Whoever first compared a surfeit of fun to a barrel of monkeys and not a barrel of Catholic intellectuals can’t have read John Zmirak’s Bad Catholic’s Guide to the Seven Deadly Sins. In his romping, discursive treatment of what he calls “the seven areas of life in which Jesus ruins our fun,” Zmirak riffs and jams, has himself a fine old time, and does his best to make sure we readers have one, too. In my own case, he succeeded.... Read more
When Rick and his wife, Yuna, start arguing, it is crucial not to interrupt them. Couples will unload on each other only when they feel completely at home; robbing them of the comfort they feel in your presence would amount to a betrayal of their trust. Plus, once they work up that much hostile energy, they have to spend it somewhere, and it’s best not to tempt them to spend it on you. But most important of all, if you... Read more
One Friday night a few years ago, I was watching videos on YouTube with my headset unplugged. Someone knocked on my door. Actually, no — someone pounded on my door, with a force and urgency that comes more typically from a rifle butt or a booted heel. I opened the door and beheld a man in uniform. The uniform belonged to the security agency that furnished our complex with armed guards. Fit and buzzcut, square-jawed and scowling, this guy gave... Read more
It’s not every day reading other Patheos blogs triggers a visceral reaction, but one of Katrina Fernandez’s latest all but made me chew straight through my poor tongue. In “Expressing Love Beyond Sex and the Single Life,” Kat writes: Probably the most wonderful thing about being single is having my definition of love grandly expanded, as well as learning countless ways to express this love. I truly believe my singleness and celibacy is a gift that places me at an... Read more
Am I the only one feeling uneasy about the coverage of Pope Francis and the man with neurofibromatosis? It’s not that I mind seeing the man, whose neck and head are covered with benign tumors resembling boils or giant scales. But I do wish I knew more about him — his name, his nationality, his employment history, how faith and doubt play out in his life, any detail that tends to mark him as an individual. Through no fault of... Read more
By the Council’s 25th session, when the Trent Fathers finally got around to the subject of Purgatory, they must have feeling tired and grouchy. After affirming that such a state exists, and that “the suffrages of the faithful” and “the acceptable sacrifice of the altar” work to detainees’ benefit, they drew a veil. “The more difficult and subtle questions,” warns their decree, “are to be excluded from popular instructions to uneducated people.” My subprime days, when each of us loan... Read more
Here’s a sampling of Facebook comments on Pope Francis’ new ferula: “Okay, I think I know what it looks like: Remember those old magnetic things where there were contained iron shavings, and there was a picture of a guy’s face and you used a magnet pen to move the shavings onto the guy’s face to make a mustache or a beard? So, this looks like the ferula version of that.” “I am Jesus and I AM ON FIRE!!” “Nooooo! Not... Read more
To all the saints in the Church Triumphant: Gang, I know this is your big day, and a Holy Day of Obligation for folks like me, but I have a hunch I’m going to have to call in sick. As you all know, I’ve spent the last seven or eight months on a fitness kick. It’s been a constant challenge, sometimes a burden, but I’ve done my best to bear it joyfully. You all have been a constant help in... Read more
Unlike most bloggers, I don’t live in my parents’ basement. For that reason, last December, I missed out on my mother’s first wedding in 43 years. For almost 29 of those years, she and Bob, her new husband, have been together at one distance or another. Bob’s contribution to my mother’s life, and to my life, has been so positive, and his appearance in them so perfectly timed, that they often look to both of us like the hand of... Read more
“You sound gayer than the gayest elf in Mirkwood,” an angry reader once wrote me. I didn’t mind being reminded how waspish I can get — I do work pretty hard at it, after all. But the “Mirkwood” part really hurt. Like most New Yorkers, I hate L.A. Now, at last, I see how far over my head her line had sailed. Turns out Mirkwood isn’t squeezed between Santa Monica and the 405. It’s where Hobbits used to live before... Read more
Diary of a Wimpy Catholic
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In