The Catholic Thing

Joseph R. Wood.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Note: We're in the final days of our mid-year fundraiser and are still a few thousand short of our goal. I really need one last push from you. We've been pushing ourselves. And I'm happy to report that right after Labor Day, we'll be offering two more exciting TCT Courses: one, on Edith Stein's 'The Science of the Cross' (for info click here), and the other - which I'll be teaching - on Pope Leo XIV and the Augustinian Tradition. And that's just for starters. If you value these and our other initiatives to say nothing of a great column every morning 365 days a year - please, we need you to show it. It's time to bring it all home. Click the button. Be part of the work of The Catholic Thing.

Now for today's column.

Today's Feast of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus presents a quandary. As I lamented to our editor, it's too big not to write about, and it's too big to write about.

My impression from a fair number of visits to churches in many places is that, aside from the Cross and images of Holy Mary and St. Joseph, the Sacred Heart is the most widespread image and devotion in the Catholic Church today. (St. Thérèse of Lisieux runs a close second, but my survey isn't rigorous, and who's counting?)

As I write, an especially grand church dedicated to the Sacred Heart is nearby, the Basilica of the University of Notre Dame, helping all on campus keep the devotion in mind.

So much has been written about the devotion, including much by some of the greatest Catholic thinkers of the last few centuries. St. John Henry Newman chose as his motto, Core ad Core Loquitur ("Heart Speaks to Heart"), and composed a beautiful prayer of devotion to the Sacred Heart.

Pope Leo XIII, whose work provides a source of inspiration for Pope Leo XIV, taught in his 1899 Encyclical on the Sacred Heart, Annum Sacrum (Sacred Year):

There is in the Sacred Heart a symbol and a sensible image of the infinite love of Jesus Christ which moves us to love one another, therefore is it fit and proper that we should consecrate ourselves to His most Sacred Heart - an act which is nothing else than an offering and a binding of oneself to Jesus Christ, seeing that whatever honor, veneration and love is given to this divine Heart is really and truly given to Christ Himself.

The feast is a relatively recent addition to the Church calendar. The first approval for a local feast was in 1672 by the bishops of France.

The promises of Christ that we associate with the devotion came to St. Margaret Mary Alacoque between 1673 and 1675. So the first official feast preceded her revelations, which accelerated and shaped the devotion's spread.

Local feasts in Poland and Rome came a century later, before the ecclesiastical approval of St. Margaret Mary's writings. Almost another century later (1856), Pope Pius IX placed the feast on the Universal Calendar.

Pope Pius XII recounts this history in his 1956 Encyclical on the Sacred Heart, Haurietis Aquas (You Will Draw Waters), marking a century of the feast's universal Western celebration. That encyclical carries a defensive tone. Pius rejects the misgivings of those who would question the devotion.

When I first entered the Church, I might have sympathized with the attitudes Pius opposes. Seeing "anatomically correct" depictions of a heart, it wasn't clear to me what we were adoring.

The Orthodox and Oriental Catholic churches have not followed the widespread Western love of the devotion. Maybe it seems strange to them to worship a human organ, and the Sacred Heart is indeed Christ's human heart.

But Pius explains that Christ's "Heart, more than all the other members of His body, is the natural sign and symbol of His boundless love for the human race." Pius emphasizes that this sign and symbol, rooted scripturally in the full humanity of Christ, is worthy of devotion only when we bear in mind that it points to His divinity. Christ's human heart was the seat of his human emotions and affe...

by Stephen White

But first a note from Robert Royal: Note: Be sure to tune in tonight - Thursday, June 26th at 8 PM Eastern - to EWTN for a new episode of the Prayerful Posse on 'The World Over.' TCT Editor-in-Chief Robert Royal and contributor Fr. Gerald E. Murray will join host Raymond Arroyo to discuss Leo XIV's episcopal appointments, the pope's comments on natural law, his support for priests and seminarians, and Leo's restatement of priestly celibacy. Check your local listings for the channel in your area. Shows are usually available shortly after first airing on the EWTN YouTube channel.

Now for today's column.

The Pew Research Center (I served in an advisory capacity ) has a new report out that looks at Catholic life in the United States. The primary takeaway from the report is that nearly half (47%) of American adults have a significant connection to Catholicism. One in five (20%) Americans identify as Catholic. An additional 9% of Americans say they are culturally but not religiously Catholic. An equal number (9%) say they are former Catholics. And 9% have a Catholic parent, spouse, or partner - or say they sometimes attend Catholic Mass.

In actual numbers, this means that something like 53,000,000 American adults are Catholic and an additional 71,500,000 are connected to Catholicism in one of the aforementioned ways. Now, having a "connection to Catholicism" is not the same as being Catholic. And "being Catholic" is not the same as "practicing the faith." But the reason the Pew report highlights the connections to Catholicism is simply that Catholicism has an outsized influence on the rest of American society.

We see this in lots of ways, from the overrepresentation of Catholics in Congress to the undeniable (if not always flattering) place the Catholic Church holds in the popular imagination. Catholicism matters more in America than our proportion of the population would suggest.

While Catholics may be a minority here, the U. S. Catholic population is large enough to make it the country with the fourth largest Catholic population in the world. Only Brazil, Mexico, and the Philippines, have more Catholics. American Catholics are a relatively small minority, but which nonetheless forms a critical mass of sufficient size to shape American society beyond what one might expect.

Simply put, we American Catholics punch above our weight.

Which is worth keeping in mind when considering some other interesting data from the Pew study. Among the questions Pew asked were two pertaining to the Traditional Latin Mass

Unsurprisingly, the number of American Catholics adults who attend TLM on a weekly basis is not large. Only 2% of respondents say they attend TLM at least once a week.

Here's how Pew put it:

Very few Catholics report regularly attending a TLM today. Overall, 2% of Catholics say they do this at least weekly, 1% do so once or twice a month, and 2% do so a few times a year. An additional 8% say they either seldom or never attend a TLM "these days," while 87% of U.S. Catholics have not attended one at any point in the last five years.

This result surprised me, not because the number of Catholics attending TLM is so small, but because a closer look at the numbers suggests that the TLM actually plays an outsized role among America's practicing Catholics.

As a percentage of American Catholics TLM attendance is obviously small. But 2% of the Catholic adults in the United States is actually a lot of people. If 2% of America's 53,000,000 Catholics are attending TLM weekly, as Pew's data suggests, then the number of Catholics who attend TLM weekly is north of one million. I'm not convinced that's the case. (And to be fair, that's not a claim Pew makes.)

There's more. Given that only 29% of all Catholics surveyed say they attend Mass weekly, the Catholics attending TLM weekly would seem to make up a significant portion of all weekly Mass goers. Is it really the case that 5% of all American Catholic adults (including those who...

by John Grondelski

But first a note from Robert Royal: Be sure to tune in tomorrow night - Thursday, June 26th at 8 PM Eastern - to EWTN for a new episode of the Prayerful Posse on 'The World Over.' TCT Editor-in-Chief Robert Royal and contributor Fr. Gerald E. Murray will join host Raymond Arroyo to discuss Leo XIV's episcopal appointments, the pope's comments on natural law, his support for priests and seminarians, and other issues in the global Church. Check your local listings for the channel in your area. Shows are usually available shortly after first airing on the EWTN YouTube channel.

Now for today's column...

June used to be a month associated with weddings and the prospect of new families and children. Now it's Pride Month for much of the world - or maybe for the few deeply observant Christians, the month of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. A long, sometimes deceptively smooth road has gotten us here.

In 1967, on the eve of the sexual revolution, Glenn Campbell released a song he took from a Nashville songwriter, John Hartford. "Gentle on My Mind" rose on the Billboard charts and helped Campbell crossover from country music to pop.

I call it Glenn Campbell's Ode to No-Fault Divorce. Or at least the Sexual Revolution.

The timing was perfect. When Campbell re-released it in 1968, Humanae vitae was just months away, as was Woodstock. Hartford, the songwriter, said he was inspired to write it by the 1965 hit film Doctor Zhivago, the guy who made cheating on your child's mother, Tonya, with lovely nurse Lara, international chic.

In many ways, the song prefigured our times. Marriage hasn't quite collapsed for the upper classes in the same way it has for working class or hillbilly folk. The former may commit their discreet indiscretions, but they're more the clean-cut Wichita Lineman than the young and muddy of Woodstock. Campbell was the better messenger for them.

He sings of a man who keeps "his sleeping bag rolled up" behind some woman's couch. He does it because "your door is always open and your path is free to walk." It's clearly an "open" relationship. He doesn't feel confined, "shackled by forgotten words and bonds/and the ink stains that are dried upon some line," which contemporaries pejoratively called "a license for love." Neither is he held back by tradition, by "the rocks and ivy planted on their columns now that bind me." He can always leave wherever he wants, across "the wheatfields and the clothes lines and the highways and the junkyards that come" between him and his nominal love.

Sounds romantic. Just not realistic.

His "love" object is imaginary, a projection of himself rather than a genuine woman. She's no burden because she's no responsibility. She's not like the "other woman's cryin' to her mother because she turned and I was gone." Like a real woman, a wife and mother of your child. Like Tonya, who had to figure out how to go on living in exile with Yuri's son, Sasha. Even like Lara in her futile search for her and Yuri's illegitimate daughter, Katya.

Unlike Hartford's muse, real women aren't always "ever smilin', ever gentle" on one's mind. Christ's yoke may be easy; a spouse's isn't always. That's what goes with "for better, for worse."

The heart of the song - and the subsequent problem - lies in two lines: "It's just knowing that the world will not be cursing or forgiving/when I walk along some railroad track."

That's exactly what no-fault divorce produced.

The entire purpose of "divorce reform" in the 1960-70s was to eliminate moral responsibility for breaking up a marriage. Up until then, the requirement to show cause - some moral defect like adultery, abuse, or abandonment - ensured initiation of divorce proceedings lay with the victim.

Introduction of "no-fault divorce" shifted that equation in two critical ways.

First, since the world would no longer "be cursing or forgiving," the victimizer could also launch the divorce. Indeed, he could use the divorce to compound his injury by making the aba...

By Randall Smith

But first a note from Robert Royal: We did well yesterday, but we still need to do better. Soon. I know you don't want me to start shouting and warning about dark futures unless we meet our goals. I've never done that - never have had to - because I've always been confident that our TCT readers come here and support us because they value what we do. If that describes you, now's the time. Click the button, write the check, set up a monthly donation. But please, do whatever you can. Now.

And, now, for today's column...

I've never really understood this idea that you can follow the "spirit" but not the "letter" of a Biblical commandment or Church teaching.

Yes, St. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 3:6 that "the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life." But he says this in the context of a comparison between the written law of the Old Covenant, "carved in letters on stone," and the work of the Holy Spirit, "written not in ink but by the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets that are hearts of flesh." It's not the spirit rather than the letter of the law that gives life; it's the Holy Spirit that gives life - by spreading charity abroad in our hearts. The law is good, but when it is "written" only on our minds and not on our hearts, it only condemns. It does not transform.

But what some people seem to think when they claim they are following "not the letter, but the spirit" is that following the "spirit" of the law somehow justifies violating the letter of the law - and is even somehow superior because less "legalistic." This is what I don't get.

The commandment says, "Don't commit adultery." Now I can understand if someone says, "Following the spirit of that law means that I also shouldn't fornicate," or "The spirit of the law requires nurturing fidelity in marriage." That makes sense. What I don't understand is if someone claims, "Yes, I committed adultery, but I was following the spirit of the law, not the letter." How would you be following the "spirit" if you violate the clear intent of the law? Talking about the "spirit of the law" is often just something people say to get themselves off the hook.

Granted, the law itself, "Don't commit adultery" or "Don't fornicate," has only the power to condemn, not to transform. As St. Paul says, sin, "seizing an opportunity in the commandment" against coveting, "produced in me all kinds of covetousness." Many pious young Catholic men have found that you can say to yourself repeatedly, "Don't covet, don't covet," but it doesn't take the coveting away. It often makes it worse.

You need to concentrate on something else: things that will engage your heart and your love for others. What we need are the gifts of the Holy Spirit, not some twaddle about obeying the "spirit" rather than the "letter." And we need those gifts of the Spirit to animate and nurture the virtues that can strengthen our intellect and will and help us see the truth more clearly and discipline our passions and appetites.

I have a friend who, when he teaches a class on the Catholic view of the passions and appetites, shows movie clips of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing together to suggest how the intellect and will are meant to cooperate in a beautiful, disciplined harmony with each other. That's the ideal. But then he shows them a picture of a sailor in a small sailboat fighting against a storm and warns them that this, too, is often our relationship with the passions and appetites.

Sometimes it's a dance; sometimes it's like beating against the wind in stormy seas. You can do amazing things if you learn the rules of dance, but you can't dance beautifully the way Astaire and Rogers did if you decide that the rule against stepping on your partner's foot is too "constraining." So, too, great sailors can do amazing things. But if you violate the basic principles of seamanship, you'll soon find yourself at the bottom of the sea.

People sometimes talk about a "spirit of forgivenes...

By Robert Royal

In 9 AD, when Jesus was probably a teenager, the celebrated Roman general Publius Quintilicius Verus led Roman forces against a coalition of Germanic tribes in the Teutoberg Forest. Legions XVII, XVIII, and XIX were wiped out. The Roman Empire, like America today, was the strongest military in the world, and was deeply shaken by the defeat. Verus killed himself. The Emperor Augustus, according to Suetonius, virtually whimpered, "Varus, give me back my legions." Yet Rome carried on for centuries. Hardly anyone remembers the Battle of Teutoberg. But everyone remembers Jesus.

There are, of course, major turning points in history, and America may have just passed one in bombing Iran over the weekend. Still, it's good to remember, for those of us who believe in sacred history, that wars and rumors of wars are common. God's purposes may be otherwise. Jesus told us as much: "You will hear of wars and rumors of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. Such things must happen, but the end is still to come." (Matthew 24:6-13, emphasis added)

Seemingly insignificant events, however, like the birth of a baby in an obscure corner of a great empire may be what really changes the world.

That said, the attacks on Iran's nuclear facilities raise some new and far-reaching questions, both military and moral. When America dropped nuclear bombs on Japan in 1945, Winston Churchill - a shrewd politician deep in history - remarked that henceforth security would be "the sturdy child of terror." He meant that The Bomb was so scary, with the potential to destroy the human race, that it would create a disincentive to use it by anyone but a madman.

One question, again both military and moral, about Iran is precisely whether the mullahs, their generals, and scientists are so fanatical - witness their repeated calls for the destruction of Israel and the Great Satan (i.e., America) - that they might be tempted to risk national suicide for their beliefs. They haven't hesitated to use conventional weapons directly and via proxies to kill thousands of people, including many Americans, in open attacks and terrorist incidents.

Since World War II, every pope has rightly warned about the horrors of war. But lately, Church leaders have noticeably drifted towards a pacifism that is no part of our tradition.

Pope Francis went beyond even the standard presumption against war to say, "There was a time, even in our Churches, when people spoke of a holy war or a just war. Today, we cannot speak in this manner. A Christian awareness of the importance of peace has developed. . . .Wars are always unjust, since it is the people of God who pay." [Emphasis added.]

Just this weekend, incomprehensibly, Pope Leo XIV claimed that wars never solve anything. Really? In 1941, Germany, Italy, and Japan were bitter enemies, but after being defeated in combat, are peaceful, prosperous allies.

Far more important than just one pope's opinion, the Church possesses a highly developed set of criteria for when it is just to resort to arms: yes, just-war theory. As difficult as it is to apply in current circumstances when the results may be not just large military and civilian casualties but the unleashing of near-apocalyptic nuclear exchanges, what else is there?

Take the first principle: Last Resort. There's a presumption against war in just-war theory. But if any military action at all is to be justifiable, there has to be a point at which a proper authority can say, "Enough!" Last resort cannot mean, just because we can continue imagining further approaches, that war never becomes the only reasonable option. America has tried pressure and dialogue for 46 years with Iran, for instance.

President Trump's decision is being debated even within the Republican Party, and a final evaluation of his choice will have to come after we see the results. Consequences do not justify the decision to go to war - that's a kind of consequentialism by which we would be saying something...

By Fr. Paul D. Scalia.

"Dismiss the crowd so that they can go to the surrounding villages and farms and find lodging and provisions; for we are in a deserted place here." The Apostles have a point. The crowds had followed Jesus out into the country, away from the towns and villages. Ironically, it was Jesus Himself who had decided to go with His Apostles to a deserted place to escape the crowds and the busyness of the towns. (Cf. Mark 6:31) But the crowds followed and now found themselves in need of food.

That is the context for one of our Lord's most important miracles, the only one recorded by all four evangelists. The whole scene is Eucharistic, of course. But the setting and context of the miracle - worked for people who had followed Him into the desert - indicates a particular dimension of the Eucharist. It is food for the journey. And that in turn reveals a profound connection between the Eucharist and the virtue of hope, the focus of this Jubilee Year.

Hebrews describes hope as "an anchor, sure and firm, which reaches into the interior behind the veil." (Hebrews 6:19) It's a curious kind of anchor, that stabilizes us not where we are but where we are going to be. It secures us where He is and draws us upward. This corresponds to the description of hope as "already but not yet." By way of hope in Christ, we are already anchored in Heaven, where He is seated at the right hand of the Father. Thus, hope is certain and does not disappoint. Yet at the same time, we have not yet reached our goal and still look to it for inspiration.

The Eucharist bears these same traits. Our reception of Holy Communion in effect anchors us in Heaven. At that moment, we are already united with Jesus in risen and glorified Body. Thus, Saint Thomas calls the Eucharist the "pledge of future glory." It is a piece of Heaven (so to speak) given to us already here on earth that draws us upward to where we are not yet fully. It is not yet the fullness of His glory, only the pledge of it. Likewise in adoration, we already gaze upon Him under the veil of bread and wine - but we do not yet see Him face to face.

Hope is also referred to as the virtue of the wayfarer and pilgrim. It is designed, so to speak, for those who have set out on the way. It thus strengthens us on our pilgrimage through this world. When we know with a certainty of His victory and trust in His promises for grace and glory, then we can make our way more courageously and joyfully through the challenges of this valley of tears.

This also means that hope makes no sense apart from the journey, apart from striving for Heaven's glory. One reason our world lacks hope is because it has given up on the journey. In a bitter irony, the more we have confined ourselves to this world, and become comfortable and complacent here, the more hopeless we've become. The virtue of hope atrophies if it is not exercised in a striving for Heaven.

So also the Eucharist is meant for travelers - and no others. When a priest brings Holy Communion to the dying, we call it viaticum - food for the journey. In that specific circumstance, the Eucharist is clearly the nourishment the soul needs to journey from this world to the next. But in a broader sense, it is always viaticum, always nourishment for the pilgrim, food for the journey.

This is what the Apostles call our attention to in today's Gospel. The crowds were wayfarers and pilgrims of a sort. They had followed Christ out into a deserted place. They had journeyed for His teaching and healing - for Him. They needed nourishment precisely because they had chosen to follow Him rather than remaining in place, because they preferred the desert with Him to the towns with food.

In the sequence for this feast, Saint Thomas writes of the Eucharist as cibus viatórum - food for the travelers or "pilgrims' food." The current translation renders this line as food "for the pilgrim who has striven." Which doesn't quite capture the meaning. The Eucharist is not given to the...

by David G. Bonagura, Jr.

But first a note from Robert Royal. The Faith has survived the collapse of whole cultures, indeed whole civilizations. It's not something, however, anyone should want to try again. Which is why at The Catholic Thing, under the canopy of our parent organization, the Faith & Reason Institute, we strive to preserve both our spiritual and cultural heritage. David Bonagura makes the case for this dual approach succinctly today. Personally, I believe that it's only efforts like ours, and by many other actors working towards these common goals, that may save what's left of our culture and nation. It's not an easy struggle, but we're in it for the long haul. Are you? If so, it's time to show your support. You know how.

Now for today's column.

It is old news that the practice of Christianity and the study of the humanities have been declining for decades. Their falls, however, are rarely considered together. One has not caused the collapse of the other. The two are suffering because the spirit of our age despises the goal they share - the shaping of the human mind and soul for transcendent goods. Tracing their twin plights illuminates their virtues and the crippling worldliness that undermines them as lights on our journey to God.

Technology is usually the first factor to receive blame for keeping people home from church and from reading books. To be sure, the immediacy of smartphone entertainment drains the will of a desire to search for the invisible God and to read, think, and imagine. Yet churches were emptying, and liberal arts students were disappearing before the Internet was born. Limitless technology has deepened and accelerated the trend that predated it.

This trend is utilitarianism, the belief that only things and ideas with practical application in "the real world" have value. With its supernatural orientation, Christianity has no purpose in this view. Nor do the humanities with their focus on poetry, history, and literature, which distract from the pursuit of money, comfort, and prestige. Utilitarianism presents a truncated vision of the human person - whose value is measured by what he produces materially. Hence, it cannot understand religion and the humanities, as witnessed by the one question every liberal arts major must endure: "What are you going to do with that?"

Utilitarianism and its materialist anthropology have a deeper cause: human beings who live without faith in a transcendent, supernatural world that possesses greater value than the natural world. For Plato, the transcendent world was where truth is found. For Christians, the transcendent world is God's habitation, toward which we strive with everything we do. Throughout her existence, the Church has championed the humanities because, by their various means, they seek the truth, and God is truth.

A loss of faith naturally corrupts our understanding of human beings and our purpose. If we are merely evolutionary accidents instead of God's special creations, it's no mystery why the liberal arts are floundering: How can we have the humanities when we have lost sight of the purpose of humanity? Our Supreme Court justices, whether opining that human beings can declare their own meaning of existence or incapable of defining what a woman is, are bellwethers for a toxic culture grown sick from separating itself from its divine foundation.

Utilitarianism then becomes an easy refuge. If we are busy enough and productive enough, we can shield ourselves from the weight of those eternal questions of meaning, purpose, and what happens at death. Ever-present technology obligingly fills any potential void with something "useful" to do: check news, watch videos, offer "likes" on social media.

Rather than offer us the path to the transcendent, leaders of religion and the humanities have too often reduced these gifts to tools of utilitarianism. Liturgies that employ contemporary music and other gimmicks to make worship seem more "relevant," and ac...

By Robert Lazu Kmita.

But first a note from Robert Royal. Professor Kmita sharpens a point today that we've been trying to make with every column this week: that a perspective outside of the everyday - whether it be in literature, architecture, history, theology - though many think of it as irrelevant, actually brings greater relevance, fuller human and divine meaning to our lives. That's what we try to do every day of the year here at The Catholic Thing. If you're reading this, you probably know that. And it's what draws you here daily. So if you haven't already made your contribution to this work, what are you waiting for?

Now for today's column...

In an article dedicated to the reading of literary fiction, the remarkable Jesuit Father James V. Schall, one of the founders of The Catholic Thing, recalled the opinion of Rudolf Allers (1883-1963), who stated that it is always worthwhile to read literature. This assertion, Father Schall tells us, included even bad literature. The reason is that "we will almost always find there scenes of human reality that we would not notice otherwise."

From a very young age, I have been - and remain - an avid reader of fiction. Even my theoretical pursuits have always been subordinated to literature. This is because my mentor, a French professor named Marian Prada, taught me that writers and poets typically have a deeper vision of life, of the human being, and of the world, than most of us have. That may seem like a simplistic statement, one you've undoubtedly heard (or read) in one form or another. But when it is said at the right moment, by the right person, it takes on a value that can change your life. Allers's statement points in the same direction.

In his brief assertion, Father Schall was primarily referring to the depths of our life experiences, whose contents are often best highlighted by poets and writers. In addition to these distilled essences of humanity, works of fiction manage to offer vivid descriptions that can explain key concepts of Christian (i.e., Catholic) theology better than any rational-speculative discourse. "The sacred," "the profane," "sacrifice," or "symbol" are all such concepts. In a way that recalls the intuitive knowledge that mystics of all times strive to rekindle, the metaphors provided by a novel can reveal the cognitive value of such terms without leading you astray in the labyrinth of discursive knowledge.

For example, rereading The Mysterious Island (1875), a novel by Jules Verne (1828-1905), unexpectedly gave me a revealing image of the notion of "symbol" (synonymous with the Augustinian concept of "sign"). In this way, as I'll explain below, I was able to give our two younger sons (aged 12 and 16) both a catechism lesson and a lesson in literary aesthetics.

It is probably not necessary to explain very much why sacred symbols are of crucial importance in Christian (i.e., Catholic) theology. As evidence, it's enough to quote the definition of the Holy Liturgy proposed by the famous Benedictine liturgist Dom Prosper Guéranger (1805-1875):

The Liturgy, considered in general, is the ensemble of symbols, chants, and acts by means of which the Church expresses and manifests its religion towards God.

So, before anything else, the Liturgy is "an ensemble of symbols."

I hasten to add and emphasize that everything is symbolic in the context of Catholic Tradition: the architecture of the churches, the liturgical objects, the holy altar, the liturgical vestments, the liturgical gestures - in short, everything. It is no coincidence that one of Pope Benedict XVI's favorite liturgists, Romano Guardini (1885-1968), wrote a beautiful short monograph entitled Sacred Signs.

Simply put, the symbol creates a link between a consecrated object, which plays the role of the symbolizer, and the entity or being from the unseen world, which is symbolized. For example, the holy altar is in a mysterious symbolic relationship with the transcendent person of Our Lord Jesus Christ,...

By Michael Pakaluk.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Our mid-year fundraiser moves along, and I'm grateful. But I'm also worried that it's moving too slowly. If you can't make a contribution right now, we understand. But there are many ways to configure donations: monthly, quarterly, and annually. I'm particularly grateful when someone gives $365 (dollar a day), $365.25 for those who want to be absolutely astronomically correct. Whatever works for you, we need your help. Now. So that we can get back to our main job of planning how to bring you the best commentaries, podcasts, courses, seminars that we can for the rest of the year. (Did I mention the Papal Posse?). I could go on, but enough said. Please. Support the work of The Catholic Thing.

Now for today's column...

More than one important thing took place on June 19th. On that day in 325 in the city of Nicaea (present day Iznik, Turkey), the first world-wide (or "ecumenical") council of the Catholic Church adopted a "symbol" that authoritatively expressed the ancient Christian faith. This was the first symbol formulated by the Church, after the Symbol of the Apostles. The Catechism excellently explains this perhaps unfamiliar terminology:

The Greek word symbolon meant half of a broken object, for example, a seal presented as a token of recognition. The broken parts were placed together to verify the bearer's identity. The symbol of faith, then, is a sign of recognition and communion between believers. Symbolon also means a gathering, collection or summary. A symbol of faith is a summary of the principal truths of the faith and therefore serves as the first and fundamental point of reference for catechesis (n. 188).

Today, then, is the 1700th anniversary of the Nicene Creed. For the record, here is the original:

We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of all things visible and invisible.

And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, begotten of the Father, the only-begotten, that is, from the substance of the Father (ek tês ousias tou Patros), God of God, Light of Light, true God of true God, begotten, not made, one in substance (homoousion) with the Father; through whom all things came to be, both in heaven and on earth, who, for us men, and for our salvation, came down, and assumed flesh, and was made man; he suffered and arose on the third day, ascending into heaven, and is coming to judge the living and the dead.

And in the Holy Ghost.

But those who say: "There was a time when he was not;" and "He was not before he was made;" and "He was made out of nothing," or "He is of another substance" or "essence," or "The Son of God is created," or "changeable," or "alterable" - they are condemned by the holy Catholic and Apostolic Church.

The Council of Chalcedon in 451 preserved a fuller version of this creed as composed by the Fathers at the Council of Constantinople in 381, which affirmed additionally the divinity of the Holy Spirit. This fuller version is what we say in Church on Sunday and is sometimes called the "Nicene-Constantinopolitan" Creed.

The anathemas at the end of the original version, and also a clause that apparently was removed at Constantinople ("begotten. . . from the substance of the Father"), make it perfectly clear that this creed was intended to reject the teaching that Arius, in the event, was forced, finally, to evince clearly, namely, that Christ was simply the highest created being, but not God.

I've heard it said that Catholics are bad at celebrating anniversaries and that, therefore, we ought to make a big fuss at commemorating the 1700th anniversary of Nicaea. But what does this mean? Does it mean that in this century, in 2025, if we were "good at celebrating anniversaries," in 2025 we would celebrate Nicaea, in 2031 Ephesus, in 2051 Constantinople, in 2063 Trent, in 2065 the Second Vatican Council, and in 2070 the First Vatican Council - for starters? This is silly.

Also, it seems frankly un-Catholic. In 1925, Pope Pius XI was occ...

By Francis X. Maier.

But first a note from Robert Royal: Fran Maier reminds us today that in the past, the Church has overcome many of the same challenges that we face at present. But that doesn't happen all on its own. It takes people with names like Hildebrand, Francis, Dominic, Catherine, Ignatius, Teresa, Karol, and many more, including you. In other words, people who stayed faithful and made a difference - as in our own ways, all of us may today. I often hear from readers that our daily columns help keep them sane and focused amid the many challenges and confusions of our age. That's no small thing,which means neither are your contributions to our efforts. The time is short. The need is great. And now is the time to make a big difference. Support The Catholic Thing.

Now for today's column...

I'm a sucker for history because it's a great teacher. And I talk a lot about the Reformation because, while our world today and the world of the Reformation era are very different, they also share some striking similarities: political and social turmoil; big changes in technology that reshape how we learn, think, communicate, work, and believe; and a pattern of ambiguity and battles within the Church. Names from the Reformation era like Thomas More, John Fisher, and Erasmus are widely known. John Colet, priest and scholar, is barely remembered. But I want to focus on Colet here because his love for the Church and her mission speaks directly to our age.

Colet was born in England in 1467. The middle of the 15th century witnessed the chaos of three simultaneous and competing popes. The century was marked throughout by bitter political conflict. And it ended with a corrupt Renaissance papacy.

Colet was ordained a priest in the late 1490s. He began his ministry during the papacy of Alexander VI (Rodrigo Borgia), one of the worst popes in the 2000-year line. None of this pushed Colet away from the Church. But it did anger him the way the moneychangers angered Christ. Google "John Colet, 1512 sermon" and you'll be a taken to a homily that he gave to English Church leaders just a few years before Luther posted his 95 theses. Five centuries later, it's still a stunning critique of corruption, ambition, greed, and indifference among Church leaders, and a barn-burner on the urgent need for Church reform. Nobody listened.

Colet died in 1519, just as Martin Luther was gaining steam in Germany. So he's sometimes described as a kind of proto-Protestant. But the facts simply don't support that. He was a friend of More and Fisher, and he had a huge influence on Erasmus. He treasured his priesthood, and very strongly believed that the clergy, despite their human flaws, were absolutely necessary for the saving role of the Church. He had no interest in reimagining doctrines or sacraments. He was a man of humility, fidelity, and Catholic continuity.

So that's some background. But here's the real reason I mention Colet.

He had an abiding love for the clarity and zeal of St. Paul. In 1497, barely 30 years old, he gave a series of lectures at Oxford on Paul's Epistle to the Romans. His lectures still have remarkable power. They speak directly to us, here and now.

And here's why: The Rome that Paul describes in Romans, especially in the first two chapters, is strangely familiar, and rife with recent echoes - the malice, confused sexuality, vanity, and strife. Paul's purpose in writing to the young Church in Rome was very simple: How should Christians live in such a place, the pagan capital of a pagan empire? Rome at the time was a dominant power in the world, just as America is today. Most first-century Romans viewed Christianity as an ugly superstition. Many saw it as a threat to public order and welfare. And if we think that our modern political leaders are disappointing, the Christians of Rome had Nero.

Colet made a sweeping tour of the letter's meaning for the Oxford audience. But two points are especially useful for our reflection today.

First, for ...