“Words, words, words,” replied Hamlet with despair-filled irony.

In a social setting suffused and encompassed by words, sound bites, snippets, and advertising, the mind cannot help but be overwhelmed. There is also the further complication that many of these words are unhelpful; things are not always what they seem, what they profess to be. When one’s glance falls upon abortion clinics named “Women and Family Centers,” stores selling exclusively pornographic and fetishist paraphernalia called “Adult,” and rock stars naming their children Dweezil and Moon Unit, it can appear that beyond being merely deceptive, some names simply fail to communicate altogether.

Some historians of philosophy argue that in the common enterprise of thought, pragmatism is the United States’ only significant contribution. When it comes to philosophic novelties, improvements, and developments, it appears that American culture is fit to produce only the most uninspiring of legacies: “When you do something, take into account what works.” The effect of this realization is something like that produced by slaving through hours of Myers Brigg  indicator tests only to discover that you are what the profiles classify as “Eminently Efficient” or “Supremely Serviceable”—perhaps a good adjective to appear in the fourth paragraph of a litany of accolades but as the first and only it leaves one feeling somewhat culturally sterile.

On encountering the myriad oddities that constitute the standard fare of our day-to-day, it is natural to search out an explanation. Why do logging trucks with full loads pass each other on the highway? Why do fast food attendants hand you so many napkins? Why don’t Irish dancers use their arms? Perhaps small mysteries, but mysteries nonetheless. Now, by citing frivolous examples, I do not mean to trivialize the tendency, but rather to illustrate its universality. We observe this dynamic at work with phenomena ranging from the most ridiculous to the most outstanding. It simply seems that much of the substance with which life is filled is profoundly mysterious if subjected to a sustained gaze.

In my 10^th grade history class, we spent a few class periods taking a quick look at some economic terms and principles: supply and demand, market price, Keynesian economics, supply-side economics, etc. One particularly helpful concept to which we were introduced was “inelastic demand.” The basic idea is that certain products are so essential to life that demand varies little to none when price fluctuates. The typical example we were given was that of oil. Regardless of whether oil costs $x/barrel or double that, Americans will not alter their patterns of consumption to the degree that they would were the price of a luxury item to double. Whatever the price, we still need to heat the house and get to and from work. There’s not much that we can do to get around it.

The peoples of many ages have operated under the impression that things have never been worse. As attractive as is the Enlightenment notion that the world is driven along in a sort of automatic progressive march, every age has had its fair share of gainsayers. In the current political and cultural climate, and with the attendant loss of footing in the culture war, the temptation to declare a low point appears as strong as ever.  The obstacles appear insuperable, the opponent indefatigable, the confusion ubiquitous.  Some have begun to ask, perhaps overdramatically, “Has the death knell sounded for the Catholic Church?” And yet, a look back on history can disabuse us of such sweepingly ominous prophecies. To this end, we’ll consult the perennial wisdom of G. K. Chesterton.

There’s a certain security that goes with being in control. It gives us a steady sense of satisfaction, the daily routine of generating a checklist, progressing through it, and striking off the last item just before our head hits the pillow. I came, I saw, I conquered—a good day.

On hearing the word “asceticism,” a number of associations rush to mind. Most typically, we recall the standard fare of Lenten practices—fasting, abstinence, perhaps the sacrifice of some beloved comfort. For the most part, we tend to associate asceticism with foregoing some secondary good, be it satiety at the end of a meal, red meat, or warm showers. While this is the beginning of a healthy understanding of penance, it does not entirely capture its spirit. It is not too difficult to see how the disposition in which these practices are conducted could be self-centered: Lent approaches. I brainstorm things to do that are difficult. I do them for Jesus. Easter rolls around, and I revert to past practices. While perhaps it is implicit, the central reality of conversion falls to the periphery in this approach to asceticism. Rather, what assumes an exalted status is the disciplined flexing of one’s penitential muscles.

Restlessness is present in myriad facets of human existence. By “restlessness” here I simply have in mind the absence of contentment—a recognition that the current state of affairs is insufficient or unsatisfactory. In my own life, I can readily recall the experience of Sunday evenings in high school. Having slept in, been to mass, watched two football games, and finished dinner, I would grapple with the realization that it all began again the next morning and that the two-day reprieve, once hailed as a salvific respite on Friday afternoon, had failed to support the weight of my expectation. I was in the throes of the Sunday funk. I was not content.

Whenever we make the decision to try to live “better” (be it healthier, or more uprightly, or more joyfully), the pursuit inevitably means confronting the contradictions that exist in our lives. Take, for instance, those of us who want to lose weight but also love late night snacking. These two desires are clearly at odds, and this conflict must be resolved before we can move forward—one must yield before the other. The same is true in the work of conversion: some things need to be cast off; others can be integrated.

At times I have noticed a demand among the faithful for “ordinary” saints. The motivation seems fairly simple. For a number of reasons, ranging from their relative antiquity to the extravagance of some hagiographical flourishes, the lives of many saints appear distant, implausible, or unattainable. The last point seems the most pertinent. For many, it can be hard to relate to a person whose life seems entirely inimitable. Consequently, there is a desire for saints who are deemed to be within reach. So, for example, a recent biography of Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati is entitled An Ordinary Christian.