On Sports

The most popular entertainment in America. Controversial. Controlled violence, unparalleled grace, heroic effort, bullies and villains, powerhouses and underdogs, inspiring stories. Lovers and haters.

The tenuous connection between the players and the teams. The stars and the unsung workhorses. Brute effort and relentless dedication versus millions of dollars and flashy lifestyles. The tenuous connection between the teams and their followers--the question of whether the teams represent, or play for the impassioned fans of their cities.

Sports.

I watched my team, the Fighting Irish, lose completely to the Crimson Tide of Alabama in the College Football National Championship last week. What to say? That our undefeated regular season was something to be proud of? That it was an accomplishment to make it to the National Championship game? That it augurs well for next season?

No.

Those things are true. Such sentiments indicate the first great gift Sports has to give, hope. The promise of possibility. So I am not bitter--rather, I'm proud of my team for their accomplishments. And I tell them, thanks. Thanks for the work, the heart, the class.

But the game is over. No words can erase the loss, or mitigate it. I wouldn't want them to. There is something totally pure about Sports in that there is only one thing that matters, and it is now. This play. What happens in this moment. What actually happens may not be pure--it may be ungraceful, poorly executed, or unsportsmanlike. But that it, and only it, matters... That is pure.

Sports is about the eternal present on the field, in the play, among the players. It is authentically objective, even if the objective fact is obscured by the speed of execution. It is an allegory of the human experience, where the past may inspire or may goad, the future is the stuff of dreams and nightmares, but the present is all that matters. Is it positive or negative? Does it achieve or fail? Does it advance the cause or not? Whatever the answer, it matters.

This moment matters. This moment begs us, like each minute of play, in each sport, to rise to the occasion. Each moment is a chance to shine, to anticipate and focus, to do something that answers the call of that moment.

And now that game is in the books. A new moment is upon us. How do we respond to this moment?

Sports arouses us. Brings us in. Illustrates the manifest importance of each moment. We hope our sports avatars meet each moment well--perhaps perfectly. But they are just avatars. Their successes are not ours, and neither are their failures. They only represent what we want for ourselves.

So how do we meet our moments?

Adaptation, self, and disturbing interests

Humans are adaptable creatures. I was reminded quite suddenly of that fact this afternoon, when I resurrected my iPad from it's sentinel on my desk and caught up on some Hulu television shows (ok, so far I'm sounding like a technological caricature of a person). I also checked my email inbox, where I was looking for some news...and whoops! there it was. A long-overlooked email from a former professor of mine.

This email in question was a response to a message I sent him on the occasion of receiving some literature from my former college. I was deployed at the time, and struggling with separation from my new family and the almost constant activity that attends military operations. The mailing was a both a wrench and a breath of fresh air: it recalled the second-happiest period of my life, my time at Notre Dame. And as I re-read that email, written two years ago from the sleepy agricultural Japanese village of Komatsu, I wondered at all that had changed.

Like many, I turn to the familiar when I encounter adversary. Actually, that's like all of us. One of the benefits of studying ethics under Dr. Steven Olsen is that I can understand some of the impulses that govern my behavior. And he has demonstrated in neurological studies that humans ALWAYS go to the familiar in some form or another when faced with adversity. Choosing the different requires opposition, either in the form of a person who says, "no! don't do that! do this instead!" But I digress. In any case, during the particular adversity of that deployment--which seemed to consist of equal parts missing my wife, struggling to keep up with our day-to-day flying and movement schedule, training flights, and hangovers--I found refuge in my old refuge, books.

If you've clicked the link, you know that the book in question was Moby Dick. It might have seemed a little odd to my squadron-mates that I would curl up in bland, minimalist, and weirdly overstuffed sitting area with my Kindle while they were more concerned about taking the new guys out to Karaoke as a means to forcing them to perform 'Paradise by the Dashboard Lights' and nicknaming them Meatloaf (perhaps the new Marine Corps order on hazing has a part in this discussion? I kid, I kid), but they were used to my oddness. After all, they found it endlessly entertaining that my college degree was in something so vaguely titled, "Great Books" and they marveled at my effortless use of words outside their vocabulary. And though they eventually knew me better, perhaps, that my reader here, they initially drew the same conclusion: namely that I was nerdy, affectedly academic, and pompous, and that I probably was homeschooled too. Actually, I was not.

It's just, well, I have always had an affinity for reading. A psychologist would no doubt have a field day delving into my past and figuring out why my childhood friends were books, rather than friends, but here I am and then, in adversity, I went straight back to a good book, and forewent the Karaoke (although in retrospect I'm sorry I did, except that maybe otherwise I wouldn't have written that email, or rediscovered it now, or sat down to write a rambling reflection on it).

And so as I revisited this old email, my adaptability presented itself in the subject of the last books I read: The Rise of the Wehrmacht: The German Armed Forces and World War II, Stormtroop Tactics: Innovation in the German Army, 1914-1918, and my current projects, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich and The Gathering Storm (Churchill's memoirs on World War II). Apart from maybe wondering if I've discovered some evil attraction in Hitler's awful regime (something some of my, er, acquaintances will no doubt say they knew already), the discerning reader will note the sharp shift from the pure artistic literature of Moby Dick and Paradise Lost (referenced in that old letter) to the very serious topic of European military history during the two world wars. So, I have adapted.

My wife sometimes tells me that I've assimilated too much into the 'Marine Culture.' I find this hard to believe, since I keep my hair as normal-looking as possible without pushing the boundary of stated grooming regulations and I don't have any tattoos on my body that say USMC, or depict an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, or that announce my MOS (looking at you, grunts!). But then I realize that I have traded in that thing I really loved--a great story, artfully told, illustrating something True about life--for something more narrowly focused to my profession. She was right, and I have to say that while chagrined I am also grateful that she stood athwart my regress and told me to stop. I repeat: so, I have adapted.

Now I want to make it clear that I think it a very good thing that I read military history. After all, I chose to read these books on purpose. And no, Lakesiders (and casual Facebook visitors), it's not because I'm somehow contemplating Nazism (academically or otherwise). Having in some wise the education of young officers, who will shortly be leading young Americans into combat, in my charge, well I'd better be educating myself! But instruction is futile if it's not authentic, and the less authentic I become in my self-imposed mind-narrowing the poorer instruction I'll give.

I should have read the signs, of course. I was thrilled to discourse a bit on Aristotle when talking ethics to my own Alpha Company, 6th Platoon. I recently started listening intently to classical music in the car when driving to and from work. WETA, anyone? Today I dived into my iTunes collection of hymns. All tugging me back to that most enjoyable thing for me, encountering good stories and Truth. It's my hobby, the way some people enjoy conversation, or woodworking, or playing an instrument. I only wish my hobby were more social, but, well, I blame the homeschooling (or whatever gave me that aura), apologies to one recent student and all homeschooled readers. You're all probably smarter than the rest of us, by the way.

So, adaptability. Definitely a good thing. Allows us to bring our talents to bear in new pursuits. Brings us into conversation with 'the different' so we don't always end up reacting the same way. But it also can pull us away from whatever constitutes our favorite things about, well, life. I don't subscribe to the theory that there is some immutable 'me' inside every one of us (well, not 'me;' in your case it would 'you') that has existed since conception or birth and persists until death--humans are too complicated for that. We grow, and develop, and adapt, and usually find things than are more enjoyable that what was previously our favorite. And it's really only important that we gravitate to the things that make us happy. Unfortunately for my wife and my close friends, I now add 'history about the German Army of the two world wars' to that list of things that makes me happy.

And I will finish my two current books, because *hmpf* I am a father and it's important I set the example of finishing what I started, and then I'll move on to something a little broader in scope. I would welcome suggestions.

Yes, Virginia, America does have a sport as wonderful as soccer

Often the athleticism of American Football Players has been called into question. Critics usually claim they are "oversized" or (more succinctly) "overweight." The validity of the sport has been maligned by derisive claims that the players wear pads and helmets, whereas in the similar sport of Rugby they do not. Often I hear such accusations from trendy, condescending types who seemingly wish to distance themselves from what they clearly regard as a "barbaric" sport--no doubt better suited to big dumb oxen or preternaturally fast runners, and (I suspect) usually those from, ahem, rural parts of the country. Civilized people, perhaps, join the rest of the world in adulation of soccer. Or tennis. Or golf. All of this muttering is becoming louder in these days of the 2010 World Cup of soccer, played in South Africa.

But make no mistake: not even the media obsession of international footballers amid the hue and cry of the World Cup coverage can disguise the fact that there are no athletes in the world like those that play American football. They are unbelievably quick, even at more than 300 pounds; they jump incredibly high, and they have the kind of hand-eye coordination and balance that allows them not only to keep their feet while being hit or pushed by 1200-odd pounds of force, but to to divert that weight from the quarterback or runner they're protecting (and no, I'm not exaggerating that number--that's the force of two tackles who can each squat more than 600 pounds). And those are just the linemen. I haven't even gotten started on the so-called "skill positions" that can throw a ball to and catch it from a precise spot in the sky at a precise time in the play, or that can change direction and accelerate to avoid tackles so gracefully. Or the complicated deception tactics that are used to get the ball moving forward, or the teamwork showcased when linemen, tight ends, and receivers sacrifice their bodies to protect the ball-carrier downfield. Or the heart that after an hour of explosive play in bitterly cold (or brutally hot) temperatures can still bind aching muscle and bruised limbs to a player's will for one more bit of magic and maybe six more points.

As for the presence of pads, well, I tend to look at sports through the lens of Lacrosse, which I played briefly but with moderate success in high school. There were hard hits during that game, but after 10 years of focus on American Football, with about six weeks of comparative study of Australian-Rules Football and rugby during a brief stint down under, I will say that the dynamic and fluid struggle on a rugby field are no where near as violent or injurious as the static collision along the line in a football game. I've never seen a rugby player slam directly into another as would a tailback and linebacker colliding full-tilt into each other between the tackles on the line, or as would a wide receiver and safety both chasing the same ball from opposite sides of the field, or as would a nose guard and two tackles at the snap of the ball. It's possible, of course, that I missed the "greatest hits" reel from comparable sports, but until I see it I'll remain skeptical. There's nothing wimpy about American football, and the pads are a necessity to prevent broken collarbones and ribs. And believe me I know that soccer is a contact sport along with all the rest of my list.

I doubt, certainly, that many American football players could hang for a 90-minute game of soccer; nor am I demeaning the skill, intelligence, endurance, execution, and heart required to compete on the soccer pitch. But whatever one's preferences are regarding sports, I don't think a reasonable person could deny that at least as much athleticism is required of American football players as is required of soccer players. I'll throw Lacrosse, Hockey, and (yes) Rugby into the same category.

I'm aware that some dreamy or critical Americans have also foolishly wished that we these United States had some sport that could capture our imagination the way soccer so apparently captures the world. They fail to realize, of course, that the shrines of American Football--Notre Dame Stadium, Tuscaloosa, Lambeau Field, Soldier Field, the Meadowlands, The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party in the World, Cowboy Stadium, The Rose Bowl--bear witness every weekend in fall and wintertime to the fact that Americans love their American football as much as anybody loves another sport. One only need look at the whiteout in happy valley, or the terrible towel, or the 11th man (both in College Station and in Seattle) to see the same level of excitement now oriented from around the world at South Africa. Not even the glitz and commercialism of events like the Super Bowl and the National Championship Game can dim their luster in the eyes of those who make those contests some of the most-watched television events...ever.

The rest of the world can't see the wonder in this wonderful game of American Football, but that doesn't mean it isn't there. And while I have gained much respect and affection towards the fine and noble sport of soccer this World Cup 2010, there is nothing that will ever equal the enchantment of a Saturday gameday in autumn.

Letter to a former professor concerning a liberal education

Dear Professor S-------,

I write to you from the midpoint of a deployment to Japan (my second in as many years) and, oddly enough, on the eve of my 10-year high school reunion. That, coupled with the recent Programa 2010 I received in the mail, has whirled my thoughts back to my own years studying the Great Books. That it took six months to arrive at my deployed location in rural Iwakuni is a testament to the vicissitudes of military life as well as a sort of metaphor for the long road I have taken from room 215 in O'Shaugnhessy Hall on Notre Dame's beautiful campus.

You must excuse me if I am a little nostalgic for those two old PLS classrooms on the second floor of that stuffy, grey-bricked and yellow-tiled building. It was always my favorite building on Notre Dame's campus, I confess—the discordant steps one had to take from the soaring, stained-glass-lit entryway into the crowded industrial hallways littered with flyers always seemed to me the soul of college. Whether students and professors entered the central-heating gratefully brushing snow or rain from coats or mildly regretting their exit from fall or spring splendor, the workmanlike intimacy of coffee shop and classrooms, small desks and big ideas never failed to inspire. And of course it was the big ideas that seduced me.

The interconnectedness of things and the efficacy of prayer are two concepts that have haunted me throughout my life, and I suffered just such a haunting upon opening the Programa. I re-read Moby Dick only weeks ago, wondering anew at Melville's fantastic story about seeking to appreciate, understand, and (in Ahab's case) arrogate the divine, only to find that the Cronin-award-winning essay was also about Moby Dick. I naturally read it through with pleasure, remembering quite well the quoted passages. A strange coincidence, no? I have marveled at similar coincidences since my memories began. And as before, this particular coincidence stirred in me memories and understandings long sifted to the bottom of my heart over the six intervening years that separated me from 215 O’Shaugnhessy.

I read with interested and excitement your Opening Charge. In my opinion the Program of Liberal Studies sets itself apart from any other university education not only by its strong and integrated academics (religiously integrated and substantively integrated, both of which you dwell on briefly in the Charge), but by its approach to the business of learning. There is an adage I learned from my parents that “anything worth doing is worth doing well,” which is a value often lost in an acquisitive and materialistic society. For legion students looking to be employable as they leave college, perhaps the nuance required in a genuine values-oriented struggle with their academics (whether the subject be an engineering problem, an accounting problem, or a literature problem) seems superfluous. If success in life is truly more “who you know” than “what you know,” the important thing is the actual degree and the contacts with which you graduate, not the transformation into an erect, thoughtful person offered by the university milieu (if I may borrow crudely the subject of Part I of your Charge). Anything worth doing is worth doing well, and to gather the community together for an "Opening Charge" to reinforce that not only are integrated academics worth doing on their own merits, but that they're worth doing well, is unusual and sustaining.

It surprised me to read that you began your advanced education in the fields of Evolution and Biology, since I made the mistake of many PLS students and assumed that all instructors were originally philosophy or literature professors. The passage from advanced knowledge to faith was well-charted in literature by C.S. Lewis, a favorite author of mine, and it seems to fit your own passage from ocean biology to philosophy and then to the Program in certain significant respects. I was lucky, however: I discovered that reason and faith were inseparable immediately after adolescence (or, in our world of lengthening youth, perhaps I mean “during late adolescence”) through the efforts of you and your fellow professors. The Thomistic concept of theology and natural science cordially and passionately exchanging knowledge each from within their own bounded spheres makes simple sense to me and seems to overlay neatly the entire discussion you bring up in the Charge of applying the principles of anatomical homology to behavior, intellect, and spirit. Casting the whole of human evolution as biomolecular processes, and applying that principle to human experiences, is certainly “a profound reductionism of the human to the animal.” The “striving upward” or “seeking upward” that is emphasized by your discussion of walking upright only confirms the conviction of our faith that we are ontologically different as human beings in our moral consciousness, our manipulation of environment to create symphonies and cathedrals, and our self-awareness to the point of death—we co-exist in a supernatural world wherein exist perfect values like Truth, Beauty, and Goodness. Thanks to the Program and its professors that conviction was allowed to flower within me before it entirely withered before the hot air and cold reason of modern education.

Put simply, the Great Books education (and the points you draw in your Charge) introduced me formally to the concept of integrity, the idea that we are interconnected entities of soul and body, and that by extension our actions in all cases must reflect our values. We cannot, at our core, compartmentalize and yet still claim integrity. Integrity means whole-ness, or structural soundness. And if truth and righteousness are good things, as my convictions and reason tell me, then they must apply to my entire life; to except pieces here and there (like a literature class, or a military order, or a personal doubt) is to fail to be whole and complete. It was just such a clear and joint application of faith and reason that resulted in my discovery of my wife; the intellectual razor of integrity cut away all the festering crust of doubt and conventional wisdom to present for my wonderment the great love I conceived and yet hold for her. So also formed my certainty that the execution of my profession well was worth the long nights and great personal investment it requires. What the Program essentially taught me, and what your Opening Charge reinforces, has made it possible for me to become a person I value. I honestly don't think I would have had the spiritual wherewithal to become a Marine, an Aviator, a husband, or a man without being invited and encouraged to stand upright against the weight of the world, even if just for 20 hours a week during three years of my youth, by the Great Books. I said it before in an email to Professor F-------, and I don't think I could say it better to you: "I am lucky, really, to have discovered so early in my life that earnest truth-seeking and pursuing righteousness are more lasting values than success or pleasure."

You were my professor for more than a few classes, and you therein guided me through a good deal of the transformation wrought by PLS. You also occasionally appeared at the 5:15 daily Mass at the basilica, which impressed me nearly as much. Your Opening Charge brought me back with a wrench to that warm intellectual life of seminar and thought, which was well-exemplified by Mr. Benz' excellent essay on Moby Dick. The practical demands of today's military tasks, or today’s personal obligations, or the fact that today I am deployed away from wife and home can seem irresistibly heavy, but that I can bear them at all is due to the upright posture I learned through PLS—its integrated, rigorous academics and its cultivation of community alike. Thank you for your wonderful Opening Charge, and for everything else.

Lovers in Japan

So important was our decision to marry, when I made it back in late September of 2009, that my then-fiance and I defied the odds and set about planning a wedding as soon as possible. Those were heady days, for though we lived in different cities we were enthusiastically in love, and the jet-setting from Chicago to San Diego and back again added spice to an already amazing romance. It was natural that we wanted to unite in short order--after all, once we knew we wanted each other forever, it didn't make much sense to wait.

The only snag in our plans was a scheduled deployment. I would be departing for Japan with my squadron in March 2010 ("sometime that month" was all we knew). That left us precious little time to plan this wedding of ours. We weren't going to do a halfway job, either, so the pressure was really on. Factor in the honeymoon and my own requirement of arriving back in San Diego with enough time to, you know, actually prepare for deployment...and from the time of the engagement in early October, we had barely four months to throw a wedding.

Sounds like a nightmare, right? Well, parts of it were. But my overall sensation was that of an irresistible flow. Providence struck first during our search for a wedding venue. As we were both enthusiastic alumni of Notre Dame, we naturally wished to be married in the basilica there. Such a wish is shared by all enthusiastic Notre Dame alumni (is there any other kind?), so at the time we called to inquire the basilica was booked solid for the next two and a half years. Booked solid, that is, except for two weekends in February 2010! I don't know what caused those slots to suddenly open up--I hope some poor bastard didn't get his wedding cancelled--but the weekend of February 6th, 2010 was perfect timing. It would maximize our time to the wedding, it would allow for a honeymoon, and there would be several weeks for Kate and I to enjoy matrimony before I had to leave.

Many other such happy coincidences occurred. The day of the wedding was beautiful--sun on fresh snow--and the honeymoon was just delightful. The greatest "miracle" of all, of course, was the tireless amount of work put forth by my wife and her mother, who together (and largely without my help) cut an eight-month process in half. I owe them a great deal of gratitude, and more certainly than I've been able to express already with my not inconsiderable eloquence. They together gave me three weeks of marriage before I left, and I cherished that. But it wasn't enough.

One of the most wrenching things I've been through is leaving my newlywed wife. It was even more bitter because the simple task of preparing to fly my aircraft across the Pacific robbed us of time together. It seemed cruel that I was so eager to really start a life with her, and all I had were three weeks of borrowed time. It was worse for her, I freely admit. She is a saint for her good humor those three long weeks in which I spent so much time at work (alas, necessarily!). When I dropped her off at the airport for her trip back to Chicago, it was very clear that I would have to find a way to bring us together at least once over the following six months.

And so plans for a second honeymoon were born! I wouldn't describe Japan as a typical honeymoon destination, but Kate and I were going to make it work. All we wanted, really, was to see each other. And so on May 24th, 2010, Kate flew out of Chicago O'Hare while I took the Shin-Kansen train from Hiroshima to meet up at Tokyo.

Unfortunately, we both missed the rendezvous.

Kate's flight was delayed. No fault of hers. And I, that consummate traveler through the Far East, on my second deployment to Japan, became confused as I tried to find the train to Narita Airport and ended up on a slow commuter train winding through the curious countryside east of Tokyo. It was both pleasant and frustrating to dawdle through rice fields and compact pockets of industrialization, jerking to a stop every 10 minutes or so. It was maddening to sit in silence with no way to contact Kate whatsoever--neither of us had cell phones. But some rudimentary Japanese and some rudimentary English eventually got me on the right train, and I arrived at Narita at last. I hurried to the arrival board, glancing wildly in all directions to see if I could spot my wife, and found out the good news. Kate's plan would land in half an hour.

I can't describe what it was like to wait for her. I did all the usual things one does in airports when one is waiting. I bought a coke. I sat casually on a bench. I struck up the odd conversation with other denizens of the place. I noticed that the familiar sights of Japan--giggling schoolgirls in uniforms and in herds, stern well-dressed men of all ages smoking and padding past on their leather soles, gaudy bright incomprehensible signs flashing and shimmering advertisements--all looked a little out-of-place in the building, which looked so much like an American airport. I wondered what Kate would think of it all. I wondered if we'd recognize each other. I wondered what color her hair would be.* Each time a group of travelers would descend the escalator, my heart started beating fast and I would shift around, moving from an erect, impressive posture to a casual lean against a column as I tried to find a pose that was comfortable and attractive (we all have our vanities...especially regarding our bride!). I searched face after face, and several times I slumped, disappointed, as the latest group would peter out without yielding my wife. But then, in the middle of the upteenth group, I heard my name! And there she was, beautiful in a purple dress and auburn hair. And the lovers were reunited.

It was wonderful to sit together on the shuttle bus to our hotel. I was flattered that instead of being glued to the window, Kate was glued to me--for the hour-long trip we talked. It wasn't a rush of words, either. It was just normal conversation about us, about our anxiety at seeing each other after three months apart, about our plans for the next ten days. It was a rare and incandescent pleasure just to be able to see each other without the intermediary of a video camera. And when the bus dropped us off at our hotel, it seemed the world was made for our enjoyment--we laughed at the lobby, left in the 80s by the passage time; we laughed at the funny fixtures of our hotel room; we laughed at the magnificent view of the endless bright city stretching beneath us.

And though both of us would probably have preferred to visit Paris, or New York, or Barcelona for our second honeymoon, Tokyo didn't put up a bad show. The subways were efficient and claustrophobic, so we spent as much time out of them as possible, and we flitted from ancient temple to trendy upscale Thai buffet, from castles and moats to giant designer buildings boasting names like Dior and Hermes. One unforgettable night slowed down to a solid memory as hungry, we took a tiny modern elevator to the seventh floor of a building that looked like a video game and found a smokey, buzzing restaurant. Unusual for Tokyo there were no western patrons, and it soon became evident why: the hostess apologetically crossed her arms and said, "no gaijin." We, as foreigners, were gaijin--but we were hungry as well, so I hastened to offer some Japanese in a plea for a table. The manager showed up in short order, looking like a beardless Miyagi, and he kindly returned some Japanese and led us to a table. Through clusters of businessmen and women who smoked over their food and laughed in a most uninhibited matter, Kate and I sank into the comfortable fabric of a city bar, that place found around the world and patronized by locals. Though the menu was in Japanese and had no pictures, and though we ended up with raw beef, it was one of the best dates (and best dinners) that I can remember. I have much less memory of the sights.

Kate, more organized than I, had found good reviews of a small city named Kyoto. So in the middle of our trip we boarded the Shin-Kansen and raced south to the old imperial city at 150 mph. Kate's research had also found us a boutique hotel, with unique rooms and rave reviews, at decent internet prices. We were in high spirits.

Alas, Kyoto was harder to negotiate than we anticipated. With nothing but an address, incomprehensible in Japanese, we attempted the subway but ended up going the wrong way. We were afraid to try the bus for the same reason. So footsore that we were (after my obsession with sightseeing had dragged us all over Tokyo), we walked our luggage along the half-mile southern border of the imperial palace, dead-reckoning our way to the hotel. It rained a little, too. But it was worth it--when we arrived, we were ensconced comfortably in the basement bar, fed refreshing drinks, and apprised of the amenities. Then, much more comfortable, we were shown courteously to our room by a young man with the mannerisms of a quality real estate agent. The room was large and comfortable, elegantly appointed with modern furniture and a sitting area. After the bustle and pace of Tokyo (made more overwhelming by the incomprehensible and glittering signs), this little Kyoto enclave was a slice of heaven.

But it was to get better. That evening, hungry from our travels, we set forth after dark to find a place to eat. The hotel staff were very helpful, giving us a list of suggestions and apologetically warning us that many places closed relatively early. How different from the all-hours activity of Tokyo! So we strolled the cool, clean streets of the city and stumbled across a little, unassuming bistro named "Le Bouchon." A red motorcycle was parked outside, and it was warm and cozy within. A polite and casually-dressed young man welcomed us in, and handed us each a menu hand-written in French. That night we ate delicious crusty bread, rich and satisfying boeuf bourguignon, and washed it all down with a fine bordeaux. It was a French restaurant, exquisite and romantic. We couldn't have done better if we'd stepped into a forgotten alley in Paris, and we didn't want any better--we enjoyed three wonderful meals there during our stay in Kyoto, each one redolent with conversation and marvelous food. It turns out there is a great deal of French influence in the city, for every other restaurant offered french pastries and food. And so we began the amazing sensual experience of Kyoto.

Renting bikes and pedaling our way between untouched temples, zen gardens, and ancient districts cut with canals, forever under the green shadow of surrounding mountains, we honeymooned happily. The only discordant note was the somewhat brisk pace I set whenever the old obsession for sightseeing reared it's head. But Kate got me to relax a little, and put up with my schedule with good humor. We'd begin every day breakfasting in the hotel bar on artfully cooked eggs ham, and toast, then we'd venture forth into pristine sunlight. One afternoon we spent lunching in the Gion district on Japanese pancakes, listing to water burble by in the canal; on many other occasions we sat in green shady zen gardens. At one site we met some eager Japanese students on assignment to get a note written in English; we took a picture with them. And each night we retreated to Le Bouchon. We finally boarded the Shin-Kansen to Tokyo with melancholy. Added to the disappointment of leaving Kyoto was Kate's impending departure.

Only two more nights were left to us. The first we encountered some Americans at a British pub and caroused as only expatriates can. The next we found ourselves in Shinjuku for a final dinner at the Park Hyatt hotel, made famous by the movie Lost in Translation. It was a spare and elegant meal, high over the many twinkling lights of Tokyo below. There we talked about the trip, about ourselves, and about the sad three months left before my return to the United States. Though it was as honeymooners that we enjoyed Japan together, it was also as a married couple, for I began to experience the life together I yearned for despite the concurrent deployment.

It was a terrible wrench to bid goodbye in the airport. As Kate descended the stairs to the gate, leaving a yawning cavern in my life where the Shin-Kansen rails stretched emptily to the deadly boredom of Iwakuni, there passed between us a longing that will remain with me forever. The exotic lure of travel died that day, and my days became a long wait to go home.

*My wife cheerfully and charmingly changes her hair color about monthly.

Austen’s Aphorism on Love and Marriage

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." So begins Jane Austen's outstanding novel, Pride and Prejudice, and though recently I agreed with it in principle, I lived practically in direct opposition. Nearly five years out of college I was consistently single and saw nothing to change that in the near future. The reason why I was so stagnant in my unsought-for bachelorhood I'd like to examine later, really. But that seemed to be a fact of my life.

I'd had good relationships before. Most of my relationships had been good, actually, until the period before the break-up. I thought myself reasonably loyal and devoted, I recognized an unattractive propensity toward insecurity and creeping selfishness which I tried manfully to stem, and with a few exceptions my girlfriends were pretty, good, and all reasonably stable. I had even considered marriage with one or two of the more serious girlfriends, but as I've since discovered I considered it only in an academic sense. At the time it was even an attractive option. For though I was young, possessed of the moderate fortune that devolves upon a young officer with the benefits of flight pay, a Captain's salary, and the forced penury of deployments, I was quite lonely.

Many of my friends were married, however, and my exposure to and observation of their lives left me with the impression that Jane Austen was correct. While on weekends I dragged myself to bars wearying in their repetitiveness, they repined at home in pajamas watching favorite movies with a constant loved one and friend. While evenings found me shamefacedly driving through the nearest fast-food joint for the third time that week, they enjoyed more healthy fare, made lovingly by them or their partner and be shared with said loved one and friend. Never did they face the humiliation of a phone call some Saturday afternoon as I would ask in a manly voice that ill-disguised my pathetic entreaty, "anything going on tonight?" It was all the more ironic, of course, that I have from adolescence developed particularly personal relationships. I am uncomfortable with mere acquaintances, and really only enjoy the nightlife in the company of close friends. So it was noth without a little bitterness that I patiently listen to their nostalgia for "the single life."

I am a practical man, of course. I could well see that the "perfect" marriages around me were not all beer and skittles. I watched friends and comrades deal with the difficult separation of deployments, the constant demands of children, or an occasional rogue and romantic memory of "lost freedom." I knew that if I were (hypothetically) married I would have to deal with the same. After exhaustive thought on the subject--which occurred generally during uncomfortable pauses in a dinner conversation where I made an awkward third--I figured that with my natural loyalty and affection I was rather better suited than most at handling such emotional turmoil. I concluded amid my crushing solitude of single life, whether in target-rich San Diego or during the deadly boredom of a WestPac of deployment, that marriage was something to strive for.

The difficulty, of course, was finding someone TO marry. As a young Catholic male whose social life partook in the "Young Adult" community of a local parish, I found myself often amid droves of young marriageable women who fulfilled the my inconsequential requirement of being Catholic and who wanted (most of them) to be married themselves. A rich hunting ground, to be sure. The complex social etiquette of awkward social mixers and less awkward but less romantically stimulating bible studies even bore a passing resemblance to the old-fashioned and choreographed courting mores of Jane Austen's story. It was entertaining and fun to socialize and prospect among such a group, but I eschewed anything more serious than innocuous dinner-dates. The potential for gossip and the glass-house environment discouraged self-investment for all but the bravest, since one could too easily end up either pitied or reviled.

I don’t mean to disparage, by the way, that wonderful parish or the dynamic young men and women who made up its “Young Adult” group. They were all of them kind, generous, smart, and sincere. But I’ve found that in all close groups, despite the age of the people involved, there are always some characteristics of high school.

And so it was that the quietly settling foundation of my life was the irreconcilable combination of an academic imperative to marry and a certain hesitancy in entering the serious relationship that might actually lead to a marriage. My time-intensive job and increasingly married group of friends left little opportunity to meet other singles, and had I met any who wanted a serious relationship I would have had scarce time to develop it. I was also due to make several deployments in the near future, each of which would separate me a little further from youth and the young women I might have pursued. My strong Catholic moral principles put out of my reach for ever the kind of easy entertainment found among care-free young single professionals who imitate current "popular culture." And, frankly, the pressures of “dating” were intimidating.

Being naturally idealistic, I was always hopeful that I would find something to satisfy this small but conspicuous hole in my life. My first deployment offered a lot of excitement unrelated to romance, and promised thereby to break my brooding cycle regarding relationships. It also, as I discovered in situ, a good place to stockpile money. The isolated environment, military-priced stores, and busy schedule leave little time to spend money whether it’s burning a hole in one’s pocket or not. In the dark hours of deployment as I trudged home, exhausted from the studying, planning, briefing, and criticizing that is business as usual in my profession, often in freezing rain and well after dark, I concocted delicious fantasies of entertaining beautiful young women in style with my growing “date fund,” finally capturing for myself...well, that was the problem. My delicious fantasies would break down at the point where I’d actually have to imagine the person that would become my spouse.

My return to Miramar was exciting and happy for many reasons and though my “date fund” was flush and my disposition more cheerful, I still seemed deadlocked on the relationship side. All the old problems were still there. I made an effort to be sociable and weekly met eligible young ladies--Catholics all--but couldn’t really make anything stick (no “that’s what she said” comments, please). Was I too picky? I wondered in the gross parlance of our times. Was I unlucky? Had I missed my opportunity by screwing up a past relationship?

Well, things changed on June 24th, 2009. Elsewhere I’ve told the story of meeting my wife. We were married on February 6th, 2010. Happily. We still are (nearly three months later).

There are a lot of clichés about love in our world. Most of them, I’m slightly embarrassed to admit, are true. As I drew toward the big day of marriage, I found myself considering a lot of existential questions. I abhor complacency in life. So it was very important to me that I knew exactly what I was getting into and that I went about it the right way (again, no more “that’s what she said” jokes, please). Suddenly things I'd always considered inconsequential became very important: who stood by me on the altar, what gifts I would give to them, the words of the marriage liturgy. It became important that I wear my uniform, and that the marriage occur at Notre Dame. Such things were incidental, of course, to the sacrament, but like the sacrament they were symbols of who I was.

Now there is a cliché. That last sentence. “Symbols of who I was.” Who is anybody, really? (That’s an existential question, by the way.) The history that God will reveal to me on Judgment Day will include much from my life that has no place among my desired self and the austere, bracing symbols of my wedding ceremony. That history will not be confined to the spiritual and intellectual formation I received at college under the star-studded and gothic-groined ceiling of the Basilica. It will not be confined to the hard, clean virtue preached (and mostly lived) by the Marine Corps and Naval Aviation. It will include more sordid relationships than those epitomized by the cousins and great friends who stood by me on the altar--all young men who inspired me throughout life and brought me well-prepared to that wonderful day. It will show failures and moments of weakness that are momentarily straitened by the stern lines and gold buttons of my Marine uniform. For like my peers, I have had a colorful and confused life. Who I was at that moment is known but to God and my conscience, and I have no desire to examine the latter too closely here. Who I wanted to be was represented by those powerfully symbolic incidentals at my wedding.

The point of all this cogitation, of course, was about being the kind of man that was worthy of my bride. Again, a cliché. A sweet one. But like most sweet clichés, true. My academic interest in marriage had dissolved completely in the magic latter months of 2009 as I wantonly and gleefully squandered my “date fund” on plane tickets to and from Chicago and devoted all my free time to the relationship. The excitement, the sense of utter purity, the feeling of being lifted above the mundane world--those things had blasted my selfish little complacency and fear of loneliness beyond my comprehension, where they lay exposed as miserable, cramped emotional pits under the incandescent glare of my new love. I realized the true meaning of the word “regret" and wished that all the personal investment I had put forth into previous relationships was still available to spend on my fiancée. It wasn’t a negative regret, either. It sprang forth from the intense joy she gave me I and made every encounter with her more precious. I realized that where previously I had focused on marriage as a sort of luxury trade wherein I could pay with affection and loyalty and receive comfort, suddenly I wanted marriage because I desired connectedness with her, her unique person.

She was, simply, the beloved. Beatrice. A shining symbol of all that I valued and desired and an irresistible portal thereto. I wanted to present myself to her unstained and pure, such that I could, and in such wise as to secure her ardor, affection, and admiration. And so I learned from this new experience of regret that it was time to discard selfishness and self-indulgence and self-regard with those mistakes I made long ago, stepping forward as a dynamic and committed lover. It was time to "man up." The best part, of course, was that not only did my bride eminently deserve my love for all that she was, but that she also loved me. And so she stepped forward with me as an equal partner; a true and best comrade; a friend without peer.

All my previous life was transience. Since adolescence I had been groping at the love that stood with me on February 6, 2010, finding it only in teasing glimpses--through beloved literature, or in the accomplishing of some great task, or the comforting experience of a good friend. These were foretastes of the banquet that awaited me in my wife; they were discernible signposts in the muddy confusion of youth. "To know and love one other human being is the root of all wisdom." In marriage I feel the sweet release of heaven, for it is a new beginning to life--life better founded than before. It is a new beginning of reciprocated love and great regard, a new beginning of comfort in having a partner to share the load of this world, and a new beginning of happiness in knowing where your place is. Next to your wife (or husband, as the case may be). For better or worse. In good times and in bad. In sickness and in health. As long as you both shall live.

Marriage, of course, has its own set of problems. There are differences of opinion and expectation, periodic arguments, and in my line of work the occasional but devastating pain of separation. There will likely be difficulties with children and sleepless nights and financial worries and anger and frustration as the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” strike home throughout life. Already I’ve experienced the unknown pain of being separated from my wife or of finding myself at odds with her, and I have no doubt that such instances will continue, as learning to live and grow together is a lifetime task. But I wouldn’t trade my difficulties now for my difficulties prior to June 24, 2009. The quality of my life now--married--is so far superior to my quality of life before as to defy comparison. My new beginning has been made with my Kate, and it is better by far than anything I imagined.

Austen was right: I did want a wife. But not in the way I imagined, nor in the way critics often construe her opening sentence. I wanted someone to love, someone with whom I could share life and all its wonders. And I found her: I am a new creation with Kate.

Many the Miles

It has been five long and eventful years since I began cataloguing my experiences and thoughts for the world. It was an interesting hobby, probably characterized mostly by comical futility. But it's been fun reflecting on Infantry training, Flight School, Virginia and Pensacola and San Diego, the tough joy of squadron life followed by the struggle and wonder of deployment to the Far East. Indeed my feet have trod many miles, but this past weekend they found a place of rest and happiness that will carry through the rest of my life. This is that story.

Matt: As a freshman at Notre Dame in January of 2001, I found myself in a writing class. As it was part part of the required first year course of studies, the students were a random assortment and I wouldn't have a single other class with any of them for the rest of my college career. That, coupled with my chosen "Great Books" major, contributed to my ill-concealed contempt for the class as nothing more than a necessary evil. There was, however, one benefit to showing up each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and that was the fetching young lady named Kate who sat across from me. She was pretty and popular--and completely out of my league--and she definitely caught my attention.

Kate: I met Matt the first day of Spring Semester my Freshman year during a required Composition class. I don't remember if it was by chance that we ended up sitting across from one another, but I'm fairly certain that after doing a quick scan of the class, it is most probable that I specifically picked the seat directly across from the cutest boy in the room. Introductions were made, and Matt announced that he was from Seattle. For a girl from Chicago, Seattle seemed exotic and different, a place where the 'cool bands' originated, and coffee was produced in magical Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-eqsue shops. It was also the former location of "The Real World," so I naturally assumed people lounged around in their houseboats all day and compared the philosophies of Sartre to Kurt Cobain. As I shook myself out of the daydream, I remember Matt speaking. "This boy is brilliant," I thought, "brilliant!" He was confident and perceptive; an intelligent young man who wasn't afraid to discuss literature and/or sentence structure. Bingo! I made a snap judgment that THIS boy was THE boy for me.

Matt: One afternoon she approached me and inquired if I'd help her on a paper. I probably stuttered a bit in my attempt to answer yes, desperately trying not to let my surprise and jubilation spill out onto my otherwise "cool" exterior (by which I mean a comically ineffective poker face). So I awkwardly made an appointment (a date?) and accordingly presented myself one evening at her dorm. It was locked down as female residence halls always were at Notre Dame, but a kindly resident let me in and I braved the gauntlet of feminine stares along the hallways leading to her door. The next hour is a blur, but I gather that we sedately gathered around her computer, I offered some constructive criticism in a terrified and studied academic manner, and then I left. Afterwards I wondered if this pretty young lady wasn't perhaps at least as interested in me as she did in her paper, but immediately discounted the notion as highly improbable. She was out of my league. I avoided any potential embarrassment that another encounter might create and went about my college life.

Kate: I asked him for help on a paper, which is probably THE most transparent move I could have made. A paper? Really? Smooth move, Dolack. My Calculus homework certainly, but a paper? We must have discussed a time and date, probably in early February, where we would meet in my dorm. At the time, I was living in a crowded three-room dorm above the rector, with three roommates; our doors were guarded by a very intimidating security woman who spent her days patrolling our hallways and knitting hats and sweater vests for her gerbils. I'm certain I must have confided to my girlfriends that Matt Klobucher, that cute boy from my FYC class was coming over, because I don't remember anyone in the room. And then the big moment arrived. Matt Klobucher walked into my room to help me with my paper. And he did just that. He helped me with my paper, made a few comments about the sentence structure, and left. The boy actually commented on my use of a split infinitive. That's right, I was totally rejected because of a grammatical error.

Matt: After that class, we never really ran into each other. I stalked her lightly on Instant Messenger, and later on FaceBook, but only as a sort of dream. I was a dour Marine Corps-bound "Great Books" major; she was clearly destined for happiness and perfection. Unbeknownst to me, we ended up with some of the same friends, and I always noted Kate's presence in our friends' online photographs with a little jolt of pleasure and nostalgia for what might have been. I noted that she moved to LA after college, and occasionally stifled my attention to her during other relationships. Then I noticed something new and interesting about her.

Kate: After that class, Matt and I never really ran into each one another, (but I never forgot him). I would love to push rewind and watch the number of times we passed each other, since we had many friends in common. In fact, most of my closest friends were kids from his dorm or girls from his major. I lived up my time in college, acting in plays with my dearest friends Julianne and Megan, and attended parties and Irish pubs with my girlfriends, Krista, Aindrea, Jen, and Emma. Meanwhile, Megan, both a talented actress AND a "Great Books" major, attended classes and military balls with Matt (I attended several military balls with the Air Force boys). When not out with me, Aindrea and Jen occasionally hung out with Matt at typical Notre Dame watering holes. After college, Jen actually bounced back and forth from Pensacola to visit her college boyfriend, John, who lived with Matt while they were in Flight School together (I moved to LA and began my career working for FX). In November 2006 Matt moved to San Diego within a week of my final departure from LA for Chicago. We passed each other, I am sure, on the road. Sometimes I wonder if I waved.

Matt: It was one evening in early 2007. I was living in Pensacola, Florida, and idly browsing FaceBook. My "feed" informed me that Kate had posted a note. The title intrigued me, as did the opening sentence which was displayed on my screen. I clicked on it and proceeded to read one of the most entertaining, most poignant short stories I'd ever seen. I remembered ruefully that she had once asked ME for help writing, since she was clearly so much better than I was. I wished in that moment (and have in many since) that I could write like her. I was so impressed, in fact, that I threw caution to the winds and commented on her story, telling her how good it was. As I expected, I received no response.

Kate: In late 2006, searching for an outlet for my thoughts, I sat down and wrote a short memorist-style story and posted it on Facebook. I wrote about being a single gal in the city, living in a high rise building, trying to avoid both being sucked into Lifetime Television for Women and the exhaust from the 151 city bus. I had been out of college for more than two long years. I missed Notre Dame. I missed my friends. I missed our carefree atmosphere. But, in the end, I ended the piece with a hopeful nature. Goodness, to be twenty-three. I remember Matt commented, and I remember being touched. I missed him; my old friend.

Matt: Over the following months, I sought out and read everything she posted on Facebook. Occasionally I'd comment, impressed with her writing and wanting her to know how good she was. I certainly didn't forget how attractive she was, either! Finally in the spring of 2007 I wrote more publicly on her wall (instead of simply commenting on a note), and she responded! It was a kind and sweet response, and in it she mentioned a few books in connection to her writing and my job. Little did I know that her recommendation of "The Prince of Tides" that day as her favorite book would eventually provide the seed for our current wonderful relationship.

Kate: Matt and I would go back and forth between writing small snippets to each other. Occasionally, we'd each go months without a response from the other. Then one day, he wrote to me. I had just finished reading my mom's recommendation of what would become my favorite book of all time, Pat Conroy's, "The Prince of Tides." I knew Matt was a big reader like myself. I also was aware that he was in the Marine Corps and had trained in flight school, so I wondered if he may be interested in "The Great Santini," and/or "The Lords of Discipline". I asked him if he had ever read the book, and he said no. I told him to check it out. In the meantime, I debated actually sending him all of Conroy's finest works. But at the last minute, I backed out. So instead I wrote, "Go buy that book!"

Matt: You see, I read that book on her recommendation. That was (and still is) rare for me. I almost never read something another has recommended to me. I've always been on my own little reading program. But in this case I took the plunge, I read that book, and enjoyed it. I thought it so good that I wrote a review of it online. and as it happened wrote a review online.

Kate: I dated other people. He dated other people. But I often compared others to him, which is odd since we didn't know each other that well, really. But I did know he was something rare. He was somethin' special. I remember checking Matt's profile when he was on deployment. I wrote him slightly more often then. "Come visit!" I would cheerfully suggest. "I'm in Japan," he would respond. "But it's warm here in Februrary," I would lie. "Have fun with that weather!," he would joke. I thought of him on Christmas. He seemed so far away. Months passed and I was deeply involved in my work, pulling late nights at the office, traveling around the country to complete interviews and buried in research. In May, we wrapped the first season of the show I helped create. In June, I was anxious: I had spent so much of the past year of my life developing this series, I didn't know what to do with my time. I couldn't sleep. I spent far too much time on Facebook posting silly messages to friends and crafting song lyrics as away messages.

Matt: Then she apparently found the review I'd written on "The Prince of Tides" online one night last June. And she was apparently so impressed that she wrote me a fairly long note. It wasn't an ordinary note, filled with kindly concern and intellectual agreement. It was a genuine and elegant note that communicated the just the same kind of respect and sympathy that I felt for all of her writing. It was also complimentary and sweet. I was stunned and delighted.

Kate: One week later, I found myself up at 1:30am. I knew Pat Conroy had a new novel about to hit the bookstores, and so I started to research any information I could find on the author. On page three of a silly google search, I saw a review of "The Prince of Tides." 'Oh, my favorite," I thought to myself, and clicked on the link. And then, there he was: a photograph of Matthew Klobucher attached to his review of "The Prince of Tides." I was floored. It took me about five minutes to compose myself. The review was beautiful, and his writing was just as I remembered. I checked the date on the review: only one week after I suggested he read "The Prince of Tides." Without thinking, I wrote him immediately.

Matt: I couldn't believe she had written me! I hastily crafted a response that would be appropriately appreciative. This was a delicate moment, since I wanted to be absolutely sincere but nevertheless was conscious that betraying too much of my suddenly developing attraction might put this dream girl off. So in honest but carefully considered phrases, I thanked her for her note and invited further correspondence.

Kate: He wrote me back. He was just as I remembered...or maybe better? I knew I had to find a way to San Diego. I started to think of ways to interview a subject, research a story, develop a show.anything.

Matt: This started a series of letters between us, surprisingly deep in content and gradually moving from Facebook to "old-fashioned email," then to talking over the phone. As it became blindingly obvious to me and my good friends in San Diego that I was crushing hard on this girl, I impetuously invited her to accompany me to a wedding in Boston, just a month after Kate's first long note. She accepted. It was pretty exciting.

Kate: We wrote back and forth. Once, I wrote him a letter from thirty thousand feet in the air...eager to hit 'send' as soon as I arrived back in my apartment. His letters were magic...like poetry. Then one night, he phoned. We spent four hours on the phone deep in conversation--and every night thereafter, we logged at least that much. Thank GOODNESS we both have AT&T! A few weeks later, Matt asked me to the wedding of his good friends, Matt and Margaret. Of course, I accepted. I was thrilled, nervous, excited, and every other emotion one could imagine.

Matt: Apprehension ran high as I prepared to pick her up in Chicago and go to this wedding. When she met me in the Chicago airport it was the first time we'd seen each other in seven years. But that didn't matter. After a month of intense letters and conversations (and my lovely college memories of her) we met with laughter, an embrace and many kisses. From that moment, we were dating officially and seriously.

Kate: We had our first kiss at Midway airport. We wandered around the city, attended an art show, and sat on beach steps and watched people play in the water and jog back in forth. That night, over pizza and under summer stars, he told me loved me. It was our first date. It was perfect. And I think, well, I had been in love with him from the very beginning.

Matt: When you know, you know. Several weeks later I started preparations for proposing to her--ordering a ring, talking to her father, and all the rest. But we quickly decided that the preparations were taking too long. We loved each other, we wanted to marry each other, we were ready to cheerfully and excitedly begin the preparations for a wedding and the follow-on joys and difficulties of a marriage. So we became secretly engaged in the last week of September, pending the actual proposal. Though a secret engagement is romantic, I am glad our intention is public knowledge! Now, I am eager to finalize wedding preparations and finally start my life with her. She is nothing less than my soulmate and the love of my life.

Kate: The rest, as they say, is history. How many times had I wondered, well, HOW do you know? People who were happily married would try to explain. "Well," they would say, "you just know." But yet I would continue to ask. "Is it a feeling? Is it something in your head? Is it settling? Do you just decide one day? What am I not getting? How does anyone just 'know?!' I just could not understand, couldn't find the solution, couldn't find the logical components that would equal the answer. And it wasn't until I found Matt again that I discovered the answer to my question. It was him. He was the answer all along.

Notre Dame Commencement 2009

The news today has focused on Notre Dame's commencement, at which President Obama spoke. A contentious decision by the University Administration, the announcement over a month ago sparked angry reactions from many American Catholics, protests on campus, and a storm of analysis (mostly speculation, as is the way with such things) regarding what the Catholic Church really believes on abortion and what Notre Dame's own position should be. The University "stuck to it's guns" and went ahead with the invitation, and cited many good reasons for bringing the president, however pro-choice he might be, to campus--many of which I agree with. I think there's no question that the president brings with him the dignity of the office. I think it is important for a Catholic University to engage in dialogue with public figures regarding issues of mutual concern. I think it is Notre Dame's role to "lead the way" by remaining visible and vehement in considering Catholic values publicly. I think, however, this particular situation involving our current president is different.

First of all, when you invite someone to speak at commencement, you are giving them a "bully pulpit." That is not dialogue, and does little to invite discussion--a forum is a much more seemly academic setting for a dialogue. Second of all, commencement speakers are usually chosen because they embody or represent values that the institution wishes to instill (or have instilled) in the graduates. Choosing a consistently pro-choice, pro-stem-cell-research politician implies somehow that those positions ("values") are reconcilable with Church teaching, or more specifically that you can hold that perspective and be perfectly in accord with the school and--by extension--the Church. Third of all, awarding a Juris Doctor (even honorary) indicates the awarding institution has somehow decided that the recipient is capable and prepared ethically to interpret law, which considering the Church's strong position on the illegality and horror of the current "holocaust" of abortions is clearly not the case with Obama.

Some have argued that abortion (or stem-cell research) should not be "the issue." I disagree. With the recent work on the Theology of the Body and the developing "spousal" imagery inherent in our understanding of Church-Laity relationships and self-Christ relationships, I think it is becoming more clear that the idea of the sanctity of life stands nearly equal with the gift of free will and the mysterious nature of Christ and the Trinity as a foundation of our Faith. In fact, respect for the sanctity of life has its roots in Christ's famous commandments "Love your neighbor as yourself" and "Love your neighbor as I have loved you," and is the subsequent foundation of all Catholic moral teaching--and the fountainhead of Catholic social teaching (on which President Obama and the Church indeed have much in common) As such, it is more important than social teaching or personal morals. This is why the Church teaches that abortion is the worst of sins and incurs automatic (latae sententiae) excommunication, a state which remains until the abortion is confessed and reparation is made to God in the form of penance.  So I think it is "the" issue. There is no person so helpless and so in need of charity as an infant; how much more so for the unborn infant.

This whole focus on the unborn infant is distasteful to some in our society, who argue that concern for the mother should also enter into an abortion decision. I sympathize with this perspective. A mother may be in physical danger from childbirth, bearing the fruit of rape, or unable to support a child, or simply unwilling to continue the pregnancy. On the far extreme of this side are those who regard abortion as a "health care choice" of a woman, a decision protected by her essential freedom (as if the fetus is merely an extension of her body which she could decide to have removed). I think there is a legitimate concern that anti-abortion legislation would take some control from women over their own bodies: they would be forced to deal with the consequences of sexual activity and possibly guard a life they didn't intend to create. Indeed, women unable or unwilling to handle the responsibility of rearing a child deserve our charity and support (and certainly not the kind of cruel social stigma that often attaches to pregnancies outside of a marriage). But my sympathy for women in this regard is limited, for in this country the selective service also takes control from young men over their bodies, and at any moment may expose them to the violent and painful death promised by war, or torture at the hands of our nation's enemies, or disfigurement. Furthermore, I think in both cases I think society has the right to protect all its citizens, either at the expense of women by disallowing their murder in the womb, or at the expense of men by using their bodies to provide for national defense.

Whatever your view on abortion or stem-cell research, however (and President Obama readily admitted there were two legitimate and probably irreconcilable sides to the issue), as a Catholic you must acknowledge that the Church brooks no compromise on this issue. According to the Magisterium, abortion is never allowed: not if the mother's life is in danger, not if the child is the progeny of a sex crime, not if the child is going to be mentally disabled, not ever. There are no ifs, ands, or buts. Catholics must abide by this teaching and understand it if they are to be "In Communion" with the Church. And such teaching does not allow for useful dialogue, since there is no compromise a Catholic apologist can make, nothing they can "give" to a pro-choice advocate in discussion. So while it is well that this issue remains in the public arena (both for Catholics and others), and it certainly does when a pro-choice politician speaks at the commencement of a Catholic University, it undermines the official position of the Church on it's sanctity of life teaching to honor that politician with a degree and a "bully pulpit." It implies that holding views on the sanctity of life heterodox to Church teaching is allowed. That is poor instruction and poor leadership. I expected better from Notre Dame.

The state of Notre Dame in April 2009

The controversy regarding Notre Dame's selection of an aggressively pro-choice politician as the commencement speaker for the 2009 ceremonies has raged for several months now. I have read many opinion pieces supporting and condemning the decision, and I have read some weak defenses and affirmations of the same decision from university officials. So far I have avoided writing about it, if only because the staggering magnitude of Notre Dame's betrayal has been too painful to examine. So I have contented myself with explaining (as patiently as possible) why the invitation of such a speaker, who enthusiastically supports the availability of abortion and stem-cell research, and who has threatened the very mission of ministry and service of the Church by calling for removal of the "freedom-of-conscience clause" from regulations governing the disbursement of federal funds to charities and hospitals, effectively denying such institutions that are Catholic-affiliated needed operating funds if they comply with the dictates of their conscience and refuse to support stem-cell research or refuse to provide or procure abortions, is opposed by so many in the University and the larger American Catholic Community as a whole.

Recently, however, two things happened. I read the text of a speech given at the Notre Dame Center for Ethics and Culture, which admonished the University for its decision to host this politician so opposed to Catholic teaching on the sanctity of life and called for students, faculty, and alumni alike to stand up and provide a witness for the pro-life cause; the next day, I watched the movie Rudy.

The speech, given by William McGurn (text here), was truly inspiring. Calling attention to a recent advertising campaign of the University with the tagline "What would you fight for?" which references the school mascot of the "Fighting Irish" and shows students working for social justice or making advancements in science or medicine, the speech asks why the wealthiest and most successful Catholic university in America--and perhaps in the world--won't use its resources and national visibility to defend the unborn. Recalling ND's sometimes prominent role in the Civil-Rights movement, when the University President at the time, Father Hesburgh, linked arms with Martin Luther King, Jr. at a demonstration, Mr. McGurn called the pro-life movement "the defining civil rights issue of our age," and urged the school as a whole to bear witness as Father Hesburgh once did. The speech reminded all present (and all who read it) that Father Sorin's dream was to raise a University dedicated to Mary, the universal God-Bearer, in the wilderness of northern Indiana to be, literally, a "light unto the nation," illuminating by the truth of Catholic teaching from a dome of gold.

The movie Rudy, though it has more to do with football than it does with the University's mission or the issues at stake, is a story of a time when Notre Dame was chiefly known for its football program. As a Catholic University that supposedly taught chiefly basic theology and vocational skills, it was excluded contemptuously from the club of premier American universities (the "Ivy League") and from lesser, "pretender" universities alike. Yet the excellence of its football team made it impossible to be ignored. And so the University made it's presence and Catholic identity felt across the nation, and thereby served as a beacon to Catholic immigrant communities, mostly blue-collar, who lived and worked in every major city of the nation. That is the reason why still today, despite the continuous, incredulous and condescending surprise of sports broadcasters, Notre Dame football draws supporters from many places outside Indiana.

The excellence of Notre Dame football in those days also served as an inspiration to the students and the faculty present at the university, and by the 1950s and 1960s Father Sorin's dream had perhaps come close to fruition. The University's academic curriculum had made great advancements and stood above all but the very best in the land. The struggle of "Rudy" Ruettiger to attend Notre Dame (and play football there) resonates with thousands of high-schoolers from Catholic schools who dreamed of attending that University. It represented, essentially, the best that Catholic America had to offer: strong faith and moral foundations, the pursuit of excellence in all facets of university life, and a constant exa ple of Catholic truthto what was (and still is) a largely Protestant nation. That is why it represented such an achievement to Rudy and his family, and why Rudy worked so hard to become a part of it.

I discovered the stature of Notre Dame when I was seventeen. Almost carelessly, I chose to attend Notre Dame after deciding that the medical waiver required for attendance at the Naval Academy was too unsure a thing upon which to risk my college acceptance. I was totally unprepared for the overwhelming and positive response from my Catholic family (and the larger Catholic community). To them, I had been selected by the best for the best, and was clearly on the road to greatness--I was not only to be well-educated, I was to be formed as a good Catholic. Their reaction mirrored the reaction of Rudy's father and brothers, the former of whom called a stop to production at the steel mill he managed to make the announcement: "my son's going to Notre Dame!" The pressure only mounted when I arrived on campus, for I felt there a vague but palpable conviction among the students--or at least the best of them, the ones everyone admired--that we all were being formed for something special that required the utmost commitment. The disappointment from my peers when I inadequately completed an assignment, or when I failed to discharge the minimal duties of my stated and claimed Catholicism, was much worse than the admonishments of my professors and mentors. That pressure, when I finally let it inspire me, shaped me into a better person, and contributed to my decision to pursue a career serving others in the Marine Corps.

It is the loss of this consciousness of being elite that hurts me so much about Notre Dame's commencement speaker selection. When the university publically acts against the explicit direction of it's own Bishop and the U.S. Bishop's council at large and provides a "bully pulpit" to a figure who has so prominently contradicted and denied essential truths--which are no less true for being Catholic-taught--it abdicates it's hard-earned role as this nation's foremost example and defender of truth and morals. I suspect that no longer will so many Catholic teenagers dream of attending Notre Dame to "fight the good fight" or more deeply form their faith; I doubt now that any non-Catholic teenagers will seek admission to Notre Dame out of curiosity or a desire to be as good, as righteous, or as unashamedly committed to truth as true Catholicism is. Notre Dame has ceased to be unique and has joined ranks with so many of the "academically rigorous" but softly relativistic universities (among which are some who call themselves Catholic) that make up the fabric of American higher learning. Graduating from Notre Dame now merely reflects on my academic ability. It says nothing at all about my moral character.

Yet the true tragedy here is found in the prospective and current students of Notre Dame who will see in this invitation that the university condones ideas contrary to Catholicism. These young men and women are told by nearly every facet of society that abortion is not wrong, and those who oppose it are ignorant, bigoted, or worse; to a lesser extent they are given to understand that the Church is irrelevant and historical rather than present and alive. They are in the formative stage of their life when they most greatly feel pressure to conform to with the ideas and actions of the rest of the nation and "fit in." These teenagers and young adults need to hear a strong voice for truth. They need to see and hear a vigorous defense of the sanctity of life, which informs all other Catholic teaching. They need to know that abortion isn't merely one issue among many on which the Church opposes mainstream society, but the central issue on which no compromise is possible. Above all, as prospective Catholic witnesses and apologists, these young adults need to understand that in this case the fundamental, inalienable right of our most defenseless citizens to live is not some archaic and obsolete idea of the Church, but rather a practical cornerstone of society (which cannot survive if it allows citizens to kill other citizens for convenience). In that it has this effect, Notre Dame's selection of a pro-life commencement speaker makes it part and promulgator of what Pope John Paul II called "the culture of death."

My condemnation of my Alma Mater is harsh, but I believe justified, and it is certainly not final. Even now the University could rectify matters by rescinding their invitation in order to witness the sanctity of human life so clearly unshared by their original intended speaker. It could "clean house" and remove those officials and faculty who are so out of touch with the truth proclaimed by the Church that they would consider such a selection. In doing so, the University even might put some integrity and conviction into the otherwise good Catholics within the University community who stood timidly by and let this invitation happen, knowing (one hopes) within the depths of their uneasy hearts that such an action would contradict all the university aspires to stand for. Better yet, such action would provide an unashamed and unequivocal example of right to Catholics young and old across the nation it was founded to serve. Only then will Notre Dame will reclaim as reality the image so stirringly and imaginatively proclaimed by its architecture: a university dedicated to Our Lady, the immortal presenter of God to the broken human race, preaching truth to Americans just as her image gleams in gold across the heart-land of our country.