The Catholic Thing

By Michael Pakaluk

But first a note: Be sure to tune in tonight - Thursday, December 4 at 8 PM Eastern - to EWTN for a new episode of the Papal Posse on 'The World Over.' TCT Editor-in-Chief Robert Royal and contributor Fr. Gerald E. Murray will join host Raymond Arroyo to discuss Pope Leo's pilgrimage to Turkey and Lebanon, recent developments inside the Vatican, controversies over the Latin Mass, and other liturgical practices in the United States. Check your local listings for the channel in your area. Shows are usually available shortly after first airing on the EWTN YouTube channel. Your contributions also make it possible for us to bring you these broadcasts. So please remember The Catholic Thing during this giving season.

Now for today's column...

Anyone who prays the Divine Office will say the Benedictus each morning, as it is the closing hymn of Lauds (Morning Prayer). It's also called "The Canticle of Zechariah," the father of John the Baptist, who sang the Benedictus ("Blessed be God") when his infant son was circumcised, on the eighth day.

More precisely, he sang it after the ceremony of naming. If the ancient Jewish practice was like current practice: first, the baby was circumcised, which act was understood to place him within the covenant of Abraham. Then, his father would declare the baby's name, which the parents would have kept secret until then.

A circumcision ceremony was a festive gathering of friends and relatives. Apparently, it was so obvious to the crowd there that the baby was to be called "Zechariah" after his dad, that they started saying that name spontaneously, as if it were a settled fact. (Luke 1:59) Zechariah was still mute: therefore, it was left to the mother, Elizabeth, to contradict them: "Not so; but he shall be called John." (v. 60, Douay-Rheims) It was a fitting role for her to assume anyway, because she was the one who had believed the words of the angel.

And yet it was the father who had final authority over the name (as when Joseph would later name Jesus). Therefore, they turned to Zechariah.

About this, Luke writes, curiously, "They made signs to his father, how he would have him called," which has puzzled the commentators. After all, it was Zechariah who was mute: why did they need to make signs? And the best answers are that Zechariah was punished with deafness as well as muteness; or that the crowd made the very human mistake of supposing that they needed to communicate with him "in his language." If the latter, then how endearing that Luke passes on this little detail, which would have been recalled by everyone there, clearly, as a silly misapprehension!

A writing tablet was at hand. And in this, there is a lesson, because writing tablets then were like scratch pads now. They were always at hand, and therefore apostles such as Matthew, a recorder by trade, would have been writing things down on them all the time. But these tablets of wax and thin wood were frail and have not survived from classical times except under unusual circumstances, e.g., if they were left in cool, dry caves.

So, Zechariah takes the tablet and writes, "John is his name." Luke says the crowd "wondered" at it. They marveled; they were puzzled; they were amazed. In the gospels, amazement is the typical reaction of a crowd, superficial and unthinking, when they encounter something strange.

Just then, however, Zechariah regains his ability to speak. Tellingly, his first words are not "John is his name," but rather he blesses God! And now the crowd responds, rather, with fear, because they recognize that some numinous power is at work, right there, among them.

This newfound fear has instilled some sense in them, because they see that the miracle was worked not as much for the father, as to point towards the newly-named son: "What do you suppose this child will be?" they ask one another.

Zechariah answers their question, and this is his Canticle or Hymn. He spoke those words as prophecy, being "filled with th...

By Francis X. Maier.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Friends: I'm told yesterday was Giving Tuesday. I don't much like these "days," and 'weeks," and "months" that have largely replaced the Church year in our radically secularizing society. But many of you certainly were in a giving mood. Thanks to you all. It brought us considerably further along the way to our funding goals. As Fran Maier makes clear today, the central activity of the Church used to be evangelizing and has to be - even in our changed circumstances - even today. At TCT, we try to do precisely that, taking the measure of the problems and opportunities both in the Church and the world. So Giving Tuesday may be past, but giving shouldn't be. In this space, it's always TCT Day. So if you still haven't made your contribution to this work, please give now, and generously.

Now for today's column...

The Island of Mozambique is a speck on Google Maps, a tiny patch of land two miles off the East African coast. Today, it's a sleepy UNESCO World Heritage site. It's also a magnet for hardcore tourists. One reason is its beauty. The other is its history. Five hundred years ago, it was a vital, heavily fortified Portuguese trading and administrative center. It stood midway between Europe and Portuguese possessions in the Far East, and thus had immense strategic value. I first saw the island in the early 1970s, reporting on Portugal's colonial wars. From the mainland, it looked like the ends of the earth; an exotic jumble of poverty and decaying wealth floating on the horizon.

At the time, though, that's not what piqued my interest. Remembering a particular saint did. My family, when I was a child, had a special love for the missions, and (Saint) Francis Xavier spent seven months on Mozambique Island, August 1541 to March 1542, on his way to India. He devoted himself to preaching, baptizing, hearing confessions, and working among the sick and dying in the island's hospital. He almost certainly celebrated Mass in the island's Chapel of Nossa Senhora de Baluarte ("Our Lady of the Bulwark"). Built in 1522 by Portuguese sailors, it still exists today. It's the oldest European structure in the southern hemisphere.

So much for memories and geography. Why do they matter?

Here's why: On the Church calendar, Catholics mark today, December 3, as the Feast Day of St. Francis Xavier. Born in 1506 of a noble Basque family, he came to maturity in the turbulent early years of the Reformation. Francis studied at the University of Paris and was originally resistant to, even sarcastic toward, a religious vocation. It didn't last. His friend and fellow student, and also a fellow Basque - Ignatius of Loyola - gradually convinced him otherwise. Once persuaded, he was fully committed. Francis went on to be co-founder of the Society of Jesus and one of the original seven Jesuits. He's widely acknowledged today as the greatest Christian missionary since St. Paul.

The record supports exactly that claim. He was a man of astonishing stamina and zeal. In little more than a decade of tireless ministry, in an era when "social communications" meant direct in-person contact, Francis Xavier baptized somewhere between 30,000 and 100,000 souls in India, Southeast Asia, and Japan. Nor did he merely baptize and abandon. He ensured ongoing pastoral support for the communities he created, adapted his evangelizing to local needs and culture, and worked hard to develop an educated native clergy.

He died of fever and exhaustion in 1552 on Sancian (Shangchuan) Island off the coast of China, waiting for permission to enter and evangelize the mainland. He was barely 46 years old. Having left Lisbon for missionary service in April 1541, he never returned to Europe. He was canonized in 1622. And in 1927, Pope Pius XI named him co-patron, with Thérèse of Lisieux, of the foreign missions.

Advent prepares us for the birth of Jesus and his Second Coming at the end of time. We remember and celebrate these things each ...

By Robert Royal.

But first a note: Friends: Pope Leo comes in for a lot of careful scrutiny, for obvious reasons after the controversies generated by his predecessor. That's useful in many ways to the mission of the Church, but sometimes unnecessarily critical. Today's column shows that, in several fundamental ways, he's pursuing the right track - which we'd like to see him do even more openly and vigorously. In online forums, going negative often means more "clicks," a temptation that here at The Catholic Thing we try not to give into. If you want that kind of balanced, truthful reporting and analysis, we believe you won't find them anywhere better. The other kind is easy to find elsewhere.Which is why we also ask that you support this work generously. Please do so, today, so that TCT will be around in 2026 and for many a good day after.

Now for today's column...

Pope Leo has been traveling in Turkey and Lebanon, doing what popes do on such occasions: Visiting religious and political leaders, signing agreements about further "dialogue," calling for peace and respect for human dignity. All good things, and this pope does them with notable dignity. But they're not the main thing. And without the main thing, other things have quite limited prospects. The main thing, the reason for the trip in the first place, was and is the truth confirmed at the Council of Nicaea (Iznik, Turkey today) in 325 A.D. that Jesus was not only a great man - as even many secular people today concede - but that He is the eternal Son of God and the Savior of the world.

Indeed, though Leo has spoken vaguely of some theological controversies as no longer relevant, he also made a point of warning in Turkey that among our many postmodern problems, "there is also another challenge, which we might call a 'new Arianism,' present in today's culture and sometimes even among believers. This occurs when Jesus is admired on a merely human level, perhaps even with religious respect, yet not truly regarded as the living and true God among us." Arianism may seem to be one of those obscure theological controversies that no one much cares about anymore. But at Nicaea, exactly 1700 years ago, it was a hot topic because Arianism was widespread. And continued to be for centuries. And now, again.

This is all well-known to anyone who has looked into early Church history. But many people don't realize how widespread Arianism actually was. When the Vandals invaded North Africa, around the time of St. Augustine's death (430 A.D.), they came not only as "barbarians," but Arian "Christians." The Roman Empire itself "fell" in 476 A.D. when Odoacer, a Gothic "barbarian," deposed the last Western emperor. The causes of Rome's fall are much debated, but it was not by pagan incursion: Odoacer was an officer trained in the Roman Army with connections to the Eastern Roman emperors - and though tolerant of Catholics, an Arian.

Arianism appealed to soldiers, who saw Jesus as not only holy but, in his bravery during torture and death, heroic. It's an odd view for many now. For centuries, the West has tended to turn Jesus into a "nice" figure, all warm and fuzzy. But maybe those soldiers saw something in Him that we might benefit from, especially as Christians are being persecuted around the globe.

Leo's emphasis on Jesus as "the living God among us" also ties in with his warnings about another heresy. As an Augustinian, he's quite sensitive to contemporary "Pelagianism," which the great bishop of Hippo famously combatted about a century after Nicaea. Pelagius was a Celtic-British theologian who was thought to believe - recent scholars, of course, clash about this - that we are capable of following the precepts of the law, without the need for divine grace.

I've seen Pelagius described in some popular accounts as quite reasonable. There are rules. We are rational beings. We can follow them. Which of course ignores our daily experience, to say nothing of St. Paul: "the law is good. . . .bu...

By Dominic V. Cassella.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Friends: Now that we've entered Advent, there's much that needs doing: prayer, fasting, almsgiving - and (sigh) Christmas shopping. New Year's resolutions are also a good idea - since we just started the Church's New Year. Personally, I take this as a time to make a firm resolution to resist just going along with the usual holiday whirl. Cheer, yes, but also a deeper time in anticipation of God entering our world in a way we could never have expected.

And inviting us not to political reform, not to economic development, not to personal improvement in the current sense. There's always time for all that later. And as today's column demonstrates, there are tremendous resources in the tradition to guide us into quite a different realm. Here at The Catholic Thing, we try to keep that as our main focus, not only during the holidays, but always, 365 days a year, because the world needs that more than anything else. And we have several new initiatives in mind for 2026, which you'll be hearing about soon. We're nearing the end of our fundraising period and still need many more of you to do your part. So please, take a moment, right now. Support The Catholic Thing.

Now for today's column...

Early in our marriage, my wife and I were determined to establish an atmosphere of faith in the home for our children. We wanted every day to be centered on Jesus Christ, the week would begin with the celebration of the Liturgy, and the year would be punctuated with the traditional feasts and fasts of the Catholic Church.

Beyond the regular and common feasts of Easter and Christmas, or the major fasts of Lent and Fridays, we decided that we would try to follow some of the lesser-known fasting seasons. One such fasting season is the period leading up to Christmas, called in the Eastern Christian tradition St. Philip's Fast.

Rather than listening to Christmas music directly after Thanksgiving, we would focus on music that is distinctly anticipatory: Advent hymns. We would abstain from meat and sweets and reserve those for Christmas Day and its season. Instead of an early Christmas season before Christmas even begins, Advent would be there to sharpen our desire for the coming of Christ.

Advent and Christmas with the Church Fathers, TAN Books' new self-guided seven-week retreat, begins with that principle in mind.

Unlike some other devotionals I have used, Advent and Christmas with the Church Fathers does not take you by the hand, day by day. Instead, it is a seven-week, theological retreat that guides readers in meditating on the mystery of the Incarnation. Every week is packed with selections from the orations, commentaries, and poetry of authors from the Greek, Latin, and Syriac traditions, as well as from Scripture, the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and Holy Mass. And the weeks are punctuated with various questions to meditate upon.

The book begins with the first week of Advent in the Roman calendar and concludes with Candlemas in early February. The first week of the retreat asks readers to consider the virtue of hope. By hope, we are confident in the attainment of that for which we hope. It is a gift from God to hope in eternal life and eternal joy - to not only be optimistic, but expectant of success and of the full enjoyment of God's splendor.

In fact, to begin with hope is at all times suitable while we live in this world of loss and gain. The grounding of this hope is that we, as Christians, have been made co-heirs of the Kingdom, citizens "not of this world." And as a result, we are sojourners - as foreigners in a foreign land - on the way to the Kingdom of Heaven, which by Christ we have a genuine claim. If anyone is going to set out on such a journey, hope of arrival is necessary before the first step can even be taken.

To enkindle this hope, Advent and Christmas, with its selections from the Fathers and reflective questions, helps the reader pray with the best of the Church...

By Fr. Paul D. Scalia

In the 12th and 13th centuries, monks developed some of the first fully mechanical clocks. Their purpose was simple. The monks would come to chapel seven times a day to chant the praises of God and intercede for the world. Clocks enabled them to do so in a more precise, disciplined, and uniform way. With these time pieces, they could, in effect, harness time and better place it at the service and praise of God.

Now, consider what has become of the clock and our treatment of time. For the monks, time was given to God - in work, study, recreation, and prayer. For us, it's mercantile and worldly. We punch the clock and bill hours. We hate it when people waste our time, because time is money. But we do not mind killing time ourselves.

The monks developed clocks so that they could consecrate time to God more deliberately. They understood that time has significance because of eternity, because the Eternal One has entrusted it to our stewardship and care, for His glory and our sanctification.

We, with the most advanced watches, timers, and clocks, have cut God out of time. The results are not surprising. As with any created reality, once time is wrenched from the purpose of its Maker, then it becomes either a god that devours us or a slave that we abuse. So, we find ourselves either enslaved to the clock or killing time.

The season of Advent that begins today is all about time. It affords us an opportunity to consider how we view and use ours. "You know the time," says Saint Paul. (Romans 13:11). Well, we might know what time it is, but we don't really know what time is.

Advent points us to a future time. It looks to when our Lord will come again. Which is why all the readings have, not the Christmasy theme that most people expect after Thanksgiving, but a warning about the end of the world and Christ's Second Coming. In this sense, the Catholic Church is the most forward-looking institution in the world - looking to the most distant future, the end of the world.

"[Y]ou also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come." (Matthew 24:44) That's a sobering instruction. The Church's view of the future is not the progressive's arc of history that bends toward justice. There's no inevitable improvement in human goodness and virtue. On the contrary, the Church sees the world's situation worsening as we approach the Lord's coming.

Ironically, Advent prepares us for that dire moment of the future by remembering the warmest and most beautiful moment of the past, the Incarnation. His coming again in glory is simply the fulfillment and consummation of what He accomplished at His first coming. If we prepare for His birth well - if we "conduct ourselves properly as in the day, not in orgies and drunkenness, not in promiscuity and lust, not in rivalry and jealousy" (Romans 13:13) - then we will be able to stand firm for His second.

This happens now. It is in the present that the past and the future meet and take on meaning. Now, in the present moment, we recall God's past works to prepare for His future coming.

This also explains the Church's liturgical year, which begins today. Yes, the Church still observes the calendar year that begins on January 1, and the Vatican does have a fiscal year. But the Church doesn't really measure time by the world or the market. She measures time by her Liturgy - by her yearly walk with our Lord through His life.

Beginning today, the Church undertakes her annual remembrance of Jesus' life: preparing for and celebrating His birth, contemplating His life, preaching, and miracles - and most of all accompanying Him in His Passion, death, Resurrection, Ascension, and gift of the Holy Spirit.

Time is given to us for this purpose - so that we can come to know Jesus Christ more intimately and conform our thoughts, words, and actions increasingly to His. And because this side of Heaven we will never do it perfectly, we recommit ourselves to trying again - year after...

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...