Thoughts on Suffering

I have been a bit silent on this blog. But for good reason. I was writing a book. It’s sitting on the desk of a publisher right now, waiting for the next step in the editing process. I’m not sure when it will be published, but Lord willing, it will be sometime in 2017. So now that that’s out of the way, I have time to do some other writing.

In the meantime, this is bit of some old writing I stumbled upon, written on Christmas Eve, 2008.

Our lives are beautiful. We lurch forward, day to day, sometimes stumbling, sometimes standing, often bowed down by grief and trouble, occasionally filled with the lightness of boundless joy. Dreams are dashed, or sometimes granted beyond our wildest imaginings, and yet often we realize that our dreams, if fulfilled, would have fallen far short of what we imagined would bring us happiness. We are scarred by wounds that befall us, marked by the battles we wage in our lives each and every day. But in it all is the constant beauty of God’s loving hand, always guiding us, always lifting us up, always binding our wounds and drawing us to His loving arms. All that befalls us is transformed into our good, and when we reach that far shore, we will be welcomed with open arms, and our scars will be testament to God’s healing grace. We will wear them as a badge of honor, and say to anyone who will listen to us, “See this! This is where my Heavenly Father healed me! I was afflicted, and he tenderly cared for me. This wound here? I brought it upon myself, but Our Savior took it upon Himself, and bled for me in my stead. How glorious is His love for us, He who binds our wounds, wipes away our tears and brings joy out of sadness.”

Our lives are far richer for the sorrows that befall us, because of God’s inestimable grace and lovingkindness. Praise be to God, for His compassions fail not, and they are new every morning.

May we never be healed of the wound of living.

The Birth Pains of Mothers

I often hear from parents who are greatly troubled by the poor choices their sons or daughters have made.

I tell them that usually the birthing pains of a spiritual birth are far more painful–yet like the pains of physical labor of a mother, all of them are forgotten when their son or daughter is born again.

I tell them to think often of their tears and sorrow for their child like St. Monica’s tears.

And today, in reading something from St. Francis de Sales, he said much the same thing.

I hope this can be an encouragement to any parents who are still waiting for their child to come Home.

Thus St. Monica, with so much fervour and constancy, fought against the evil inclinations of her son, St. Augustine, that having followed him by sea and land, she made him more happily the child of her tears by the conversion of his soul, than he had been of her blood by the generation of his body.


A Journal Entry On Loneliness

As I write my book, I’ve been digging deep into things I wrote many years ago.

One of the threads of the book concerns the loneliness I felt so often in my life.

This Journal entry from September 22, 1998 will be making an appearance in my book:

What a time this is! I can so quickly go from the mountaintop to the valley—I feel as if I’m in the valley now. How do I feel? Utterly, utterly alone. I feel empty and simply desire to be filled. There are others around me, and when I am with them, it brings me temporary joy. It is so easy to slip into some sort of thinking that being with people will simply always bring temporary joy, and that upon me leaving them, I shall fall again into “despair,” instead of being refreshed by my time with them.

But what does this loneliness mean? Is it God calling me to say that He is my only comfort and rest? Or is that a depressed man’s hope for salvation?

FACT: God is my only salvation and only source of joy and the only answer for the aching emptiness of my soul. I don’t like that! And what does that mean? Could I have joy in a world in which my sole companion was Jesus Christ? If the world were merely He and I, would I be happy? In part, my heart has a thrill at the thought, but that is squelched quickly for I find that hard to conceive. And terrifying. Yet I am a needy, needy being! I ache inside tremendously, and I so long to fill that empty void with SOMETHING, so that I may feel joy. I know this: that SOMETHING can only be Jesus Christ—and what staggering reality is this? He will not tolerate anything to compete with Him. He desires to ravish my soul, completely!

That last line makes me think of John Donne’s Holy Sonnet XIV

Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov’d fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
The only path to peace on this earth, the only salve for the soul, is to be ravished by the Lover of our Soul. No earthly love will ever satisfy or appease us.
I needed the ache of loneliness to realize this.

On Not Feeling Like a Real Man

One of the greatest struggles of my life was the persistent feeling that I was “never man enough” to really be called a man. I wrote a horribly depressing poem at one point that will make it into my book–it was all about the rutting of rams, where I heard the crack of the rams’ horns far away, and felt unworthy to be a part of the ritual.

I was constantly comparing myself to other men. In college, every man I met on my walk to and from class was a standard upon which I gauged myself. In my mind, I usually fell short.

It was a horrible existence, but I know that it’s common for many men who live with attractions to men. I subscribe to Leanne Payne’s description that some men’s attractions to the same sex stem, in part, from a “cannibalistic instinct.” The basic argument is that the psyche can become drawn to those features we think are lacking within ourselves, and this can become sexualized. Cannibals only devour those enemies who have traits they themselves feel are lacking. I’m not doing justice to the theory here, and of course, such things as sexual attractions are complex, but I am generally drawn to those men who have aspects of there person that I have always felt/wished were different within me, so the theory is compelling to me.

I was doing a bit of reading tonight, and came across this passage from a short story of D. H. Lawrence that perfectly expresses this sense of lack that I always felt when I was younger. I’m posting it here, with the contrast of a passage from C. S. Lewis’s The Great Divorce about a man who truly learns what it means to become the man God created us to be.

I don’t have enough time to flesh this out further, but notice how in both examples a distorted version of sexuality becomes a way in which this lack of feeling truly like a man comes out, sideways, as it were. And how the true man is master over his passions, and knows, through the grace of God, that he is truly a man.

He came home again, nearly thirty years old, but naïve and inexperienced as a boy, only with a silence about him that was new: a sort of dumb humility before life, a fear of living. He was almost quite chaste. A strong sensitiveness had kept him from women. Sexual talk was all very well among men, but somehow it had no application to living women. There were two things for him, the idea of women, with which he sometimes debauched himself, and real women, before whom he felt a deep uneasiness, and a need to draw away. He shrank and defended himself from the approach of any woman. And then he felt ashamed. In his innermost soul he felt he was not a man, he was less than the normal man. In Genoa he went with an under officer to a drinking house where the cheaper sort of girl came in to look for lovers. He sat there with his glass, the girls looked at him, but they never came to him. He knew that if they did come he could only pay for food and drink for them, because he felt a pity for them, and was anxious lest they lacked good necessities. He could not have gone with one of them: he knew it, and was ashamed, looking with curious envy at the swaggering, easy-passionate Italian whose body went to a woman by instinctive impersonal attraction. They were men he was not a man. He sat feeling short, feeling like a leper. And he went away imagining sexual scenes between himself and a woman, walking wrapt in this indulgence. But when the ready woman presented herself, the very fact that she was a palpable woman made it impossible for him to touch her. And this incapacity was like a core of rottenness in him.

So several times he went, drunk, with his companions, to the licensed prostitute houses abroad. But the sordid insignificance of the experience appalled him. It had not been anything really: it meant nothing. He felt as if he were, not physically, but spiritually impotent: not actually impotent, but intrinsically so.

He came home with this secret, never changing burden of his unknown, unbestowed self torturing him. His navy training left him in perfect physical condition. He was sensible of, and proud of his body. He bathed and used dumb-bells, and kept himself fit. He played cricket and football. He read books and began to hold fixed ideas which he got from the Fabians. He played his piccolo, and was considered an expert. But at the bottom of his soul was always this canker of shame and incompleteness: he was miserable beneath all his healthy cheerfulness, he was uneasy and felt despicable among all his confidence and superiority of ideas. He would have changed with any mere brute, just to be free of himself, to be free of this shame of self-consciousness. He saw some collier lurching straight forward without misgiving, pursuing his own satisfactions, and he envied him. Anything, he would have given anything for this spontaneity and this blind stupidity which went to its own satisfaction direct.

HE WAS NOT unhappy in the pit. He was admired by the men, and well enough liked. It was only he himself who felt the difference between himself and the others. He seemed to hide his own stigma. But he was never sure that the others did not really despise him for a ninny, as being less a man than they were. Only he pretended to be more manly, and was surprised by the ease with which they were deceived.

From The Great Divorce:

I saw coming towards us a Ghost who carried something on his shoulder….What sat on his shoulder was a lizard, and it was twitching its tail like a whip and whispering things in his ear. As we caught sight of him he turned his head to the reptile with a snarl of impatience.

“Shut up, I tell you!” the Ghost said to the lizard. But the lizard wagged its tail and continued to whisper to him. Then the Ghost turned and started to limp westward, away from the mountain.

“Off so soon?” said a voice. The speaker was more or less human in shape but larger than a man, and so bright that I could hardly look at him. His presence smote on my eyes and on my body too (for there was heat coming from him as well as light) like the morning sun at the beginning of a tyrannous summer day.

“Yes, I’m off,” said the Ghost. “Thanks for all your hospitality. But it’s no good, you see. I told this little chap (here indicating the lizard) that he’d have to be quiet if he came….But he won’t stop. I shall just have to go home.”

“Would you like for me to make him quiet?” said the flaming Spirit—an angel, as I now understood.

“Of course I would,” said the Ghost.

“Then I will kill him,” said the Angel, taking a step forward.

“Oh, ah, look out! You’re burning me. Keep away!” said the Ghost, retreating.

“Do you want him killed?” asked the flaming Angel.

“You didn’t say anything about killing him at first. I hardly meant to bother you with anything so drastic as that.”

“It’s the only way,” said the Angel, whose burning hands were now very close to the Lizard. “Shall I kill it?”

“Well, that’s a further question and I’m open to consider it……I mean for the moment, I was only thinking of silencing it rather than killing it….”

“May I kill it?”

“Well there’s time to discuss that later.”

“There’s no time. May I kill it?”

“Please. I never meant to be such a nuisance. Please—–really—don’t bother. Look, it’s gone to sleep of its own accord. I’m sure it will be all right now.”

“May I kill it?”

“Honestly, I don’t think there’s the slightest necessity for that. I’m sure I can keep it in order now. I think the gradual process would be far better than killing it.”

“The gradual process is of no use at all.”

“Well, I’ll think over what you’ve said very carefully. I honestly will….But not today. I’m not feeling terribly well now and I’d need to be in good health for the operation. Some other day perhaps.”

“There is no other day. All days are present now.”

“Get back! You’re burning me. How can I tell you to kill it? You’d kill me if you did.”

“It is not so.”

“Well you’re hurting me now.”

“I never said it wouldn’t hurt you. I said it wouldn’t kill you.”

“Oh, I know you think I’m a coward. It’s not that, really…..let me run back to the bus and go home and get an opinion from my own doctor. I’ll get back to you the first moment I can.”

“This moment contains all moments.”

“Why are you torturing me? And jeering at me?…….If you really wanted to help me, why didn’t you just kill the damned thing without asking me—before I knew? It would have been all over by now if you had.”

“I cannot kill it against you will. It is impossible. Have I your permission?” The Angel’s hands were almost closed on the Lizard but not quite.

Then the Lizard began chattering to the Ghost so loud that even I could hear what it is saying…..”Be careful, He can do what he says. He can kill me. One fatal word from you and He will. Then you’ll be without me forever and ever! How could you live? You’d only be a sort of ghost, not a real man as you are now. He doesn’t understand……Isn’t what I give you better than nothing? And anyway, I promise to be good now. I’ve gone too far in the past, but now I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

The Angel said to the Ghost again, “Do I have your permission to kill this Lizard?”

“I know it will kill me.”

“No, it won’t. But supposing it did?”

“You’re right. It would be better to be dead than to go on living with this creature.”

“Then may I kill it?” “Damn and blast you! Go on, can’t you? Get it over. Do what you like!” bellowed the Ghost: but ended whimpering “God help me. God help me.”

Next moment the Ghost gave a scream of agony such as I never heard on Earth. The Burning One closed his crimson grip on the reptile: twisted it, while it bit and writhed, and then flung it, broken-backed, on the turf.

“Ow! That’s done for me,” gasped the Ghost, reeling backwards.

For a moment I could make out nothing distinctly. Then I saw, between me and the nearest bush, unmistakably solid but growing every moment solider, the upper arm and the shoulder of a man.

Then brighter still and stronger the legs and hands of the man grew. The neck and golden head materialised while I watched, and if my attention had not wavered I should have seen the actual completing of a man—an immense man, naked, not much smaller than the Angel.

What distracted me was the fact that at the same moment something seemed to be happening to the Lizard. At first I thought the operation had failed. So far from dying, the creature was still struggling and even growing bigger as it struggled. And as it grew it changed. Its hinder parts grew rounder. The tail, still flickering, became a tail of hair that flickered between huge and glossy buttocks.

Suddenly I started back, rubbing my eyes. What stood before me was the greatest stallion I have ever seen, silvery white but with mane and tail of gold. It was smooth and shining, ripled with swells of flesh and muscle, whinneying and stamping with its hoofs. At each stamp the land shook and the trees dindled.

The new-made man turned and clasped the new horse’s neck . It nosed the man’s bright body. Horse and master breathed each into the other’s nostrils.

The man turned from it, flung himself at the feet of the Burning One, and embraced them.

When he rose I thought his face shone with tears, but it may have been only the liquid love and brightness—one cannot distinguish them in that country—which flowed from him. I had not long to think about it.

In joyous haste the young man leaped upon the horse’s back. Turning in his seat he waved a farewell, then nudged the stallion with his heels. They were off before I knew well what was happening.

I came out as quickly as I could from among the bushes to follow them with my eyes; but already they were only like a shooting star far on the green plain, and soon among the foothills of the mountains.

Then, still like a star, I saw them winding up, scaling what seemed impossible steeps and quicker every moment, till near the dim brow of the landscape, so high that I must strain my neck to see them, they vanished, bright themselves, into the rose-brightness of that everlasting morning.

While I still watched, I noticed that the whole plain and forest were shaking with a sound which in our world would be too large to hear, but there I could take it with joy. I knew it was not the Solid People who were singing. It was the voice of the earth, those woods and waters of that land that rejoiced to have been once more ridden and therefore consummated, in the person of the horse. It sang,

The Master says to our master, Come up! Share my rest and splendour till all natures that were your enemies become slaves to dance before you and backs for you to ride, and firmness for your feet to rest on!


“From beyond all place and time, out of the very Place, authority will be given you: the strengths that once opposed your will shall be obedient fire in your blood and heavenly thunder in your voice.

“Overcome us that , so overcome, we may be ourselves: we desire the beginning of your reign as we desire dawn and dew, wetness at the birth of light.


“Master, your Master has appointed you for ever, to be our King of Justice and our high Priest.”

Aquinas and the Pegasus

There is a curious little section in St. Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica in which Aquinas is talking about angels and their nature. I was reading it this morning and it made me think of one of the themes of my blog, namely the question of sexual identity. I’m putting this here primarily for me as a bit of a place marker, so I can have it and reflect on it some more.

I find the notion of an infinite possibility of sexual identities to be the result of “deception and falsehood,” two of the key words here in Aquinas’s treatment below:

But by accident, deception and falsehood creep in, when we understand the essence of a thing by some kind of composition, and this happens either when we take the definition of one thing for another, or when the parts of a definition do not hang together, as if we were to accept as the definition of some creature, “a four-footed flying beast,” for there is no such animal.

When it comes to a “gay man,” the “definition does not hang together.”

“Male and female he created them,” ordered towards their sexual complement the foundation of a true anthropology of man.

Some Correspondence on Virtue

Dear Christopher,

Thanks for the note, and I’m sorry it’s taken me a bit to get back to you. I’m happy to correspond with you, and I’d be happy to help you out. It’s hard for me too to live a chaste life, so we’re in this together!

The first thought I have as I read what you wrote is to ask you what a virtue might “feel like.” That’s an interesting question, I think, since as you say, when you long for a warm body next to you in bed, and he’s not there, it doesn’t feel particularly virtuous. In fact, it sorta feels bad NOT having that warm body next to you, right?

But think about all of the other virtues–for the person overweight, for example, not having that pint of ice cream feels bad, when they really want it, and it seems to be the only answer to their emptiness inside. I don’t know if any virtues particularly feel good, as compared to the sort of “feeling good” that we experience when we’re eating that pint of Ben & Jerry’s. But virtues are difficult, and we need to view them in some ways like the pain one feels after working out. The virtues are in service of the most noble expression of man: that means we live in a way that Christ would live, or the way Adam and Eve lived in the garden of Eden before the fall. Everything God made is good, but to be truly human, to live fully in the way we are meant to flourish, we will only use those gifts according to the good use that they bring us. So ice cream is good–in moderation. We wouldn’t feel that not having the full pint when we really want it is painful, if we actually knew how to live in the way that really leads to our human fulfillment. And in that light, the virtuous life wouldn’t be hard.

But since the Fall of Man, our desires loom large within us, totally out of proportion to what is truly human, or truly what would make us happy. So thus, to live in that balance of what is good for man, we are in a heckuva battle. Chastity, especially when we first tackle it, feels hellishly difficult, and doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. But the more we exercise those muscles, and work on the virtue, the more we realize that chastity is a friend that helps us live the lives we would live if we truly knew who we were, and truly knew what would lead to human fulfillment. But in the trenches, well, it doesn’t feel easy, or always “good.” But exercising the virtues can feel good in the way that we feel good after a long day’s work, where we’re exhausted, but know that the work we did was good. It can feel good in the same way that the muscles feel sore the day after a good work out. We’re doing something that is hard and difficult, but is in service of our true good.

So I don’t ever expect chastity to “feel good” in the way that having a warm body next to me “feels good.” Nor do I expect temperance in food to feel good in the same way that an extra helping of mashed potatoes tastes good to me. In fact, until my desires are more aligned to my true good, I’ll keep looking at those mashed potatoes, wanting to enjoy them, or thinking about having a man in my life to sleep next too. But I know that both are opposed to my ultimate happiness, so then the good I feel in making the choice not to do what I want to do is a much deeper level of “feeling good” than having the warm body next to me ever could. But don’t get me wrong–it’s not a replacement for the warm body! But it makes the lack of the warm body next to me more palatable, and ultimately, I can be grateful that I haven’t bought the lie that tells me that I’ll be happiest only when I have that warm body beside me.

The virtuous life doesn’t always “feel good” but I don’t think that’s what the virtues are about anyway. I think they’re more about experiencing the peace that surpasses all understanding, following the way of Christ, which as we know, didn’t always “feel good.”

I hope this helps a bit.

God bless you,


Exciting News!

Living the Truth In LoveThe book I’m working on is still in process, but I’m very excited to say that a book that I contributed a chapter towards is soon to be released!

Here’s a link to the book at Ignatius Press.

And here is a link at Amazon. (Get ready for a lot of entertaining one star reviews, once the wolves who dislike Church teaching catch wind of it!)

And for a sample, here’s a link where you can click on some sample pages.

The Straight/Not Straight Trap

I’ve been writing for a while now about how I find the notions of “straight” or “something not straight” opposed to man’s dignity. I find the separation of sexuality into those two camps to be a rather insidious trap that’s been foisted on society, especially for young people.

If, for example, a boy finds some sort of attraction for a guy in his gym class that stirs within him during adolescence, or he finds himself aroused by a movie star oozing masculinity on the big screen, it means that whatever he are, he is something other than “straight.”

I’ve never seen it put that way in any sort of publication until just today.

The Pew Research Center put out a study a few years back on LGBT issues and this line I found intriguing:

The survey finds that 12 is the median age at which lesbian, gay and bisexual adults first felt they might be something other than heterosexual or straight.

The bifurcation of mankind into “straight” or “something other than heterosexual or straight” is something towards which the Church needs to be a sign of contradiction.

As the Compendium on the Social Doctrine of the Church says,

Faced with theories that consider gender identity as merely the cultural and social product of the interaction between the community and the individual, independent of personal sexual identity without any reference to the true meaning of sexuality, the Church does not tire of repeating her teaching: “Everyone, man and woman, should acknowledge and accept his sexual identity.”