How a psychic, New Age hippie led me to Catholicism



In 1993, I moved to an industrial city north of Prague, about 30 miles from the Czech/German border. Usti nad Labem had been around for almost a thousand years, but after half a century of socialist dictatorship, anything old had been replaced with hideous prefab housing estates and pollution-spewing chemical plants. It did have an old church from the 14th century, but I never went inside. It was just a relic of a time when being stupid and superstitious was the only option.

I had gotten a job teaching English to engineers at a local natural gas distribution company. I was a 22-year-old Ivy League liberal arts graduate. I had no experience or knowledge worth sharing, of course, and my students were older, with careers and families, and they treated me with deference anyway, as well as with kindness and hospitality. In return, I pitied them as hopelessly trapped in their small lives. I was meant for something bigger. I had no idea what, but I figured it would announce itself eventually.

Within seconds of meeting a girl at a party, he realized they had been lovers in prerevolutionary France, until he was garroted for trying to rescue her from prostitution.

East of Eden

I fell in with the small community of foreigners in town — about 10 Americans along with a few Brits and Canadians — but kept my distance. They weren’t the kind of friends I had in mind for myself — they were too provincial and unsophisticated.

Especially strange to me was a hulking gentle giant from Los Angeles named Chad. He was pushing 30 and lived off savings he had accumulated from a series of showbiz-adjacent jobs, including sales for a porn video distributer and caretaking an old Beverly Hills mansion now used for film shoots.

The mansion had been the site of a lurid, high-society murder-suicide in the '20s and was haunted. He told us of strange encounters he’d had there alone late at night, the distant sound of piano music, which abruptly stopped as he moved toward it; a heavy, nauseating feeling of malice that descended upon him in certain rooms, the eerie sensation of being shoved.

These stories held our attention, but they didn’t seem like a big deal to him. He had always been particularly sensitive to the supernatural, he said, and he had an endless supply of anecdotes bearing this out.

'Star 80'

There was overwhelming mutual attraction he shared with a girl within seconds of meeting her a party, only to realize they had been lovers in prerevolutionary France, until he was garroted for trying to rescue her from prostitution. He had vivid explorations of the lost city of Atlantis in lucid dreams, leaving him with an aching sense of being in exile. He was a connoisseur of 1970s femininity and could talk at length about the unearthly beauty and spiritual depth of murdered Playboy Playmate Dorothy Stratten, whose distinct presence he could often feel, no matter where he was in the world.

I found all this unforgivably hokey. And I felt it reflected badly on me and my future. But I had to admit he was funny and intelligent. We became friends, even though I secretly regarded him with detached, ironic amusement. I enjoyed the matter-of-fact, unpretentious way he delivered even his boldest claims. Once, in one of my regular hungover tailspins of anxiety, I asked him if he wasn’t afraid of nuclear war. He sighed with slight exasperation and explained that obviously the higher beings protecting Earth would never allow it.

This idea didn’t reassure me, but his relaxed, confident demeanor did. And I began to realize that maybe thinking crystals were nonsense didn’t make me a better person. Even if Chad weren’t the conduit to the spirit world he claimed to be, he was uncommonly empathetic and perceptive when it came to other people, which is why we all liked to be around him. Whereas my constantly shifting sense of who I was and what it all meant kept me in a state of agitated self-obsession.

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Under the bridge

I was too educated to believe that evil left some kind of spiritual mark on a place, but just 50 years ago, this city I used as the backdrop for my inner drama had been ceded to Hitler. Then, it was bombed by Americans. And just after the war, it was the site of a brutal massacre, in which a mob of Czechs attacked their ethnic German neighbors, shooting and stabbing some 100 men, women, and children and throwing them off the town bridge. Maybe Chad was a kook, but at least he made me consider that there might be something at stake in this world. That it mattered what we did and even what we thought. That transcendent good and evil were real and could touch us.

These abstract musings lost their appeal when Chad moved back to California and I moved to Prague. I was finally where the action was. Here the visionaries weren’t so gauche as to talk about communing with the dead or the melancholy of old souls lost in the slipstream of time. They were there to summon the coming techno utopia, which required optimism and an eagerness to let go of the past.

I was on board, but I was also undisciplined and easily discouraged. Everywhere I looked I saw monuments to martyrs: the heretic priest burned at the stake, the ordinary civilians killed in the doomed uprising against the Nazis, the young medical student who set himself on fire to protest the Soviet occupation. Their resolve, like my frantic strivings, seemed meaningless in the face of oblivion.

Settling down

The obvious cure for this self-indulgent, existential dread was to move to New York City and get serious about my life. I temped and lived in cramped apartments in cool neighborhoods and got a low-paying but status-signaling media job. I ran into an old college girlfriend with a sensible career and many of the same friends I’d had. We got married and had children, and we relocated to her hometown of L.A., which I’d heard so much about from Chad.

Chad had moved to a small town outside Sacramento with a wife and son. My wife and I were still in the thick of it, upwardly mobile and cultured, with high expectations for ourselves and our kids. It went without saying that we were good, tolerant people. Church was an occasional, unobtrusive reminder to be grateful and give back. We didn’t have any commitments that might make things awkward with our friends or put us at odds with our community.

I was comfortably settled but still imagined myself as on the verge of transformative, clarifying success. Until one day I didn’t. I wasn’t special, my kids would soon abandon me, and I was going to die. I tried to ease the panic with therapy, running, and Ram Dass videos on YouTube.

Auto-da-Facebook

A goth girl I did plays with in high school re-emerged on Facebook as a devout Catholic stay-at-home mom and pro-life activist. After a few pointless arguments, I calmed down and started reading everything she posted without comment. It was fascinating to imagine being so gullible and narrow-minded. I watched videos she linked to and read books she mentioned. I embedded myself in this bizarre, backwards culture.

A few months later, I was sitting in my car, saying the rosary for the first time, just to see what would happen. I guess I showed her.

I entered the Catholic Church about a year later. Just before the COVID lockdowns, I got a call that Chad had had a massive stroke. We hadn’t been in touch for years. I gave money to his recovery fund and got added to a text group of friends and family who unselfconsciously offered their prayers and invoked the healing power of God’s mercy. I was surprised at how natural I felt doing the same. And how praying actually felt like doing something helpful. I still include him in my daily rosary.

Maybe it’s just guilt that I haven’t written or called, but I like to think he can pick up on it somehow. If so, I hope he humors me, like I humored him 30 years ago.

Have pop music lyrics made America meaner?



Ask almost anyone why America seems angrier than it did a generation ago, and you'll hear the usual suspects: social media, partisan politics, cable news. But what if another culprit has been hiding in plain sight all along — inside the songs we play every day?

A study recently published in Scientific Reports suggests our playlists may tell us more about the country's moral trajectory than we realize. Researchers analyzed nearly 400,000 songs spanning six decades, tracking how often lyrics invoked virtues such as care, loyalty, and compassion versus themes of cheating, revenge, vice, and harm.

Nobody racks up a billion Spotify streams with a breakup anthem called 'I Respect Your Boundaries and Wish You Well.'

The results were difficult to ignore.

Monetize the misery

Lyrical themes centered on betrayal, cruelty, and moral transgression have surged, while old-fashioned virtues like loyalty, empathy, and basic decency have steadily faded. Grandma's favorite crooner asked for your hand in marriage. Today's streaming superstar wants to key your car, burn down your house, and monetize the misery.

The statistics read like a rap sheet for the Billboard charts. References to cheating and betrayal rose by more than 70%. Themes of degradation climbed by over 60%. Meanwhile, expressions of genuine care steadily declined. The charts increasingly reward revenge, resentment, and contempt while rewarding compassion far less than they once did. We have moved a long way from "We Can Work It Out" to "I hope you choke on your lies."

Naturally, the researchers include the obligatory academic disclaimer: Correlation does not equal causation. Fair enough.

The real question isn't whether every listener imitates every lyric. It's whether hundreds of millions of people, absorbing the same emotional scripts year after year, gradually reshape the emotional climate of a culture.

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Despair in D

Music has never been mere background noise. It reinforces emotional habits. Songs teach us which reactions deserve applause, which resentments should be nurtured, and which kinds of people become heroes or villains. They don't dictate behavior, but they help define what feels normal.

For anyone who still insists lyrics are just harmless poetry, consider the grunge explosion of the early 1990s. That era produced extraordinary music, but it also made alienation, despair, and emotional detachment strangely glamorous. Grunge didn't invent teenage angst, but it undeniably gave it a soundtrack and, for many young listeners, an identity.

If a generation could absorb that emotional atmosphere through music, it isn't unreasonable to wonder what six uninterrupted decades of increasingly cynical and vengeful lyrics might accomplish.

Betrayal with a beat

Of course, the counter-argument deserves serious consideration. Perhaps musicians are simply cultural weather vanes rather than cultural architects. When public trust collapses, institutions weaken, and family life frays, songwriters naturally gravitate toward darker material. Popular music may simply be documenting a society already in decline. The songs are less the explosion than the soundtrack playing while the building burns.

Even if that's true, it still leaves us with an uncomfortable feedback loop. Society grows harsher. Music reflects that harshness. The music then normalizes it for the next generation, making cruelty ordinary and contempt emotionally familiar.

We also can't ignore the incentives of the modern attention economy. One doesn't have to become a card-carrying Marxist to recognize that outrage is profitable. Streaming platforms, much like social media, reward intensity over restraint. Nobody racks up a billion Spotify streams with a breakup anthem called "I Respect Your Boundaries and Wish You Well." Audiences crave betrayal, public humiliation, vengeance, and emotional spectacle because those emotions command attention.

Did pop music single-handedly make America meaner? Probably not.

But for more than half a century, our most popular songs have steadily sung less about forgiveness, loyalty, sacrifice, and reconciliation and more about revenge, narcissism, betrayal, and score-settling.

Culture is an ongoing conversation. If, decade after decade, the soundtrack of everyday life increasingly celebrates contempt over compassion, we shouldn't be surprised when public life begins to sound the same way.

They Never Stopped Spying

Among the bad tastes lingering in the mouths of Republicans from the 2020 election, prominent is a letter signed by 51 former senior officials within or adjacent to the U.S. intelligence community. It baldly claimed that explosive emails recovered from soon-to-be first son Hunter Biden's abandoned laptop had "all the classic earmarks of a Russian information operation." The emails and the rest of the contents of the laptop were, in reality, entirely authentic. So here was a partisan effort on the part of Biden supporters to lean on their résumés in an effort to discredit the damaging disclosure.

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Ruth Was Right

To encounter Ruth Wisse is to learn from her, and I was blessed to be her student for the first time a decade ago. She, an eminent scholar of literature at Harvard, spent a weekend with us, a group of Jewish students in the Tikvah Fund’s then-nascent Collegiate Summer Honors program, doing what comes most naturally to her: teaching. She did so in her inimitable way. One of my friends described it precisely, remarking that Wisse was three-quarters Harvard professor, raising novel interpretations of the texts before us with erudition and articulateness, and one-quarter your bubbe at the Shabbat table speaking plain truths about the world. That persona made her all the more endearing and perhaps even more effective; from among her students that weekend I now count multiple brilliant young litigators, several professors and teachers, and a prolific member of the Wall Street Journal’s editorial board.

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REVIEW: 'Blue Velvet'

"I don't know if you're a detective or a pervert," says Sandy Williams, an innocent blonde high schooler, to Jeffrey Beaumont, her handsome suitor and unlikely partner in crime, at the outset of the small-town mystery Blue Velvet (1986). Of the theatergoers who paid to watch it, director David Lynch, the maverick behind Eraserhead (1977) and Dune (1984), wondered the same.

The post REVIEW: 'Blue Velvet' appeared first on .

To raise Christian children who become Christian adults, one simple habit matters most



For decades, a familiar story has shaped Christian family life. It involves Sunday morning in the pews. A week at Bible camp each summer. Wednesday night youth group with pizza and a lesson. Parents pour real love and intention into these routines.

Noble as the effort is, a recent study published in the Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion suggests they are only part of the picture. Researchers analyzed data from more than 16,000 Christians nationwide, comparing childhood religious experiences with adult outcomes. Church attendance mattered. So did stable families. But the strongest predictor of lasting adult faith asked nothing extraordinary of parents.

I walked away from the faith with the kind of cocky certainty God seems to install in everyone between the ages of 13 and 19.

It was simply this: They talked to their children about God.

Homilies at home

That finding immediately took me back to my own childhood.

The first picture that comes to mind isn't a sanctuary or a stained-glass window, but the front seat of the car on the way home from school. The back yard, where my father pulled weeds like the yard had personally offended him. The living room at 10:30 on a school night, all of us long past bedtime and pretending the clock didn't exist. My grandmother, with a cup of tea that was always either too hot or somehow already cold, telling me about the importance of the Bible.

Those conversations are the reason I still believe.

My parents were, and still are, very decent people. For many years, they were overworked and underpaid in the way most ordinary families know all too well. Bills on the counter. Shifts that ran long. Sleep that ran short. Children who treated the front seat like contested real estate.

And yet they always found the energy to talk to me about Christianity — not in a recited, hands-folded-in-our-laps sort of way, but as if God were actually in the room.

We talked about how Christianity shaped the West. The fall of Rome. Forgiveness, suffering, and why Christians built the first hospitals while emperors were busy building coliseums to watch people die in. We talked about why the values modern secular society treats as self-evident — human dignity, charity, and mercy toward strangers — didn't fall from the sky. They grew slowly out of Christian soil, across centuries of tending.

What my parents said at home stayed with me longer than any sermon. Ask around, and plenty of people will say the same.

Half-cocked heretic

I was a rebellious teenager, and I rebelled with real enthusiasm. I walked away from the faith with the kind of cocky certainty God seems to install in everyone between the ages of 13 and 19, presumably as a test of parental patience. Christianity struck me as restrictive and embarrassing. I mistook cynicism for intelligence — a standard rookie mistake among precocious teenagers. I got good grades and assumed an A in English qualified me to dismiss theology, philosophy, and 2,000 years of Christian thought.

And yet, even at my wildest and most stubborn, even when I was giving the New Atheists more attention than they ever deserved, something my parents had planted refused to be dug up.

I expected my mother to lose her mind during a particularly insufferable phase of all this. Instead, she sat me down and spoke to me like an adult. No yelling. No guilt-tripping. No dragging me back to church by the collar or, as Irish mothers sometimes prefer, the ear.

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Talking it out

Instead, she calmly walked me through the contradictions in the worldview I had been presenting to my friends. She pointed out, without raising her voice, where ego had been doing my thinking for me. And then, with the patience of a woman who had already won the argument before it started, she explained why atheism was a fool's errand.

That was the moment I rediscovered the faith. Fifteen years on, I have never looked back.

That is exactly what the new study captures. Faith transmission is relational before it is institutional. Children remember whether their parents actually believed the things they claimed to believe, or whether church was just another Sunday errand sandwiched between a leisurely breakfast and a last-minute homework check.

A kid can sit in a pew every week of childhood and still walk away convinced that religion is little more than an incredibly polite social club. Conversation breaks that spell. Conversation forces engagement. Questions surface. Doubts get aired. Faith becomes something a young person can actually argue with, wrestle against, and eventually own.

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If there’s ever a doubt as to how perverse the Democrat approach to the justice system truly is, think back to what just happened to a 37-year-old woman named Shiloh Hendrix. Hendrix on Thursday was sentenced by a judge in Rochester, Minnesota, to 200 hours of community service and fined $1,000. All of that is […]

Trends come and go, but Randy Travis is 'Forever'



I was having lunch in a local tavern the other day, when Randy Travis’ 1987 country hit “Forever and Ever, Amen” came on the jukebox.

Wow! That song sounds as good as it did 40 years ago! Maybe better!

Why is it that some things have a timeless quality and other things don’t?

My friends and I often argue about if a song, or a book, or a TV show “holds up”? Does it still retain that original freshness and quality it seemed to have when it first appeared?

Of course, when you’re young, you’re not the best judge of artistic quality. You absorb whatever you see or hear around you. You like this song or that TV show, but it’s not based on anything substantial. When you get older, you notice that some of the stuff you liked as a kid was not very good.

Think of all the bad music you listened to in your parents' car growing up. Or the terrible TV shows you watched when you were 10. Nobody’s watching reruns of "The Six Million Dollar Man" or "Kung Fu" nowadays, two TV shows I loved as a kid.

Poser punks

A couple of years ago, I spent an evening at a college friend’s house where we went through his extensive collection of old punk records.

It was many decades past the prime of punk rock, and a lot of the more outrageous punk music sounded pretty stupid. It didn’t “hold up.” We liked it at the time. But we would never listen to it now.

In some cases, you could tell the musicians were just playing at being punk. They had the goofy sunglasses, spiky hair, simplistic music. They were imitating more than creating.

They didn’t actually address what the real punk kids were feeling. There was an authenticity problem. You can’t be great if you’re just following the latest trend.

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'Hey, I used to like that song!'

My college friend and I unearthed a 7” single by a local new wave band we had liked when we lived in Boston. These guys had good songs. A good sound. A good stage presence. Their single was genuinely catchy and played regularly on our college radio station.

But when we put that same single on years later, it wasn’t good. It sounded cheesy and embarrassing. It was dated.

It sounded a lot like another Boston band, The Cars, who were also very popular around the same time. The Cars songs are also dated and a little bit cheesy, but they still sound great on the radio. They sound classic.

So what did The Cars have that the other band lacked? Talent? Presence? Craftsmanship? Why is it that some things have a timeless quality and other things don’t?

Scantily clad

I think about current pop music. There seems to be a new “pop star” every week. These are mostly singers and mostly young women. People like Chappell Roan, Olivia Rodrigo, and Sabrina Carpenter. They come and go so fast, you can barely remember their names.

Most of their music is made by highly paid music producers. These people know how to make hit records. All the girls have to do is sing and look cute.

Even country music, which tends to reward quality over slickness, has become so popular that there is a certain disposability there as well. There are a lot of “one-hit wonders," just like in the pop world.

Morgan Wallen is one country star who seems to have staying power. He sounds fresh and original, but you can hear the echoes of classic country in his songs. Also, his attempted cancellation, back in 2021, has given him an underdog status among fans.

Talent on loan from God

But beyond politics, beyond competing styles and industry trends, there is GOD-GIVEN TALENT. Which is where legendary singers like Randy Travis come in.

Of course, Travis fans know about his struggles outside of music. They understand the pressures and temptations of being so good at something that you become world-famous. Travis has definitely had his ups and downs.

But oh, if you could have heard “Forever and Ever, Amen” coming out of that jukebox! Here was a song that was once a No. 1 radio hit, but now sounds like a timeless American classic.

Randy Travis, we salute you, brother! Especially on a hot summer day, in the cool darkness of a half-empty tavern. YOU HOLD UP. And we appreciate it!

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'Just say the right pronoun!' How one cop-cam video exemplifies the absurdity of 'hands-off' policing



Cop-cam videos are one of my favorite guilty pleasures. Seeing the badly behaved and the thuggish get what’s coming to them is a rare treat in an America that has abandoned personal responsibility and consequences for bad behavior.

But the pleasure turns to frustration too often. In most of these videos, the police waste minutes to an hour repeating their orders to a struggling suspect who has no intention of obeying.

Any parent of a toddler knows that you don’t negotiate with terrorists.

Take the latest viral example: a blue-haired college kid of indeterminate gender demanding that the cop “use my pronouns” before “consenting” to being arrested (yes, they do think they have a choice).

What should have been a simple arrest turns into an eight-minute installment of absurdist theater. It is truly something to behold.

Missed manners

Before we get to that, consider the general cultural context of such videos. Anyone in their 40s or older knows that standards of public behavior in America ain’t what they used to be. Manners are a thing of the past. People walk their carts up the middle of aisles, oblivious to anyone needing to get by. They sail through doors you hold without acknowledgment.

And that's just on foot. Rules of the road? Forget it. Everyone at a four-way stop is either trying to jump the right-of-way line or they’ve forgotten the rule altogether. Or they don’t care.

The other day I ran across an honest-to-God telephone booth preserved as part of a nostalgia display at an amusement park. These were built for a world with manners. People were motivated to build booths for phones because they assumed the caller wanted privacy and that the caller didn’t want to inflict his conversation on passersby. Quaint, no?

Broken windows

We're living through a nationwide experiment in abandoning broken-windows policing. It's just plain old common sense: When authorities let the "little" things slide — graffiti, vandalism, public disorder, petty lawbreaking — they teach people that the rules don't matter. Bigger offenses inevitably follow. New York City learned that lesson the hard way before Rudy Giuliani and Police Commissioner William Bratton restored order in the 1990s by cracking down on so-called "quality of life" crimes.

It’s obviously true. But Democrats, leftists, and communists don’t like law and order. What they like is pretending that having rules for civil society is oppression. What they like even more is getting cities to defund their police departments so that criminals have a rules-free playground at everyone else’s expense. They do this by whining that mean, bad, Republican “fascists” like Giuliani were hurting “people of color” and “unhoused people” with these awful rules and laws.

You can see it in this essay on the blog Common Justice. Author “Cade T.,” who styles himself a “community organizer,” says cracking down on law and order is targeting those oppressed brown people again.

“Ultimately, the fear is that crime will become contagious and endemic in the urban environment,” he writes. “Under Giuliani, the NYPD identified neighborhoods in which to crack down on minor crimes. Not only did broken windows policing fail to reduce crime, but it also provided cover for a deliberate targeting of Black and brown communities.”

No respect

This is simply not true. Giuliani's policy resulted in a dramatic decrease in violent crime. It stands to reason. When people see police take a hands-off approach — especially toward groups the political class considers "protected" — they naturally become bolder. We see it every time hundreds of black teens riot through city streets while news anchors timidly describe the violence as nothing more than a “teen takeover.”

A large number of Americans — especially younger ones — neither fear nor respect the police. Why would they? As Forbes reported in 2020, at least 13 major American cities cut police funding or staffing in response to the BLM movement, while many smaller jurisdictions created such a hostile political climate that officers no longer felt confident their own departments would support them for simply doing their jobs. Small cities like Montpelier, Vermont, now struggle to recruit and retain enough officers.

The video below shows what hands-off policing looks like in the 2020s. Even when cops are willing to try to do their job, they’re strangely timid about effecting an arrest in a way I don’t remember police acting when I was a young man.

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Gender special

Our protagonist is a young man I’ll call a “gender special.” He’s obese, his hair is dyed blue, and he simpers as he gesticulates, using a falsely high voice. It’s eight minutes long. If you’re pressed for time, just watch the first two minutes, and then the last two minutes. The whole thing is worth watching, though: The young man screams “JUST SAY SHE” repeatedly at the cops, jumping up and down like Rumpelstiltskin when his true name was spoken.

The encounter takes place on a Florida college campus. The cops were there to deal with a car theft. The blue-haired person begins screaming at the cops; it’s not clear why. The cops tell the shrieking man to lower his voice and stop freaking out or he’s going to be cuffed and taken for a psychiatric hold. So far, so good.

And then all hell breaks loose, and the cops waste almost seven minutes shouting repeated orders at the increasingly aggressive blue-hair. The trouble is, they don’t make good on those threats immediately. The tantrum-thrower escalates; he claims to be “scared”; he screams at the cops to stop harassing him (they’re not); and he pitches a fit at being referred to as “sir.”

He even threatens the cop with “f**king try it” when the cop warns him he’ll be handcuffed.

Tantrum terrorist

Any parent of a toddler knows that you don’t negotiate with terrorists. You give them one warning, and if they keep fussing, you bodily control them and remove them from the scene. Otherwise, the tantrum gets worse.

That’s the mistake the cops made. I watched the video and counted the number of verbal warnings and commands the cops gave before finally making good on the threat to take him down in cuffs: 14.

The blue-hair’s resistance didn’t stop there. Even after he was in custody, cops had to tase him twice before he finally stopped kicking and fighting.

Back the blue

Policing needs to go back to the way it used to be. Before recent years, we never saw cops who were afraid to arrest a disorderly suspect. Why do they keep giving orders repeatedly while their subject escalates? Don’t they see that failing to follow through on promised consequences teaches the suspect and onlookers that people can, in fact, break the law and the cops won’t do anything about it?

Yes. It does teach that lesson. And that’s part of why we now see behavior every day on the street that only used to happen in mental hospitals.

But the police are not the problem. The governments, municipalities, and mayors' offices are the problem. Cops are working in hostile territory. They know their civilian superiors not only do not support them, but are often working to target their own police force for false complaints of racism and brutality that can cost a cop his career.

If we want the boys in blue to have our backs, we have to make sure someone has theirs.