As Lent approaches, I’ve been in a state of spiritual anxiety over the inevitable renunciation that the season demands. God wants harmonious balance, not excess
Long before Patrick ever set foot in Ireland, the pagan Celts believed their island was a thin, holy place, where the veil between heaven and earth vanishes
G.K. Chesterton, huge in every sense, was provided with a special chair during a 1930 conference at St. Michael's College in Toronto. Where is this memento now?
I don’t think I’m unusual in being a father who had expected to live a life in conformity with the law and comfort with the society in which he was raising a family
How can injustice be remedied when it is invisible? White Catholics—and indeed all white people—must learn how racism perpetuates black suffering and death.
When Georges Vanier said he was going to become a Trappist, his father asked what his friends’ reactions would be. "They'll think I'm a crackpot," Vanier answered.
The changes of Vatican II and the turmoil of the civil-rights and anti-war movements made for heady days, and Sister Corita Kent’s art further exemplified the times.
Around the dining room table, paisanas from the old country cut and wove strips of palm into intricate crosses and flowers, and Grandpa, eyes shining, told stories.
After he died a bunch of us were playing basketball one night, in one of the parks where we used to play summer-league ball—eight of us. And then this thing happened
Though many Westerners think of Iran as a theocratic monolith, Christians of various kinds consider it home and see the Shiite majority not as hosts but neighbors.
One day after Mass, my devout husband told me that he wanted to sign up for an hour of silent protest outside of the abortion center. I understood, of course.
When we visited Frigolet last year, we asked Joël what makes for a vital religious community. “New men,” he replied. Not money, not administrative acumen, but men.
If today the world and the self are devalued, as Walker Percy has suggested, art—particularly the novel— can awaken the reader to their recovery from '4 p.m. blues.'
Reducing faith to political checklists can neither lift Christianity above the superficiality of bourgeois religion nor reverse the disaffiliation of the young.
Does Montaigne resemble the contemporary essayist who writes about faith? The short answer is that he does not—at least not in easily recognizable ways.
In Hebron I learned that the facts on the ground in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict tell a story Americans intent on "international diplomacy" don't want to hear.
While my husband snapped photos of the flag, I stood in silent debate with Big Ed. And then I spied another Confederate flag; an unwelcome sensation came over me.
Chicago, 1932. The night before he would knock Ernie Schaaf unconscious, the second time a fighter would die from one of Max’s blows. We were standing at the bar.
These idle moments when we used to be alone with our thoughts are being decimated by devices. A casual but crucial meditative dimension in our lives is disappearing.
Often the way our society treats "senior citizens" assumes that as bodies age, individuality decreases. But aren't whiskers and white socks a sign of unique wisdom?
Worshipping with families of Antiochian Christians in Philadelphia, you are an interloper. At the coffee hour, they pile your plate with pastries—"you are new, yes?"
Despite hard work, sound planning, lifestyle adjustments, and unusually well-behaved Irish genes, I find myself—to paraphrase Yeats—“where all the ladders” end.
