No Accounting for Taste

by Jenny Lippert

Recently, my husband and I were hit by a wave of nostalgia for oldies Christian music. I don’t remember exactly how it came up, but we soon found ourselves amazed at how many Michael W. Smith, Amy Grant, and DC Talk songs we still remembered all the words to.¹ Most significantly, through this jaunt back in time, we rediscovered the earthy, honest music of Rich Mullins, which came back to me like an old childhood friend. Roll your eyes as much as you want at the lyrics of “Awesome God”, you still get the sense that it’s at least a more honest attempt at worship than a calculated marketing piece to a bland Christian demographic. And this quality of honest attempt and failure I have found these past couple of months to be a Rich Mullins theme. Through a bit of youtube rabbitholing, I found myself not only remembering how much I had enjoyed his music (and still do), but also found myself developing a deeper affection for the man himself.

Referred to as the “uneasy conscience” of Christian music, he retreated from the evangelical Christian music scene to move to a Navajo Reservation in New Mexico. When asked about why he chose to move, he responded, “I think I just got tired of a White, Evangelical, middle class perspective on God, and I thought I would have more luck finding Christ among the Pagan Navajos.”² Woah.

I dislike sentimentality. Fluffy talk and feely-goodiness activates my gag reflex and makes me want to punch something. It isn’t real, it isn’t genuine, and it isn’t nourishing. This aversion to empty niceties or sweet nothings also extends to art and music. If it savors of something secondary--something which depends on pre-conditioned responses to saccharine symbology, count me out. This is why the music of Rich Mullins so appeals to me, I think.

In between songs at one of his 1997 concerts,³ he brought up the idea of taste. Quoting Picasso, he said he believed that “good taste is the enemy of great art.” He explained, “Good taste has all to do with being cultured and being refined and if art has to do with anything it has to do with being human. And one of the reasons I love the Bible is because the humans in the Bible are not very refined. They’re pretty goofy if you want to know the whole truth about it.” He goes on to say that he doesn’t believe God has any taste.

Initially, I found this statement jarring. If you were to say about another person that they had no taste, it would be pretty insulting. So, why is it so hopeful when asserted about God?

I started thinking about what “taste” is, and why we seem to value it so much. One type of taste, that is preferences for things, is pretty innocuous. You like vanilla ice cream and I like chocolate. Okay.

The type of taste that Rich Mullins is talking about, though, is an ideal or standard that we set up for ourselves--a way for us to separate ourselves into “in” groups and “out” groups.

I started to reflect on all of the ways that I brand myself, what circles I desire to be a part of, and what circles I would refuse to associate with. Even as someone who considers herself rather contrarian and wannabe-edgy, I still cling to certain identities--certain tastes--because they are comfortable. I have my “in” group, and though I may be willing to step out of it for a moment in the name of “charity,” goodness knows I will return to it. My self-identifcation with a clean and easy cliche--a life that I’ve imagined for myself--allows me to ignore those broken, sinful, and weak parts of myself.

But this isn’t reality. And if Scripture is any indication, it seems that God really doesn’t have any taste in terms of his “in” and “out” groups. He chooses the goofballs and the screw-ups and the uncultured. He chooses elderly immigrants to father his people. He works through jealous brothers to save His people from starvation. He uses sinful kings to build up His kingdom. He makes a pagan prostitute a heroine who harbors His spies. He uses his eccentric cousin, clothed in a hair garment, to proclaim his coming. He chooses a peasant girl to be His home on earth.



In short, he chooses humanity. And any attempt I make to insulate myself in anything less than human insulates me from Him. The taste of human standards is not God’s taste. And the more I align myself to human cliques and ideas, the more opaque my life becomes, the less I can be used by God. I make myself into the Hallmark cliche that I so despise.

God glories in our weakness far more than in our “perfect” lives. As Rich said, “[Be]cause God takes the junk of our lives, and he makes the greatest art in the world out of it. And if he was cultured, if he was as civilized as most Christian people wish he was, He would be useless to Christianity. But God is a wild man.”

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1 This may or may not have led to listening to “Secret Ambition” on repeat for the next few days...What a throwback.^↩

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2 This whole interview, despite the poor recording quality, is well worth watching.^↩

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3 Again, the whole bit is worth watching.^↩

Lessons from “Calvary”

by Jenny Lippert

One of my all-time favorite films is the 2014 drama “Calvary.” It follows a week in the life of a Catholic priest, Fr. James (played by Brendan Gleeson), who pastors a small town parish in rural Ireland. The movie provides a very dark look into fallen human nature. The characters of the town are about as broken and sinful as they come. As we follow Fr. James in his ministry, the movie deals with heavy issues like suicide, sexual abuse, domestic violence, adultery, alcoholism, atheism, homicide, prostitution, and even cannibalism. (Perhaps you’ve inferred that this is NOT a family-friendly film.) Other than Fr. James, the people of the town of Sligo approach faith as something—at best—nominal, and—at worst—foolish and contemptible. Each character lives out his or her own kind of despair.

This darkness is more than just individual despair. A major issue in the film is the clerical sexual abuse crisis in Ireland and the failure of the Church to respond. References are made to it throughout the film and even though Fr. James is innocent of any sort of abuse, he endures cruel, lewd remarks, unfounded suspicions, and even a death threat. The hierarchy of the Church is portrayed as disconnected from the concerns of real people and more interested in maintaining a status quo. Despite Fr. James’ seeming impotence in the face of human brokenness (even his own), we see him faithfully, quietly, and humbly serving the people around him.

This film has been on my mind in the wake of the current crisis in the Church. As news began breaking earlier this summer, anger, sadness, and disgust filled me by turns, as well as questions of why, how, and who were involved. I have felt helpless and frustrated and betrayed. I oscillate between a desire to bury my head in the sand and the urge to be responsibly informed.

I will be the first to admit that I am not as knowledgeable about our current crisis as I could be. I have avoided social media and most news outlets because they seemed to show such reactionary, political, and divisive accounts. I find myself overwhelmed by questions of who to trust and what to do. In answer to the doing part of that question, the example of the fictional Fr. James—the silent, faithful ministry of presence—has been edifying.

My first response, too, is silence. Not silence in the sense of remaining unresponsive, but silence as I listen mournfully to our brothers and sisters who have been betrayed—listening without pretensions of an easy fix through human effort. For me, this has not meant seeking out every testimony of abuse that I can get my hands on, but rather has meant keeping informed and truly mourning and standing with victims.

My second response has been fasting and penance. Jesus commands this, and even says that some evils can only be cast out with these weapons. If the Church is truly the Body of Christ, then the things that we do (for good or ill) impact her. We are so profoundly instrumental in the life of the whole. This is why this scandal hurts so much; members of this body have done harm in a very real way. It has reminded me in a sobering manner that my sins, too, harm this sacred body in a real way. And yet it has also given me great hope. While sins and failings cause harm, fasting, prayer, and penance can heal. I am not powerless in the healing of the Church.

When news first broke about former Cardinal McCarrick, I felt a quiet invitation from the Lord at daily Mass to fast that day, and to offer my fasting specifically for him. I have felt that invitation deepen as this period of the Church’s suffering continues. This, by no means, is something great and heroic on my part, but I do believe it to be an invitation to take part in something real and powerful, by the grace of God. Nor does my participation in the Church’s process of spiritual conversion need to be purely invisible.

My husband and I had the opportunity to attend a prayer service for the victims of abuse, organized by a grassroots young adult group. We knelt at the steps of our Cathedral with dozens of other Catholic young adults, petitioning God for healing and guidance. The atmosphere of unity and peace among that group of young adults invoking the graces of the Holy Spirit, was another testament to the power of God working in even the weaknesses of His Church, bringing renewal out of brokenness. That experience of His Spirit at work in a physical gathering, a physical ministry of being present, was another note in the fullness of being Catholic in difficult times.

Perhaps the most comprehensive response to the scandals (so far) has been, for me, to live out my Christian vocation to the best of my ability. To love the people God has put in front of me at each moment. To seek holiness through my marriage, my teaching, my relationships. To glorify God in the little moments of opportunity that He gives me, through little acts of love. To sanctify my small corner of the world, and to till my garden.

The end of the movie “Calvary” is a silent montage of all the various characters, before the movie leaves them to their own devices. Much like real life, the loose ends of all these characters’ stories are not neatly tied up—the issue is still in doubt. There is not a clear moral of the story, and the viewer may be left to wonder if Fr. James made any impact at all. The only hint of his influence is found in one brave person who silently struggles to imitate his example, with what success or sense of fulfillment, we do not know. And yet, it seems to me that his steadfast, quiet presence in the midst of great sin and despair, opened up the possibility of redemption to all those he met. He opened up for them the possibility of selflessness, of finding oneself in giving oneself away, and the possibility of hoping even against apparent hopelessness. As Fr. James says to one despairing penitent, “God is great and the limits of his mercy have not been set.” The decision to receive that mercy or not would remain their own.



Throughout the film, the stunning cinematography pans the rocky crags of Ireland, holding out with the gray waves tirelessly beating against them, a powerful image of God’s mercy on a stony heart, while a few souls venture out to surf the depths. Words attributed to St. Augustine appear on the screen: “Do not despair; one of the thieves was saved. Do not presume; one of the thieves was damned.” The mercy of God still beats on our hearts, and in receiving Him, we can be one more instrument of His besieging of the hearts of the cold, the hurt, the broken, the sinner.

Christ still lives in His broken earthly body. Christ wants to live in you and me.

Heights and Depths and Memoria

by Jenny Lippert

“The glory of God is man fully alive.”

These words of St. Irenaeus came to mind as I gazed upon the cathedral in Chartres, France on my recent honeymoon. Chartres is an architectural gem, rising 371 feet tall, with enormous asymmetric towers, and imposing buttresses all around. The solidness of this centuries-old structure expresses a permanence and stability. It points to something unchanging, and stands in stark contrast to the modern mindset of convenience and ephemera.

I much prefer the cathedral in Chartres to Notre Dame in Paris largely because Paris is so swarming with tourists that one can hardly breathe sometimes. The relative emptiness of Chartres allows me the space to be quiet, to contemplate, and to appreciate the beauty of this great work of art. There is room to breathe and room to pray.

At present, Chartres is somewhat of a unique look back in time. It’s currently in the midst of a dramatic (and apparently controversial) restoration in which nearly 800 years of grime is being cleaned from the interior and it’s being painted to resemble what it would have looked like in the 13th century. The contrast between the restored and unrestored sections of the cathedral are dramatic. The light, colorful nave is so remarkably altered from the dark, grimy sections.

Restored on the left | Unrestored on the right

Not only is the building itself a marvel, but the amount of artistry inside and outside the cathedral is staggering -- meticulous stone reliefs, enormous stained glass windows, statue upon statue upon statue. Hundreds of artists and craftsmen put forth their efforts to enshrine God’s glory in stone and glass.

And yet, there is no signature on this masterpiece. No one knows the names of the architects or artists of Chartres. They remain anonymous to history, though their work endures.

In the rather strange docudrama “F for Fake,” Orson Welles gives a short monologue about Chartres, touching on this very thing:

“You know, it might be just this one anonymous glory of all things, this rich stone forest, this epic chant, this gaiety, this grand, choiring shout of affirmation, which we choose when all our cities are dust, to stand intact, to mark where we have been, to testify to what we had it in us to accomplish [....] Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash. [...] A fact of life. We’re going to die. ‘Be of good heart,’ cry the dead artists out of the living past. Our songs will all be silenced — but what of it? Go on singing. Maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much.”

These words echoed in my mind the day after our trip to Chartres when we toured the catacombs under the streets of Paris. The Paris catacombs are an extensive network of tunnels and ossuaries deep underground that contain the bones of more than 6 million people.



Once you get over the initial creepiness of walking through millions of bones, there is a definite sobering effect to the experience. You begin to realize that what you can see on the tour (which seems to go on and on), is really only the tip of the iceberg. As you look on unmarked skull after unmarked skull, you register that each of these belonged to a person, an individual, who had a family and a life and a story and a legacy. Perhaps some of them were great artists, perhaps there were authors, poets, scholars, statesmen. There are no names, only staggering heaps of bones with inscriptions of where they are from and when they were moved. Even King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette are there, laid to rest in a vast pile of bones with everyone else, in anonymity.

One particular monument features a line of poetry from the poet Gilbert, surrounded by two plaques that read “Silence, mortal beings” and “Vain grandeur, silence.”

Roughly translated (thank you, Google Translate), the poem reads:

At the banquet of life, unfortunate guest,
I appeared one day, and I die:
I die, and on my tomb, where slowly I arrive
No one will come to shed tears.

When our tour guide brought us to this spot, he asked us eagerly if anyone knew of the poet “Gilbert.” Met with silence, he revealed, “that’s the joke. No one has heard of Gilbert.”

The message of this particular monument was to say that you will all end up like these people and your name will not be remembered in the end -- a rather dark message, but perhaps with the ring of truth to it. At some point in the future, our names will likely not be remembered. What will be remembered of us?

Our tour guide pointed out several times inscriptions that denoted a romantic view of life and death. In a nutshell: we will all die, so live life passionately--full of emotion and intensity. This is, perhaps, how many people approach the inevitability of death. If it feels good, do it. Make a splash. #yolo

Inspirational bracelets for sale
in the in-flight catalogue on the way home

On the other hand, we have Chartres -- the unsigned masterpiece. A sacramental sign of God’s truth, goodness, and beauty. A testament to what man can accomplish with God. A “grand, choiring shout of affirmation” about life and humanity and God.

Likely none of us will be tasked with building a great cathedral. But what are we doing with the time given us? What small corner of the world are we quietly and anonymously beautifying? What ground has God given us to till and what will we make of it? In the end, all of our material works will disintegrate. What are we doing to build up God’s kingdom here and now? What are we doing that will bear fruit in eternal life?

Adulting Like a Child

by Jenny Lippert
(the now-married artist formerly known as Jenny Klejeski)

“Look at the birds in the sky;
they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns,
yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are not you more important than they?
Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span?”
-Matt. 6:26-27

My recent wedding brought with it an extended visit from my sisters and their families, meaning my parents’ house was taken over by 7 nieces and nephews, ages five weeks to seven years. There is a particular kind of joy and exhaustion that comes from over and over bumping down the stairs with a 2-year-old, or doing the same sleight-of-hand magic trick for the endlessly stupefied 4-year-old, or soothing a floppy 5-week-old, or repeatedly letting a toddler use your body as a jungle gym, climbing up and flipping upside down.

My oldest nephew, Linus, likes to express himself in superlatives. When I gave him a big push on the swing: “I didn’t think it was possible to go so high!” “I’m a cardinal! I’m a blue jay!” “This is the most fun I’ve ever had!” I think I could have pushed him on the swing 50 times in the same way, and each time would have been the “most fun” for him. He also enthusiastically declared my wedding cake as “the best wedding cake he had ever eaten!” and my wedding dance as “the most fun wedding dance ever!”

His fervent accolades made me giggle, but in another way, caused me to see life through the profoundly genuine, childlike eyes of a 7-year-old. His innocent sincerity made me realize that he really did mean that it was the most fun, or most delicious, or most {insert adjective}. There was a newness and a freshness to each experience for him—an acceptance of things as a wonder-filled gift. It also made me realize how often I use superlatives for cheap effect, as a means of getting a reaction from my audience or as a tired way of trying to imbue meaning into otherwise shallow experiences (e.g. “that is literally the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen,” “you are the worst,” etc. etc.). Reality, rather than being treated as God’s sacramental self-revelation, becomes an arbitrary occasion for me to express myself, to define myself and my own experience, to make of the world a closed-circuit of self-expression.

Linus and his expressions of childlikeness have been bouncing around in my mind in a particular way during these first few weeks of married life. Certainly, these days have been marked with the delighted realization of having joined my life to that of my best friend and the novel excitement of setting up our new home together. Newness is everywhere. But also creeping in are the subtle anxieties of unprecedented adult responsibilities, the desire to categorize and control, and the temptation to fear that I’ll be an inadequate wife.

I want to be the best wife, the best homemaker, the best teacher I can be. And the best Christian. That’s an overwhelming burden. It makes me feel at every moment as if I’m supposed to be doing something else, or being someone else, accomplishing some other goal which feels impossible. Out of this anxiety, I find myself neglecting how God is speaking to me in the moment while frenetically attending to fringe duties with a sense of panic and anxiety. In doing so, I forget entirely what it means to be a child of God, failing to receive the gift of God in the moment, failing to work with the methodical peacefulness and joy, alongside Christ, that life affords me when I approach it rightly. Jesus promises me peace, peace not as the world gives, but as He gives. And He promises it to a disciple still on the journey—to a still-growing child.

My new husband shares my nephew’s childlike tendency to speak in superlatives. Like my nephew, he doesn’t do this, I think, as a mere rhetorical device, but as an authentic expression of how he experiences reality. Just the other day, as we were driving home from dinner and admiring a beautiful sunset, he declared it “the most beautiful evening I can remember.” It was a beautiful evening, to be sure. Was it literally “the most beautiful evening?” Well, it didn’t strike me as so, but maybe that’s simply because I wasn’t paying attention. I wondered if I even had it as a mental possibility to experience things in superlatives anymore. I’ve experienced so many beautiful evenings; is it possible even to expect to have a “most beautiful” one? Or do I just have a category for “beautiful evenings” now, that each new addition gets tossed into, without a moment’s appreciation of its uniqueness and possibility?

What to do about this?

In the Gospel reading at our wedding, Jesus commands, “learn from the way the wild flowers grow. They do not work or spin. But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them.” Jesus is inviting me to recognize myself as a flower, a lovely creature that he himself sustains. He is inviting me to enjoy the rains and the sunshine of his grace, and to know that His providence is providing for all that I need. He is inviting me to trust that, with His grace, He is gradually unfolding me, petal by petal into what He desires me to be. He wants me to pay attention to the gift of now and to allow now to be the now-iest now that ever now-ed.

"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
-Luke 12:32

The End of All Things

by Jenny Klejeski

You know, sometimes the readings at Mass are strangely apropos.

Case in point: this past Friday, at our second to the last school Mass of the year, we heard from St. Peter,

“Beloved: The end of all things is close at hand.”

When I heard those words, I thought of the impending end of the school year, all my grades being due shortly, 8th grade graduation; I thought of going to get the keys to the new apartment the next day, marking the end of living in my childhood home; I thought of my last few weeks as a Klejeski and all the things that need to happen before then.

Not literally the end of all things, but okay, God--I’m listening.

“Therefore be serious and sober-minded
so that you will be able to pray.”

A good friend of mine recently asked me what he could pray for on my behalf. I thought about it for a moment and said, “attention.” I have realized that it is far too easy, in any season of life, but particularly in the especially busy ones to cease to pay attention, to drown in details, and just to lose perspective.

In the midst of end of year grading, it is easy to forget how blessed I am by my job, what wonderful students and co-workers I have, and even what a gift the mundane slog of assignments is.

When I am moving box after box of wedding shower presents into our new apartment, it is easy to forget about all the beautiful people who love us and are ushering us into married life with these gifts.

Even for two low-key people (or maybe I should say, especially for two low-key people), the process of wedding planning involves a lot of potentially stress-inducing details that distract from the real purpose of the whole process: i.e. receiving a SACRAMENT.

Perspective. Attention. Gratitude.

“Above all, let your love for one another be intense,
because love covers a multitude of sins.
Be hospitable to one another without complaining.”

At my school, we have a virtue of the month that we focus on. My principal, in her wisdom, strategically made our virtue for this final month forgiveness. Life is messy--especially when people are involved--and I am grateful for the reminder to go gently, both with myself and others. As my students miss final deadlines, and I miss final deadlines, and there’s a miscommunication with our caterer, and we’re trying move a heavy couch up a narrow staircase in 90° heat, and my students are antsy to get out of the classroom, and I’m antsy to get out of the classroom, and so-and-so hasn’t RSVPed yet, and on and on and on…I am humbled by St. Peter’s exhortation.

Love. Love intensely. Don’t complain.

As each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another
as good stewards of God's varied grace.
Whoever preaches, let it be with the words of God;
whoever serves, let it be with the strength that God supplies,
so that in all things God may be glorified through Jesus Christ,
to whom belong glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen.

How often I can lament whatever task is before me as an “obligation” or something burdensome. How hopeful, then, are St. Peter’s words to help me realize that I have been not only entrusted with a task that is particular to me, but also been equipped to carry out that task. And all for God’s glory! What freedom!

And finally:

Beloved, do not be surprised that a trial by fire is occurring among you,
as if something strange were happening to you.
But rejoice to the extent that you share in the sufferings of Christ,
so that when his glory is revealed
you may also rejoice exultantly.

All of it--the struggles, the blessings, the joys, the mundanity--is a gift.

When God Gives You a Nickname

by Jenny Klejeski

“A slave does not know what his master is doing. I no longer call you slaves but friends, for I have revealed to you everything I have received from my Father in Heaven.”

In 47 days, God willing, my fiancé and I are getting married.¹ Now, I have never been married before, nor has my fiancé, but I hear that this involves quite a few life changes. To be more precise, it’s a sharing of everything. It requires a lay-it-all-on-the-line commitment. You know, just small things.

This is signified in many ways, not least of which is changing my name.

In Scripture, a name change marked a new mission from God, a new identity in God, a new understanding of one’s relationship to God. It means a conversion, an acceptance of a vocation, a whole-life-game-changer. Abram became Abraham, Jacob became Israel, Simon became Peter, Saul became Paul²—and neither the person, nor the world was never ever the same again.

When I was baptized, I, Jennifer Marie, became a new creation in Christ. I became an alter Christus—another Christ—with a distinct vocation that can be fulfilled by no one but me. Later, when I was confirmed Francesca Pio, the gifts I received at Baptism were sealed in the Sacrament of Christian maturity. These signified my new status in the family of God—a supernatural change of identity.

Another "Squib."

There are natural changes of identity, too. I have been the recipient of many nicknames over the years. Among these pseudonyms are “Squib,” “Jenethian Puffercake,” “Jennitori, Jennitoque,” and to my dad, I’m “Squeaker.” Each nickname means a specific thing to a specific person. Each represents a memory, an inside joke, or a term of endearment. They are all part of my past, and are woven into my identity. Names are signs of relationship—agreed-upon symbols representing the mystery of the person him-or-herself.

When I take a vow before God and man in a few months, I will be accepting a new name—the name of my future husband—a name that I believe is given me by God—as a gift. It means to me an acceptance of a new mission in life, a profound call to radical self-gift, and a surrendering of my will to another.

“For this reason, a man leaves father and mother, and cleaves to his wife and the two shall become one flesh.” What’s worth it? What relationship could make me willing to leave my family name, everything associated with my old identity, and to be transformed one step further? What mission could God possibly offer me that would transcend the blessings of my childhood and young adulthood? Only a deeper share in the mystery of Christ’s love.

It seems to me that, deep down, Saul was always Paul and that, deep down, Simon was always Peter. Not that they couldn’t have rejected these new names and identities, of course, but that the potential for radically following Christ was always there for them. The name I take in marriage is one more step in becoming who I am, who God is calling me to be. It is taking my universal call to holiness and particularizing—incarnating—it. It is taking on the responsibility for my future husband’s salvation, and that of our children, God willing.

Christ is the model. In His mission, His marriage to the Church, He gives us HIS name along with Himself—we become what we receive, the Body of Christ.

So, in preparation for my name change, a prayer:

Saul-Paul—pray for me that I might be able to evangelize my husband and family in my thoughts, words and deeds, and to persevere in running the race and fighting the good fight.

Jacob-Israel—help me to wrestle in prayer with God and man so as to achieve the fullness of God’s plan for me, and for my family, regardless of obstacles and my own past (and future) failings.

Abram-Abraham—pray that I too, along with my husband, might be a source of life for all whom we meet—a figure and fountain-head of faith by putting God first in our lives and trusting in His promises, and not our own plans for life.

Simon-Peter—you rock. Pray for us and help us to follow Christ despite knowing it will cost us—and to follow Him unreservedly, without comparing ourselves to others, or asking God what we can expect, like mercenaries. Let us be lovers of God. Let us be lovers of God. Let us be lovers of God. And let us love Him more than these.

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1 WHAAA?!!?^↩

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2 Though this was technically not a name change given him by God, we still generally refer to the pre-conversion man as “Saul” and the post-conversion man as “Paul.”^↩

On Chreasters and God's Mercy

by Jenny Klejeski



"The creche is gone and all these lilies are here! It's a miracle!"
-The Chreasters' mystical experience, according to one of my professors.

A few years ago at Easter, I found myself particularly annoyed with the Chreaster (Christmas and Easter) Catholics. Writing that down makes me realize anew how horrible that is, but it's true. I'm not perfect.

My reaction to them was not unlike the semi-annual phenomenon that would take place in undergrad during finals week when all of the study spaces would be packed with people. Oh, *now* you feel like studying. How nice for you. Where were you all semester? And all those cozy nooks and crannies that I had called my own were filled with strangers, who—I don't know—had decided to stop fooling around or partying or whatever and get serious about their studies or something. Of course this was not true of everyone, but these were the thoughts in my stressed out, annoyed, sleep-deprived mind.

And I have sometimes experienced the same thing at Christmas and Easter. I have to come to Church early just to get a seat? Who are all these strangers? Is someone sitting in MY pew? Ugh...

Again, I'm not perfect.

I became self-conscious about my cynicism fairly early on and made a deliberate choice to be charitable. But even when I tried to do that, it was very disingenuous. Aw, that person keeps using the responses from the old translation; that's cute. It's so "great" that you're here!

And so, I prayed the only prayer that I could think of, which was "Lord, help me to see these people as you see them." And how does God see the person who hasn't been to Church in months, or years? As the prodigal. As the lost sheep. As the missing coin. With the unharnessed, unconditional joy of a child.

And who am I? The older brother, sulking outside because of some hurt sense of entitlement. The Levite, keeping a safe distance from the uncleanness. The rich young man, confused as to why my strict adherence to the law hasn't merited me eternal life.

I think of the parable of the workers in the vineyard.¹ The workers come at various points in the day (at sunrise, the 3rd hour, 6th hour, 9th hour, and 11th hour) and work until sunset. Those who worked the shortest amount of time get paid first and get the full day's wage. The other workers are excited because they think this means they'll get even more than a full day's wage, but are upset when they get the exact same pay as those who worked the least. (Let me tell you, if you want to get a room of high schoolers worked up about the Bible, use this passage. They'll be mad.)

The Landowner in the parable has a wonderfully pointed response: "Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?"

And it's then that I realize YES! OF COURSE I AM ENVIOUS! Why the hell do I even bother if You're so generous??

I need to be reminded often that we're not Pelagians. No matter what I do, I cannot—by definition—earn grace. It's freely given. And it's just as freely given to me as the person who hasn't been to Church in months. The saving mystery of Christ our Passover slain for us, and His triumphant victory over death is proclaimed to all people of every nations, and not just those of us who have kept the pews warm on Sundays.

As John Chrysostom reminds us, “If any have tarried even until the eleventh hour, let him, also, be not alarmed at his tardiness; for the Lord, who is jealous of his honor, will accept the last even as the first; he gives rest unto him who comes at the eleventh hour, even as unto him who has wrought from the first hour.”²

Now, of course, none of this means that we shouldn't go to Church, or follow the law, or perform acts of charity, assuming that hey! God will give us a big party anyway, as long as we repent at the last minute. Grace is, as I said before, freely given. But it must be accepted. Grace is not imposed upon us against our will. We accept the gift of grace in our observance of the law, in our reception of the Sacraments, in our loving interactions with others. In so doing, I am properly disposed for the grace to take effect in my life. It's not pointless. It is efficacious.

But as soon as I start to tally up my works subconsciously, as soon as I check boxes, as soon as I find myself annoyed at the people at Church who haven't "earned" their spot there...That is when I have effectively put God, and His mercy, into a little box to fit my small-minded definition of what it ought to be. And thank God (literally) that His mercy is not that limited, because if it were, we'd all be screwed.

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1 Matthew 20:1-16^↩

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2 Sermon by St. John Chrysostom^↩

The Artificial and the Organic

by Jenny Klejeski

The first year I lived in Salt Lake City, our apartment was within walking distance of a park which, every Saturday morning from June to October, would be transformed into a spectacular farmers’ market. Interspersed between the rows and rows of fresh produce were local artists, musicians, and food trucks galore. It became a ritual of mine to meander around the farmers’ market on Saturday mornings after Mass. I rarely bought anything, but I loved to experience the variety of humanity. To me, as an introvert, there is something peculiarly life-giving about walking around a place full of people by myself.



Local pastries, honeys, kale, pluots, flowers, coffee, soaps, art, music—a veritable cornucopia of delights to the senses. Everything felt fresh and alive. Smells, sights, and sounds—all seemed orchestrated to be pleasing. People from all walks of life were there—families with little kids, young adults, old adults, farmers, city people, hippies, and hipsters. It was a microcosm of the pleasant parts of the city. I liked to wonder how it would feel to be a person carrying their cute, reusable bags to the market each week, buying local produce, cooking healthy things, composting, growing herbs in their kitchen….

Even more remarkable than the farmers’ market was the incredible transformation of the park. This neighborhood was on the edge of the gentrified area of Salt Lake City, home to a number of the homeless shelters. At any other time than the farmers’ market, this park is not a place that I would walk unaccompanied. It had earned the nickname of “wino park” because of the usual crowd of homeless people, some of whom drank. In fact, it’s one of the most concentrated areas of crime in the entire city—not so much because of the homeless people committing crimes, but because of criminals who prey on the homeless. Drug deals, violence, theft, and harassment are common activities there.

Astounding, then, the transformation to this clean, well-organized, respectable community event, at which people could support local business and be environmentally conscious.

I had never seen people setting up for the farmers’ market, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the process was like. Were the homeless people asked to leave? Were they physically forced? Did they just prefer to leave at a certain time, understanding that their presence wasn’t welcome?

However it happened, they didn’t go far. In looking for a parking spot, I would sometimes drive around the other side of a nearby complex of buildings, just out of sight of the market, and would find myself faced with a long line of homeless people. They were sitting on the sidewalks, stretching out for blocks and blocks and blocks. All of these people camped out, surrounded by their earthly possessions looked a bit like how I imagine a refugee camp.

Occasionally, there would be one or two homeless people who would dare to sit close to the market, even asking for food or money. The contrast was striking: a hungry person begging while surrounded by an abundance of healthy, inexpensive produce. It was clear that this was not produce for the poor but for the privileged. Sensing this disconnect beneath the clean, friendly façade bothered me. This simple, healthy living was cosmetic. The perfect, wholesome, integrated life that had seemed so attractive now seemed so empty, distasteful, and fake.

I know this tendency in myself, this tendency to push aside the more unpleasant social problems in order to live as I please. If I make a certain lifestyle my idol, does it prevent me from seeing the Christ in front of me? Do I dismiss the way Christ is really and truly incarnate before me in order to pursue a politically correct, pleasing, clean-living ideal exterior? Do I dismiss the hungry, thirsty, needy parts of others or myself, out of a desire to falsely idealize them, to deal only with the “civilized” parts—seeing only what I want to see? Do I refuse to see Christ in my brother and sister, when my brother or sister needs a bath, or a listening ear, or a handout? Do I reject the God who cried out “I thirst” in favor of the god of pleasant chance-acquaintances, small-talk, sound bites, pious, clean exteriors, and assumed privilege?

Yes, we would like to pretend we are “there” already, in our perfect utopia—that there is no more work to be done. And yes, the poor will always be with us, and to be confronted with them will disturb our sense of complacency, our guiltless self-indulgence. But if we pretend that they are not here—that there is not more work to be done—then we are deceiving ourselves and making sure that our illusion of the ideal life is just that—an illusion. And it will always be an illusion based on a self-serving lie, one with a desperate need to shut out the suffering Christ who is begging for our love. Don’t look away.

“Once, on being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, Jesus replied, ‘The coming of the kingdom of God is not something that can be observed, nor will people say, ‘Here it is,’ or ‘There it is,’ because the kingdom of God is in your midst.’” - Luke 17:20-21

Here. Now. Love.

by Jenny Klejeski

“Do whatever He tells you.” - John 2:5b

Mary made this simple request to the servers at the wedding in Cana. Her words feel very significant, particularly when taken on their own. In these words, I often hear a grand call, the emphasis falling on the word “whatever.” Whatever thing Jesus tells me to do, I must do; whatever sacrifices He calls me to make, I must make; whatever life He calls me to, I must live.

This is true. We owe God, literally, everything. And we should do whatever He tells us to do.

However, as I recently meditated on this episode in John’s Gospel, I thought about the recipients of this command and how perplexed they must have been. And, frankly, they were probably annoyed, too. Here, the waitstaff is facing an embarrassing catering crisis, and this woman gives a cryptic request without any explanation that they should do whatever her son tells them to do. Sure, lady.

And then comes Jesus’ actual request: fill up 6 stone basins (20-30 gallons each) with water—an arduous task, even by today’s standards, to say nothing of their lack of running water. This is the point at which I would say, “ummm….I’m going to need to speak to my supervisor.”

Now, I don’t intend to take liberties with the Scripture. Perhaps all of the servers reverently and piously followed Jesus’ requests with no questions asked and with hands folded devoutly; the Gospel does not indicate any protests from those involved. On the other hand, at this point in the Gospels, Jesus hadn’t shown Himself to be anyone special. This was to be His first (recorded) miracle. And here He was requesting something that was tedious and probably seemed pointless.

Regardless of what the servants were actually thinking, we do know that they fulfilled Jesus’ request. They were obedient. And what came of it? A glorious sign of God’s presence in our midst—a sign of God’s reign.

There is a story of St. Teresa of Calcutta in which a Jesuit priest named John Kavanaugh visited her in the sisters’ Home for the Dying in Kalighat. He asked Mother Teresa to pray for him that he would have clarity to know what God wanted him to do. Her firm response was “no.” He was taken aback; it seemed to him that Mother Teresa had an abundance of clarity for God’s will in what she was doing. She said, “I have never had clarity. What I have always had is trust. So I will pray that you trust God.”

When considering our vocations, we often want clarity. We want to know exactly what it is that God is calling us to. This likely comes from a very good intention to follow God. However, it is also linked to a desire, in our brokenness, to control. We want to know what is coming next. We want to see the plan. We want to know that we’re serving a purpose and going the right way. And when this is not clear to us, it is easy to feel discouraged, frustrated, and despondent. It may feel that we are missing our calling.

Caryll Houselander addresses this very fear: “Sometimes it may seem to us that there is no purpose in our lives, that going day after day for years to this office or that school or factory is nothing else but waste and weariness. But it may be that God has sent us there because but for us, Christ would not be there. If our being there means that Christ is there, that alone makes it worthwhile.”

Through the mundane, the painful, the frustrating, the seemingly pointless, say yes anyway. Nothing is wasted if we love. It is from small obediences that God calls forth great abundance. Do not be afraid that you are missing your vocation or that you ought to be somewhere else. Trust that your vocation is wherever you are.

Rather than longing for the whatever that we want to be called to, let’s ask for the courage to listen for the still, small voice saying, “Here. Now. Love.”

Beauty beyond Aesthetics

by Jenny Klejeski

Perhaps you, like me, have participated in discussions regarding beauty in the liturgy. Perhaps, also, it has been your experience that these conversations often devolve into superficial arguments about the right vestments to be used, the type of music that is appropriate, and whether or not we should hold hands at the Our Father. Of course, these discussions have a place, as nothing in the Christian liturgy should be seen as incidental. However, when the argument deteriorates into the “progressive” Catholics accusing the “traditional” Catholics of being out-of-touch, materialistic, and stodgy and the “traditionals” accusing the “progressives” of being touchy-feely, modernist, and iconoclastic, the point has been missed entirely.

In considering the role of beauty in the liturgy, I would like to look at beauty as more than merely aesthetics—rather as an unseen reality that finds expression in the visible. The invisible God is in Himself, Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, and yet we only know of these things through concrete manifestations. The Vatican II document Sacrosanctum Concilium states that within the Church “the visible [is directed and subordinated to] the invisible” (§ 2). The document does not say that what is visible is unimportant, arbitrary, or unnecessary, but only that what is visible must be ordered toward the invisible.

Humans are both physical and spiritual beings. It is natural for our brains to respond positively to that which is aesthetically pleasing, but we also know instinctively that true beauty is something that goes deeper than externals. If you were to show this picture of Mother Teresa to any number of people and ask them if them if it is beautiful, I think you would be hard-pressed to find someone who said no, not simply because people are afraid of being perceived as wicked, but because they actually perceive something beautiful in it, even if they have difficulty naming that beauty.



If this image is beautiful to us, we must concede that external beauty (at least as it is commonly defined by society) is not the only measure of true beauty. What we see here is a moment of love–a tender embrace, a concerned expression, a certain humble simplicity. And, of course, most people who see the iconic face of Mother Teresa immediately call to mind what they know of her: a life of service that witnessed to a great inner beauty.

If you were to perform a similar experiment with a picture of St. Damien of Molokai, you would perhaps have a different experience.



The natural instinct when looking on this picture of the leprosy-stricken Damien is probably pity, perhaps even disgust. While his story is somewhat known among Catholics, his face is likely not recognized by most (in contrast to the image of Mother Teresa). If, however, one is to learn Fr. Damien’s story–how he devoted his life to the care of the lepers of Molokai, how he offered hope to the outcast, how he sacrificed himself in service to others–perhaps, then, one would admit the image to be beautiful. The horrible deformities on his skin, the pained look on his face, the cage under his clothing, are all marks of love. As we learn his story, our idea of beauty shifts. The internal, invisible reality of sacrificial love that Fr. Damien lived out became incarnate through the scars borne on his body.

Beauty, then, it seems can present itself paradoxically. That which at first does not strike as beautiful can become so when paired with Truth and Goodness. This is what Christ shows us in the Eucharist; there is nothing spectacular or eye-catching in what appears to be a small circle of bread. And yet, we know in faith that it is through the liturgy that “the work of our redemption is accomplished” (SC §2). The invisible reality of our redemption, the highest love, the most beautiful Truth, is made visible in Christ.



This image is, by most standards, repulsive. There is nothing externally beautiful about a man covered in wounds, nearly naked, suspended by nails in his hands. Those of us who know the story, however, and have been touched by the reality it expresses, recognize the most profound beauty of this image. It is Beauty incarnate.

Christianity, in its own paradoxical way, asks us to reexamine our paradigm of beauty. It does not ask us to abandon what we know by instinct is beautiful–the symmetrical, the proportional, the grand. Rather, it asks that we expand our definition of beauty. It is not a matter of either/or, but both/and.

Is beauty necessary in Christian liturgical practice? If, by beauty, is meant our feeble (though admittedly important) efforts to add material beauty to the liturgy, then no. We should always strive for the externals of the liturgy to worthily express the unseeable reality; however, even the most transcendent painting, the most ethereal singing, the most beautifully orchestrated motions cannot amply express the beauty inherent in the work of our salvation. The most ornate and the most sparse liturgies are both beautiful, by virtue of the fact that we have partaken in the work of our salvation.

Waiting in Darkness

by Jenny Klejeski

“Advent is the season of the secret, the secret of the growth of Christ, of Divine Love growing in silence.” - Caryll Houselander, The Reed of God

There are few sights that fill my heart with hope more than a lit sanctuary lamp.

In college, I would often wear myself ragged with studying into the wee hours of the night. I would trudge from the library back to my dorm in the dark, across long, open quads, weighed down by my backpack and mild existential despair. Sometimes I would come back so late that the first birds of the morning would be merrily whistling away, even though it would still be dark out for several more hours. Upon hearing them, I didn’t know whether to laugh or to curse.

Regardless of how tired I was, I would always make a brief visit to the chapel of my dorm—the Chapel of the Annunciation—which was conveniently located right off the entryway. Shuffling in and genuflecting, the stillness and silence of the space cut through the noise of my bulky winter coat, clumsy boots, and overfilled backpack. In those dark nights, the only light visible was the lit sanctuary lamp, casting bold, red warmth against the darkness.



These visits to the chapel were rarely a consolation to me on a natural level. I still felt weary and stressed out and overwrought. But there was a deeper consolation in those moments. I was receiving something supernatural. I found hope in His constancy. He was—even at that late hour—still waiting up for me to come see Him.

During Advent, as the days become shorter and often busier, I think of these moments in my dorm chapel, these brief moments of vigilance, of waiting to receive something, of hoping for a coming—for an encounter—in the midst of my anxieties.

The Presence of Christ concealed in the tabernacle, and signaled by the sanctuary lamp, is a poignant image of Advent to me. It is like the Christ in utero, hidden in the body of his mother, small, silent, unknown, yet powerful. It is the image of the Messiah Who does not swoop in to solve all my worldly problems, but rather makes Himself known in silence and hiddenness and constancy. And Who wishes to find a home within myself as He did in Mary.

He shows us the power of weakness and vulnerability and smallness. He reveals the richness in poverty, the beauty in simpleness, the fullness in self-emptying. The God of all the Universe comes in the form of a tiny wafer, hidden in a box. And before that, as a tiny child, hidden in the womb of His mother.

Caryll Houselander beautifully writes, “The psalmists had hymned Christ’s coming on harps of gold. The prophets had foretold it with burning tongues. But now the loudest telling of His presence on earth was to be the heartbeat within the heartbeat of a child.” What was asked of Mary was her humanity, which gave Christ His humanity. Bones, blood, cartilage, skin, all organizing themselves (literally) within her, a vital, mysterious, silent, life-giving force.

Christ comes to us in the Eucharist, small, silent, vulnerable, and asks the same of us as He asked of Mary—he asks for our humanity. He requires our fiat in order to give Him shape and form in the world. “We are all asked if we will surrender what we are, our humanity, our flesh and blood, to the Holy Spirit and allow Christ to fill the emptiness formed by the particular shape of our life” (Houselander). He desires to come into the secret of our hearts to teach us wisdom, a wisdom that is foolishness in the eyes of a world that always has more for us to do or worry about. It is the wisdom of smallness, of silence. It is the wisdom of a power not our own.

“In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” - Luke 1:78

The Creed and Our Mundane Martyrdoms

by Jenny Klejeski

Martyrdom comes up with surprising frequency in my classes (particularly given that I teach English). Young people, in my experience, have a particular fascination with the topic. Most recently, a discussion in my 7th-grade class arose on the feast of the dedication of St. John Lateran as I described the larger-than-life statues of the apostles, who each hold the symbol of their martyrdom. We talked about the various martyrdoms of the apostles, the favorite, of course, being St. Bartholomew, who is often depicted holding his own skin because he was flayed alive. (“EEWWWWW!!!”)

I always try to walk the line between “keeping Catholicism weird” and not becoming fixated on the morbid. When the conversation falls too far into the realm of “Ms. Klejeski, what’s the grossest way to die?” I like to redirect to the conversation to the meaning of the word “martyr,” which literally means “witness.” What were these people witnessing to? Why do we depict them with the instruments of their martyrdom? Not because we have a bizarre obsession with torture and execution; in fact, we morally condemn those things. If we become too preoccupied with the signs themselves, they can become idols of voyeurism. Rather, the martyrs hold the instruments of their martyrdom as a sign of victory, as a sacramental. These witnesses are silently proclaiming that their faith was stronger than the most abhorrent things that the world can conjure up—that nothing was able to separate them from the love of God.

I also like to remind my students that the path to sainthood is not a one-time decision, but is made up of hundreds of fiats (“yeses”) made again and again every day. ¹ It is a matter of denying oneself, taking up one’s cross, and following Christ each day. The martyrs were able to hold fast to the Creed in their final moments because they lived the creed every day. They could say “yes” to God under torture and death because they had been saying “yes” to Him in small ways each day, over and over.

The creed is a funny thing. It’s a beautiful statement of our beliefs, the entire story of salvation history, the sign for which hundreds of thousands of men and women have sacrificed their lives….and yet it’s the part of Mass during which I almost inevitably zone out.

What does it mean to say “I believe” in the Creed? After all, I can ascribe these words to lots of things. “I believe 2+2=4.” “I believe the Earth is round.” “I believe my mom loves me.” etc. etc. Are these statements of belief the same as when I say “I believe in God the Father Almighty…”?

The Catechism beautifully tells us that “[t]o say the Credo with faith is to enter into communion with God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and also with the whole Church” (CCC §197, emphasis mine). Thus, to pray these words of the Creed, is not merely to give intellectual assent to a list of lifeless propositions, but actually to enter into the life of God.

Faith is both a divine gift and a human act. Similar to a human relationship, one person extends an invitation to another person, and that other person must freely choose to accept the offer. There is no scientific proof that a person is being authentic in their desire for friendship. If a person says “I love you,” it requires an act of faith ² to believe them and say “I love you, too.”

So, too, God extends to us friendship through His Church. And my saying “I believe” in the Creed is to accept that invitation. In a way, our statement of belief on Sundays is akin to marriage vows. We publicly profess our acceptance of God’s invitation to relationship.

So, too—as with marriage—the “yes” that we give in public must necessarily be substantiated in our day-to-day life. The “yes” given between bride and groom manifests itself as the “yes” of changing diapers and visiting extended family and paying bills and long nights and any number of small deaths to self. The “yes” that we give to God on Sundays must manifest itself as hundreds of little “yeses,” little deaths to self, wherein we witness to, and become martyrs for, the Love in which we believe.

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1 This is an idea that I’ve written about before.^↩

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2 FOOTGranted, this act of faith in another person is categorically different than faith in God, but the analogy stands.^↩

That One Time I Was Perfect

by Jenny Klejeski

“Be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect.” -Matt. 5:48

This command of Jesus has often produced in me a sinking feeling of discouragement.

Me? Perfect? C’mon, Jesus -- you know me better than that.

It seems an impossible command.

Then I begin to wonder: would Jesus ask something impossible of me?

There becomes a temptation to qualify his words. Well, maybe he meant “try” to be perfect, or “strive” for perfection.

But that’s not what he said. The words of Thomas Aquinas (translated by G. M. Hopkins) come to mind here: “What God's Son has told me, take for truth I do; Truth Himself speaks truly or there's nothing true.” Now, certainly there are certain things that Jesus said that we can wonder about. When He says that the Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, we can wonder what He means by that. There is a wealth of fruitful interpretations of parables.

In this case, though, coming at the end of the Sermon on the Mount, it doesn’t seem like there’s much room for interpretation. And any attempt to dilute the text feels uncomfortably like eisigesis, imposing my own meaning on Jesus’ words in order to make them more comfortable for me to hear.

My hearing of this Scripture totally changed this summer when I heard it presented during my Catechesis of the Good Shepherd training.¹ In one type of lesson, a saying of Jesus (called a maxim) is presented and reflected upon. The second maxim given in the schedule of presentations is “Be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect.” One of the first questions our instructor asked after reading the above maxim was, “have you ever been perfect?” My first response in my head was, “no, of course not,” but someone else chimed in, “yes--at our Baptism!”

WOAH. Of course! Now, it certainly wasn’t a revelation to me that we become perfect at our Baptism, that we are totally cleansed of original and committed sin, that we become a new creation in Christ. But I had never before connected this reality with Jesus’ command about perfection.

Maybe I’ve been approaching this passage wrong all along. Maybe the perfection Jesus is calling me to is not something that I achieve if I work really, really hard. Maybe, rather, this perfection is a gift that I receive, not through my own effort, but through the Lord’s totally gratuitous love. Maybe the perfection does not originate in my own merit, but is completely received from the One Who perfects all things.

And being a part of the Body of Christ, I am, already, a “saint” in a true, though yet imperfectly realized way. ² The Church is, paradoxically, both unfailingly holy and constantly being sanctified. I think what I too often forget is that this process of sanctification is not a work of man, but wholly a work of grace.

With our culture’s constant emphasis on doing, there is an impoverished sense of being and receiving. There is a tendency to think that everything rests on our shoulders and that the work of our salvation is something we have to do. Perhaps the only doing we need is to become what we are.

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1 I’ve written about CGS previously on this blog. You can also get more information about it here.^↩

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2 CCC 823^↩

Filthy Catharsis

by Jenny Klejeski

Perhaps you are aware, if you’re inclined to follow such things, of the ongoing feud between Taylor Swift and Kanye West (and, apparently between Taylor Swift and most people). I, because I am not inclined to follow such things, was unaware until a few weeks ago. My younger (and cooler) brother who helps me keep up with the better--or at least more interesting--parts of pop culture wanted me to watch the lyric video for Taylor Swift’s new song “Look What You Made Me Do.”

I’m not qualified to offer an in-depth commentary on the song or the story behind it, ¹ but it’s quite obviously a dark turn of style and content for Swift. She even coldly states in the song that the “Old Taylor” is dead and satirizes her past self as seeming naive and fake. The overall tone of the song is vindictive and sinister as she throws shade at just about everyone, including herself.

It’s not my purpose here to make a judgment about Swift or her music, per se. The reason I bring it up is because I was reminded of it during the Gospel reading at Mass a few Sundays ago.

Jesus says, "If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have won over your brother.” ²

It struck me that, though what Jesus commands is common sense, it is so incredibly countercultural. In an age of celebrity worship, it seems there is nothing people enjoy more than the schadenfreude they feel at someone’s downfall. If you are in the spotlight in any capacity--whether as an athlete, a politician, a religious leader, an actor, a musician--there will likely be little compassion if you slip up. And even if you don’t, someone will probably make up a story that you did.

While this tendency is not peculiar to our generation, ³ I would still argue that there has been an explosion of this type of content with the advent of television, and now social media, which provide us with entire structures dedicated to lurid busybodyness. Tabloids, reality shows, and social media outlets all stand to make money on our desire to know who’s cheating on whom, who just got checked into rehab, who’s got a kinky past, who came out as gay, etc., etc., etc.

It’s not unlike our compulsion to rubberneck at an accident scene. We find it difficult to look away when something bad is unfolding, but rarely do we stop to see if we can help.

Why do we do this? Why are people so obsessed with watching the ruin of other people?

I’m sure there are a number of psychological studies on such phenomena that could give us an insight, but I would like to posit that this propensity simply stems from a desire for catharsis. We live in a broken world with fractured relationships and fragile peace, and we often carry the weight of that within ourselves. We seek to relieve some of that pressure by blaming. Brene Brown has a short, entertaining video about blame in which she describes blame as “simply the discharging of discomfort and pain,” which has an “inverse relationship to accountability.” Basically, to blame gives us a sense of catharsis.



Even though we want to experience emotional catharsis, we are often not willing to deal with our own relationships or our own authentic emotions; rather we ogle the mistakes or misfortunes of others. There is a kind of voyeurism to it. We engage in a kind of unholy cultural scapegoating that distracts and numbs us, that offers us some sort of release, while disregarding the human dignity of the people involved. In some way, it’s unsurprising to me how pornography has become such an epidemic because, really, it’s just the same process applied to sexuality.

Our culture runs after license (what is mistakenly considered “freedom”) with a voracious appetite; the right to do whatever we want, whenever we want, with whomever we want is guarded at all costs. This culture, however, is also devoid of forgiveness. If you make a mistake with your “freedom,” it’s game over. Once your reputation is dead, there is no resurrection, except perhaps a kind of undead existence as you find ways to pull your enemies down with you.



Cardinal Francis George once wrote, “The world permits everything and forgives nothing. God and the Church do not permit everything but forgive everything.”⁴ The truth offered by the Church, though, is one of true freedom. Not permission to do whatever we want, but a freedom that leads us to our real telos. And when we sin--as we all have--we are offered mercy, offered resurrection. Christ is the one Who gives us true cleansing, real healing, genuine catharsis. Rather than leering at the sins of others, and airing our grievances loudly, let us cast our cares upon Him Whose yoke is easy and burden light.

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1 In preparation for writing this post, I attempted to educate myself about the Swift-West vendetta via youtube and wanted to gouge my eyes out after about 4 minutes.^↩

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2 Matthew 18:15^↩

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3 In Confessions, Augustine describes a similar phenomenon, both in his love for the theatre (Bk 3, Ch 2), and in his friend Alypius’ love of gladiatorial games (Bk 6, Ch 8). He cautions against both things, concluding that they are both empty spectacles that cause us to experience negative emotions for no particular end.^↩

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4 There are a number of variations of this quotation floating around that make it difficult to verify, but the sentiment still stands.^↩

The Slow, Painful Death of Martyrs

by Jenny Klejeski

Without sacrifice there is no love.   –St. Maximilian Kolbe

I think anyone who was raised in a Christian tradition must have, at some point or another, day dreamed about being martyred. Perhaps this was my own macabre pastime, but I’m guessing others shared in this activity. How could we not? We’re told these stories of heroic virtue: the early Christians fed to the lions, Joan of Arc burnt at the stake, Isaac Jogues hacked to death by a tomahawk, and maybe when we were older, Agatha whose breasts were cut off. They’re hero stories–they’re meant to inspire courage. It’s not for nothing that we keep telling these stories over and over again (even ones with dubious historical credibility). And just as we do when we hear any hero story (Christian or secular), we ask ourselves the question, “what would I have done in that situation?”

This is not a bad question to ask per se, but doesn’t it miss the point of these stories?

The feast of St. Maximilian Kolbe (which we celebrated a week ago), always reminds me of a homily I heard several years ago on his feast day. The gist of the homily was this: Maximilian Kolbe would not have been able to sacrifice his life for the other man in Auschwitz had he not been practicing it his whole life. In other words, we tend to think of the heroic sacrifice of Maximilian Kolbe (and other martyrs) as grand, isolated events, when in reality, they are simply the logical culmination of a life of sacrifice.

This, I believe, is much more convicting than the idea that martyrs simply made one major decision for Christ at the very end of their lives. It shifts the question from the entertaining, day-dream hypothetical “if I were faced with death by [lethal injection/firing squad/burning at the stake/beheading/gladiatorial games/etc.] for the sake of Christ, would I accept it?” about which we probably concoct a heart-wrenching scene, and to which we will probably answer ‘yes,’ depending on how pious we’re feeling on a given day. Perhaps we share the sentiment of Flannery O’Connor’s unnamed girl in “A Temple of the Holy Ghost:” “She could never be a saint, but she thought she could be a martyr if they killed her quick.”

Instead, the real, much more mundane (and yet somehow more gut-wrenching) question that the actual lives of the martyrs should prompt us to think on is “what am I doing right now to die for Christ?” If a martyr is a witness for Christ, how am I dying so as to witness to Christ? This is where real martyrdom lies. It is a movement away from an individualized spirituality and pride-masked-as-sacrifice. It is continual death to self. Slowly and painfully chipping away my wants and whims so as to be filled with self-effacing, self-emptying love. And as we practice self-denial in the small, everyday matters, we find ourselves more ready and able to say an obedient ‘yes’ when the stakes are higher.

Christopher Nolan’s latest movie Dunkirk explores this very idea. The film recounts the events that took place in the French village of Dunkirk during the Second World War when the British army, surrounded by the Germans, attempted to evacuate their troops. Nolan’s take on this event is fascinating because he chooses not simply to give an historical tribute to the affair, but rather to create a character-focused masterpiece.

The story takes place through three different perspectives: the battle in the sky, in the sea, and on the beach. Nolan creates a sense of suspenseful waiting and eerie monotony by having scarce dialogue as troops on the beach helplessly await rescue. These long stretches of monotony are harshly interrupted by violent outbursts of bombs, torpedoes, and machine gun fire.

Nolan’s portrayal of the event is much less about an historical event and much more about the choices that lie within every human heart. Yes, there are certainly great acts of heroic self-sacrifice (martyrdoms of a sort), but the majority of the characters are incapable of actually doing anything. They’re trapped in Dunkirk, waiting—hoping—to be rescued by some external force. And other characters, who are in the midst of making heroic choices, are given every reason and every opportunity to turn back. There is a great drama to even the most mundane moments of the film as you see the characters make choices out of great selfishness or out of great love, and these choices impact their capacity for heroism.

In some ways, this is what we all face. We’re all in need of an external, transcendent salvation and we all have choices to make in the interim. We can choose what is self-serving or what is self-emptying. And while we may crave to perform a grand, heroic act, it’s probably not what we’re called to at this moment. I’m willing to be burned at the stake, yes, but somehow emptying the dishwasher without recognition seems impossible. Probably because the latter is real. In For the Life of the World, Alexander Schmemann warns against the temptation to oversimplify the drama of our redemption to one moment:

“The fight of the new Adam against the old Adam is a long and painful one, and what a naive oversimplification it is to think, as some do, that the ‘salvation’ they experience in revivals and ‘decisions for Christ,’ and which result in moral righteousness, soberness and warm philanthropy, is the whole of salvation, is what God meant when He gave His Son for the life of the world. The one true sadness is ‘that of not being a saint,’ and how often the ‘moral’ Christians are precisely those who never feel, never experience this sadness, because of their own ‘experience of salvation,’ the feeling of ‘being saved’ fills them with self-satisfaction; and whoever has been ‘satisfied’ has already received his reward and cannot thirst and hunger for that total transformation and transfiguration of life which alone makes ‘saints’” (79, emphasis mine).

If we desire the crown of sainthood, we can’t wait to be thrown to the lions or asked at gunpoint if we believe in Christ. It begins today. Wherever we are, whomever we’re with, however silently and unseen. Mary’s glorious Assumption required her quiet fiat. Let us ask her intercession to spare us from the ‘one true sadness:’ that of not being a saint.

A version of this post first appeared under the same title on I Smile, Of Course in 2016.

Confessions from Undergrad

by Jenny Klejeski

I have a confession to make:
I did not love my college experience.

Let me go further to say that I believe my college experience, in many ways, was destructive to me as a human being. For much of it, I was quite unhappy, unhealthy, and anxious.

Before I say more, let me clarify what I don’t mean. I don’t mean that I’m not immensely grateful for the opportunities afforded me by my education (and grateful for the chance to even have an education in the first place). I don’t mean that I don’t value the friendships I made, the things I learned, the professors I had, and many of the things I experienced. I’m not even bitter about the tremendous amount of debt that I accrued (honestly).

So, what was it that made me so discontented those four years? And why do I think it’s worth mentioning now?

To put it simply, I was seeking an experience rather than an education. And in some ways, I missed out on both. I didn’t really understand what I was at college to do, and that lack of purpose and the places where I (wrongly) looked for that purpose led me to some deep unhappiness. The reason I’m writing about it now is not simply because it was my experience, but because I believe it belies a deeper crisis in higher education that needs to be brought to light.

In order to better understand this problem, allow me to paint a picture of my high school self. I was your average over-achiever (is that an oxymoron?), taking college classes at our local community college, participating in extracurriculars, volunteering at my Church, etc. And for the most part, I was doing these things for the right reasons; I did them because I was interested and I wanted to.

As high school went on, ambition began to creep in. Perfectly innocent ambition, too. What did I want to do after high school? Go to the University of Notre Dame, of course!

So, what did I need to do in order to apply for my very competitive dream school? Guard my 4.0 a little more closely. Tally up my various extracurriculars, awards, and service experiences. Try to add a few more into my schedule to pad my transcript. Write essays about my passions and aspirations. Actually study for standardized tests.

I needed to define myself in terms of my accomplishments. Now, this is not a bad thing in and of itself; this is just part of interacting with the world. But let me say this: in the process of receiving two letters of rejection from Notre Dame, I learned very well how to define myself by my accomplishments. How to guard my GPA much more zealously. How to make time for yet another extracurricular to prove how well-rounded I am. How to write eloquent, convincing essays about how much I really wanted a more rigorous education.

By the time I was actually accepted as a student at Notre Dame halfway through sophomore year, I didn’t know how to do anything other than achieve at a high level all. the. time. I felt as though I had spent the past several years trying to convince people that I could achieve this thing and now that I had been given the opportunity, I needed to work doubly hard to prove it. Besides having the “transfer student inferiority complex” (i.e. thinking that basically everyone here was smarter than me because they got in the first try), I fed into the cultural narrative that these were supposed to be some of the best years of my life—that I needed to try (ALL THE) new things—that I needed to figure out definitively my passion in life.

As the rigor of my academics increased, as I took on more and more leadership roles, as I looked for opportunities to figure out what I wanted to do in life, I slept less, ate less, and had less of a social life. By my senior year I was president of the Liturgical Choir, secretary of The Children of Mary club, on the planning committee for a the Edith Stein Conference, had an internship at Ave Maria Press, had two work study jobs (one at the Law School and another in Campus Ministry), and was finishing up a double major in English and theology. While none of these things was bad of itself, It’s no wonder that off the top of my head I can count at least a dozen distinct locations that I pulled all-nighters. I was anxious and stressed out constantly. I had embraced the persona of the frazzled, exhausted intellectual—a martyr to my studies and activities.

Thankfully, through God’s grace and the help of friends, I stayed close to the Sacraments during undergrad—attending Mass every day, making Chapel visits, going to Confession—and was eventually able to emerge from that darkness. But many do not have the positive support I had. It’s unsurprising to me that we see such high rates of anxiety, depression, casual sex, drug and alcohol use, and suicide in college-age people when we, as a culture, have demanded an unsustainable lifestyle.¹

My purpose in writing this is not to elicit sympathy or air grievances. I write this to point out that we have a major problem in our educational system. We have lost a sense of education as being an activity of leisure. Not leisure as a “time off” or a “break,” but leisure as the state in which contemplation of higher things is made possible. In Leisure, The Basis of Culture, Josef Pieper remarks that the “‘liberality’ or ‘freedom’ of the liberal arts consists in their not being disposable for purposes, that they do not need to be legitimated by a social function, by being ‘work.’” In other words, the real purpose of a liberal arts education is not a utilitarian one. The liberal arts are meant to be an end in and of themselves. Our problem is that we have fed into the lie that the only things worth doing are things that can be commodified. The liberal arts have become a victim of the transactionally-minded meritocracy we live in.

The English word “school” comes (through the Latin) from the Greek word for “leisure.” An institution of higher learning ought to be a place in which, born of true leisure, students are given the opportunity to contemplate truth, goodness, and beauty simply because, in itself, it is a worthy pursuit. Many people (myself included) miss out on this precious gift because we prioritize “experiences” over education and fill our lives with so much activity that we have left no room for contemplation. Study must retake its place as the primary vocation of the student.

Schools are producing students who are capable of achieving and doing, but are incapable of being and contemplating. I can’t propose an easy solution to this problem. It’s a complex issue whose roots run deep in the American educational system. But it’s a conversation that we need to be having.

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1 Editor's note from Dan: The casual sex and hookup culture on college campuses is oddly self-perpetuating because of social norms and perceptions. This podcast from NPR's Hidden Brain pulls back the curtain and points out how only a small number of people are actually comfortable with this weird and backwards culture.^↩