Make the Castle of Your Heart Stronger

As parents, we like to give good things to our kids.  We make sacrifices for them and try to give them the best—from buying organic food to driving hours so your child can attend a sports competition.

When I was a child, I loved receiving gifts.  What little boy or girl doesn't?  But now, as an adult, the thing that brings me greater happiness is seeing my children receive a gift.

Our oldest daughter, Mary, received a tremendous gift a few weeks ago: she made her First Reconciliation.

I have been to the sacrament of Reconciliation (or Confession) so many times in my life.  I always appreciate that feeling of relief, gratitude, and spiritual healing when I leave the confessional.  I suppose, however, that familiarity softened the power of the sacrament for me ... I had sadly become accustomed to it.  I began to take it for granted that this gift of mercy had been purchased by the price of Christ's blood on the cross.

As Mary bounded up the stairs into the confessional room (she was very excited to be making this sacrament), I knelt and stared at the tabernacle.  All I could think was: Lord, you died for her.  You suffered excruciating pains, You endured such agonies—for my daughter, my precious child I love so much.  Even if she were the only person in the world, You would have done all of that for her.  You have given her the greatest gift of all: the opportunity to be home with You forever in heaven.  And, Lord, You did it because You love her even more than I.

Immense gratitude flooded my heart.  My husband and I might try our best to give our kids a good education, to instill strong morals and virtues, to provide them with a happy and holy home.  But we could never give them this: we could never forgive their sins.  

That being said, we can foster in their hearts a love of this beautiful sacrament, this opportunity to meet Christ and to receive His forgiveness.  We can help them love the gift ... and its Giver.

So here are some of the ways we try to do that in our family.  Maybe some of them will be helpful for you, too.

• Practice saying, "I'm sorry" and, "I forgive you" among each other.  If our two-year-old pushes her brother, we ask her to say, "I'm sorry."  Also important is her brother's, "I forgive you."  If I commit a wrong toward one of our children, I try to remember to ask his or her forgiveness—we parents aren't perfect and it's good for our children to see we have the humility to admit we our sometimes wrong, too.
• Lead by example: go to Confession regularly yourself.  If you tell your children that Confession is important, but don't avail yourself of the sacrament, they won't believe you.  Let your actions show its importance.  
• Read about Confession and discuss it together.  Mary and I have read A Little Book about Confession for Children by Kendra Tierney together to help prepare her for the sacrament.  We both learned so much from that book—I can't recommend it highly enough.  It's very gentle in its approach and addresses some concerns  and fears children (and parents) might have about Confession.  The questions and answers are thorough and engaging.  Read it as a family!
• Prepare for Confession every day by making a daily Examination of Conscience.  Mary and I do this together at bedtime each night.  We keep it very simple.  First, we each silently think of one good thing we did that day.  Then we think of a sin we committed.  Third, we make a resolution about what we could do better the next day.  Finally, we pray the Act of Contrition.  Doing this each night helps with the daily battle against temptation.  It can keep our sins in check and helps us hold ourselves responsible.  Also, when we prepare for Confession, we can think back to these nightly Examinations of Conscience and remember the sins we committed.

Ultimately, my husband and I emphasized to Mary that Confession is about meeting her best friend, Jesus, and apologizing to Him for the times she hurt Him through her sins.  

St. Teresa of Avila described the soul as a castle where the King, our Lord, dwells.  Through Confession, Mary is getting her soul ready, cleaning it and making it beautiful to receive Jesus in her First Holy Communion.  As we left the church and headed home, Mary remarked to me, "Confession is where you can take your castle heart and make it stronger so the devil can't get in."  All of our castles could use some fortifying.

It's springtime.  Does your soul need some spring cleaning, too?  Let your children ... and yourself ... receive the incredible gift of Confession.

The Broad View

“To thy own self be true.”

It’s a lovely saying, isn’t it?  But sometimes I struggle with living it because I think, in many ways, I really don’t know myself all that well.

I would venture to assert that I’m not alone in this predicament.

Self-knowledge is extremely difficult to acquire.  Yet, how very simple it is for us to know (and in knowing, judge and criticize) those around us.  It’s astonishingly easy to critique and condemn my neighbor while simultaneously remaining ignorant about my own vices and shortcomings.

If I were to ask you, “What is your greatest fault?” could you answer?  Do you really know yourself?  Self-knowledge is so key because, well, if you don’t know what’s wrong…how can you fix it?

The thing is that, no matter how long we stare in the mirror, sometimes it’s just so hard to have an objective view of ourselves.

Sometimes we need to enlist the help of those closest to us.  I thought I knew my greatest fault, but it wasn’t until an incredibly revealing conversation with my husband a couple of weeks ago that my eyes were opened to something I never saw before.  He identified something I really struggle with, but that, until said conversation, I had been more or less blind to.

The reason I bring this up is because it’s a timely topic.  Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and thus starts the holy season of Lent.  It’s traditionally a time of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving.  The word Lent means “spring.”  So you can think of it as the passage of your soul from the dead of winter’s sin to the new life of springtime grace and virtue.

For that spring cleaning in your soul to occur, you need to remove the dirt and grime of sin.  You need to really do some soul searching and ask yourself: What is my greatest fault?  What do I need to clean up?

Really step back and take the broad view.  Perhaps you fall into the same pattern that I do: you become so engrossed in the most immediate tasks and problems at hand, you don’t really pause and step back to reflect, to ask the deeper questions, to review, observe, and imagine.

This Lent, I challenge you shift your perspective.  Reflect on your life–past, present, future.  Then ask yourself: What do I see as my greatest fault, the vice that most often is the obstacle in my way of being the person I should be?  Test your answer by asking someone who knows you best; his or her response may cause you to revisit the question.  And then work at your fault–it may mean stopping a particular habit, or perhaps pursuing a positive habit in its place.

My challenge this Lent?  Moral courage.  I’m not talking about letting my faith show–I’ll whip out a rosary in any public place without a second’s thought.  I’m talking about having the moral courage to speak the truth, especially when such truth will be met with opposition.  I’m going to strive not to be a “people pleaser.”  Obviously charity must always guide our actions, but sometimes charity demands confronting someone who is hurting him or herself through sin.

There is a memory that is so clear in my mind.  I was on bus #76, riding along Spring Avenue on our way to high school.  My sophomore self was sitting next to sixteen-year-old Leah, a real talker who loved music, her boyfriend, and life in general.  Leah had a developmental disability.  In front of us sat two boys, who sadly fall under the stereotypical category of “bully.”  For that whole ride they bullied Leah, tormenting her with crass jokes, disrespectful names, and taunts and teases.

And I sat there, burning inside that they could be so cruel and hurtful.  But it was like I was paralyzed.  I said nothing.  Why?  I was scared.

It’s a scene that’s been replayed throughout my life–different people, different scenarios, but the same idea: I was met with a challenge and, through fear of what someone might think or concern I would offend or bother someone, I was silent when the truth needed to be declared.

So, courage.  That’s my Lenten goal.

By the way, since we are on the topic, let me also share something else I do every Lent.  It’s a favorite tradition of mine, one I was inspired to start more than ten years ago.  Each Lent I cut out 40 pieces of paper and write on each one the name of someone important in my life: mostly family and friends, but I include my “enemies,” too, since we are also supposed to pray for them.  Then every morning I draw out a name and pray for that person throughout my day, remembering him or her in my prayers and offering up any sufferings for him or her.  It’s very beautiful, plus it’s exciting to see how grace works.  Frequently I have found myself praying for someone the very day he or she needed extra prayers.  God works in pretty neat ways sometimes.

I pray that this Lent will be a springtime of spiritual renewal for you.  The beautiful thing is that, when we shift our perspective and take the broad view, suddenly our lives are filled with the new light of understanding and clarity.

Do some reflecting tonight.  And tomorrow, begin Lent by tackling that which most needs work in your soul.

Lessons from A Brave New World

Imagine a world with no conflict or warfare, a world free from physical suffering or the pains of old age, a world of contentment where each person is satisfied with his or her position in life.  

It seems, at first glance, like a kind of utopia.  Yet, the society visioned by Aldous Huxley in A Brave New World is the exact opposite: it is dystopian.  Different from other novels in that genre, Huxley's characters do not suffer from a society that oppresses or controls through violence; instead, the government conditions and predestines people for happiness and then provides them with entertainment and drugs to maintain that state.  

A Brave New World is one where there is no family unit.  Instead, children are manufactured in labs and assigned to a certain social class from conception.  They are conditioned in artificial wombs (for example, children who will eventually work in tropical regions doing manual labor are exposed to more heat).  This conditioning continues as children, raised collectively in the Hatchery and Conditioning Centre, listen to recorded messages in their sleep, disposing them to particular attitudes and perspectives (such as feeling content with his or her social class).

The World State upholds three virtues: Community, Identity, and Stability.  In the name of stability, strong emotions are suppressed--hence, why the family unit is no more.  Consider the passion of parenthood and the feelings that it provokes.  In A Brave New World, speaking of motherhood or giving birth is akin to uttering a blasphemy or base insult.  

A proverb in the World State asserts that "every one belongs to every one else."  People in this society find their identity in the community.  There is no time for solitude--in fact, those who seek time alone are marked as suspicious and warned for their misbehavior.  There are no exclusive relationships between man and woman.  Again, such behavior provokes too strong of emotions (passion, jealousy, yearning) and dangers the stability of the World State.  So instead men and women freely and openly engage in sexual behavior with multiple partners, with no commitment or consequence (women, in fact, wear fashionable belts that keep a safe supply of contraceptives at hand).  

"Never put off till tomorrow the fun you can have today..."

And if, in spite of their class contentment, the ready availability of sexual pleasure, and absence of emotional suffering, someone is still unsettled or disturbed, the World State has manufactured a drug called soma that transports its user to an ecstatic state of pleasure.  With soma, depression, distress, and unease are wiped away.  Everything is made right again.

There is no need for God.  God is invoked in times of trouble, particularly toward the end of one's life when disease and crippling health conditions make one stop to consider, reflect, and contemplate.  That need is eliminated: science has developed medication that curbs the outward affects of old age.  People do not become ill now or physically deteriorate.  Instead of invoking the name of Our Lord, people honor Our Ford--Henry Ford, manufacturer of the Model-T and the assembly line model.  They even make the Sign of the T on their bodies (a cross with the top cut off).  

Stability is the "primal and the ultimate need."  Without it, there can be no happiness and here, in A Brave New World, the whole purpose is to be happy.

"The world's stable now.  People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can't get.  They're well off; they're safe; they're never ill; they're not afraid of death; they're blissfully ignorant of passion and old age; they're plagued with no mothers or fathers; they've got no wives, or children, or lovers to feel strongly about; they're so conditioned that they practically can't help behaving as they ought to behave.  And if anything should go wrong, there's soma." 

The key question at play is: what is happiness?  Is it the fulfillment of desire?  The absence of suffering or pain?  One character, Bernard, engages in the usual entertainments and amusements of the World State, but is not consoled or at peace.  A member of the highest class, Bernard is actually a source of ridicule because he is shorter than his peers (some speculate there was an error made in the lab during his embryonic development).  On a date with Lenina, a popular girl many men have enjoyed, Bernard reflects:

"Don't you wish you were free, Lenina?"

"I don't know what you mean.  I am free.  Free to have the most wonderful time.  Everybody's happy nowadays."

He laughed.  "Yes, 'Everybody's happy nowadays.'  We begin giving the children that at five.  But wouldn't you like to be free to be happy in some other way, Lenina?  In your own way, for example; not in everybody else's way."

By conditioning people and providing them with what they need, the World State has created a society of people who do not even recognize what they lack.  They are entirely ignorant, failing to understand that the lives they lead are less than fully human.  They will not rebel because they see no reason to do so ... they are chained by their "happiness."  As Rod Dreher explains in his article "Christianity in the Brave New World," this government "is a totalitarianism that is welcomed by those enslaved to it because it makes them comfortable, and because they don’t recognize it for what it is."

This happiness is an empty one.  God created the human person for a greater end than being happy: we are meant to be holy, made consecrated through God's grace.  In doing so, we become even more than human.  Through divine filiation, we become children of God, citizens of Heaven.

Our Lord gave us the path to this blessed state in the Beatitudes, which present quite the juxtaposition to the means of happiness in the World State.  Who does He call blessed?  It is not the ones who are rich, who are filled and laugh, or who are lauded by others.  No, those people--while happy now--will weep.  Instead:

 “Blessed are you who are poor,

for the kingdom of God is yours.

Blessed are you who are now hungry,

for you will be satisfied.

Blessed are you who are now weeping,

for you will laugh.

Blessed are you when people hate you,

and when they exclude and insult you,

and denounce your name as evil

on account of the Son of Man.

Rejoice and leap for joy on that day! Behold, your reward will be great in heaven. For their ancestors treated the prophets in the same way."

To be unhappy by earthly standards, is to be happy by eternal ones.  Suffering in these various ways makes us reliant on God--we turn to Him in our time of need and pain.  We realize we can't do it on all on our own; we are not our own gods.  Suffering is also a wake-up call to turn from sin.  If we never felt the negative consequences of our transgressions, we may remain the dredges of our wrongdoing.  Lastly, suffering is a training ground.  It helps us to practice virtue and sharpens the will in its effort to choose the good in the face of temptation.  

We are members of something greater and more powerful than the World State.  God forbid there should ever come the day when all of society becomes blind to that reality.  But we can take comfort in the fact that "the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against" God's holy Church.

"But I don't want comfort.  I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness.  I want sin."

"In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy."

"All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."

May we be unhappy, too, and in that unhappiness, we will find eternal joy.

Lessons from Fahrenheit 451

A book is a loaded gun in the house next door.  Burn it.  Take the shot from the weapon.  Breach man's mind.  Who knows what might be the target of the well-read man?

Guy Montag, protagonist of Fahrenheit 451, is a fireman, though his purpose is not as one might expect.  Guy lives in the United States of the future where books are illegal.  People live in fire-proof homes; there is no need to put out fires.  Instead, the firemen's purpose is to start a fire.  (451 degrees Fahrenheit is the temperature at which paper burns.)  They receive calls to the firehouse, reports of people possessing books, and hurry to the culprit's residence to set the illicit things on fire and burn the whole residence.

Books must be burned because they breed confusion and discontent.  They cause people to question the happiness that is paramount in this society.  The whole purpose is "happiness" and people are encouraged to engage in behaviors that promote the feeling.  

For example, people drive at reckless speeds for enjoyment, never minding the human lives that are at times killed in the process.  If there is a fatality, the police remove the body and burn it as soon as possible ... no one wants to be disturb by it.  

People sit in their "living rooms" not to truly live and converse about what is true and good and beautiful, but to watch on the wall-length screens the canned laughter and meaningless babble of imaginary people who do not even exist.  

Husbands and wives rarely have children, but when they do, the woman almost always has a Caesarean section (who can be bothered with natural labor?), the child is placed into a nursery program almost immediately, and schools functionally raise the children nine days out of ten as the parents are too busy being "happy."

It is rare to find someone outside in the natural world, walking and observing the created world.  Instead, people take public transport.  Everywhere music is blasted with bass pumping.  The percussive rhythm drives out any deep thought someone may have--need to preserve the state of happiness, right?  Many people wear earbuds that provide a constant flow of news reports or music.

Such is the society in Fahrenheit 451.  But, as the protagonist wonders at one point, how did it get to this?
  
Technology, mass exploitation, and minority influences led to the burning of books.  With the invention of new technology, the pace of life became faster and faster.  People wanted things immediately, now.  Classics became condensed into summaries, into paragraphs, into a quick sentence.  People didn't want books--they wanted snippets and catch-phrases.  Consider in our own society the shift from books to magazines to Facebook to Twitter to Instagram: now people only want a visual snapshot; even the dozen words on Twitter feels too lengthy.

With radio and television, things had to appeal to a mass audience. Thus, content became simplified, in order to be enjoyed by the largest amount of people possible.  

The rule of the minorities drove the final nail in the coffin of books.  Minority groups took objection to the subject matter.  It doesn't matter which minority: this one found this particular aspect offensive, another complained that this was prejudiced against him.  Therefore, tabloids and sex magazines became the only books left that were politically correct, provided instant gratification, and wouldn't disturb anyone's peace of mind.

I sat in a hairdresser's salon reading Fahrenheit 451.  It was a Supercuts.  People could book their appointment online ... no need to speak with someone directly.  Music blared over the speakers, constant music that always spoke but somehow of nothing really at all.  The big topic of conversation that day among clients and hairdressers was the approaching snowstorm.  The news reports interrupted the music from time to time, warning people to get ready and the local supermarket chain assured people that they had all the food you needed to be prepared.  A mother and her daughters waited their turn.  They sat silently next to each other yet distant, each scanning on her phone, their fingers moving up and down on the screen, a flow of conversation they were not part of, but still observed anyway.

I held the book in my hand and saw in front of me, in many ways, what I was reading.  I also looked in the mirror and saw myself.  I was not exempt from this; I am part of it.  How many mornings did I pass over the book sitting on the table and grab my phone instead, to spend my time scanning through celebrity news or a Facebook feed?  It was easier, faster, required less thinking.  How many times was I content reading an email subject line from New York Times and considered that sufficient for understanding the particular news report?  There is no time to read a whole article!  Just give me a sentence so I get it.  How many dinners or family gatherings does the talk center on trite and trivial matters ... when do we ask the big questions or really sit down and look each other in the eye and ponder?

I was discussing this novel with my husband recently and he asked me whether I felt if there is ever a time when books should be burned.  What about books that promote things that are objectively immoral and evil?  Should they be burned?  I thought about it and answered: no.  

No, I don't think books should ever be burned.  You can burn a book, but you cannot burn ideas.  There was a person behind that book.  Even if you destroy the text, the thinking and opinions expressed in it remain.  And if we are to influence those ideas for the good, we need to understand them in order to present a cogent counter-point.  

Not to mention--if I say a particular book should be burned, what is to prevent someone else from arguing that my book should be burned?  It could easily become a free-for-all with everyone finding an objection in every book and hence Fahrenheit 451 and the burning of all books.

Ray Bradbury imagined a future world not that different from our own and perhaps the reader of Fahrenheit 451 will feel as I did, that in many ways I am not that different from the people in Bradbury's world.  But I can also be like Guy Montag, whose eyes are opened from the blindness and whose mind starts to ask the right questions and pursue the knowledge we are capable of learning.  We were created for a far more perfect happiness.

Lessons from Anne of Green Gables

"Dear old world," she murmured, "you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you."

When I was a young girl, my aunt recommended a VHS version of Anne of Green Gables.  My mother and I must have watched that video at least a dozen times.  I knew the plot and lines almost by heart.  I loved Anne and all of her escapades, especially her ongoing feud with the handsome Gilbert Blythe.

Yet, I never read L.M. Montgomery's novel, which she wrote in 1908.  I reasoned that it would probably just be redundant, as I knew the storyline so well.  Now, many years later, I figured it was at long last time to pick up the classic and give the novel a chance.  

It was a rewarding decision!  As in every other instance, the book is so far superior to the movie.

Anne Shirley is a young orphan whose parents died from illness when she was just a baby.  Her childhood was far from a happy one: her parents having no close relatives, a neighbor named Mrs. Thomas took Anne in.  As Anne grew, she helped Mrs. Thomas raise her four younger children.  When the drunken Mr. Thomas died, another neighbor named Mrs. Hammond agreed to take Anne.  This woman had eight children (including three sets of twins!).  Anne worked and lived with them for over two years and then was sent to an asylum.  When asked if these women were good to her, Anne replies:

"O-o-o-h," faltered Anne.  Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed scarlet and embarrassment sat on her brow.  "Oh, they meant to be--I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible.  And when people mean to be good to you, you don't mind very much when they're not quite--always." 

The child's young life was marked by tragedy, loneliness, and abuse.  She was neglected and uneducated.  

Yet--Anne is a character full of hope.  In spite of her childhood (or, maybe, because of it), she finds the joy and beauty in the world around her, latches onto it, and marvels at it.  

"What a splendid day!" said Anne, drawing a long breath.  "Isn't it good just to be alive on a day like this?  I pity the people who aren't born yet for missing it.  They may have good days, of course, but they can never have this one.  And it's splendider still to love such a lovely way to go to school by, isn't it?" 

One may think that a childhood of such neglect might produce a mean-spirited, resentful, melancholy child.  Yet Anne is quite the opposite.  She is full of zest for life.  

It certainly made me reflect--me, who has been surrounded by love my whole life--why I don't always express the same enthusiasm for a new sunrise.  Why is it I see the snow outside and sigh for the warmer temperatures ... why not admire the way it glistens in the sunlight or how it makes the world outside seem like a magical snow globe as it silently falls to the ground?

A little imagination transforms the humdrum of every day work and chores.  The plain, the simple, the ordinary can become new and vivid with imagination.  

"All things great are wound up with all things little."

Anne of Green Gable is a book about transformations: little and big, mixed up together.  It is a witness of how one person's life can positively affect so many other lives.  Siblings Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert open their home to orphan Anne and, because of their openness, they are transformed.  They, in turn, help and change Anne.  It's the beauty of family--growing together, challenging each other, learning from one another.  

Lessons from Northanger Abbey

"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid."

Northanger Abbey, along with Persuasion, were Jane Austen's final two novels published--both posthumously.  Though published at the same time, Northanger Abbey was  actually the first novel Austen had ever written.  She sold the novel in 1803, but the publisher inexplicably never actually published it.  Thus, it wasn't until after her death that readers were gifted with the story. 

Fittingly, Northanger Abbey is the last major book of Austen's I had yet to read.  I had taken a little sabbatical from reading novels for the past year or so, in order to work on my own novel that I am co-writing with my husband.  (Thus why I haven't posted anything here for more than one year!)  We had a demanding round of editing that needed my complete focus.  Now that it is done, I am happy to enter another author's world.  Interestingly, one of the main themes of Northanger Abbey is novels themselves!

Most places I have read describe Northanger Abbey as a satire of Gothic literature, which was very popular at the time of Austin's writing.  Austin does poke fun at that genre (to her protagonist's distress), but she also utilizes some of the same aspects of Gothic writing to enhance her story.  Never does her satire give the message that the novel is something to be mocked or degraded.  Quite the opposite!  

Her opening line already sets the stage for an emphasis on the novel:

No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be an heroine.

The whole course of the book follows Catherine--naive, inexperienced teenager--in her journey to become a "heroine" like those in the books she so loves to read. 

Catherine comes from a large, not particularly affluent, simple family.  She has no pretensions or duplicity; rather, Catherine acts and thinks from an inner, humble goodness.  She jumps at the opportunity offered by her neighbors to accompany them to Bath, where she can experience a whole new society.  

There, Catherine becomes acquainted with two sets of siblings: Isabella and John Thorpe, and Eleanor and Henry Tilney.  The pairs could not be more different.  Isabella immediately attaches herself to Catherine, proclaiming an instant familiarity and closeness, that they are the most kindred of spirits.  Yet her actions often prove otherwise.  John, for his part, is bombastic, crude, and selfish.  

The reader receives an immediate clue as to who the heroine's hero will be.  When Catherine asks John Thorpe whether he reads novel, John retorts:

"Novels are all so full of nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since Tom Jones ... for all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation."

Henry Tilney, on the other hand, proclaims his great love for novels and asserts that he has read far more of them than even Catherine.  

Catherine Morland--an image from the 1833 edition of Northanger Abbey

Many people in Austen's day must have shared John Thorpe's low opinion on novels.  In response, the narrator is very vocal in arguing against them.  She questions why a woman, when asked what she is reading, should feel ashamed to admit it is a novel.  In the novel:

"... the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language."

Catherine's penchant for Gothic novels does lead her into some problematic situations.  The Tilney family invites her to their home, Northanger Abbey.  At once visions of a decrepit, haunted building enter Catherine's mind.  Yet, upon arrival Catherine finds the home to be bright, welcoming, and in many instances, modernized.  

That doesn't prevent her imagination from creating other scenes of Gothic suspense.  The first night of her stay, during a raging thunderstorm, Catherine explores a bureau in her room that has a locked drawer.  She finds some papers hidden inside, only to have her candlelight extinguished.  A long night plagued by horror follows for her.  Finally, in the light of the morning, she examines the secret papers ... only to realize they are nothing more than a list of the linens kept in the bureau.

The worst instance, however, follows shortly after when Catherine observes how the patriarch of the family, General Tilney, seems unmoved when speaking of his deceased wife and refuses to enter her old bedchamber.  Catherine suspects him of foul play: perhaps he murdered his wife (the illness was suspiciously short and Eleanor was absent during the time of her mother's death).  Or maybe, instead, he pretended she had died, only to hide her prisoner in some underground room.  

When Henry hears of these conjectures and quickly proves them wrong, Catherine is mortified by how far her imagination has taken her.  Henry asks her:

"'You had formed a surmise of such horror as I have hardly words to— Dear Miss Morland, consider the dreadful nature of the suspicions you have entertained. What have you been judging from?'" 

Catherine departs in tears, resolving to separate fact from fiction from then on.  It is a moment of critical character development.  

Interestingly, while Catherine has this vivid imagination drawing from the novels she reads, projecting the plots and character motivations from the pages into her life, she struggles with being able to "read" people accurately at times.  Isabella Thorpe flirts openly while engaged to another man and Catherine can only attribute the behavior to ignorance.  

Yet, at other times, Catherine's imagination--colored by her novel reading--does point to truth.  In the example above concerning General Tilney, Catherine was morally wrong to assume he committed murder.  Yet, her conjectures pointed to the reality that the General is actually ruthless, unkind, and selfish--the principle villain of the story.

Austen walks an interesting line in her novel.  She mocks Gothic literature by putting Catherine in a ridiculous situation (the papers with the linen inventory), yet she uses the Gothic style of writing to make this scene suspenseful and gripping, leaving the reader wondering if maybe Catherine actually had uncovered some terrible secret.  

Similarly, Austen argues the importance, value, and respect due to the novel.  Yet, she shows how one must separate fact from fiction ... all within her own fictional narrative!

We cannot live in our novels, but what a gift they are to bring light, laughter, and joy into a reality that sometimes feels very bleak.  I am not ashamed to be a professed lover of the novel.  Thank you, Jane Austen, for creating such powerful novels that have been enjoyed through the generations.  I only regret that I have turned the final page of the last one.    

The Christian Option: Dreher’s Opaque Vision for America and Beyond

I would like to welcome my husband, Chris, who is guest blogging today.  I hope you enjoy his writing and insights as much as I do!

“The church, then, is both Ark and Wellspring--and Christians must live in both realities….You cannot live the Benedict Option without seeing both visions simultaneously.”

The Benedict Option, Rod Dreher’s best-selling, much-debated work, is a book of paradoxes. In fact, it says much without really saying anything at all. Dreher is a journalist, not an academic, and makes his points by weaving together anecdotes and quotations from people he has interviewed and writers he admires. The author thus sketches for the reader an outline of what he means by The Benedict Option without ever really coming out and saying it directly. By the end of the book, one cannot really be sure what The Benedict Option even is or how it might differ from just living a faithful, Christian life.

However, as in any great paradox, there is present much light as well as shadow. Dreher has presented the reader with much wisdom in an age which often lacks it. Employing the motif of the Benedictine monk, the author exhorts the reader to recover traditional Christian practices and ways of thinking. In fact, one blogger lists 43 propositions from The Benedict Option, most of which should not be controversial for the faithful Christian. “Recover fasting,” “Immerse students in Scripture,” and “Maintain the importance of a Christian sexual ethic” are some of the tenets of according to this summary of the BenOp (as Dreher abbreviates it on his blog).

What then is the chief aspect of the Benedict Option that draws such controversy and attention? It’s not a reminder about fasting or even sexual ethics. It’s the “head for the hills” thinking that some readers of The Benedict Option take away for the work. In other words, most people who hear about the BenOp or read the book themselves seem to come away with the impression that the Benedict Option’s main message is that the Church should turn inward, undertake a “strategic retreat” in order to preserve Christianity for future generations, much like the first Benedictines did during the fall of the Roman Empire and Western Civilization during the fifth century.

Of course the secular audience who read or reviewed the book loved this. After all, if you’re convinced that Christianity is dangerous to the project of a flourishing civil society—or at least irrelevant to it—the idea of a prominent work of Christian thinking recommending that Christians retreat from all levels of society is very attractive. In his chapter on work, for example, Dreher states that some professions (like medicine and law) may one day soon become too hostile for a Christian in good conscience to participate in them. He even goes so far to say that it might be best for some white-collar Christians to abandon their intellectual labor and instead work in factories in rural parts of the U.S. in order to avoid the society we live in which is becoming precipitously hostile to Christianity. Were people of faith and good character to flee from medicine and law (and the other professions), how impoverished would our society become and how much worse would be the culture and practice of these lines of work?

The idea seems to be that we are experiencing “The Great Flood” again (as the first chapter is entitled) and, like Noah and his family, we as orthodox Christians are being called by God to build a figurative ark by banding together, retreating from mainstream society, and surviving the Flood together so that a new, Christian society can rise up upon the earth once the flood waters recede.

However, is that really what the Benedict Option is all about? Or at least mostly about? I would argue that it is not. However, it is difficult to present a case for what the Benedict Option really means when Dreher himself seems not to present an coordinated definition of and argument for it. In fact, what sort of thing is the Benedict Option? Is it a movement? A way of life? Dreher calls it a “strategy for Christians in a post-Christian nation.”

So it seems that the Benedict Option is meant exclusively for Christians, not all peoples. It splits the world into Christians and non-Christians and focuses on those who are already, as he often calls them, “orthodox with a small ‘o’.” The Benedict Option is thus for the true believers, for the “insiders,” for those who belong in the ark and not for the mass of men seemingly destined for perdition. However, is this really what Christianity is about? Is the faith a country club that you either belong to or you don’t, and whose members should seek their own salvation to the exclusion of concern for the salvation of others?

Again, the seemingly slippery Benedict Option seems to say this and not say it at the same time. Two prominent examples of Benedict Option communities are the Catholic families in Hyattsville, Maryland, centered around St. Jerome’s Church, whose ordinary parish school is now a nationally-recognized classical academy, and the Tipi Loschi (Italian for the “Usual Suspects”) a loosely organized group of Catholic families living in Italy who are inspired by Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati’s small network of friends who attempted to live “in the world, but not of it.”

What is ironic is that both of these groups are growing rapidly, adding to their numbers by being open to the world around them and attracting others to join their project of what Dreher calls “intentional living.” These communities are both the “Ark and the Wellspring” the images with which the author closes his work, harkening back to the vessel of Noah’s safety in the storm and also the holy waters which overflow from the Temple to reach the very ends of the earth according to Ezekiel's vision. For Dreher, the Church must be both an Ark and a Wellspring, a refuge in the storm and a saving message meant to reach all peoples.

Perhaps the Benedict Option is really just plain Christianity, a new name for living a Christian life. If that is the case, then all men should have the option to choose to live it and no other option is greater. The Benedict Option is really the “Christian Option,” one that God, in his great goodness, grants to all of us if only we, in our freedom, accept it.