Commands don’t get much mileage today. People want affirmation, not admonition. All it takes is one thou-shalt-not (or, for that matter, one thou-shalt) and listeners begin to shut down. Maybe it’s relativism, or secularism, or individualism; maybe it’s all of them, or none of them; but whatever it is, most people don’t like being told what to do.

And yet, there’s one imperative that still attracts universal acceptance: be authentic.

No chair had ever been so huge. Of this, my six-year-old self was certain. Warm, worn, and wonderful, the ample armchair stood out with the singularity of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Amidst all the other chairs in the room, this chair was different—it was forbidden. This chair was Dad’s.

When a Saint bashes you, things must be pretty bad. But when he says you’re not worth the words, they’re definitely worse. And when the Saint in question is an uncontested authority on asceticism—and you’re a monk vowed to live the ascetic life—you’ve pretty much hit rock bottom.

You can’t be “a little” pregnant.

We’ve all heard it said, probably jokingly, one time or another. At first glance, the point seems pretty obvious: either there’s a baby in there, or there’s not. Facts are either true or false, and being pregnant is a fact. It’s sort of like winning the lotto, or finding out the shower’s got no hot water—it’s all there, all at once, stark-naked in its reality. There’s no “a little” about it.

Yet funny quips and folk wisdom fear no contradiction. Opposites may attract, but birds of a feather still flock together. The saying “you can’t be ‘a little’ pregnant” is no exception. Just consider another playful turn of phrase: “She is so pregnant!”

It was a perfect plan. The lady was old, and she never really had visitors. Every Halloween, she would spend all day making fresh caramel apples to hand out instead of the usual little candies. It was the mother-load, and this year the boy was going to cash in. The old woman was lonely—he’d heard his mom say so—and with kids knocking at her door all night, she’d be too excited to notice that it was the same one, over and over again.

The plan’s execution was flawless. A set of nondescript black sheets and a bag of thirty different ghoulish masks was all it took. He rang the doorbell, collected his sugary spoils, switched masks behind the house, and then did the whole thing over again. Other kids would come by too, but that was fine—it kept her from getting suspicious. Plus, it gave him time to wolf down his winnings. By night’s end, he had cleaned her out. And he never got caught. He just walked away, a little sick to his stomach.

You can’t argue with that: it’s science!

With all the force of an incantation, these two words have the power to transport their speaker to the heights of argumentative high ground. Flung down like a nobleman’s gauntlet, they indicate that the debate has just taken a definitive—and deadly—turn. The “argument from science” is one of the most effective weapons today’s disputants keep in their arsenal. I’m not talking about the legitimate use of a well-chosen example from biology, or a knowledgeable appeal to an obscure experiment from particle physics. I’m talking about the argumentative one-punch KO, “You must be wrong because some Scientist somewhere said otherwise.” And yes, “Scientist” gets capitalized.

Critics were almost entirely complimentary to what they were pleased to call my brilliant paradoxes; until they discovered that I really meant what I said.

Thus writes G.K. Chesterton, whose pen brought popular apologetics to perfection in paradox.

Now paradox is more than mere witticism, and Chesterton’s exemplary specimens soar far higher than the lowly heights of rhetorical climax. But why was it Chesterton, the porcine apologist, and not, say, Bernard Shaw, the satirical socialist, who was crowned the “prince of paradox”? Historical accident is not the answer. Christian doctrine is the apotheosis of paradox, and the perfection of the latter must be the preaching of the former.

There are a great many reasons for Dominicans to esteem Benedictines: the holiness of their saints, the moderation of their monastic rule, the simplicity of their way of life; the list goes on. But there is at least one reason for Dominicans (or, at least for this one) to envy them. It is, of course, a book, and its title is Christ, the Ideal of the Monk. Why should this wonderful book by Blessed Columba Marmion be the cause of such envy? Quite simply, because we have nothing of our own to compare with it. There is no book entitled, Christ, the Ideal of the Preacher, and there should be. For the true preacher can have no other ideal than that of Jesus Christ.

Terror may accompany the deep, reverberating clap of thunder, but awe seems to be lightning’s chosen handmaid. Few things can widen eyes and drop jaws like the fall of lightning. It may only last an instant, but while heaven’s bolt blitzkriegs through the sky, the whole world stands in attendance.

Why should I let the toad work
Squat on my life?
Can’t I use my wit as a pitchfork
And drive the brute off?

Six days a week it soils
with its sickening poison—
Just for paying a few bills!
That’s out of proportion.

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