, his poetry was the fruit of prayer:

When in my silent solitary walk,

I sought a strain not all unworthy Thee,

My heart, still ringing with wild worldly talk,

Gave forth no note of holier minstrelsy.

Prayer is the secret, to myself I said,

Strong supplication must call down the charm,

And thus with untuned heart I feebly prayed,

Knocking at Heaven's gate with earth-palsied arm.

Fountain of Harmony!

Keble, then, would re-enchant the world by enchanting it, by calling down "the charm" in prayer.

Newman's assessment:

[Keble] did that for the Church of England which none but a poet could do; he made it poetical. . . .the author of the Christian Year found the Anglican system all but destitute of this divine element, which is an essential property of Catholicism; a ritual dashed upon the ground, trodden on, and broken piece-meal; prayers, clipped, pieced, torn, shuffled about at pleasure, until the meaning of the composition perished, and offices which had been poetry were no longer even good prose; antiphons, hymns, benedictions, invocations, shovelled away; Scripture lessons turned into chapters. . .a smell of dust and damp, not of incense. . .the royal arms for the crucifix; huge ugly boxes of wood, sacred to preachers, frowning on the congregation in the place of the mysterious altar. . .and for orthodoxy, a frigid, inelastic, inconsistent, dull, helpless dogmatic, which could give no just account of itself.

His happy magic made the Anglican Church seem what Catholicism was and is.

Because of the success of The Christian Year, in 1831 Keble was appointed Chair of Poetry at Oxford. Two years later, on July 14th, he preached his famous sermon on "National Apostasy," which Newman in his Apologia later said "I have ever considered and kept. . .as the start of the religious movement of 1833."

Thus, the Oxford Movement and therefore Newman's own conversion began with poetry. From out of the shadows of poetry (ex umbris et imaginibus), Newman entered into the truth poetry (in veritatem) of the Church.

For Newman, Keble was part of a broader movement of yearning after beauty and truth which today we call the "Romantic Movement" (on which see the perceptive commentary of Andrew Klavan, The Truth and Beauty). But whereas the Romantic poets, whom Keble admired, looked to build a new civilization on the ruins of ...