Nativitas Domini nostri Jesu Christi

The Kalenda Proclamation is an ancient chant traditionally sung on the vigil of Christmas formally proclaiming the birth of Christ and putting his birth in a historical context, outlining time from creation to the arrival of Christ. This emphasizes that Jesus existed in a literal, specific time and place as well as lays out the timeline of salvation, from the Fall to the Incarnation.

The name of the chant comes from Greek kalenda or Latin calends. In the Roman calendar, the calends is the first day of a new month (also the word calendar comes from calends). The last days of the previous month are counted out from calends (or the ides/middle). Thus, Dec. 25 is “eight days from the first of January.” The proclamation is centered on time and building up history to the pinnacle (or, penultimate if we consider the Resurrection) moment: Christ’s Nativity.

The proclamation contains nine events to contextualize the birth of Christ. The traditional version was specific in even the earliest dates, but the current version is more ambiguous until reaching historically documented events:

The Twenty-fifth Day of December, when ages beyond number had run their course from the creation of the world, when God in the beginning created heaven and earth and formed man in his own likeness…

The traditional version says specifically, “In the five thousand one hundred and ninety-ninth year of the creation of the world.”

When century upon century had passed since the Almighty set his bow in the clouds after the Great Flood, as a sign of covenant and peace…

Again, the traditional version is more specific: “the two thousand nine hundred and fifty-seventh year after the Flood.”

In the 21th century since Abraham, our faith in faith, came out of Ur of the Chaldees…

The traditional version says, “the two thousand and fifteenth year from the birth of Abraham,” but both versions place Abraham between 2100 BC and 2000 BC.

In the 13th century since the People of Israel were led by Moses in the Exodus from Egypt…

The traditional version says “the one thousand five hundred and tenth year from Moses and the going forth of the people of Israel from Egypt.” The current version shifts this event later, placing it between 1300 BC and 1200 BC.

Around the thousandth year since David was anointed King…

The traditional version says, “the 1,032nd year from David’s being anointed king.”

In the 65th week of the prophecy of Daniel…

From here the traditional and current versions are in agreement. This dates places Christ’s birth within the “seventy weeks of years” given by Gabriel to the prophet Daniel. The 70th week is commonly understood as Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection in the Christian tradition. Christ was around 33 at his crucifixion. If you divide 33 by 7 (to convert it to “weeks of year”) you get between four and five weeks, landing in the 65th week.

In the 194th Olympiad…

This date isn’t relevant to salvation history, but it is a date that helps situate the Nativity in a specific time by a dating method understood by a large group of people within the Roman Empire. The first Olympic games were held around July 1, 776 BC, and the four-year period (the Olympiad) lasted from around July 776 BC to around July 772 BC. Multiplying 193 Olympiads by 4 years is 772 years, placing the Nativity between the summers of 4 BC and 1 AD.

In the year 752 since the foundation of the City of Rome…

Again, a widely-understood date. Rome was held to have been founded on April 21, 753 BC, putting the Nativity around 2 BC.

In the 42nd year of the reign of Caesar Octavian Augustus, the whole world being at peace...

Caesar Augustus began ruling Rome in 44 BC as part of the Triumvirate following Caesar’s assassination. He became sole emperor in 27 BC. The 42nd year of his reign over Rome would be 2 BC. The era was known as the Pax Romana, period of relative peace in the empire.

Jesus Christ, eternal God and Son of the eternal Father, desiring to consecrate the world by his most loving presence, was conceived by the Holy Spirit, and when nine months had passed since his conception, was born of the Virgin Mary in Bethlehem in Judah and was made man:

The Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ according to the flesh.

Guide Us to Thy Perfect Light

I love planetariums. I don’t get to go very often, so when I do, I turn back into a little kid. Turn off the lights and teach me space things. So a few days ago when I got to attend a planetarium show, I was there. Leaned back in a dark room, a disembodied voice narrated, describing the constellations and how seafarers used the stars to navigate across the ocean. Lights pointed out shapes and routes. The stars mimicked their nightly course and aligned with that particular place on a particular night. Morning came; an orange glow increased as the stars faded, and the show was over.

By a strange series of events, I found myself looking up at the stars a second time that day. I was at a party on the beach that night, and, after my socializing battery ran low, I wandered off. I didn’t particularly want to be there, and I didn’t want to leave yet either. So I sat on the dark beach, leaned back, and stargazed. It was peaceful and beautiful; the sound of the ocean muffled the party down the beach and the racing of my mind. I could make out a few constellations, but it’s a lot harder without a narrator and light-up lines.

Still, even with my limited astronomy knowledge, I got lost finding the stars I knew, seeking shapes, contemplating how difficult and brave the old sailors were, and mostly just being—thinking of nothing at all.

Some people say looking up at the night sky makes them feel the expanse of the universe and makes them feel small. I’ve tried to feel that, the wonder of the grandness, but it’s not my natural experience. I feel the beauty and the complexity. I know that the tiny sparkles are blazing suns and that the light I’m seeing was emitted years ago, sometimes millions of years ago. I know I’m seeing fires of the past. But in the moment, that knowledge isn’t as important as basic observation. Alone in the night, everything else fades into the dark. The stars appear as if night exists only so that they can speak. They guide us across the geometry of the globe. They recite our myths. They move predictably, over and over across the eons. I find a calmness in their quiet, their predictability.

The universe does have order. From a distance, balls of exploding gases are soft, white stars. From a distance, stars millions of lightyears apart form shapes (sort of). From a distance, all is calm, all is bright. And the calmness takes over when everything is dark and I look up and escape earth, away from it all—responsibilities, people, my own feelings. I get lost in the stories the stars are telling. I don’t drown the vastness. I don’t fly up into the sky. I reach equilibrium. I be.  

Eventually, I lower my gaze, back to the space and time around me. I drove back to my hotel, the city lit up by artificial lights—safe, but not nearly beautiful. Suddenly, the sand and smoke accompanying me home were irritating. The noise, the lights, the obligations—the calmness evaporated as soon as I left the dark beach. And I knew I wouldn’t get to see the stars like that for a long while. But they are still there, in their predicable paths and primal patterns.

At this time of year, it seems like light is all we can think about. The days are short. We light candles, progressively more. We hang lights in trees, on homes, along streets. We hold candles and put them in windows. We sing about the coming light and tell of the wise men who followed a special star. We know the light is meaningful. We need it. We want it. Because the Light is promised to us—he is coming to the world to order chaos and bring us peace.

St. Andrew Avellino

Lancelotto (Andrew) Avellino was born in 1521 in southern Italy. He was intelligent and was sent to Venice to study philosophy and then Naples to study law. It is said he was very handsome and wore the tonsure to deflect women’s interests. In Naples, he got his law degree and was ordained a priest in 1547.

While serving as a canon lawyer in Naples, Avellino was instructed by the archbishop to reform a convent. The convent had lost its religious discipline and the monks were not living a life of piety. Avellino tried to reestablish discipline to the place. Some of the monks opposed his attempts and attacked him. He was severely wounded and taken to a Theatine monastery to recuperate. He wound up joining the new order (the Congregation of Clerics Regular, also called Theatines) in 1556 and changed his name to Andrew after the apostle.  

He visited the tombs of the apostles and martyrs in Rome, then returned to Naples and made master of novices for the order. Later he was elected superior general of the order and founded two new Theatine houses. He was good friends with St. Charles Borromeo, who was archbishop of Naples and a leader in the Counter-Reformation.

Avellino continued to be known for strict discipline and calls for purity and piety. But his style and reforms were welcomed, and he also became known for converting many people who sought his spiritual direction.

On Nov. 10, 1608, Avellino suffered a stroke just as he was beginning Mass and died suddenly. St. Andrew Avellino is the patron of Naples and Sicily as well as the patron of stroke victims and sudden deaths. His feast day is Nov. 10.

Preparing a Place

Recently, I was leading a Bible study on John 14. Our current study isn’t liturgically aligned. Most studies during Advent and Lent focus on the season, predictable themes and predictable scriptures. But, ignoring the season, we found ourselves in the middle of the Last Supper: Holy Week, near death. And yet, the passage was Advent-y, about preparation. Only this time, it was not about preparing ourselves or our homes for Christ’s coming. Christ is preparing his home for us too.  

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If there were not, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back again and take you to myself, so that where I am you also may be.” John 14:2-3.

In Lent, the focus of the verses seem to be that he is foreshadowing his death, warning the disciples of what’s to come, but assuring them that he will return. Yet in the candlelight of Advent, he is not just promising his second coming; he is preparing us a place. We spend so much time talking about preparing for his arrival on earth, both in the Incarnation and the second coming, that we don’t think about him preparing for us to arrive in heaven. Christ came to earth so that we might reach heaven with the Father. Through God’s grace, we can go. There is not only room; there is anticipation. He has prepared a place for us. He waits for us. He longs for us.

Reflecting on the passage made it all feel so reciprocal. Normally we’re at the mercy of God’s grace; nothing feels very equal. And yet, we prepare for Christ on earth, and he prepares for us in heaven. We both desire to be with each other. We prepare. We wait.

Sometimes, waiting for Christ can feel like preparing for Christ the King; the arrival and judgment of a high ranking official. Get everything in order, be on your best, be alert and ready. Other times, it can feel like preparing for Christ the Child; the arrival of new baby who needs all the support. Cuddly soft, doe-eyed baby who is wanted and cherished. Get everything he may need, everything he may want, every gift you want to bestow on this person simply because you love him. And that’s how I imagine him preparing for us. We’re about as useful as a newborn baby, but he wants us, and he loves us, and so he is preparing a place for us.

How comforting to know our season of preparation is reciprocated. 

A Grief Observed

It caught me by surprise. It didn’t seem real at first. Throughout the day, updates. And then, she’s gone. When I receive bad news, my first reaction is numbness. I look stoic, unbothered. Even if I’m paralyzed from focusing or functioning, externally it’s hard for others to know I’m reacting. My emotions aren’t for them. But I still feel like I have to outwardly show something, lest they think I’m heartless.

I went to adoration early. There was no one else there. I lit a candle. I prayed. I sat in the stillness and silence. I just waited. Waited to emote, cry, something. Almost. Almost a tear. But no. Frustrating, but I’m used to it. It’s more cathartic when I cry over nothing and can’t stop than when I want to and can’t.

At the funeral everyone’s crying. I still can’t. Again, I try to turn away or feign an almost-cry face so I don’t look heartless. But also I don’t want to this time. If I cry, it’ll be later, alone, probably for no related reason but I’ll use the moment for this too. I think of all the other deaths or disasters where people are emotional and crying and I’m just…there. Wishing they would stop and hating myself for wishing that.

I’m not unaffected. My grief is just internal, hidden, delayed. It’s in the excess food, the drop in productivity, the spacing out, the short patience. It’s learning about secondary PTSD and feeling like a right jerk for getting PTSD without earning it firsthand. It’s someone asking if you’re ok, honestly saying no, but adding, “I’ll just cry when I get home,” like you can control it. But you can’t. But you can drink wine under the Christmas tree trying to buzzed enough to cry (it doesn’t work, but the lights are pretty). It’s wanting to talk but not wanting to bother people and wanting to talk but not wanting people to question why you don’t sound upset when talking.

At least it’s consistent. I know the pattern. I know myself. I know not to force it and not to get frustrated at my stoic face and not to get impatient with others’ tears. Grief, when raw, is wild and unpredictable. We all grieve differently, at different times, for different parts of what we’ve lost. I don’t wail; I observe. I don’t feel; I feel nothing. I would love to choose a sudden outburst over a week of repressed bad habits, but choosing defeats the whole point of it being a reaction.

I watch others grieve too, each different. Usually some outward emoting, but also the numbness, the nonfunctioning, the hyperfocusing, the impatience, the selfishness, the unhealthy coping comforts. We’re not ok. We’re not ok together, but we’re not ok each in our own way too. It’s a lonely journey, even when others are on the same road.

It still doesn’t seem real. I keep thinking of things to tell her before I remember. I feel fine and then, suddenly, not. I stare at blank pages and blank screens and can’t force words. I have sugar headaches. I marked her off my Christmas card list last week. Her address and birthday stay in my address book, though, with all the others I’ve tried to cry over.

St. Fiacre

St. Fiacre of Breuil was born in Ireland in the early seventh century. The name Fiacre derived from the Irish word for “raven.” He was raised in a monastery, where he became a monk, priest, and eventually abbot. He was skilled in herbal medicine, and crowds would come to the monastery seeking his cures.

Because his reputation drew so many people, he sailed to France to build a hermitage, seeking solitude. The Bishop of Meaux likes Irish priests (he had met St. Columba) and granted Fiacre land in the province of Brie for his hermitage. Legend says the bishop offered him as much land as he could turn up in one day. Fiacre turned the top of the soil up with his staff, rather than driving a plough, which would have taken much longer. A woman saw this and complained to the bishop, but the bishop allowed it, as Fiarce only had to turn the soil. Because of this woman, it was said, Fiacre never allowed women to enter his hermitage or the adjoining oratory.

Fiacre built his hermitage, gardens, an oratory, and a hospice to care for travelers. His sister Syra, who was a nun, joined him in France. (Women were allowed in the hospice and other parts of his land.) Again, his reputation for herbal remedies and medical care drew crowds. He raised medicinal plants and vegetables and cared for the sick in between his life of prayer.  

St. Fiacre died on Aug. 18, 670. His feast day is Sept. 1. He is the patron of florists, gardeners and growers of medicinal plants. He is also a patron for those with hemorrhoids and those suffering from infertility.

Weird Science and Bad Theology

There are a lot of scientific facts that seem so obvious to us that we forget that it’s new knowledge. So much that we learn in science class was only discovered in the past 200 years. Some, even more recently. Scientists discovered the mechanism by which anesthesia works in… 2019. It discovered how cells sense oxygen in 1996. The existence of different blood types was discovered in 1901. Viruses were discovered in 1892. There wasn’t even a scientific explanation of why to wash your hands until the late 1800s.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me to learn that we had pretty shaky ideas of the human body and reproduction for centuries, and those ideas in turn shaped a poor philosophical understanding of the soul and body and sex.

Karl Ernst von Baer discovered the human ovum, one of the largest cells in the human body, in 1827. Further, the fusion of spermatozoa with ova was first observed in 1876. That’s incredibly recent in the timeline of mammals reproducing. So, if we didn’t know how babies were made (other than cause/effect observation), it shouldn’t be that surprising that there were some pretty bad ideas around the “miracle” of birth.

In studying Aquinas, there are some pretty cringe, sexist ideas. But Aquinas and other medieval Catholic scholars were actually pretty egalitarian compared to the Greek thinkers they were studying. Oh, they still held sexist ideas of the female body and female position, but at least they thought her soul equal. And when I learned more about the poor understanding of anatomy and biology that pervaded Western science for a few thousand years, I can at least understand where their sexist view developed and seemed so “scientifically proven” to them.

The ancient Greek physician Aristaeus believed the uterus wandered about the female body; essentially, the uterus was a separate creature that woman just carried around. He thought its moving, hitting against the spleen and liver, could cause illness, and that it could be drawn back down near the vagina but placing pleasant scents near the vagina (although the actual term vagina didn’t exist until the 1680s). Even up through the 1800s was the idea that the uterus might shift and float in the woman’s body, causing distress or “hysteria,” named such from the Greek word for uterus.

Galen, a Greek physician and philosopher, believed in the “one sex model.” This posited that there is set of sex organs, and the different sexes are determined on if the sex organs are larger and on the outside of the body (man) or smaller and on the inside (woman). Because woman had the smaller organs, then it was assumed she was an underdeveloped man; thus, females were physically inferior to men, who were the full development of human.

[As an aside, men were always referred to as hotter than women, who were referred to as cold. Yet, scientifically, this is the exact opposite of their genital placement and purpose. Men’s testes are on the outside of the body to keep sperm cooler, while women’s wombs serve as warm incubators for babies.]

As Christian philosophers began studying man and woman, they had this scientific understanding of the sexes, yet they also had the Old Testament accounts of creation and the records of Christ’s teachings. St. Augustine taught that man and woman were created equal and that God’s grace fell on man and woman equally. He cited that Eve was created from Adam’s rib, his side, not his feet (inferior position) or his head (superior position). Man and woman were created to walk beside one another. However, St. Augustine also believed that as part of Eve’s punishment in the Fall, woman would be subject to her husband and be man’s inferior. This is a shift from the Greeks. Woman is supposed to be equal, and will be some day, but can’t be now because of the Fall.

Aquinas goes on to clarify that woman is a fully rationalized soul and has human intellect. As such, she is made in the image of God. For it is our intellect and our immortal soul that makes us made in the image of God, not in literally having a male form. He also states that husband and wife should share the “greatest friendship,” and have equal, though differing, roles in the marriage. He does make the argument that every institution needs one head that since the man is the “more rational” of the two, then the head of the family should be the husband. He doesn’t really have a basis for this assumption that it is always the man who is the more rational of the partners, other than cultural bias and the continued bad science of man being the physically more developed.

Now, if human sex organs are basically the same, just inversed in women, then what about reproduction? Sperm was understood as the essence of life; it was easily observed that ejaculation into a woman produced children. It wasn’t quite clear how it was produced, but it was clear that man was the one capable of producing it. So man was thought of as having the life force, the seed, and woman was the ground in which the seed was planted by man. Man was the active participant; woman was the passive. This ignores, I suppose, how some children came to look like their mother’s side of the family. But the understanding of human ovum and the combination of the parents’ sperm and egg to create life did not exist.

Further, menstruation was pretty much treated as some baffling woman problem that male physicians didn’t write much about. It was sort of related to the lunar cycles, through in many periods of history, due to illness, frequent pregnancy, and malnutrition, women didn’t have consistent periods. Popular opinions was that it was the female body detoxifying or regulating itself, even a form of cooling the body (because females are cold compared to men who are warm, remember). And when you don’t know the ovum exists, ovulation cycles don’t make much sense. Menstruation was finally linked to ovulation in 1831.

That something so basic as menstruation took so long to be understood baffles me. It was explained to me at nine or ten enough that it made sense. I’ve lived it out every month for 21 years, knowing that my body has eggs to be fertilized or is building up then shedding uterine lining in anticipation of hosting a child. How did these most brilliant minds not know for centuries? Part of me is angry and says that it’s because men were running things and that if women had, we would have had this figured out far sooner. But another part of me understands that almost all our “basic” science is fairly recent, and there’s only so much you can figure out before the invention of the microscope and other technology to aid research.

And I have no doubt that more research will be done and that 200 years from now, people will look back baffled at our bad conclusions drawn from poor science. We do science in an effort to understand God and his creation, including ourselves. Each discovery reveals more. But sometimes we don’t know enough yet, not as much as we think we do, and we draw very bad, harmful conclusions. It was thought that women were “less developed” than men, that they inherently, scientifically, were inferior. How much harm and pain and subjugation have men committed against women over millennia because of this? How much self-hatred and envy and bitterness have women put themselves through over this? It pains me to even think about it; some men were just cruel and sexists, but I think many more just sincerely believed in this inherent superiority that didn’t really exist.

Science now aligns with theology on the issue: man and woman were create equally and compatibly. While the woman is receptive in the reproductive act, she is not passive; she contributes an equal amount of DNA, and it is her body (not some roaming uterus creature) that grows and carries the child.

In his apostolic letter Mulieris Dignitatem, St. John Paul II refutes the idea that the domination over women is inevitable because of the Fall. Rather, if it is a result of the Fall, then it is clearly not how things should be, and we should be striving toward God and his perfect will for us:

       “When we read in the biblical description the words addressed to the woman: ‘Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you’ (Gen 3:16)we discover a break and a constant threat precisely in regard to this ‘unity of the two’ which corresponds to the dignity of the image and likeness of God in both of them. But this threat is more serious for the woman, since domination takes the place of ‘being a sincere gift’ and therefore living ‘for’ the other: ‘he shall rule over you’. This ‘domination’ indicates the disturbance and loss of the stability of that fundamental equality which the man and the woman possess in the ‘unity of the two’: and this is especially to the disadvantage of the woman, whereas only the equality resulting from their dignity as persons can give to their mutual relationship the character of an authentic ‘communio personarum’.”

You Do Not Know What You are Asking


I woke up this morning delightfully cold. The temperature finally dropped, and it was a chilly fall morning. Sweater weather. And the days are shortening, so it was still dark when Mass started. The first Sunday switching from AC to heat. And dark outside. And in my cozy, warm clothes… By the first reading, I was already yawning. I had woken up easily and ready for Mass, but now it was a struggle to stop yawning or keep my eyes open. When they were open, I jealously eyed the toddler totally zonked out in her mother’s arms.

My mind went to the disciples. In the Gospels, the disciples are so relatable; they never get it. They’re trying to follow Jesus and understand what’s to come, but they don’t. They misinterpret things and argue and sometimes outright deny him. But they’re trying. And in the end (or beginning), by Pentecost they do understand, and they go on to spread the news and lead the Church and be martyred for Christ. They are embarrassingly relatable but then also become exemplary models, saints remembered for all time.

But mainly I was thinking of them at Gethsemane. Jesus asks them to stay awake with him, for he knows the end is coming. But the disciples fall asleep, repeatedly. And as I was fighting the temptation to just lay down on the pew myself, I got it. It was late in the day, they’d had a big meal and at least three glasses of wine, and springtime was probably offering a soft, warm climate. Of course it was hard to stay awake. Ever curled up on the couch after Thanksgiving dinner? Maybe they didn’t just fall asleep because they didn’t understand the seriousness of the night. Maybe they really, really tried to do as Jesus asked, even without understanding.

In today’s Gospel, James and John ask Jesus to sit at his right and left, and he tells them they don’t understand what they are asking. And we often ask God for things when we don’t fully understand the cost of such a request or what is truly good for us. But sometimes we don’t understand what is being asked of us by God either. We can love and serve God and grow in our knowledge of him, but we are always human, limited in our understanding by time and place. And the temptation to fall asleep. Sometimes the request is martyrdom and saintly legacy. That seems big and important and worthy of taking on. But more likely, the request is to show up and stay awake. It doesn’t seem that important. But it is. Jesus doesn't want you fighting to sit at his right and left in heaven. He just wants to stay with him right now.

How I Know I’m Not a Rock

Who am I? We find lots of ways of answering that question, by personality, by relations, by professions and memberships and passions. But foundationally, who I am is a material being. I physically exist, so I have matter. I physically exist in a certain way, so I have form. I am capable of specific actions, so I have potency. All material things have matter, form, and potency. Form is what actualizes the potency. A ring is a form. As it can be made of the material of silver or wood, it is separate from matter. Both silver and wood have the potency of being a ring; the ring could not be made of helium. A silver ring is the actualization of the silver’s potency of being a ring. The potential has been acted upon and taken form.

A body has the potential for life; anima is the principle for life and actualizes the body’s potency. In Latin, anima, or in Greek, psyche, means “elemental air, breath, life, spirit, or soul.” It is the form of being alive. It is immaterial, but it is what makes some material alive and others not. A toad has anima; a rock does not. A person has anima; a corpse does not.

A corpse is no longer a person. A person requires both a material body and a soul. I am an ensouled body. And I am an embodied spirit. If either are separated, I am not a human being. I cannot identify myself by just my body or just my soul. This will have ramifications on how I view personhood, my body (it’s not just a vessel of the soul), and my identity dually rooted in the material and immaterial.

So are human souls special, or are we just one among all living things? We certainly share something in common with all living things. But just as living bodies are different, so are souls. A human body is more complex than a moss body; a human soul is more complex than a moss soul. A plant soul as the capacity for nutrition, growth, and reproduction. An animal soul has that as well as capacity for sensation and motion. A human body has that as well as potential for consciousness.

Consciousness is awareness of oneself. It enables us to conceptualize individual, abstract, immaterial ideas. But what does it mean to have a potency beyond the material? It means our form, our anima, has an actuality that is separate from the material. This will have ramifications on my relationship to God and existence beyond the material. The soul can exist independent of the body; my soul is immortal and has knowledge of immaterial things.

Putting Things in Motion

The fundamental argument of Aquinas’ Summa Theologiae is the existence of God. Aquinas argues that to demonstrate if God exists, one could show through cause and effect. Effects depend on a cause; if effects are known, then a cause must exist and thus, be able to be demonstrated. Because the effects are not equal to their cause, we cannot perfectly understand the cause, only demonstrate the cause’s existence.

He then offers five proofs for God, relying on Aristotle’s prime mover. The prime mover is the cause of motion but itself is not moved by a prior action. The cause must exists before and outside of its effects. If the universe is an observed effect, then it must have a cause before and outside of itself.

Aquinas’ quinque viae or five ways to prove God via cause/effect are as follows:

  • Motion 🠈 Unmoved mover
  • Cause/Effect 🠈Uncaused cause
  • Contingency 🠈 Non-contingent necessary source
  • Gradation of perfection 🠈 Absolute perfection
  • Order ðŸ ˆ An orderer

We can observe motion--something changes into something else. There must be something that causes that change. And something that causes that to act. The chain cannot go back forever, so there must be a mover that begins the chain of motion without something causing it to move: an unmoved mover. Similarly, we observe effects--the result of a cause. At the end of the chain of cause and effect must be the first cause, a cause that is not an effect itself: an uncaused cause. 

We observe things come and go. People live and die. Stars burn and burn out. Buildings are built and demolished. The generation of something new comes from an effect of something else. If this were true for everything, there would be a point where nothing existed, and then something/everything would come from nothing. For there to be a cause of first generation and final destruction, there must be an eternal agent beyond generation or destruction: a non-contingent source. 

We observe varying degrees of quality. A well-made dinner is better than a poorly-made dinner. A healthy dog is better than a sick dog. Happy is better than sad. Because there are degrees of quality means there must be the standard: absolute perfection. Further, what is most in a genus (true, perfect, being, etc) must be the cause of all else in that genus, as everything that is less than most genus has degraded in some form. 

Finally, we observe repeatable, predictable behavior, such as physics. This cannot be due to chance since the behavior would not be predictable. The behavior must be set: ordered. Chaos cannot order itself since it is non-intelligent and has no notion of how to set behavior. Therefore, behavior must be set by something outside that which is ordered and something intelligent, capable of ordering: an orderer. Sometimes we forget how what we commonly experience is rare and specific: an existing universe, rules of physics, life. 

If this unmoved mover, uncaused cause, non-contingent source, perfect, orderer is what we call God, then there are other attributes of God that we can observe and demonstrate. The next arguments of the Summa work through God as: simple, perfect, good, infinite, immutable, eternal, one, intelligent, alive, free (will), loving, merciful, just, provident, powerful, happy, and triune. I won’t go into the arguments for every attribute (I don’t want to paraphrase the entire Summa), but each relies back on the Five Ways. It also relies on the concepts of matter, form, potentiality, and act, which I will look at more in the next post about the human soul.

Sophia Dei

When I was in the process of joining the Catholic Church, I asked myself, why Catholic and not Orthodox? They both have the Real Presence and succession back to the apostles. But it didn’t take long for me to know: my mind was Western; I needed the Western Church. My heritage is Western; I already belonged to the Western Church and her daughters.

The Eastern Church is comfortable resting in mystery; the Western Church wants to dissect and categorize. Both lungs have their scholars and mystics, but the Western Church maintains that Roman heritage of rational inquiry. We like to study and define and order. The Church teaches, contrary to popular opinion, that faith and reason work together. How could truth contradict truth? Faith without reason leads to superstition and blind following. Reason without faith leads to relativism and nihilism. If you think you’ve thought of something original regarding Christianity, there’s a saint to thought it and said it better in the third century, and it’s cited in the catechism.

St. Thomas Aquinas is often considered the epitome of Catholic rationalism. He was a thirteenth-century philosopher and mystic whose writings still instruct the Church on faith and reason. But that also makes him intimidating. Can I really understand his logic? How can I ever get through such long, dense treatises? I often joke that even Thomas Aquinas couldn’t get through the Summa Theologiae (he died before he finished writing it, and the last section was pieced together from his notes).

I want to know the rational arguments of the faith. I want to know them so well that I can explain and integrate them. But, I never had a formal logic or philosophy education, so the format or language of works like the Summa can be challenging. A few weeks ago, I started attending a new study group that is studying Aquinas, and I’m so exited to actually learn some of the most basics arguments.

Although Thomas Aquinas lived in the 1200s, his arguments are rooted in the Western scholastic tradition. The earliest Western philosophers (pre-Socrates) sought rational explanations of the universe, specifically the cause (or first principle). They observed the material world for solutions. Pythagoras added numbers—materials could be sorted into formal, delineated categories. The observed classical elements (fire, air, water, earth) could also be combined and subtracted. Sophists added rhetoric, so that there was a formal way of debating the studied topics.  Many philosophers of this time argued that there was no objective truth and that morality was ever-changing and only useful in specific contexts.

Next came the Classical period of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Socrates developed the critical method of questioning one’s thinking and applying logical checks to arguments. Plato studied knowledge and how it is acquired. He also wrote extensively on virtue. Aristotle applied logic to each branch of inquiry. He is considered the father of empiricism (sensory observation), proposing four types of causes—material, efficient, formal, and final. Their influence affected the philosophers of the Roman Empire. By the fall of the Romans and the rise of Christianity, schools of thoughts such as the Neopythagoreans and Neoplatonists had emerged. In particular, the Neoplatonists argued that mind exists before matter, and the universe has a cause (more on that later), thus the material universe must have a singular mind.

Early Christian thinkers were influenced by the Greek/Roman tradition. St. Augustine in particular has a lot of Neoplatonist influence in his arguments for the existence of the soul, nature of the material world, and concept of God as one.

In the 1100s, scholasticism rose as the new school of thought. It emphasized dialectical reasoning to analyze and critique. St. Anselm argued that God could be proved using logic. Aquinas’ mentor St. Albert the Great, was one of the most influential thinkers of the time and now patron saint of the natural sciences. He made contributions to logic, theology, psychology, metaphysics, meteorology, mineralogy, and zoology. Albert studied Aristotle and synthesized pre-Christian and Islamic thought into Christian philosophy. For him, and later Aquinas and other Thomists, natural philosophy, logic, and reason have universal elements (experiment, observation, deduction) and a pantheistic or an Islamic scholar is capable of contributing to those areas as well as a Christian.

While we treat the Renaissance of as a rediscovery of ancient thought, there has always been a tradition of philosophy rooted in the classical thinkers. The observance of nature, the search for God, the understanding of virtue and truth, and the knowledge of knowledge have always been a part of the Christian faith, and they are all intertwined. They are different aspects of the same grand search.

“The study of philosophy is not that we may know what men have thought, but what the truth of things is.” -St. Thomas Aquinas

The Homeless, Tempest-tost


Most Americans come from several lines of immigrants, those who looked across the sea and envisioned something better—either safety or freedom or money. They rode for weeks on tiny, crowded ships. They indentured themselves for years. They loaded up all their belongings in a wagon and walked, further and further west, over mountains and down valleys, building entire communities from scratch. Over the generations, they built me a comfortable home, a place where I feel like a belong. My family’s past echoes through the settled mountains and streets and cemeteries with familiar names. Their bones are in the ground I walk on, and I’m glad to have them as a foundation.

But it is because of that, that I have trouble relating to these ancestors. Their blood is in my veins; their decisions led to my life, and yet I do not know them. I know several (Brethren/Huguenot) came seeking religious freedom from the political troubles of the times. Others were undoubtedly seeking freedom from personal troubles. Others simply wanted the chance of their own land and wealth and took the chance. How many really wanted to leave? How hard was this decision made? Where their arguments between spouses or parents and children? Did the whole community come together, or were they venturing out alone? How did they decide those essential few items to bring?

What happened to reach the moment of decision to go—go out into a new, unknown land, to leave all that you’ve known, the land of your ancestors, and start anew? It is an expensive and permanent decision. Few ever turned back. What must life have been like for a totally new beginning to be the best option? I can’t imagine what it would take for me to give it all up. Extreme poverty or violent persecution or a personal series of disasters maybe. But I can’t imagine the pain enduring any of that very long and then accepting that it’s time to go.

Today is the World Day of Migrants and Refugees. There are so many negative stereotypes of immigrants/refugees, as opportunists or criminals or people who will bring their nation’s problems with them. But so many are leaving for a reason. They want to be safe. They want their children to not feel the pain they feel. They’ve reached the point of leaving behind their home—many don’t want to go. I wouldn’t. Circumstance has uprooted them. They’re committed to making this decision work, but they will carry the pains that led to that decision alongside their pared-down belongings. How can we not look at immigrants and refugees (especially the refugees who are displaced by violence) and not want to help them? Wouldn’t I want to be welcomed and assured that all will be well?

I hope someone welcomed my ancestors—showed them around and helped them settle and introduced them to new neighbors and friends. A kind gesture can go a long way when you’re tired and weary. We are commanded to welcome the stranger and love your neighbor.

I can offer a hello. I can offer a smile. I can offer rides and basic supplies and directions. I can understand that someone is in the middle of a big and vulnerable decision, even if that drive to move seems so foreign to my own feelings. But for a few generations, I was those people. The drive pushed my people—keep moving: further out, better land, newer and safer and ours. But then the crisis stilled and they stayed. And here I am.

St. Phocas the Gardener

Phocas lived in Sinope on the Black Sea in the late third century. He was a gardener, and he gave crops from his garden to the poor and the persecuted Christians. He also opened his home for travelers and any seeking shelter. According to legend, during the persecutions of Diocletian, soldiers were sent to kill Phocas. They were welcomed by a gardener, not knowing him to be the man they were seeking. He took them in and offered to help them find the victim.

As the soldiers rested, Phocas arranged for his possessions to be given to the poor and dug his own grave. In the morning, he revealed himself to the soldiers. They offered to leave and claim that they couldn’t find him, but he refused the offer.

He was beheaded and buried in the grave he dug. He is the patron of hospitality, gardeners, farmers, and sailors. His feast day is celebrated on July 23 or Sept. 22.

Humble Leaders

What makes a good leader? These days, it’s easier to look at our leaders and state what makes someone not a good leader: self-interest, callousness, profiteering, cowardness, all forms of pride and greed. We want leaders to actually lead, not just dictate from plush cushions. We want leaders who see us and move us move. We want leaders worth following.

Leaders should come from the best of the people, not through inherited or bought positions. They should be ones who exemplify the best of the people’s virtues and inspire followers to do the same. They should be invested in making the community better and committed to doing so. But too many leaders think that by gaining power, they have earned to live apart from the people. They command how the people live but themselves live by different rules. They make money at the expense of helping the community. They are immune from consequences or shame. That is for poor followers, not leaders.

There is a lack of humility in leadership today. Admitting wrong is weakness. And strength is everything. In politics, in business, in church—people confuse strength and confidence with righteousness and honesty. The veneer of leadership means more than actually leading.

But a good leader knows that her position comes not from strength but trust. And trust must be earned and maintained. “With great power comes great responsibility.” The people have placed their trust in their leader, and in turn, that leader now bears more responsibility over her people. A good leader feels the weight of that responsibility. A good leader cares about the outcome for the followers, not for personal success and polling numbers but for the betterment of the community. A pastor is responsible for the souls of his parish. A mayor is responsible for the residents of his city. The people may not have voted for that leader or even like that leader, but that leader now has a responsibility to seek everyone’s best interests. A good leader is humble and selfless—qualities we don’t often see in our leaders.

Leaders should be the ones to sacrifice first. They don’t let someone in their care suffer more than they are willing to suffer. If there is one bed, the leader sleeps on the floor. If there is one piece of bread, the leader goes without dinner. If there is one place on the boat, the leader stays in the water. A good leader sacrifices for her people. A good leader teaches us to sacrifice for others. A good leader earns power through strength—not the forceful kind, but the silent strength of accepting a burden and giving for others without compliant.

When I think of the leaders in my life, I don’t imagine any willing to sacrifice for me. I doubt any of my political leaders would even take a 3% tax hike for me, much less actually give up their comfort or their life. Why should I follow someone who doesn’t take responsibility in their leadership? How do any of us figure out what a virtuous life looks like when our leaders can’t demonstrate it for us? Yes, we are responsible for ourselves, but our leaders are responsible for us too. They fail us when they fail to be good leaders. And frankly, their souls are in more danger. I may fail by burying one talent in the ground, but you better not bury ten.

I wish leaders had more humility and shame and willingness to sacrifice. But power is seductive, and it’s easier for someone wealthy or in power to lose their soul to pride and greed. It’s just that when leaders lose their souls, they often take followers with them.

I want to be led. I’m just waiting around for a good shepherd.

First Fruits Transformed

In the Jewish custom, the first fruits of the harvest were set aside as a religious offering. While a spiritual offering of thanks, the first fruits, or bikkurim, also served as a means of maintaining the temple, much like a tithe. Jews would offer the first fruits of the wheat, barley, wine, figs, pomegranates, olive oil, and dates.

Our harvest festivals have become fall festivals, seasonal and secular, as most of us are detached from the growing and harvesting of our food. But even if we don’t produce food ourselves, I think it would be beneficial to stay mindful of the rhythm and long work that goes into our food. And, joining generations, as food is harvested, people will want to celebrate their bounty and give thanks to God. For feast days that fall during autumn, or feast days which lend themselves to celebration of harvest, they become a way to join the material and spiritual—the food we need to sustain us and the Lord who provided.

For the Jews, harvest fell between their holidays of Shavuot and Sukkot. Shavout marks when Moses received the Torah at Mount Sinai. The word shavuot means “seven weeks” as it also marks the days of the grain harvest from the barley harvest (around Passover) to the wheat harvest. The counting of the time as the wheat grows also represents the anticipation of the people of Israel between being freed from Egypt and receiving the Torah.

Sukkot, or the Festival of Booths, commemorates Israel’s time of wandering in the desert. It also marks end the end of the harvest season. Sukkah means booth or tabernacle and is a temporary structure in which farmers would live during the harvest. It calls to mind the temporary and transitory dwellings during the exodus.

In the book of Exodus, there are three feasts requiring pilgrimage and offerings: Passover, “feast of the grain harvest with the first fruits of the crop that you sow in the field; and finally, the feast of Ingathering at the end of the year, when you collect your produce from the fields” (Exodus 23:16).

Roughly, the Christian calendar celebrates Easter the same time as Passover and Pentecost (named for counting the 50 days) the same time as Shavuot. The Feast of the Archangels is celebrated roughly the same time as Sukkot. Yet it is the Feast of the Transfiguration, celebrated about a month sooner, that ties more into Sukkot.

Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up Mount Tabor. He reveals his divinity and appears with Moses and Elijah. Peter’s response is to build three booths for them—not because it was Sukkot (they would have been in Jerusalem if it had been) but because he wanted them to stay. Peter wanted the moment to last long enough to need shelter, for them to hand down a message, like Moses receiving the Torah, or for them to fulfill a messianic mission. Peter was ready for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah to do work on earth—to harvest souls.

Of course, the transfiguration was not that moment. It was only a quick glimpse into the divine. But the Feast of the Transfiguration acknowledges that just a glimpse can be enough to change everything. Peter, James, and John had seen Jesus’ divinity. His ministry was indeed more than that or a moral teacher or even a prophet. It was more than they even knew; it was a bounty.

In Christian Europe, harvest offerings of fruits, herbs, and wine were often done on the Transfiguration. In the Byzantine Empire there was tradition to bless harvested grapes at the Feast of the Transfiguration. In Slavic tradition, the Transfiguration is called the Apple Feast of the Savior. It is one of three feasts in August when food items are blessed in the church—the others are the Honey Feast (Aug. 14) and the Nut Feast (Aug. 29). The land is bounteous during this season, offering up what we need to sustain us through the trails of winter.

Christians are not religiously required to offer their harvest or first fruits, yet harvest is still marked with blessings and thanksgivings. And although most of us are detached from the agricultural seasons, we should mark times of thanks for our prosperity. If we did, not only would we be more grateful, but we would be more mindful of the offering of wheat and grapes on the altar and kept safe in the tabernacle (sukkah): Christ in the Eucharist.

"But now Christ has been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who are asleep.” – Corinthians 15:20.

St. Michael’s Lent

I recently heard about St. Michael’s Lent gaining traction and thought it must be one of those fasting times that the Orthodox do but Catholics don’t. The East is so much more disciplined about fasting than us Westerners. But, no. St. Michael’s Lent is actually a Catholic fast—started by St. Francis of Assisi.

St. Francis fasted several times a year. He lived a very simple and penitential life. In 1224, he took some of his Franciscan monks to Mount Alverna for a period of fasting and prayer between the Feast of the Assumption (Aug. 15) and Michaelmas, or Feast of St. Michael the Archangel (Sept. 29). It is said that it was during this time he received the stigmata, three days after the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (Sept. 14).

Fasting for the 40 days (sans Sundays) between the Assumption and Michaelmas became a tradition among Franciscans and some lay people. St. Francis never suggested that lay people fast as much as he did, but some have found the St. Michael’s Lent spiritually beneficial.

Michaelmas used to be a bigger holiday. It used to mark the end of the agricultural year; harvests were usually concluding around that day, and in medieval times, it also meant estates and reeves were balancing out the accounts for the year (as people often paid with harvest). It was also near the fall equinox and thus marked the change of season to autumn.

While I’m not jumping aboard the St. Michael’s Lent train, I do think Catholics could do a better job at fasting, even if finding individual times to fast. I also think this time of year is a good time, both for a mini-Lent and for a big feast. During the long stretch of ordinary time that is the second half of the year, it’s easy to fall out of a liturgical rhythm. And most of us don’t have a seasonal/agricultural rhythm to our lives either. It’s a long way from Pentecost to Advent. There are feast days in there (Assumption, All Saints), but not liturgical seasons. The more we add novenas or lents or octaves, the more we break up the season into smaller, devotional seasons and the more the liturgical calendar weaves into our lives.

Summit of Power and Supreme Dishonor (Church and Slavery part 7/final)

In other countries of the Western Hemisphere, slavery continued. The New World wasn’t so new anymore; it was becoming settled in its traditions and institutions. And that included generational, race-based, chattel slavery.  French Jesuits used plantations run by slaves to fund their schools and missions in the Caribbean. Child slaves were auctioned off for a Catholic charity in Brazil. A Benedictine order in Brazil owned more than 4,000 slaves. European economies relied on the resources and free labor of New World plantations. The colony of plantations called Saint-Domingue was the most profitable French colony in the world, producing more wealth than the 13 American colonies. It was this wealth that cause leaders in the New World, including clergy, to ignore the Church’s growing condemnation of slavery.

In 1686, the Holy Office of the Inquisition addressed the morality of enslaving innocent Africans and sending them to the New World. It rejected the practice of enslaving Africans as well as trading those already enslaved. Slaveholders were directed to emancipate and compensate Africans unjustly enslaved. This was mostly ignored.

In 1741, Pope Benedict XIV issued Immensa Pastorum Principis against the enslavement of native peoples in the Americas. It includes apostolic briefs directed to the King of Portugal and the bishops in Brazil. It excommunicated anyone who enslaved a native Brazilian. Yet it did not address African slaves. The papal bull was mostly ignored in Brazil.

In 1791, Saint-Domingue slaves rose up, led by Catholic ex-slave Toussaint L’Overture. The revolt ultimately leading to the first independent nation in Latin America, the first post-colonial independent black-led nation in the world, and the only nation whose independence was gained as part of a successful slave rebellion. The newly-freed Haitians initially did not seek national independence—they had been partly inspired by the French Revolution. They, too, wanted liberty, equality, and fraternity. In 1794, France decreed “slavery of the blacks is abolished in all the colonies; consequently, it decrees that all men living in the colonies, without distinction of color, are French citizens and enjoy all the rights guaranteed by the constitution.” (Haiti gained full independence in 1804.)

Napoleon reinstituted slavery in France, though it was again abolished in 1848. Despite such setbacks, abolition was gaining support in France along with other European countries. The Congress of Vienna in 1815 pushed for a suppression of the slave trade. Like the southern U.S. states, the biggest opposition came from places like Spain and Portugal whose colonial wealth depended on that trade and free labor.  

In 1839 Pope Gregory XVI issued a strong condemnation of slavery in In Supremo Apostolatus, where he directed “We warn and adjure earnestly in the Lord faithful Christians of every condition that no one in the future dare to vex anyone, despoil him of his possessions, reduce to servitude, or lend aid and favor to those who give themselves up to these practices, or exercise that inhuman traffic by which the Blacks, as if they were not men but rather animals, having been brought into servitude, in no matter what way, are, without any distinction, in contempt of the rights of justice and humanity, bought, sold, and devoted sometimes to the hardest labor.”

It acknowledged the history of slavery and how the trans-Atlantic slave trade developed under Catholic countries during colonization: “We say with profound sorrow - there were to be found afterwards among the Faithful men who, shamefully blinded by the desire of sordid gain, in lonely and distant countries, did not hesitate to reduce to slavery Indians, negroes and other wretched peoples, or else, by instituting or developing the trade in those who had been made slaves by others, to favor their unworthy practice.” I bet you can see where this is going; it was mostly ignored. And when it couldn’t be ignored, it was dismissed.

Catholic bishops in the Southern U.S. focused on the word "unjustly". They argued that the Pope did not condemn slavery if the enslaved individuals had been captured justly and that this prohibition did not apply to slavery in the U.S. They made arguments that as long as slaves were well cared for and baptized into the faith, then slavery was morally licit. They also argued that “nativity,” that is, being born into slavery, is a “just” cause of slavery, as being born into slavery was not being seized and forced into it.

Bishop John England of Charleston in particular defended American slavery, arguing that Pope Gregory XVI was only referring to slaves from Africa imported by the Spanish and Portuguese, not slaves of African descent domestically traded in the United States.

Northern bishops mostly tried to stay out of the slavery issue to avoid angering either side. They said they did not want to wade into politics and wanted both sides to find a peaceful solution. In doing so, they minimized the seriousness of the immorality of slavery and the Church’s obligation to stand up for the poor. They also made the argument that In Supremo Apostolatus did not apply to American slavery, thus instructing their congregations to ignore it. In some cases, it was only read or published in Latin, so the average parishioner did not even know what the pope had said.

There were priests who spoke out more vocally for abolition. Father Adrien Emmanuel Rouquette, the first native Louisianan ordained a priest, gave several sermons in New Orleans in 1850s condemning slavery. However, this caused so much animosity among the congregation that Father Rouquette left New Orleans to mission to the Choctaw.

But as the Civil War broke out in America, it became clearer that the Church opposed the slavery present in the United States, and that the U.S. bishops were just looking for excuses to maintain the status quo. They feared losing power and donors more than they believed in standing up for the enslaved. They wanted to avoid violence through civil war or slave rebellion, which is a fair concern, but they used that fear to find justifications for chattel slavery. Despite Catholic priests serving as chaplains in the Confederate army and Jefferson Davis naming an ambassador to the Papal States, the Vatican never recognized the Confederacy.

Foreign bishops called out the Americans and those who did not speak out against slavery. Irish leaders organized a petition with 60,000 signatures of Irish-American support of abolition. Bishop Felix Dupanloup, the bishop of Orleans in France, admonished those who viewed the American Civil War as a solely political or economic conflict. He pointed out that there were “still four million slaves in the United States...eighteen centuries after the Cross.”

Some American leaders found their voice too. In an 1863 Catholic Telegraph editorial Archbishop John Baptist Purcell of Cincinnati wrote, “When the slave power predominates, religion is nominal. There is no life in it. It is the hard-working laboring man who builds the church, the school house, the orphan asylum, not the slaveholder, as a general rule. Religion flourishes in a slave state only in proportion to its intimacy with a free state, or as it is adjacent to it.”

The institution of chattel slavery crumbled in the late nineteenth century. Brazil was the last Catholic country to abolish slavery, in 1888. By then, it was politically safer for leaders to speak out definitively against slavery. But it shouldn’t have been a political choice; the moral choice was always the same. Some made the right call and fought against an unjust system, some felt too trapped by the system to speak out, and some never saw the injustice and made excuses.

Today, the catechism states, “The seventh commandment forbids acts or enterprises that for any reason - selfish or ideological, commercial, or totalitarian - lead to the enslavement of human beings, to their being bought, sold and exchanged like merchandise, in disregard for their personal dignity. It is a sin against the dignity of persons and their fundamental rights to reduce them by violence to their productive value or to a source of profit.” (CCC 2414).

The Vatican II document “Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World” says, “Whatever is opposed to life itself… whatever violates the integrity of the human person…whatever insults human dignity, such as subhuman living conditions, arbitrary imprisonment, deportation, slavery, prostitution, the selling of women and children; as well as disgraceful working conditions, where men are treated as mere tools for profit, rather than as free and responsible persons; all these things and others of their like are infamies indeed. They poison human society… they are supreme dishonor to the Creator.”

I don’t know if this series has done any good. It’s awful seeing Christians doing the wrong thing and justifying it. It’s disheartening to see leaders of the Church give in to greed and pride; wealth and ambition is a pithy price for your soul, much less the thousands of souls lost by poor shepherds. Yet in researching this, I saw the glimmers of light, of Christ’s promise that all are one in Him and the faithful Christians who stood up for the dignity and freedom of their neighbors. Even though slavery is now technically outlawed in every country, the number of slaves today is estimated to be between 12 million and 29.8 million, through debt bondage, forced labor, and human trafficking. And so we have to continue to be voices of light.