I think I first realized I’d lost my heart to Rusty when I saw him lay down the law with a pomeranian. He was sprawling on his side on a bench by the mailboxes, scooping up his own creamsicle-colored fur by the tongueful. He took no apparent heed of the dog, which was trotting toward us, its pert muzzle hoisted like a regimental ensign. I’d seen the dog around, had tried to befriend it, and knew it for an explosive... Read more
To an uncanny degree, the last two pastors of my old parish — barring an interrim guy who deserves more attention than I can afford him here — resembled characters from HBO’s adaptation of Generation Kill. Fr. F, dead ringer for J.P. Ransone’s wired Humvee driver, yielded his place to Fr. R, long-lost twin to Chance Kelly’s grouchy battalion commander. In this coincidence, I’ve found meaning, even a moral: beneath the placid forms of parish life, wars rage. No need... Read more
A number of Catholic media outlets have chosen this week to issue their regularly scheduled calls for civility and charity. They’re right to do so — when anathemas are flying hard and fast, the easiest way to hate or mourn for the Catholic Church is to read or write about it. But it makes sense to pause and acknowledge that the temptation to go flamboyantly negative is strong for a very good reason. Catholic media is still media. Winning the... Read more
I hate rules and generally think they’re made to be broken. My comment policy, therefore, won’t be much of a policy at all — just a few general guidelines that I trust you readers will do your level best to observe. Because I’ll refrain from defining the boundaries too precisely, each of you will have the privilege of interpreting them for him- or herself. As long you give the impression of trying, I’ll look indulgently on those posts where you’ve... Read more
In an oft-quoted line from a German play, a character says, “When I hear the word ‘culture,’ I take my Browning off ‘safe.'” Well, I don’t own a Browning, or any firearm of any brand. But I swear, every time I hear the words “good” and “holy” used in close conjunction to describe a living priest, I wish I did have a Browning. So I could flip off the safety. So I could clamp off the fulsomeness before it spreads... Read more
It was around Veterans’ Day, 2003, when Larry Flynt announced he had photographs of former POW and memoirist Jessica Lynch cavorting — I believe that was the very word the news services used — topless before a group of male soldiers. Very much to its credit, the greater share of the American media and public cleared its throat and turned its head. Lynch seemed like an extraordinarily nice and honest kid. The international spotlight had sought her, not the other... Read more
Frank Sinatra made a more convincing priest than Bing Crosby ever did. Call it blasphemy — with my eyes fixed on heaven, I’ll mount the scaffold confessing it. Fr. Paul, the character Sinatra plays in Miracle of the Bells, is no wise-cracker, and amazingly, no singer; instead, he’s a straight-faced, rather aescetic-looking pastor who executes his duties in deadly earnest. In fact, between his youthful appearance and barely screwed-down intensity, Fr. Paul comes off as the prototype for Fr. Andrew... Read more
When considering California’s Senate Bill 1172, which, if passed and signed into law, would prohibit counselors from subjecting minors to “all sex orientation change,” it’s important not to see it purely as a campaign in the ongoing culture wars. It fits into another context, namely, a growing popular suspicion of mental-health quackery, particularly where the patients are children. In 2010, Florida banned the use of minors in state custody for clinical drug trials. Last year, Ron Paul re-introduced the Parental... Read more
“When I worked at FRC (2006-2008) I would have happily swapped jobs with almost any other employee – except for Leo.” So writes a man named Joe Carter of Leo Johnson, the security guard at the Family Research Council’s headquarters who took a bullet from gunman Floyd Lee Corkins, wrestled him to the ground, and disarmed him. Of all the tributes Johnson’s gotten, Carter’s is by far the best. Alone, it shows real imaginative sympathy. Carter recognizes Johnson as a... Read more
I have never known a habited nun. Oh, I know they’re out there. I’ve seen them. While serving as a scullery maid on retreat, I ladled bacon and eggs onto the paper plate of a Poor Clare. In the 1960s, one of my cousins joined an order whose members wore habits. I don’t know the name of the order, so I’ve no idea whether it’s gone plainclothes or not. But I do remember seeing her plump face, framed by a... Read more
Diary of a Wimpy Catholic
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