What We Cannot See

Homily preached by the Rev. Jonathan A. Mitchican at Our Lady of Walsingham Cathedral in Houston, Texas on Sunday, January 10, 2021 – The Baptism of Our Lord

(Mark 1:7-11)

C.S. Lewis wrote an essay in 1946 that argues strongly that people need to read old books. He didn’t believe all modern books were bad, but rather that old books have a corrective power that new books don’t have. Lewis said, “Every age has its own outlook. It is specially good at seeing certain truths and specially liable to make certain mistakes. We all, therefore, need the books that will correct the characteristic mistakes of our own period. And that means the old books.” He argues that even those who are sworn enemies in their own time are formed in the same cultural waters and therefore make the same errors that neither one of them can see, but which become glaringly obvious in the long arc of history.

Lewis is right that we never quite manage to see the errors of our own age. It’s the water we swim in. If you were a particularly intelligent fish, perhaps you could determine which side of the bowl you prefer to be on, the side that faces the wall or the side that faces the window. You might even be able to make a good argument to your fellow fish. “The window side is clearly superior! It’s warmer and there’s so much more light.” But would you even notice the water? Probably not anymore than as humans we notice the air we breathe. Of course, you’d probably notice if the water suddenly went from crystal clear to a murky brown. But would you notice if that change happened more gradually, with the water getting just a little bit dirtier and a little harder to swim in every year? Or would it be imperceptible to you until one day you look up and suddenly realize that you’ve been choking?

This is the situation in which we now find ourselves. Like so many Americans, I watched with shock and horror on Wednesday as protesters broke through a police line and attacked the U.S. Capitol building, threatening elected leaders and their staff, causing the deaths of at least five people, including a police officer, and in the words of President Trump in his statement on Friday, “defiling the seat of American democracy.” It was an unthinkable display, like nothing I’ve seen in my lifetime, and it seemed to shake a lot of people out of complacency, including some members of Congress who were huddled under their desks as the assault was carried out. How did we get here? How did we become so utterly divided as a nation that violence has become a legitimate means, in the eyes of some, for overturning an election and overthrowing the rule of law?

The situation we find ourselves in isn’t going to get fixed by debate. It’s not going to go away because of a new presentation of facts that’s going to change anybody’s mind. This isn’t actually about that. Yes, we have serious questions that need to be debated, and serious issues that pull us apart culturally and politically, but the reason we’re now at a place where we’re ready to tear out each other’s throats isn’t because we disagree about issues. It’s the stuff that we can’t see that’s killing us. It’s the water that we swim in. It didn’t get polluted all at once; it’s been happening slowly but steadily, over a long period of time. We’ve adopted, little by little, without even realizing it, a whole new moral structure, a whole new way of seeing the world that would be indecipherable to our ancestors. That new morality is shaped less by books, as in Lewis’ time, than by Twitter and YouTube and Tiktok and cable news, by technology that we were told would connect us and make our lives better but instead isolates us and transforms us from people into products. It’s a worldview that’s developed right along with time-saving appliances, televisions with Netflix subscriptions, and wristwatches that keep you connected to your work email even in the middle of the night. 

Whether or not you use any of that stuff, all of it has been shaping us and changing us for a long period of time. And I can’t tell you exactly how. I wish I could. I can’t see the whole board, because I’m on it. I’m not some impartial observer. I’m swimming in this dirty water, just like you. It’ll probably be many years before our great grandchildren look back at this period with the clarity of history and put together exactly what happened to us. But from where we sit today, none of us are going to be able to diagnose the problem fully. And yet, friends, there is an answer.

Today is the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord. Baptism is an antidote to sin. It washes away the pollution of our hearts and minds. Jesus didn’t need any of that. There was no sin in Him that needed to be forgiven, no pollution that needed to be washed away. So why did He wade out into the waters of the Jordan and allow John to baptize Him? Because He came into the world to change the waters that we swim in. Throughout His life, Jesus didn’t spend a lot of time trying to convince anyone of anything. He made moral pronouncements that completely baffled the people of His day, but He refused to argue about them. When one group or another tried to bait Him into taking sides on a contentious issue, He would tell them a story that they didn’t understand that revealed the foolishness of the entire debate. The water didn’t change Jesus; Jesus changed the water. He doesn’t convince us to join Him by laying out the facts. He convinces us to join Him by joining us, by jumping into the water with us and taking all the pollution out of it and into Himself so that we no longer have to suffer from it.

Old books are helpful, to be sure, but Jesus is the only long term solution for what has us ripped apart. Yet even in the Church today, we often seem more interested in swimming in our own water than in His. We take our petty squabbles into the Church with us, forming different factions, following the latest dilettante who tells us what we want to hear, even if that means throwing out the pope and the magisterium to get there. If we try to bring our polluted water with us into the Church, that’s a surefire recipe for drowning. We need to swim in water that’s been purified by Jesus, to let go of our pet peeves and our need to be seen as holier than the person in the next pew. Jesus is the only way out of this mess. We must put everything else aside and focus our minds and our hearts only on Him: obeying His words, imitating Him, and allowing Him to pour into us the grace that can change us from the inside out.

Face Masks: Charity vs. Liberty


Wearing masks in public places is now strongly recommended by public health experts. It could significantly reduce the risk of transmitting the coronavirus that causes Covid-19 to somebody else without knowing it. Therefore, in Catholic terms, choosing to wear a mask in public right now is an act of charity and a work of mercy.

Nevertheless, many Americans are opposed in principle to wearing masks, some expressing their opposition vehemently and even violently. The reasons offered vary quite a bit, but many of the arguments seem to come down to liberty. Wearing a mask is uncomfortable, unlikely to be much of a deterrent to my own getting sick (and may even make it more likely since I will be touching my face more), and infringes on my rights.

I will leave it to the courts to decide about the thorny legal issues surrounding enforcement of policies that require the wearing of masks. As a Christian, and particularly as a Catholic, I am much more interested in the theological question that this issue raises. Assuming for a second that it is both true that the wearing of masks can help slow the spread of the disease and that it infringes upon our liberty to wear them even in a voluntary capacity, which one of those goods should win out? If both charity (love) and liberty (freedom) are things that Christians ought to practice and value, which one is more important?

First, a couple of definitions.

For Christians, charity refers not merely to any sort of altruistic action but to what St. Paul points to as the greatest “abiding” gift of God in 1 Corinthians 13. According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, charity is “the theological virtue by which we love God above all things for his own sake, and our neighbor as ourselves for the love of God.” Unlike other virtues, such as prudence or temperance, which human beings can develop within themselves simply through the building of good habits, theological virtues require the grace of God to become effective. We cannot just will ourselves to be loving. God has to plant love in us. Yet our love grows when we cooperate with God’s grace. It is the greatest of all the virtues because God Himself is love. Jesus specifically calls us to “love one another” as a way of becoming more like Him and thereby participating in the divine life (John 15:9-12).

In Scripture, the Greek word eleutheria can be translated both as “liberty” and “freedom,” two words that are not entirely interchangeable in English but close enough to be more or less synonymous. Liberty is not a virtue like charity is, but it is a gift from God. According to the Catechism, “Freedom is the power, rooted in reason and will, to act or not to act, to do this or that, and so to perform deliberate actions on one’s own responsibility… Human freedom is a force for growth and maturity in truth and goodness; it attains its perfection when directed toward God, our beatitude.” In other words, we may have the ability to make choices about how we live our lives, but we are not truly free until we choose to live in union with God.

Are liberty and charity in competition? Perhaps on the surface they seem to be. Certainly, when we engage in acts of charity, we necessarily accept limits and make sacrifices. If I give my money away to the poor, I cannot then use that same money for my own personal benefit. If I choose to get married or have a child, I am bound by love to tend to the well-being of those other people and must give up some of my own liberty in the process.

Nevertheless, if this offering up of our liberty is done not by coercion but voluntarily, as an act of love for another human being, it does not ultimately diminish our freedom but rather allows us to become free at a far deeper level. “The more one does what is good,” says the Catechism, “the freer one becomes. There is no true freedom except in the service of what is good and just.” When we seek the good of others ahead of our own, we become more loving and therefore more free to be fully human. Or as St. Paul puts it, “For you were called to freedom, brethren; only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love be servants of one another” (Galatians 5:13).

Regarding the wearing of masks then, the question cannot be whether we privilege liberty or charity. We have to have basic liberty in order to be able to choose to be charitable, but only one choice actually leads to the fulfillment of both. It is only when we accept the duty to be charitable that we arrive at true freedom. The well respected microbiologist and theologian, Fr. Nicanor Austriaco, OP, made a lengthy post earlier this week explaining the science behind how transmission of Covid-19 takes place and why masks are effective as a deterrent. In referring to the decision of the White House to require the wearing of masks internally to stem an outbreak, he said, “This is morally justifiable, and some may even argue, morally obligatory once you know that masks could minimize viral spread from respiratory droplets.”

Of course, life is more complicated than that. There are always exceptions. Some people are not able to wear masks for medical reasons. There also may be times when the good of wearing a mask is outweighed by some other pressing good, the need to communicate in an emergency for instance. Individuals and private entities, including churches, will have to make prudent choices about just when and how to make use of masks for the safety and well being of others.

Still, the basic theological and moral principle at play is clear. We cannot grow in knowledge and love of God without also growing in love for other people, including strangers. Jesus models for us the greatest exercise of human freedom when he freely chooses the cross for the sake of the world.

Photo by Nickolay Romensky. Used under Creative Commons License.

The Civil Rights Issue of Our Age

Homily preached by the Rev. Jonathan A. Mitchican at St. John XXIII College Preparatory on Wednesday, January 23, 2019 – Memorial of St. Vincent

(Mark 3:1-6)

This past Monday was Martin Luther King day. The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. has long been a personal hero of mine – and I want to emphasize the reverend part because I think that often gets forgotten these days. He was a Baptist minister and a follower of Jesus. His letter from a Birmingham jail references St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas, as well as Scripture. The reason that he spoke out against the injustices in this country that were being perpetrated against African American people was because he believed in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Dr. King wrote, “An injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” He believed that, as Christians, we’re required to stand up against injustice in all its forms, and especially to stand with those who are weak, those who are oppressed, and those who can’t speak for themselves.

Dr. Alveda King is the niece of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. In 1973, shortly after Roe vs. Wade made abortion legal in all fifty states, Alveda King had two abortions in quick succession. She did it because she was told it was the right thing to do by her doctor, by her friends, and especially by the men in her life. It’s not an uncommon story. A lot of young women get abortions because they don’t know what else to do, because they’re scared, and because the men who should be stepping up to be fathers of their children instead say that they’ll be happy to pay for an abortion, but that they won’t be paying for anything if the child is born. So Alveda King aborted her children. And for several years after that, she became a pro-choice activist. It was the only way, she says, that she could come to terms with what had happened to her. She believed and repeated the lie that abortion was the only way that women could be free and that a child in the womb is nothing more than a clump of cells.

But then, in 1977, she became pregnant again, and this time the man in her life said to her, “This is my child. Please don’t kill it. I will be there for you and for our baby.” And King says she suddenly saw abortion for what it really was: not a tool of liberation but a tool of oppression. Today she’s the mother of six living children and a proud advocate for the cause of life. And she sees that cause as deeply connected with the cause for which her uncle fought and died decades ago.

In the Gospel reading we heard a few minutes ago, Jesus is confronted by a group of Pharisees who want to see if He’s willing to heal a man’s withered hand on the Sabbath so that they can get Him for it. The Sabbath is a law of God, not a law of man. But the Pharisees want to twist that law and use it for their own purposes. Jesus says to the Pharisees, “Is it lawful to do good on the sabbath rather than to do evil, to save life rather than to destroy it?” The purpose of the law is to save life, not to take it away. A law therefore that tells us that some lives are more valuable than others isn’t a just law, and it’s our responsibility as Christians to resist such a law by speaking the truth in love.

Yesterday was the Church’s annual day of prayer for the legal protection of the unborn, and last week was the annual March for Life in Washington, DC. Many Catholics participated in that march, including our own Sr. John Michael. I participated in the march myself back in 2012. Many people, though, including some Catholics, object to the Church’s involvement in these things. “The Church has no business being involved in politics,” they argue. And indeed, politics is the lens through which most people see this issue. Increasingly in our society, that’s the lens through which we see every issue. Politics has become the new religion of our society. And it’s a very dark, unforgiving religion – You’re either good or you’re bad; it’s us vs. them, take no prisoners. But the Church’s objection to abortion has nothing to do with modern American politics. The Church has been on record opposing abortion since at least the writing of the Didache in the late first century. Does the Church’s teaching have political implications? You bet. But that’s always true. It was true when Martin Luther King, Jr. stood up against segregation laws in the American south. It was true when Jesus stood up against the Pharisees.

You guys may think there’s nothing you can do about this because most of you aren’t old enough to vote yet, but there are so many ways that you can witness for life in our culture, not just by speaking out when the opportunity presents itself, but also by sharing your time, your energy, and your love with people in need. Stand up for young mothers and young families. Volunteer at a crisis pregnancy center or at another organization that supports single mothers and poor mothers. Work to eliminate poverty, which is one of the major social causes of abortion. Pray the rosary for the victims of abortion – which include not only the children who have died but also the women who’ve been lied to and used as pawns in a political chess game.

In 1958, black people in this country could not vote in most of the south, could not drink from the same water-fountains as white people, and could not even show their faces in many establishments. In 2008, a black man was elected president. And we’re nowhere near done fighting racism in our society, but that’s a heck of a lot of progress in fifty years. It didn’t happen by magic. It happened because many people–and particularly many Christians–stood up and fought for what’s right. It’s time for us to do the same thing with abortion. An injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. In the name of Jesus, may the voice of your generation be a cry of justice for the millions of your brothers and sisters who aren’t here to cry out with you.

The elusive freedom of Chris Cornell

Chris Cornell performing at the Montreux Jazz Festival in 2005. By Simon Jacquier from Vernayaz (near Martigny, Valais), Switzerland.

“If this doesn’t make you free, it doesn’t mean you’re tied,” sang Chris Cornell on the title track from Superunknown, Soundgarden’s 1994 breakthrough album. I have been listening to Soundgarden pretty constantly in the wake of Cornell’s apparent suicide two weeks ago. Superunknown is lyrically stream-of-consciousness, like James Joyce and Jackson Pollock had a musical baby. Yet listening to it again now, after many years of having it up on the shelf, it is clear to me that there is an emergent theme. These are songs about freedom. Or, to be more precise, these are songs about a longing for freedom that seems impossible to fulfill.

After a suicide, it is easy to read into everything someone ever did as a sign. This is particularly tempting with Superunknown, given the dark melancholy in much of the lyrics. The album ends with the song Like Suicide which is hard not to hear now as chillingly prescient. But this was an album that came out more than twenty years ago. It was neither Soundgarden’s first nor last record, and I would argue that it was not even their best. I did not know Cornell and I cannot even begin to understand what was going on inside of him on the night that he died. I certainly do not think I will discover the answer by reading the tea leaves of his discography.

Nevertheless, listening again to Superunknown has been its own reward. It hangs together as a whole surprisingly well, despite being a collection of disparate songs. It is reminiscent in some ways of the Beatles’ White Album. Like much of Soundgarden’s work, the songs on Superunknown have the intense energy and guitar work of hard rock and metal but with a deeply pleasing melodic core. Soundgarden spent the eighties pioneering the Seattle based sound that would later be referred to as grunge, and Superunknown displays that genre at its best.

“Let it go,” Cornell sings over and over again on the album’s opening song, Drown Me. “Won’t you let it drown me in you.” Over and over again, the album expresses this same elusive desire, to be released, unchained, allowed simply to be. My Wave, for instance, is about people feeling whatever they need to feel and doing whatever they have to do in order to get through the day, so long as they do not hold anyone else back in the process. It is a vision of libertarian individualism that is worthy of the postmodern world we live in.

Yet even as Cornell cries out for freedom, he is deeply vulnerable and realistic about the costs. In The Day I Tried to Live, he follows the advice of the voice in his head that tells him to “seize the day, pull the trigger, and watch the rolling blades,” but it does not give him the sense of strength or happiness he expects. “Words you say never seem to live up to the ones inside your head,” he sings. “The lives we make never seem to get us anywhere but dead.”

The tension that so much of Cornell’s music describes is not a new one. It is the human experience ever since the fall. We sense that we are not free, that there is an unseen force in this world that holds us captive. We rebel against it, hoping to shatter the chains and find the peace in our own skin that we have never been able to find. But then we discover that the real enemy oppressing us is not outside of us at all. It is our own brokenness, driving us both to long for deep union with others and simultaneously to push others away. Our own suffering hearts enslave us in patterns of self absorption and abuse that we cannot escape, no matter how many external threats to our freedom we eliminate.

The answer to this is found in Christ, but not in a glib way. I do not for a second think that Cornell’s life would have been all flowers and rainbows if he had followed Jesus (and if I did think that, I would be as guilty of self-deception and self-righteousness as the Christian interlocutor that Cornell describes in the song Jesus Christ Pose). For all I know, Cornell may have been a Christian. In most interviews, he said that he was a “spiritual free thinker” and refused to be pinned down, but he did become a member of the Greek Orthodox Church when he married his wife in 2004.

There are moments of deep spiritual insight in many of the songs that Cornell wrote over the years. The hound of heaven was certainly on his heels, and it seems that at least on some level he knew that. Cornell told Mark Maron in 2014 that he had no idea what Soundgarden’s major hit Black Hole Sun is really about, but it is hard for me to believe that all the snakes and masks that show up in that song, only to be thwarted by the coming of the dawn, are there at random. “Heaven send hell away / no one sings like you anymore.”

The freedom that so many of us long for, not only from external threats to our liberty but from the interior tyranny of our own hearts, is a freedom that can only be found in the cross. What Jesus offers the world is a hard sell. It is not freedom from suffering. It is, rather, freedom in and through suffering, or more precisely it is freedom that gives suffering a meaning and a purpose. What Jesus takes into His own body on the cross is not merely our rule-breaking but the very substance of our broken hearts. In a godless world, suffering would be meaningless and random, but in a world in which God has become man and died and risen, our own suffering becomes the means by which we enter into the mystery of God’s grace. As we allow our suffering to be united with Christ’s on the cross, it is transformed. No longer does it define us or contain us. Thanks to the miracle of Easter, even death itself becomes a doorway to the infinite rather than a looming curse.

Suicide is a very serious sin in as much as it is a rejection of God’s love, but more often than not it is motivated not by a conscious choice but by issues of mental health, addiction, depression, or any of a host of other factors beyond our control. I wish that Chris Cornell had not killed himself, both because I lament the loss of his musical genius and because I am sad for the loss to his family. Suicide is never the answer. It does not stop the pain. But I pray that God will be merciful to him and to those who love and miss him.

I am thankful for Superunknown and for all the other beautifully sad works of art that Chris Cornell put out into the world. Despite the temptation to hear everything he did now through the lens of his suicide, I still feel a giddy roar of life in these songs. The words are cryptic and often conflicted, but the music shimmers with the energy of new life and creative hope. And that is Easter too, that a suffering song can make you want to get up and dance, that an introspective and confessional lament can be turned outward and become the very stuff of love.

How Christians talk about sexual difference

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If you had to buy clothes for a little boy under the age of seven a century ago, a pretty pink dress would have been a socially acceptable option. According to an article in the June, 1918 issue of Earnshaw’s Infant’s Department, “The generally accepted rule is pink for the boys, and blue for the girls. The reason is that pink, being a more decided and stronger color, is more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl.” By the end of World War I, the trend of putting dresses on young children of both sexes had waned, but it was not until the 1940s that blue became associated with boys and pink with girls.

There is quite a lot about the way we understand what it means to be a man or a woman that is generated by cultural trends, even when it comes to things we feel very strongly. The result of this has been, at times, the unfair punishment of one sex or the other for non-conformity, experienced most strongly by women.

As our culture has awakened to this reality, it has in some ways over-corrected. Since the 1960s, some feminists have argued that there are no real and essential differences between men and women, other than a bit of plumbing. It is not hard to draw the line between that reasoning and today’s acceptance of the idea of gender as a social construct, the breakdown of the family, the absence of fathers, etc. But none of that eclipses the fact that there are aspects of our lived experience as men and women, some of which are very dear to us and feel completely inherent, that are nevertheless social constructs. Blue may feel more masculine to us and pink may feel more feminine, but a century ago we would have felt exactly the opposite was true.

This all ran through my head as I read Alastair J. Roberts’ recent piece for The Gospel Coalition, “How Should We Think About Watching Women Fight?” (originally titled “Why Christians Should Refuse to Celebrate Women Fighting”). Roberts argues strongly that Christians ought to be opposed to women fighting in mixed martial arts because it “cuts against the grain of the ends for which they were created.” Along the way, Roberts makes good points about the sexualization of women fighters and the way in which such sexualized violence feeds into the pornographic mindset of the mostly male viewership of the UFC. Yet his ultimate point seems to be that women should not fight because that just is not something that women do. He relies for this assessment on the generally greater upper body strength of men and a vaguely described notion of men having a “greater propensity toward, aptitude for, and interest in both violence and agonism [=struggle].”

In addition to women who fight in the UFC, Roberts is also critical of the trope of the “strong female character” – the waifish woman in television and films who kicks the butts of men twice her size (think River from Firefly or Black Widow in the recent Avengers films). “Such women exemplify the virtues of much contemporary feminism and gender theory,” he says, “which commonly seek to deny the reality of sexual difference, overturn all gender norms, and disproportionately celebrate women who achieve in traditionally male activities or contexts.”

Roberts is right that there is a problem in contemporary western culture that has emerged from the loss of an essentialist view of sexual difference. He is also right that women are largely on the losing end of that stick. For all of the claims that women fighting in the UFC or scantily clad women fighting in popular fiction empowers women, the sad truth is that such things give cover to the idea that the only way women can have value in our society is if they do what men do, or make themselves sexually available to men, or both. As Roberts puts it, this is an “idealization of women who most conform to male norms of behavior, interests, and aptitudes, an idealization that can make unlikely allies of contemporary feminists and male fantasists.”

Unfortunately, Roberts seems content to name “male behavior” and “female behavior” as the correctives for this problem, as if such things are easily and universally identifiable. It may be true that men tend to be more aggressive than women – I have no immediate data to back that up, but it sounds anecdotally true – but if it is true, what does that mean? Are men supposed to be aggressive? Are women not? Why? Who says? If we find a woman who is able to kick a man’s butt, does that disprove the theory?

These questions are compounded in Roberts’ article by his lack of reference to Christian sources of authority. Roberts only quotes Scripture once, making a passing allusion in his final paragraph to Genesis 2 which he does not flesh out. He quotes from no fathers, no theologians, and no councils. In short, he is attempting to make a Christian argument that does not actually have any Christianity in it.

Compare and contrast this approach with the document Inter Insignores, a 1976 declaration of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith which was endorsed by Pope Paul VI and heavily cited by Pope St. John Paul II in his 1994  apostolic letter, Ordinato Sacerdotalis. Inter Insignores deals with the question of whether or not women can be ordained priests, not whether or not they should be knocking each other’s brains out in the UFC, but the fundamental question behind the question is the same: What can the Church say definitively about the essential differences between men and women?

Both Inter Signores and Ordinato Sacerdotalis are careful to be economic in their pronouncements. They say that the primary reason why the Church cannot ordain women is because Christ simply did not leave His Church authority to do so. Nonetheless, Inter Signores expounds deeply upon the theology of the priest as someone who stands in the place of Christ. This is a sacramental reality that requires a physical sign in the priest’s own body:

The incarnation of the Word took place according to the male sex: this is indeed a question of fact, and this fact, while not implying any alleged natural superiority of man over woman, cannot be disassociated from the economy of salvation: it is indeed in harmony with the entirety of God’s plan as God himself has revealed it, and of which the mystery of the Covenant is the nucleus.

The CDF goes on to cite a vast array of Scripture passages—Galatians 4, Ephesians 5, Revelation 19, and especially Matthew 22:1-14, among others—to make the case that salvation is wrapped up in the “nuptial mystery” of the joining of Christ (male) with His Church (female). “It is through this Sciptural language, all interwoven with symbols, and which expresses and affects man and woman in their profound identity, that there is revealed to us the mystery of God and Christ, a mystery which of itself is unfathomable.” The document does not try to pull apart the mystery and examine each individual component, but instead accepts it as a whole, a tapestry of interconnected realities of maleness and femaleness, including essential differences that go beyond mere plumbing but that are nevertheless hard to pin down in a scientific way.

Whether one accepts the central argument of Inter Signores or not, it is clear that there are ways for traditional Christians to talk about gender essentialism that do not require us to hitch our wagons to unprovable, anecdotal evidence. When we start with Scripture and the historic teaching of the Church—instead of with novel American cultural norms and intuition—we come to a much clearer and less cluttered critique of our culture’s approach to sexual difference.

Women and men are different on many different levels, none of which invalidates our equal dignity before God. Given how our culture has historically curtailed the freedoms and diminished the contributions of women, we do well as Christians to examine carefully our basic understandings of gender and to distinguish as best as possible between that which is truly inherent and that which is merely culturally received. Yet even as we do so, we must remember the finely woven tapestry. It is not easy to pull one thread out without seeing the others fly loose. That is the tragedy we now live in, wherein a real and true and good critique of sexism has resulted in a total breakdown in our society’s ability to value the objective differences between women and men.