What makes a story Catholic or Christian?

Beneath the surface answers (the positive portrayal of faith, the assertion of a moral universe), we find another one:

Hope.

Against a world-weary culture, Christians dare to hope. This hope changes the tenor of a story. Christians still write redemption arcs. (How naïf!) And when Christians write a tragedy, the story is told against the backdrop of God—overtly or subtly, He’s there, whether or not the characters embrace Him.

Matters of content, genre, form, artistry, and audience aside—and we can debate these points until we’re blue in the face—a novel is Catholic or Christian insofar as our crazy, childlike hope in a Redeemer makes its way into the fabric of the story.

Hope.

Wonder.

Credo.

This flies in the face of contemporary fiction and Western culture. Consider these words of Cardinal Sarah:

Saint Thomas Aquinas says that the major remedy for acedia is not in us but in God. It is the Incarnation, the coming of God in our flesh. Indeed, since heaven seems so far away and we can grow tired in our search for God, he himself came to meet us so as to facilitate our desire to love him, so as to make tangible the good that he offers us. In this sense, I think that the feast of Christmas is the moment when it is easiest to fight against acedia. In contemplating the manger and the Infant Jesus, who makes himself so close, our hearts cannot remain indifferent, sad, or disgusted. Our hearts open and warm up. The Christmas carols and the customs that surround this feast are imbued with the simply joy of being saved…

The West sometimes resembles an embittered old man. It lacks the candor of a child. Spiritually, the continents that came to know the Good News more recently are still astonished and enchanted by the beauties of God, the marvels of his action in us. The West is perhaps too accustomed to it. It no longer shivers with joy before the manger scene; it no longer weeps with gratitude before the Cross; it no longer trembles in amazement before the Blessed Sacrament. I think that men need to be astonished in order to adore, to praise, to thank this God who is so good and so great. Wisdom begins with wonder, Socrates said. The inability to wonder is the sign of a civilization that is dying.

— Robert Cardinal Sarah, "Acedia and the Identity Crisis,” The Day is Now Far Spent, pp. 126-7

The world is drowning in acedia. This is why Hallmark Christmas movies are so dang popular—people are trying to recapture the wonder. This is why most literary fiction remains unread, outside of a chosen few—people do not have the stomach for any more darkness. Or, at least, they do not have the stomach for darkness without redemption.

It’s Facebook official: My award-winning debut novel has found a publishing home! The Life We Greet (working title), my three-part historical continuity series, will be published with Chrism Press this coming year.

The funniest part of this (for me, at least) is that the acquisition process began with WhiteFire Publishing months before they founded Chrism Press or asked me to be one of its founding editors. I certainly wasn’t expecting any of this back in January, when I submitted my manuscript. 2020 has been a wild ride.

A detail from a contemporary painting of Joan of Arc. My main character looks something like this, but with less pouty lips. Apologies for the lack of attribution: I have no idea who painted this or where it is located.

I’m excited to work with the rest of the Chrism Press and WhiteFire Publishing team to make this a great book and great series.

While we're on the subject of rare books... another book I needed to hunt down was an 18th century edition of the letters of Saints Clement of Rome, Ignatius of Antioch, and Polycarp of Smyrna, all first and second century Christian bishops.

One of my main characters is something of an armchair theologian. Like most 18th century Bostonians, he's a lifelong Congregationalist, but one with a lot of questions. And he's not one to accept another's say-so with having first examining matters himself.

Such things run in his blood; he's the grandson of a minister. Thankfully, he received a private education that included the study of Latin. In the 18th century, knowing Latin opened intellectual doors: most everything worth reading could be read in Latin.

Following the Reformation, theologians were increasingly interested in the writings of the early Church Fathers, as the differing Christian factions sought to establish themselves against Catholicism. The argument was that the Catholic Church has veered from its apostolic moorings and needed to be purged of its accumulated trappings. (Disclosure: I'm a practicing Catholic.)

Being married to a theologian and patristics scholar, I knew that if my character was going to read the Church Fathers, then I had better find the actual book, double-check its contents, and come up with a plausible account for how my character acquires said book. Not the easiest task! Fortunately, he’s an officer on a merchant ship, and with that comes mobility. When one travels the world, one is more likely to find things that other people wouldn't.

What I found was this:

Bibliotheca Patrum Apostolicorum—Library of the Apostolic Fathers

Once again, hat tip to Google Books.

This edition was edited by a Lutheran divine named Littig, who published the volume in Leipzig in 1699. It includes an opening essay by Professor Littig, followed by the letters of Clement, Ignatius, and Polycarp in both the original Greek and Latin translation on facing pages.

A rare book, indeed! And when my character finds it in a Charleston bookshop owned by a grumpy French ex-pat, he knows that this is the book he wants!

But will he manage to haggle his way to a bargain? When that surly Frenchman knows exactly what kind book he has, beyond a shadow of a doubt?

Good luck, son. Good luck.

I could see / the whole span of human love / and its precipitous edges. / When someone slips over such an edge / he finds it very hard to get back, / and wanders alone below the road he should be on.

Karol Wojtyla, The Jeweler's Shop, 53

St. Dominic, via WikiCommons, CC0.

One distinctive trait among Dominicans is their laughter. At the time of their founding 800 years ago, laughter was viewed with pious suspicion, per St. Benedict’s prohibition against laughter in his Rule.

But St. Dominic was known for always being cheerful and affable, and many of the early Dominicans, in particular Bl. Jordan of Saxony, were known for their playfulness and good-humored jokes. St. Thomas Aquinas goes so far as to say that:

“A man who is without mirth, not only is lacking in playful speech, but is also burdensome to others, since he is deaf to the moderate mirth of others. Consequently they are vicious, and are said to be boorish or rude, as the Philosopher [Aristotle] states” (ST II II, q.168 a.4).

That’s not to say the early Dominicans engaged in raucous or belittling behavior. When Dominic laughed, “he did so with the true delight of the Holy Spirit."

Cover image courtesy WikiCommons, CC0. Copyright belongs to publisher and cover artist.

The ability to make a joke without hurting others or oneself is a gift and a virtue. And while our culture has mostly lost sight of the value of this gift, I am happy to see that one person, at least, hasn't. From Suzanne Collins' Mockingjay (Hunger Games Trilogy, Book 3):

The tube's cover's simple to unlatch. A wide ladder with rubber treads on the steps allows for a swift, easy descent into the bowels of the city [the Capitol]. We gather at the foot of the ladder, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dim strips of lights, breathing in the mixture of chemicals, mildew, and sewage.

Pollux, pale and sweaty, reaches out and latches on to Castor's wrist. Like he might fall over if there isn't someone to steady him.

"My brother worked down here after he became an Avox," says Castor. Of course. Who else would they get to maintain these dank, evil-smelling passages mined with pods? "Took five years before we were able to buy his way up to the ground level. Didn't see the sun once."

Under better conditions, on a day with fewer horrors and more rest, someone would surely know what to say. Instead we all stand there for a long time trying to formulate a response.

Finally, Peeta turns to Pollux. "Well, then you just became our most valuable asset." Castor laughs and Pollux manages a smile.

We're halfway down the first tunnel when I realize what was so remarkable about the exchange. Peeta sounded like his old self, the one who could always think of the right thing to say when nobody else could. Ironic, encouraging, a little funny, but not at anyone's expense. I glance back at him as he trudges along under his guards, Gale and Jackson, his eyes fixed on the ground, his shoulders hunched forward. So dispirited. But for a moment, he was really here. (Ch. 21)

Peeta's comment proves the inverse of St. Thomas' description above: the humorless man is a burden to others, but Peeta's playful joke lightens the burden that Pollux and Castor are feeling and makes it possible for the entire group to escape into the sewers.

But also clear throughout the book series is that Peeta rarely makes a joke at another's expense, as Katniss says. The few times he does (I'm thinking of teasing Katniss after Johanna's antics in the elevator) only makes him the object of Katniss' resentment. Peeta is good at heart and making fun of others isn't his modus operandi.

So Suzanne Collins gets it. I'm glad.