Reading The Holy Scriptures

TRUTH, not eloquence, is to be sought in reading the Holy Scriptures; and every part must be read in the spirit in which it was written.  For in the Scriptures we ought to seek profit rather than polished diction.

Likewise we ought to read simple and devout books as willingly as learned and profound ones. We ought not to be swayed by the authority of the writer, whether he be a great literary light or an insignificant person, but by the love of simple truth.  We ought not to ask who is speaking, but mark what is said.  Men pass away, but the truth of the Lord remains forever.  God speaks to us in many ways without regard for persons.

Our curiosity often impedes our reading of the Scriptures, when we wish to understand and mull over what we ought simply to read and pass by.

If you would profit from it, therefore, read with humility, simplicity, and faith, and never seek a reputation for being learned.  Seek willingly and listen attentively to the words of the saints; do not be displeased with the sayings of the ancients, for they were not made without purpose.

(Imitation of Christ, Bk. 1, Ch. 5, Thomas à Kempis)

Read with humility:  treat Holy Writ with great respect.  Simple enough, but is this really the spiritual admonition that à Kempis has in mind?  More important seems to be the warning against spiritual curiosity.  It is a curiosity that is an unholy interest in holy things -- or, perhaps said differently, it is a curiosity for reasons other than truth-seeking.  When we read the Bible, and especially the Gospels, we should be in awe.  God is speaking to us -- God is relating reality.  To read it any less prayerful manner or for any other purpose is to do shortchange in kind, not degree.  

à Kempis also counsels a "generational humility."  When we spend time with the Church Fathers, which, unfortunately, few do today, we should accept them as our Masters and learn from them.  Their writings are not canonical, but many have been accepted by the Church as powerful witnesses to the Early Church.  

If one were to have this humility -- humility of person and in respect to biblical exegesis and patristic study, surely, we would have less divisions among Christians.  The era we live in today especially lacks these virtues (especially that of obedience). 

O Lord, may I approach Holy Mother Church -- her works and teaching -- with an authentic and abiding obedience.  May I abase my prideful self.

Deo Gratias.

Prudence in Action

DO NOT yield to every impulse and suggestion but consider things carefully and patiently in the light of God's will.  For very often, sad to say, we are so weak that we believe and speak evil of others rather than good.  Perfect men, however, do not readily believe every talebearer, because they know that human frailty is prone to evil and is likely to appear in speech.

Not to act rashly or to cling obstinately to one's opinion, not to believe everything people say or to spread abroad the gossip one has heard, is great wisdom.

Take counsel with a wise and conscientious man.  Seek the advice of your betters in preference to following your own inclinations.

A good life makes a man wise according to God and gives him experience in many things, for the more humble he is and the more subject to God, the wiser and the more at peace he will be in all things.

(Imitation of Christ, Bk. 1, Ch. 4, Thomas a Kempis)

It would appear perhaps odd that Kempis focuses in his fourth chapter on something as seemingly innocuous as "gossip," but, upon reflection, it is not odd at all.  Our lives are relational -- horizontally in our relationship with God and vertically with neighbor.   And in light of the command of Jesus that the two most important commandments are love of God and love of neighbor, "gossip" is pure poison in the well of love of neighbor.  It is a two-fold problem in that (1) it is so easy to do and (2) it is a noxious habit that kills charity in the gossiper and participants.

Again, as is almost always the case, pride is a primary culprit.  When we "gossip," we repeat the faults of others in usually the most negative light and often with a dubious basis.  In short, gossip is typically the very serious sin of detraction.  (When gossip is merely passing of personal information more benign, it still is sinful in that it displays an unhealthy and immature curiosity.)  While we often have no trouble seeing the worst in others and the worst in their motives, we, of course, see only the best in ourselves and give ourselves the benefit of the doubt -- even when we know we do not deserve it.  In short, we use a radically different measuring stick for ourselves than others. 

While I do not consciously seek out gossip, I am not vigilant enough when others gossip around me, and, sometimes, I often add to it.  What can be a funny anecdote about another human being common to the group can become, in an instant, very mean-spirited.   My sense of humor, which most seem to enjoy, can trend this way.  This problem of "gossip" is something I have begun to combat in fits and starts.  

Silence.  When a traditional Catholic envisions saintly conduct, it probably entails someone who speaks rarely, and, when he speaks, does so with simple honesty and directness.  Garrulousness is no virtue -- it shows we fail to realize the dignity of ourselves and others.  I am not suggesting that we have to be grave or severe at all times; but, at the same time, we would be wise to be less garrulous if we act that way at times.   I have rarely regretted when I was silent -- I cannot count the times I have regretted opening my mouth.

O Lord, that I might exhibit true charity towards my neighbor.  That I might never "gossip" about another human being and take the dignity of my creation seriously in all things.  

Deo Gratias.

A Canticle For Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.

It was said that God, in order to test mankind which had become swelled with pride as in the time of Noah, had commanded the wise men of that age, among them the Blessed Leibowitz, to devise great engines of war such as had never before been upon the Earth, weapons of such might that they contained the very fires of hell, and that God had suffered these magi to place the weapons in the hands of princes, and to say to each prince: "Only because the enemies have such a thing have we devised these for thee, in order that they may that thou has it also, and fear to strike. See to it, m' Lord, that thou fearest them as much as they shall now fearest thee, that none may unleash them as much as they shall now fear thee, that none may unleash this dread thing we have wrought."

But the princes, putting the words of their wise men to naught, thought each to himself: If I but strike quickly enough, and in secret, I shall destroy those others in their sleep, and there will be none to fight back; the earth shall be mine.

Such was the folly of princes, and there followed the Flame Deluge.

Within weeks -- some said days -- it was ended, after the first unleashing of the hell-fire. Cities had become puddles of glass surrounded by vast acreages of broken stone. While nations had vanished from the earth, the land littered with bodies, both men and cattle, and all manner of beasts, together with the birds of the air and all things that flew, all things that swam in rivers, crept in the grass, or burrowed in holes; having sickened and perished, they covered the land, and yet where the demons of the Fallout covered the countryside, the bodies for a time would not decay, except in contact with fertile earth, withering trees and crops to die. There were great deserts where once life was, and in those places of the Earth where many still live, all were sickened by the poisoned air, s that , while some escaped death, none were left untouched; and many died even in those lands where the weapons had not struck, because of the poisoned air.

In all parts of the world men fled from one place to other places, and there was a confusion of tongues. Much wrath was kindled at the princes and the servants of the princes and against the magi who had devised the weapons. Years passed, and yet the Earth was not cleansed. So it was clearly recorded in the Memorabilia.

From the confusion of tongues, the intermingling of the remnants of many nations, from fear, the hate was born. And the hate said: Let us stone and disembowel and burn the ones who did this thing. Let make a holocaust of those who wrought this crime, together with their hirelings and their wise men; burning, let them perish, and all their works, their names, and even their memories. Let us destroy them all, and teach our children that the world is new, that they may know nothing of the deeds that went before. Let us make a great Simplification, and the world should begin again.

So it was that after the Deluge, the Fallout, the plagues, the madness, the confusion of tongues, the rage, there began the bloodletting of the Simplification, when remnants of mankind had torn other remnants limb from limb, killing rulers, scientists, leaders, technicians, teachers, and whatever persons the leaders of the maddened mob deserved death for having helped make the Earth what it had become. Nothing had been so hateful in the sight of these mobs as the man of learning, at first because they served the princes, but then later because they refused to join in the bloodletting and tried to oppose the mobs, calling the crowds "blood thirsty simpletons."

...

To escape the fury of the simpleton packs, such learned people as still survived fled to any sanctuary that offered itself. When Holy Church received them, she vested them in monks' robes and tried to hide them in such monasteries and convents that had survived and could be reoccupied, for the religious were less despised by the mob except when they openly defied it and accepted martyrdom. Monasteries were invaded, records and sacred books were burned, refugees were seized and summarily hanged or burned. The Simplification had ceased to have plan or purpose soon after it began, and became an insane frenzy of mass murder and destruction such as only occurs when the last traces of social order are gone. The madness was transmitted to the children, taught as they were -- not to merely forget -- but to hate, and surges of mob fury recurred sporadically even through the fourth generation after the Deluge. By then, the fury was not directed against the learned, for there were none, but merely the literate.

Issac Edward Leibowitz, after a fruitless search for his wife, had fled to the Cistercians where he remained in hiding during the early post-Deluge years. After six years, he had gone once more to search for Emily or her grave, in the far southwest. There he had become convinced at last of her death, for death was unconditionally triumphant in that pace. There in the desert he quietly made a vow. Then he went back to the Cistercians, took their habit, and after more years became a priest. He gathered a few companions about him and made some quiet proposals. After a few more years, the proposals filtered to "Rome," which was no longer Rome (which was no longer a city), having moved elsewhere, moved again, and still again -- in less than two decades, after staying in one place for two millennia. Twelve years after the proposals were made, Father Issac Edward Leibowitz had won permission from the Holy See to found a new community of the religious, to be named after Albertus Magnus, teacher of Saint Thomas, and patron of men of science. Its task, unannounced, and at first only vaguely defined, was to preserve human history for the great-great-great-grandchildren of the children of the simpletons who wanted it destroyed.

A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.

What makes a novel great? What makes a work of fiction something that resonates with us in a deeply personal and meaningful way? There are undoubtedly many ways to answer this question: perhaps it is characters whose depth transcends a story and meet us in a quiet place in the soul – leaving us less lonely and isolated than before. Perhaps it is heroism; heroism in the face of awful and horrendous circumstances. Or it could be the work’s insights into who we really are or why we are here. Still it could be a narrative that is gripping and twisting and unexpected. It certainly could be a prose that is moves us and inspires us. Maybe it is simply the feeling of dread at completing the book – the sorrow of separation from the richness of the author’s world. It could be all these things. Whatever makes a novel great – whatever it is – is displayed in A Canticle for Leibowitz. Quite simply, it is one of the most engaging and imaginative novels I have ever read.

Novels tell stories, and, in this way, A Canticle for Leibowitz is no different from any other novel. And compared to many, A Canticle for Leibowitz is a relatively short novel (less than 350 pages). But in its seemingly small length, A Canticle for Leibowitz weaves a veritable treasure trove of themes that few theoretical works could hope to accomplish it the same amount of space – even if they addressed them directly and systematically. It might be more accurate to claim that it more appropriate to describe the natural and supernatural themes that A Canticle for Leibowitz does not address: it certainly would be more economical. God, man’s nature and search for meaning, virtue and vice, and the dialectical movement of history are all touched upon. For the philosophically literate, this story – or really series of stories – is a rich field waiting to be harvested. While it is classified by some as science fiction -- it is much more than that.

Before the themes are explored, A Canticle for Leibowitz is a story: a very imaginative story. Written in the late fifties by Walter Miller, it addresses what was then a very real fear: nuclear war and annihilation. In the era of Cold War saber rattling and “fallout” shelter fever, Miller envisions a future of humanity following a full-scale nuclear war. Many stories have been written about a post-nuclear war world. What makes Miller’s so different is that he uses that backdrop to tell a story and explore themes in a way that transcends that tragedy. Where many similarly themed stories are contented to merely portray the gore and struggle for survival in that awful scenario – in other words, the story is the nuclear war and its aftermath; A Canticle for Leibowitz uses it merely to jump off and explore much more.

Fifty years later, the fall of the Soviet Union and, perhaps, the familiarity with having these weapons has immunized us today from that fear. American children today are far more likely to fear “global warming” than they are to fear nuclear holocaust, which is ironic when one considers that “global warming” is as dubious as it is alarmist and the potential for nuclear war grows through weapons proliferation and economic instability. While nation-states possess these weapons, Miller’s chosen genre will still remain relevant.

The imagination of the novel begins in its structure. It is really three distinct albeit connected novellas. The first, Fiat Homo, takes place six hundred years after a nuclear war (circa 2600), which occurred in the late twentieth century. The second, Fiat Lux, is five hundred years later (circa 3174). The last, Fiat Voluntas Tua, is set six hundred years further out (circa 3800). At each future historical stage, humanity is at a varying degree of development following the nuclear war. What is fascinating is that the timing that Miller employs mirrors the past development of man’s history – such that Miller puts forward a future history that continues man’s social cycle of rising and falling. In this way, Miller's novel is as much a commentary on the past as it is a speculative venture.

The connective tissue between the three novellas and their eighteen hundred years of spacing is the Abbey of Leibowitz. In each epoch, the monastery serves as the point of departure for the story. Its Abbots and its brothers are the central characters: each confronting a different world with distinctive needs and peculiar challenges.

Fiat Homo

The first epoch six hundred years out clearly mirrors the dark ages: it could be easily describing Europe in the year 600. It is a world of rampant barbarism, brutality, and anarchy. The civilizing impulse in Miller’s future is the same as it was then: the Catholic Church. In the same way that brave men and women cloistered themselves in castle-like monasteries to preserve the works of antiquity and learning until future generations could access them again – Miller’s first epoch is the same.

In this alter-universe, virtual anarchy reigns. The Order of Leibowitz maintains a fortified abbey somewhere in the desert southwest of North America (probably what was formerly Utah). The founder, evidently a secular Jewish scientist and convert, creates a monastic order to preserve knowledge in the face of man's rage against all forms of learning. Why he chooses a Jew as a convert and founder is not explored -- perhaps in the wake of the Holocaust and in the hope of a future conversion of Jews. But it is nonetheless a play on the well known Jewish sensibilities towards the value of knowledge and learning. Perhaps it is another metaphor on the past repeating itself, i.e., the Church was originally Jewish and, through Leibowitz, it was again. Whereas Jews of old originally formed the Christian Church by accepting that Christ was Messiah and in doing so, rejected Temple Judaism; perhaps, Miller intended to play on that history by offering us Leibowitz who rejects the prevailing ethos of his day, i.e., the cult of science. Miller's choice in Leibowitz without any further glosses raises more questions that it answers.

The monks live a deeply traditional monastic life: revolving around the liturgy of the hours and the church's liturgical calendar. Like their sixth-century counterparts, Miller's twenty-sixth century monks do many of the same things: laboriously copying works from antiquity without really knowing how to understand the same things. Fiat Homo's protagonist is Father Brother Francis -- a seventeen year old novitiate in the midst of a Lenten fast in the desert. With the help of a mysterious stranger (perhaps, miraculously, Blessed Leibowitz himself), Brother Francis discovers a long buried "fallout" shelter, and, in doing so, discovers potential relics relating to the Abbey's founder, Blessed Liebowitz, who is being considered for Sainthood by "New" Rome. The relics help quell an aspect of a controversy of Liebowitz's life: namely, whether he became a priest before his wife had died. The relics, which include Liebowitz's wife's remains, confirm that she died very soon after the nuclear exchange in the anteroom of the fallout shelter.

Fiat Homo introduces us to the nuclear annihilation through the words and mind of a essentially early medieval monks. Given that so much learning has been lost -- and even the vocabulary to describe it -- anachronisms are used to describe our modern society's descent into war that these descendants do not to understand. Starkly moralistic and deistic themes explain the war. In this bizarre future, we meet the Church again, and, she is very much the same -- if only reduced to an earlier state of being.

The Leibowitz Abbey has preserved a number of shards of "ancient" civilization: random blueprints, burned pages from an encyclopedia, and other types of eclectic modern knowledge. The monks copy this material over and over again -- and present us with the strange idea of an illuminated blueprint. Holy Mother Church assumes her role as preserver in darkness because, she has always known -- and will always know -- that man's history and knowledge should be preserved.

Beyond the fascination of visiting a world six hundred years removed from a nuclear world, Fiat Homo tracks the life of Brother Francis from his fortuitous discovery to his death many years later at the hands of barbaric highway robbers. Like monks of old, these future-monks spend years and seasons in toil and only slowly completing their work while observing the rhythmic tides of liturgical time. In particular, Brother Francis works tirelessly to copy and illuminate one of Leibowitz's blueprints for fifteen years. When he is robbed on his way to New Rome for the canonization of Leibowitz with the original blueprint and its copy in his possession, his barbaric robbers steal the copy (believing it more valuable) and mock him mercilessly for spending fifteen years creating it. Like the modernist, the barbarian has no patience. Their mocking stings him but at New Rome the Pope assures his work was not in vain: had he not done it, the thieves would have stolen the original. So Providence rewarded him greatly for his labors.

What strikes one most about the era after the "Simplification," is the manner in which time has slowed. Modernists expect to accomplish things quickly -- even instantly. The contrast of the conception of time is most striking to the reader: especially when one considers that the unnatural pacing of life today seems unsustainable, that eventually it will come to a grinding halt, and, when it does, a great dislocation will occur. It does seem inevitable.

Fiat Homo culminates in canonization of Saint Leibowitz and the senseless murder of Brother Francis, who figured so prominently in his founder's cause, by mutant-thieves. For the reader, it is an abrupt and senseless crime that jerks him into the reality of this future era's barbarous anarchy. It is as if Miller ends this novella by yelling at the reader: "I wasn't kidding, this new world is awful."

Fiat Lux

The second epoch, five hundred years later, clearly mirrors the beginning of the intellectual awakening at the beginning of the middle ages. Miller’s renaissance appears to correspond roughly with the era of Charlemagne. The germination of both secular thought and nation-state – still distant in the offing – begins to take form. The coming and inevitable war between the sacred and the profane, between the naturalist and the super-naturalist, and between the Church and State are all played out here. The fear and loathing of the Church by the rising men of letters and power is palpable then and palpable in Miller’s future.

The primary characters of this novella are "Thon Taddeo" (the aspiring and secularizing scientist), Abbot Dom Paulo, the ruler "Hannegan," and the mysterious "Poet." Five hundred years later demonstrate a modicum of barbaric order. Tribal strongmen have grown into types of kings and began to assert greater and greater control over the wilds around them. In Miller's future, man at this stage has redeveloped gun powder and the outlines of military discipline. "Hannegan," the ruler of Texarkana Empire, has designs to unite the North American continent again. Hannegan is a type of Caeser. Hannegan, while nominally Catholic, is essentially a glorified warlord none too far removed from his pre-Christian roots. Like the medieval monasteries of old, Hannegan views the fortified Leibowitz Abbey as potential military base of expansion into the west.

The Abbey is also attractive for despoiling by Thon Taddeo ("Thon" meaning essentially "scholar") because it contains many ancient records that would be helpful to Thon Taddeo and his colleague is recreating scientific knowledge. Thon Taddeo, the half-brother of Hannegan, views the Church's hold on this records as counter-productive. Beyond an ingratitude of the Church's service in preserving and re-preserving them over time, Thon Taddeo essentially believes -- in type of proto-secular view -- that the Church has more or less served its purpose and should not stand in the way of further human progress.

When Thon Taddeo spends time researching at the Abbey with a contingent of Hannegan's soldiers, he discovers that one monk has applied some of the old records to such a point that he has created a rudimentary incandescent light. Taddeo is shocked that these backward monks have been able to create this innovation in what he considers to be the suffocating embrace of faith and monastery. All the while, Hannegan's solders made detailed written observations of the Abbey's fortifications for use in later attack. The mendicant "Poet," who presence at the monastery is tolerated by all, unexpectedly proclaims to all -- in front of all -- what the Abbot and monastery leaders have been fearing -- Hannegan is preparing to take the monastery by force and good will offered by the Abbot in receiving Thon Taddeo has been offered in vain.

After the Poet's awkward exit, Thon Taddeo engages in a condescending dialogue with the monks -- and the seeds of secularism's discomfort with the Church is laid bare. What Miller does exquisitely is demonstrate the arrogance of the maturing scientist. As a specialist, he has the propensity to view the generalists with disdain. Interestingly, he is not a specialist in philosophy (typically, he is very weak in it), and, yet, he freely draws philosophical conclusions that well beyond him and his parochial training. He also can mistake then-prevailing scientific knowledge as beyond reproach, which, upon later examination, is disproven. An example today would be "global warming," which many scientist accept dogmatically. Another would be Darwinian evolutionary theory. If one questions the assumption (i.e., the very nature of scientific inquiry), the science-dogmatists cry foul. In a particular example of this type of scientific condescension, Thon Taddeo agrees to take some questions from the monks and the question of man's origins are raised: He is asked by a young monk:

• "Sir, I was wondering if you were acquainted with the suggestions of Saint Augustine on the subject [of man's origins]"
• "I am not." [Thon Taddeo]
• "A fourth century bishop and philosopher. He suggested in the beginning, God created all things in their germinal causes, including the physiology of man, and that the germinal causes inseminate, as it were, in formless matter -- when then gradually evolved into more complex shapes, and eventually man. Has this hypothesis been considered?"
• The Thon's smile was condescending, although he did not openly brand the proposal childish. "I'm afraid it has not, but I shall look it up," he said, in a tone that indicated he would not.

How often have our scientific ayatollahs branded some hypothesis as "proven" and dismissed any suggestion otherwise as verboten? The very best of Catholic thinking is a relentless examination of everything. Faith should give us fearlessness to explore -- there should be no fear. Ironically, the ayatollahs live in great fear. We Christians should understand that any challenge to their views is tantamount to challenging their way of life and understanding of themselves. That is why, at its core, these types of scientific theories are more or less religious ones. And that is why they mercilessly attack their would-be challengers with mockery and ad hominem attacks -- serious dialogue in a scientific fashion is not the point. Through Thon Taddeo, we see the beginning of all of these things.

Miller also demonstrates the debate regarding the growth of secular thought within the Church herself in the persons of two monks who view the rise of science differently: one with a singular supernatural orientation, and the other with a natural curiosity. These character-types play themselves out again and again among the religious.

The novella ends with the Poet's death scene: the writhing Poet is dying from a gunshot wound in the abdomen from a soldier's musket. Hiding in the nearby woods, the Poet launched a suicidal attack on a calvary officers who was senselessly hacking a woman to death. The Poet was easily repulsed by the other soldiers, but managed to stab the offending officer to death. Given the Poet's self-absorption at the monastery, his actions calling out Thon Taddeo's intentions and physically attacking the calvary officer were utterly unexpected. Miller's intentions in this ending demonstrate, at least in one sense, man's fickle nature. The Poet's seeming disconnect with all around him was seeming only: all men retain a sense of an intuitive justice. While in most virtue needs nourishment by habituation, extreme circumstances can, and often, create unlikely heroes.

Fiat Voluntus Tua

The final epoch six hundred years thereafter returns us home: modernism with all of its technocratic trappings. What has man learned in the year 3800: Seemingly, not much more than his twentieth century counterpart. Where once man revered the Church – and then feared her – he now ignores her and dismisses her as anachronism. He then, like now, has no basis left to understand the supernatural -- paradoxically while wielding the very natural power the universe, man today is utterly devoid of wisdom. He sees no further than the materialist nose in front of his face. In Miller's third epoch, man stands, once again, on the precipice of nuclear war. And once again, in a fit of insanity, he chooses to close the cycle by launching again.

In Miller's third epoch, nations have aligned again. Coincidentally -- Asians and the West again. This world seems more advanced than our own: it is nuclear again (for two hundred years) and it is has space travel and space colonization. The world is advanced again. Interestingly enough, the legacy of a nuclear war some 1,800 years before still resounds: horrendous genetic mutations are still common among this era.

Miller was prophetic in this novella as well: he anticipated Modernism's acceptance of euthanasia. The thirty-eighth century monks fight against the government's "mercy" centers in which those exposes to radiation are "put down." The modernist rationale for euthanasia in Fiat Voluntus Tua mirrors its later twentieth century acceptance of all radically individualized "-isms" like abortion on demand, "gay marriage," no fault divorce, and rampant obscenity (to name only a few). Miller is at his finest in these modernist debates -- earnest advancing the Catholic position while his modernist characters are at an utter lost to understand the notion of things like redemptive suffering. Moreover, Miller's characters are not one-dimensional apologists: the circumstances are difficult and not glossed over. He does not shirk from presenting these questions with all of their thorniness.

Miller also observes how modernism cloaks its new doctrines, like euthanasia, in religious imagery. He writes how the euthanasia centers have a statue welcoming the victims with arms out-stretched:

This statute, [Abbot] Zerchi was dismayed to notice, bore a marked similarilty to some of the most effeminate images by which mediocre, or worse than mediocre, artists had traditionally represented the personality of Christ. The sweet-sick face, blank eyes, simpering lips, and arms spread wide in a gesture of embrace. The hips were as broad as a woman's, and the chest hinted at breasts -- unless they were only folds in the cloak. Dear Lord of Golgatha, Abbot Zerchi breathed, is that all the rabble imagine You to be? He could with effort imagine the statute saying: "Suffer the little children to come to me," but he could not imagine it saying: "Depart from me into everlasting fire, accursed ones," or flogging the money-changers out of the temple.

So secularism needs to borrow concepts like mercy when it suits them -- so why not mangle the Christian message -- to the exclusion of justice or virtue? What is perhaps more interesting is that this imagery is so prophetic in what happened in fact to the Catholic Church after the Second Vatican Council -- and in reading this passage, I thought not of a secular borrowing; rather it struck me as a hideous statute that one might find in one of the Catholic Church's new architecture (if one could find a statute at all). And the statutes are indicative of the same theology: many of our pastors have produced an effeminate and soft version of Christ to their liking, one devoid of the fire and brimstone. One that only stressed mercy at the expense of justice. One that wanted to bury Hell as a medieval mind-control technique. One that embraced discarded the notion of one, true, faith as an affront to charity. The consequences of this embrace -- this feminizing of Lord and Priest and theology is one of the root causes of the the great apostasy.

In this final story, the Church, in anticipation for another nuclear holocaust, makes provision for extending the Church's mission to various space colonies that have been formed. The point, it seems to me, is that the Church's mission is eternal and will continue to the end of humanity.

Themes

The varied themes in A Canticle for Leibowitz are fascinating.

First, the eternal nature of Holy Mother Church animates the text. In Miller's future, the Church plays (again) a central civilizing role. She preserves man and details about his history and world, because she knows that man is essentially worth saving because he was created in likeness and image of God. While many ideologies, religious or otherwise, are destroyers of things, Catholicism at its core preserves. In an almost supernatural sense, she even preserves that which she does not yet fully understand. She does not do it for man's admiration -- because, as we all know, later man, secular man, never appreciated in the slightest the contribution made by generations of monks who labored intensively to make life better for the future. In fact, secular man scorned these preservers in a fit of spite. In some way, Miller's futuristic work is an allegorical paean to our monastic forefathers of times gone by. He pays tribute to them by recognizing their role as selfless stewards of man's past, and, in doing so, forces his readers to reevaluate any prejudice they maintain about them. Ironically, Miller's Church is a savior to science, the same science that men today wrongly view as the Church's mortal enemy. The truth is that Miller's work is not irony at all because the Church has always been a conduit for scientific truth -- after all, exploration of God's masterwork is celebrated by the Church. The Church only condemns those acting under the guise of science who claim that science somehow disproves God.

Notably, Miller's future Catholicism tells us a lot about the Catholicism that Miller knew when writing A Canticle for Leibowitz. Because he was neither a progressive nor traditionalist, because those fights were still in the offing after the book was completed, we can get a glimpse of what Churchmen were like in the 1950s -- or at least as Miller saw them. Miller's future monks are complex men. They are not stiff caricatures of piety: they are flesh and blood men striving with faults. Some are sanctimonious, others impatient, still others weak -- they are human beings with fallen natures. The depth of his characters -- the struggles they have with the barbarism around them (whether it is mutant highway robbers or educated doctors euthanasizing people) are rich in content. The only constant they see -- and the same for us today -- is the promise of the Church's mission through Jesus Christ.

While some might object to aspects of its depiction of the Church presented by Miller, the right response would seem to be that he nails it dead on. He depicts her as eternal -- but composed of fallible men. He depicts as her as indestructible -- even if she seems to be in her death throes at all times. He depicts her as a force for good -- even if she has worldly and myopic adherents. Miller understood exactly what the Church is: an eternal and divinely instituted society.

Miller's work, written in the late 1950s, is built upon a robust pre-conciliar Catholicism. One thing that Miller did not fully appreciate was that in only a few short years, the Catholicism he took for granted as eternal, unchanging, and unyielding would discard its animosity towards innovation for a season. He could not anticipate that the Church would try to make peace with modernism and its odious assumptions. He could not anticipate that its pastors would engage in a period of prolonged self destruction. While we live in the ruins of that season, Miller's vision shows no such scars. His futuristic monks are the same as the ones he knew -- the ones he knew existed from the beginning. And when the silly season is over, when the Church recovers her senses and emerges from this awful departure, she will be left with what she had before, has now, and, as Miller knew, will have in the future: the Truth.

Only a traditionalist today, however, can fully appreciate A Canticle for Leibowitz. Miller only knew the Church as unchanging and stubborn, suffused with Latin, and marking time liturgically with great solemnity and reverence. In short, he knew only the dignity of the Church. Today, unfortunately, the banality of the new mass and the seemingly endless variation of liturgical innovations, the anthropocentric nature of its theological emphasis, and its effete ministers -- all of which have culminated in a great crisis of apostasy and clerical abuse scandal -- have robbed many Catholics still attending the novus ordo of the certainty of Catholicism. At the very least, these changes, even the fact of these changes, have substantiated a charge of the enemy, i.e., that the Church is a creature of historicism.

Because traditionalists see the problem -- identify what was done to the Church and seek to remedy by adhering to the timeless of a bygone Catholicism, they explicit reject the enemy's historicist charge. On a superficial level then, a traditionalist will understand many of Miller's references to a Catholicism that most of the world has since discarded -- such references would even be lost with the vast majority of devout novus ordo Catholics. On a deeper level too, traditionalists will understand Miller's emphasis on redemptive suffering and the eternal nature of the Church because the old Mass, and its timeless prayers, lend themselves to precisely that orientation.

Miller's view of the Church is revealing as it relates to the folly of continuing to do good works in the face of an indifferent or even hostile world. At its core, Christianity does not make a lot of worldly sense. Why bother with helping anyone -- unless there is something in it for the helper? That Christianity is premised on selfless helping is both a folly and scandal. That is not to say that Christian do not -- often even -- act selfishly. Of course they do, but that is not the point. Christianity calls us to our better selves, our true selves. It is a radical challenge to the status quo of our souls, which prefer the comfortable, the safe, the non-threatening. Miller's monks endure great toil to advance the Kingdom of God. They dedicate themselves to helping others for no worldly advantage. In periods of great dislocation (as in Miller's first two novellas), this self sacrifice is all the more stark. Indeed, the Christian is most recognizable when surrounded with great barbarity. A Canticle for Leibowitz is another description of that Christian virtue.

One final aspect of the supernatural quality of the Church that Miller addresses is its authority. In the final story, Abbot Zerchi is doing his best to convince a woman to not euthanize her sickly and suffering child. He struggles to explain why she and her child should reject the euthanasia center. He offers a sorry anecdotal story to comfort her, which only inflames the mother's anger. They banter back and forth and he is clearly losing her in the argument. Realizing this, he appears to remember who he is and commands her: "No, I am not asking you. As a priest of Christ, I am commanding you by the authority of God not to lay hands on your child, not to offer her life in sacrifice to a false god of expedient mercy. I do not advise you, I adjure you and command you in the name of Christ the King." In this vignette, this priest tells us what we need to know about who he is and from where his authority comes from. It is as powerful as could possibly be. Contrast this notion of ecclesial and priestly authority with today's endless dialogue -- with our priests today as community organizers browbeaten by an army of blue haired ladies rushing the alter to distribute communion. This type of authority exerted by the priest is positively apostolic -- it is masculine and fearless -- it is the priest being faithful to the power our Lord invested him. That we might have priests like this one in more abundance.

Second, Miller's work necessarily addresses both man's past and his future. In doing so, Miller obviously does not believe in the perfectibility of man in a Hegalian dialectical process. Instead, A Canticle for Leibowitz espouses a cyclical view of human beings and history. History repeats itself -- in a literal sense -- because man, in his fallen nature, continues to make the same mistakes. Societies also continue to make the same mistakes because they are composed of these same men. Thus, one could argue, that A Canticle for Leibowitz is primarily concerned with emphasizing the fallen nature of man and in rejecting those social projects premised on his perfectibility. Where the Hegalian sees history moving in a snaking pattern towards a progressive end; Miller's view of history is a self-repeating pattern of rising and falling. And in Miller's view, the hubris and vice of man even repeat themselves thematically. After all, A Canticle for Leibowitz is a story engineered in just such a cyclical fashion.

This debate is relevant. Modernists are obsessed with social engineering because they believe, erroneously, that if society only change the circumstances of man's externalities (e.g., economics and education), soceity can improve his person -- can literally make him a better person. It is a view entirely devoid of understanding man's fallen nature and original sin. It conflates a supernatural fallen nature that requires a supernatural cure with a natural fallen nature that only requires a natural cure. For Miller, however, it would seem that fallen man is enormously hubristic and incapable of social change. Particular man may change by embracing the Cross of our Lord and laboring at the difficult task of cultivating virtue and dispelling vice -- but no amount of social engineering will otherwise meaningfully change him. It is not poor implementation that bedevils the Left in their great social projects -- it is assumptions based upon human nature that have no basis in reality. Accordingly, its projects will never work.

There is a great deal more that could be said about this book. The book is so delicious because it offers great depth packaged in highly readable and engaging prose. That combination is rarely seen. While I learned that Miller met a very unfortunate end, I pray that his suicide committed in his later years was the product of a mental illness and not conscious choice. I find it hard to believe that someone who understood so well the soul of Catholicism could take his life any other way. So I pray for the soul Walter Miller.

Deo gratias.

The Doctrine of Truth

HAPPY is he to whom truth manifests itself, not in signs and words that fade, but as it actually is. Our opinions, our senses often deceive us and we discern very little.

What good is much discussion of involved and obscure matters when our ignorance of them will not be held against us on Judgment Day? Neglect of things which are profitable and necessary and undue concern with those which are irrelevant and harmful, are great folly.

We have eyes and do not see.

What, therefore, have we to do with questions of philosophy? He to whom the Eternal Word speaks is free from theorizing. For from this Word are all things and of Him all things speak -- the Beginning Who also speaks to us. Without this Word no man understands or judges aright. He to whom it becomes everything, who traces all things to it and who sees all things in it, may ease his heart and remain at peace with God.

O God, You Who are the truth, make me one with You in love everlasting. I am often wearied by the many things I hear and read, but in You is all that I long for. Let the learned be still, let all creatures be silent before You; You alone speak to me.

The more recollected a man is, and the more simple of heart he becomes, the easier he understands sublime things, for he receives the light of knowledge from above. The pure, simple, and steadfast spirit is not distracted by many labors, for he does them all for the honor of God. And since he enjoys interior peace he seeks no selfish end in anything. What, indeed, gives more trouble and affliction than uncontrolled desires of the heart?

A good and devout man arranges in his mind the things he has to do, not according to the whims of evil inclination but according to the dictates of right reason. Who is forced to struggle more than he who tries to master himself? This ought to be our purpose, then: to conquer self, to become stronger each day, to advance in virtue.

Every perfection in this life has some imperfection mixed with it and no learning of ours is without some darkness. Humble knowledge of self is a surer path to God than the ardent pursuit of learning. Not that learning is to be considered evil, or knowledge, which is good in itself and so ordained by God; but a clean conscience and virtuous life ought always to be preferred. Many often err and accomplish little or nothing because they try to become learned rather than to live well.

If men used as much care in uprooting vices and implanting virtues as they do in discussing problems, there would not be so much evil and scandal in the world, or such laxity in religious organizations. On the day of judgment, surely, we shall not be asked what we have read but what we have done; not how well we have spoken but how well we have lived.

Tell me, where now are all the masters and teachers whom you knew so well in life and who were famous for their learning? Others have already taken their places and I know not whether they ever think of their predecessors. During life they seemed to be something; now they are seldom remembered. How quickly the glory of the world passes away! If only their lives had kept pace with their learning, then their study and reading would have been worth while.

How many there are who perish because of vain worldly knowledge and too little care for serving God. They became vain in their own conceits because they chose to be great rather than humble.

He is truly great who has great charity. He is truly great who is little in his own eyes and makes nothing of the highest honor. He is truly wise who looks upon all earthly things as folly that he may gain Christ. He who does God's will and renounces his own is truly very learned.

(Imitation of Christ, Bk. 1, Ch. 3, Thomas a Kempis)

Two main themes strike the reader in this passage: one is that authentic knowledge is not possible without God (i.e., Faith comes before reason) and two is that knowledge for knowledge's sake is vanity. While the pursuit of knowledge in and of itself is not improper; the disordered search for it is, ipso facto, lamentable. And proper ordering is the building up of virtue first.

We live in an age that worships academic accomplishment: idolizing the acquisition of degrees and learning. Setting aside that modern academia is really a cauldron of babel; an atomistic dispersion of the intensive study of smaller and smaller units of obscurity. As if we really need an academic dissertation into the literary habits of seventeenth century French prostitutes -- but that is what passes for interesting and challenging scholarship today. (Noted, however, the sciences are in fact, relatively, in a better place). We have built a culture that is fascinated with the trees (i.e., the nuggets of knowledge) and wholly oblivious to the forest (i.e., the sum of knowledge -- wisdom).

Like a troubled person who, in disordered fashion, inverts the pursuit of knowledge with living a virtuous life; our society suffers from that malady writ large. In abandoning the Kingdom of Jesus Christ, modern Western societies are descending into paganism, debauchery, and madness -- in short, they are retrogressing into the confusion of babel. In the manic search for progress and change, our societies have forgotten that wisdom and virtue are unchanging. That Truth is not an amorphous subjective concept -- it is a somebody -- Jesus Christ. Authentic wisdom is impossible without Jesus Christ as its foundation -- and as our societies reject Him, the natural and supernatural consequences are dire for them (the nonbelievers) and us (the believers).

What replaced Christ? A New Age veneer to what is essentially a misanthropic orientation. The Devil and his minions have always hated man. That is why, in part, hell will be awful -- its masters will despise the inhabitants forever. And any orientation that denies man the special character and dignity of his creation -- i.e., modernism -- also besmirches man's author in God. And that is why that misanthropic orientation, while not explicitly anti-God, is blasphemous.

I strongly doubt that an American school child ever hears of them anymore -- unless it is the "wisdom" of an Indian shaman or the "virtue" of using green grocery bags. Truly, we live in an apostate society -- the immovable fact, however, is that all of these people (myself included) will face the awesome judgment seat of God. I highly doubt that whether they used "paper" or "plastic" is going to matter in terms of their good works.

May God save us.

Having a Humble Opinion of Self

EVERY man naturally desires knowledge; but what good is knowledge without fear of God? Indeed a humble rustic who serves God is better than a proud intellectual who neglects his soul to study the course of the stars.  He who knows himself well becomes mean in his own eyes and is not happy when praised by men.

If I knew all things in the world and had not charity, what would it profit me before God Who will judge me by my deeds?

Shun too great a desire for knowledge, for in it there is much fretting and delusion.  Intellectuals like to appear learned and to be called wise.  Yet there are many things the knowledge of which does little or no good to the soul, and he who concerns himself about other things than those which lead to salvation is very unwise.

Many words do not satisfy the soul; but a good life eases the mind and a clean conscience inspires great trust in God.

The more you know and the better you understand, the more severely will you be judged, unless your life is also the more holy.  Do not be proud, therefore, because of your learning or skill.  Rather, fear because of the talent given you.  If you think you know many things and understand them well enough, realize at the same time that there is much you do not know. Hence, do not affect wisdom, but admit your ignorance.  Why prefer yourself to anyone else when many are more learned, more cultured than you?

If you wish to learn and appreciate something worth while, then love to be unknown and considered as nothing.  Truly to know and despise self is the best and most perfect counsel.  To think of oneself as nothing, and always to think well and highly of others is the best and most perfect wisdom.  Wherefore, if you see another sin openly or commit a serious crime, do not consider yourself better, for you do not know how long you can remain in good estate.  All men are frail, but you must admit that none is more frail than yourself.

(Imitation of Christ, Bk. 1, Ch. 2, Thomas a Kempis)

These words are extremely cutting in light of my boundless pride.  It is all so simple, so serenely simple for the Christian:  die to self.  Yet, in the real world, we have a very difficult time living this simple command out.  From the smallest movements in the soul -- the pleasure at being praised, of being recognized, of being held in good favor to the much greater movements of attributing our works (whatever their merit) to ourselves, and ourselves alone.  Dying to self is especially hard for me.  My pride is suffocating at times inasmuch as the first unconscious principle by which I operate is self-love.  I have to do battle with it in a conscious manner on a daily, even momentary, basis.  

I cannot express how often I meditate on the reality of that pride and presumption during the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.  How often I realize how great a sinner I am as I stand at the threshold of Holy Communion.  But at other times, I reflexively look at the small or great failings in others -- and, again, without so much thought, take a smug satisfaction.  The reality is that no one -- not anyone -- is less deserving of heaven than me.  That sanctimonious satisfaction, however misplaced, must be scourged.  I have to learn over and over again that lesson.  Only God knows the depths of my inequity.  Only authentic Christian hope in the message of our Lord could provide balm to a soul like mine.  That is why I move towards the Lord:  because in quiet moments of clarity I know that I need -- desperately -- a savior.  How that gets mucked up in my own mind as something that is good about me is a wicked mystery I do not understand.

So we start and end with the simple.  Die to self, Christian, die to self.  And we do it simply enough -- realize that you a momentary speck in eternity that the Creator of all condescended to rescue.  Where your relative position is among other specks is really irrelevant.  But of those specks, God loves them in a way we simply cannot comprehend.  So remember that we are passing, always passing, through this world.  Do not mistake a brief sojourn for eternity.  Serve others -- as our Lord served others.  Stopping thinking the best of yourself -- invert the reflexive (and fallen) nature by which we operate -- think the best of others and give them the benefit of the doubt.  Do not do the same for yourself because where you know -- without any doubt -- that you have been selfish beyond measure. 

As I make my way through this life, I suspect that many of my repeated failings are a divine gift of the deprivation of sustaining grace.  It is almost as if God lets me fall humiliating flat -- leaving me to my own wickedness and selfishness -- to remind my of my inordinate and primordial pride.  I continue to confuse his grace and blessings for something that somehow I author -- and I require continuous humbling. 

O Lord, that I might finally humble myself before your awesome throne.  That I might have a holy and trembling fear before You.  That I might finally acknowledge -- with my whole heart, mind and soul -- that I wholly depend on You and You alone.  That in the real world, and not the fantasy world of my someday-maybe good intentions, I might live with humility. O Lord, that I might have the courage to live such a life. 

O Lord, have mercy on me Lord, a sinner. 

Deo Gratias.

Imitating Christ and Despising All Vanities on Earth

HE WHO follows Me, walks not in darkness," says the Lord. By these words of Christ we are advised to imitate His life and habits, if we wish to be truly enlightened and free from all blindness of heart. Let our chief effort, therefore, be to study the life of Jesus Christ.

The teaching of Christ is more excellent than all the advice of the saints, and he who has His spirit will find in it a hidden manna. Now, there are many who hear the Gospel often but care little for it because they have not the spirit of Christ. Yet whoever wishes to understand fully the words of Christ must try to pattern his whole life on that of Christ.

What good does it do to speak learnedly about the Trinity if, lacking humility, you displease the Trinity? Indeed it is not learning that makes a man holy and just, but a virtuous life makes him pleasing to God. I would rather feel contrition than know how to define it. For what would it profit us to know the whole Bible by heart and the principles of all the philosophers if we live without grace and the love of God? Vanity of vanities and all is vanity, except to love God and serve Him alone.

This is the greatest wisdom -- to seek the kingdom of heaven through contempt of the world. It is vanity, therefore, to seek and trust in riches that perish. It is vanity also to court honor and to be puffed up with pride. It is vanity to follow the lusts of the body and to desire things for which severe punishment later must come. It is vanity to wish for long life and to care little about a well-spent life. It is vanity to be concerned with the present only and not to make provision for things to come. It is vanity to love what passes quickly and not to look ahead where eternal joy abides.

Often recall the proverb: "The eye is not satisfied with seeing nor the ear filled with hearing." Try, moreover, to turn your heart from the love of things visible and bring yourself to things invisible. For they who follow their own evil passions stain their consciences and lose the grace of God.

(Imitation of Christ, Bk. 1, Ch. 1, Thomas a Kempis)

Fittingly, Thomas a Kempis begins his treatise on living the devout life with a mandate and an admonition. The mandate is to live life singularly for Christ. He must be our first principle in all that we do. This demand of the Christian life has always been primary -- today it takes on especial meaning because our age is one that wants to relegate Christ to a subsidiary and less confrontational meaning. This era -- the age of "Secondary Christianity" -- prefers the man-pleasing road of false ecumenism and religious indifferentism. It recoils with disdain at those Christians who would proclaim Christ as the way, the truth, and the life. So long as Christ remains one of many ways up the mountain, our secular world tells us, we can tolerate you Christians. So long as Christ is not elevated above any other [false] deity or understanding, our secular world rails, we will continue to let you observe your particularized traditions. This message of the world, one that is in the advanced stages of collapse, is directly contrary to what Christ actually demands of us.

Post-modern society cannot, however, undo the reality of Christ's divinity. It cannot alter reality, which is that every single one of us will stand alone before the awesome judgment seat of God. And our only hope -- then and now -- is to plead mercy through Christ. At that cosmic moment, either Christ will be our judge or saviour. And it will be too late to cling to him when that moment arrives. Our choice will have already been made. I genuinely believe that if more people understood (a) how far they had fallen short of God and (b) how desperately they needed a savior, the healing and transformative message of Christ would resonate more deeply among our brethren. Most people I know do not outwardly reject the saving power of Christ; instead, they choose to ignore it. They pretend as if this choice is one that they do not have to make. Death ensures that it is a choice for everyone of us. It is as if we live in the age of foolish virgins (metaphorically anyway). Everyone is blind to what is about to happen.

One paradoxical aspect of aspiring to put Christ first -- of loving him before all else -- is that this aspiration is not enough. Our fallen human nature is such that we need continual renewal and conversion, continual grace to avoid the same failures, and continual mercy from our Lord. If anything, the embrace of Christianity, which is really the embrace of reality, is like walking up to the hard facts of our life. We have fallen short -- we do not deserve heaven. Quite to the contrary, we deserve condemnation. So where is, a secularist might ask, the "joy" in that. Isn't Christianity really a cold shower; isn't it really a buzz-kill? Two responses: yes, it is, and that it is is really irrelevant to whether it is. More importantly, the joy of Christianity comes not from our greatness, but rather knowing that our Lord came to save us from ourselves. Our joy, properly stated, resides in Him. Outside of Him is a dunghill, and that is why self-aggrandizement or boasting is so foolish. If only lies and foolishness exist outside of Him, what exactly are we celebrating?

More than ever, the centrality of Christ into every aspect of social relations needs to be stressed. Simply stated, there is no other way. To ask God for another "way" is a cosmic ingratitude that only a deluded people could mutter. Out of his infinite love, He gave us His son to save us from our sinful fates: that is enough. A believer in our Lord is simply another way of saying someone who puts Jesus Christ first in his life. Further a believer will fall, and fall, and fall. But we must continue to persevere. We must continue to plead for sanctification and holiness. We must live with a holy fear of God -- moment to moment.

The admonition that a Kempis makes is in the false idol of scholarship.  It only makes sense that Kempis would warn against this danger given his presumed audience in the middle ages:  literate believers.  There has always been a risk for the Christian to be impressed by his interest in Christian things.  After all, the truly literate Christian is part archeologist, part philosopher, part theologian, part philologist, and part scientist -- in short, the depths by which any believer may probe the mysteries of Christianity (from any intellectual point departure) is merely limited by the ability of the believer.  That said, there is a great difference between the acquisition of Christian knowledge and faith -- between the breadth and subtly of Christian understanding and true virtue.  The former is not necessary; the latter certainly is.  While Christianity does not frown on intellectual curiosity:  indeed, just the opposite.  It is, however, not fulfilled by it either.  The passion, crucifixion, and resurrection are not academic considerations -- they are events that exist to save us moment to moment if only we accept them with an abiding faith worked out in Christian action.

Considering that warning today gives me pause. First, I enjoy reading and writing at a high intellectual level. I am quite sure I can define "contrition," but I do fret that I do not understand it. His warning is a good one: it is more important to be a Christian that it is to be a scholar of Christianity. There is no question that I have been guilty of this type of pride. I ask the Lord to forgive my presumption (in so many things) about this aspect and provide me the grace to live authentically as a Christian -- with a singular devotion to His holy name.

Deo gratias.

A Short History of Byzantium by John Julius Norwich

Byzantium may not have lived up to is highet ideals, but it certainly did not deserve the reputation which, thanks largely to Edward Gibbon, it acquired in the eighteenth and ninetheeth centuries. The Byzantines were, on the contrary, a deeply religious society in which illiteracy -- at least among the middle and upper classes -- was virtually unknown, and in which one Emperor after another was renowned for his scholarship; a society which alone preserved much of the heritage of Greek and Latin antiquity , during these dark centuries in the West, when the lights of learning were almost extinguished; a society, finally, which produced the astonishing phenomenon of Byzantine art ... Their follies were many, as were their sins; but much should surely be forgiven for the beauty they left behind them and the heroism with which they and their last brave Emperor met their end, in one of those glorious epics of world history that has passed into legend and is remembered with equal price by victors and vanquished alike.

A Short History of Byzantium by John Julius Norwich.

John Julius Norwich's short and punchy walk through the one thousand year history of Byzantium is a worthwhile book. It is a shortened version of his much longer three-volume history. His central thesis in writing is to rescue both the obscurity of this Empire and, in some small measure, restore its due place in the annals of imperial history. Norwich's historical style is winsome and imbued with the drama of the circumstances and times he relates. As a truncated history, he must, by design, offer observations and themes at times in a conclusory fashion. Further, given the breadth of the work, he comments on a very broad range of topics. As a generalist, Norwich occasionally wades into an area in which his reader is more of an expert than he is; and, he can be exposed as sloppy. All of that said, Norwich's work is solid, edifying and entertaining. For a very quick overview of Byzantine history, I doubt there is much better.

As a Catholic, I have always been fascinated by Greek history -- both ancient and later. The fall of Constantinople in 1453, the loss of the Hagia Sofia, the mutual excommunications of 1054, and iconoclastic waves are events that all educated Catholics should know about. Moreover, it is important to know about later Greek history to appreciate Greek (and Orthodox) sensibilities.

There does appear to be a bias that the Byzantine Empire was an luxurious and effete civilization that relied on mercenaries in defense of its flagging fortunes -- one that did little more than debate arcane religious points, castrate court officials, and offer up varied and cruel manners of deposing ruler upon ruler. The truth is quite different -- they were a heroic lot who held off the Muslim power for hundreds of years, and, in doing so, protected the Eastern flank of Europe until such time as later Western powers were able to combat the Muslims.

But it is equally clear, even to a Byzantine advocate like Norwich, that the Greek mind and soul was susceptible to certain failings that added to its demise. The stubbornness and pride -- things still relevant to the Orthodox responsibility for the continuing the schism until this day -- were readily apparent throughout. He makes clear that the religious instigators of trouble with Rome were not men of theological letters -- but men animated by Greek nationalism. This observation explains a lot: modern Orthodox intransigence is driven at its core by an anti-Western and anti-Roman bias. It has more to do with the temporal even when it is cloaked in eternal terms.

While the Greek is undoubtedly prickly to a fault, he is still the Catholic's brother (even if the Greek refuses to similarly acknowledge). I may have a wayward sibling -- one who unjustly blames me for the dispute and, on account thereof, "disowns" me -- but he is nonetheless my sibling. For the Catholic, the Greek is the same. And in that vein, the Greek's failures -- namely the collapse of his country at the hand of the awful Muslim -- is something that saddens me even if the Greek feels no similar affection.

If there are three interesting aspects of Byzantine history, which the book recounts, they are the Crusades, the Muslim wars, and the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Norwich is at his weakest in recounting the Crusades, which, after all, were initiated in the West to aid the ailing Byzantine Empire after the supposed split of the Church.

Norwich significantly shortchanges the Western Christendom's selflessness in helping their Greek brothers during (especially) the First Crusade and pretends away the very real Greek duplicity towards the blood and treasure that those in West expended. As a Catholic, and in terms that are distinctly out of vogue today in secular and even Catholic terms, I am proud that my forefathers in faith sought to assist the Greeks and combat the Muslim war machine. It would appear that the Byzantines were unappreciative of this staggering show of support. Indeed, had Italy, as opposed to Asia Minor, been overrun, it is hard to imagine Greek relief coming.

One area in which the Byzantines deserve credit -- far more than is accorded -- is in their resolve in battling and battling the Muslim. This war-mongering religion ruthlessly attacked the Byzantines over and over again. While a huge slice of Western Europe fell to the Muslims within a few generations of Mohammed in 711; the Byzantines fought off the Muslim horde for centuries longer and even pushed them back. Greek ingenuity in military matters was impressive, as was the resolve to fight a fanatical and heretical foe. In the end, the Turk proved too much for Byzantium and eventually swallowed up chunk after chunk of former Byzantine territory. What pains me about that is that we know it meant forced conversations, church pillages, and all other manners of obscenities committed against the Christians. Truly, the one more learns about Islam and how it historically treated Christian minorities in its midst, the more one detests it for the abomination it is. While our church leaders should not be on the forefront in insulting Islam (we all know what that means), that they should today paper over this beast is appeasement at its worst. A time will come again perhaps when the Christian will have no choice but to defend his family and faith against the Muslim.

Finally, the fall of Constantinople is recounted in some detail. Notwithstanding that the Byzantine Empire was by 1453 a mere shadow of its former self -- a literal shell of an empire -- its fall was traumatic. To think that heretics converted one of Christianity's greatest churches into a mosque is enough to make one vomit over the sacrilege. The courage shown by that venerable city's final few defenders against a Turkish host outnumbered it twenty to one was impressive. The loss of Constantinople was more than simply the loss of a city; after all, other cities, including Jerusalem were lost to the infidel. It was the loss of a part of Christendom's soul. It was a reminder of how fragile Christendom is -- and how God will not evidently protect it from calamities. While no Greek, I can empathize with the Greek today who still harbors sorrow in his heart, which has been passed down fifteen generations. To them, their Rome and their St. Peter's was lost -- as was the central defining aspect of their national unity and culture. It must be quite painful.

This book was enjoyable, and as any primer should do, it peeked my interest to read more on Byzantium.

Deo gratias.