Unironically Christian

prowling round the scene for the real real Jesus

In honor of our event at the Catholic Worker Maryhouse on 12/13, we’re unlocking this very spicy piece. RSVP to the event here.

[this is our ungenerous take on scenester Catholicism…for the generous take, read this piece]

As the #tradcath trend continues making its way around subversive layers of internet discourse, many forget that the traditionalist Catholicism has been a “thing” for years.

Many were initially drawn to this trend because they felt disillusioned with the weakest parts of the Vatican 2 reforms. And it is worth noting that a significant portion of this crowd experiences some type of neurological and social challenges.

The latest brand of trad Catholicism—the subject of numerous think pieces ad nauseum (including my own)—that doesn’t hide its performative, ironic nature. And I must admit, it’s certainly quite compelling on an aesthetic level.

Now, plenty of the OG trads are (at least in their minds) devoutly religious. For them, there’s nothing ironic about their being trads, as they are earnestly attempting to adhere to their understanding of Catholicism—as much as it may be a flawed one, we gotta give them credit for trying.

But at the end of the day, traditionalism as a phenomenon—in all of its iterations—is inherently a major LARP. Paradoxically, it is a deeply modernist form reactionary performance art that that creates a fetish out of the past rather than appropriating the wisdom of tradition in a matter that fits the call of God in the present moment (which is the Church’s historic understanding of “tradition”). It quickly morphs into a form of paganism as its point of departure is an ideology rather than a response to God’s call within one’s given reality.

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I encountered several of the latest trad types at a party hosted in a dimly lit bar, where a mix of trap, nudisco, and trance music blasting in the background, and a glass of wine costs over $20. Attendees were wearing outfits that ranged from—for the girls—tight cocktail dresses and ostentatious fur coats, to cottage-core housedresses accented with a knit bonnet, and—for the dudes—from full three piece suits to baggy pants and frumpy band t-shirts and disheveled, unwashed hair. I happened upon a number of faces I already knew—some I avoided, some I greeted just to be cordial (and to schmooze for purely utilitarian reasons), and a couple who I genuinely wanted to spend time with.

Few people were genuinely interested in meeting new people, unless it was for the sake of networking…or in the least, just getting to meet a microcelebrity who they could then boast about having met, and whose sense of self-importance might possibly rub off onto them by osmosis. Interactions rarely amounted to anything substantial.

Sometimes the conversations covered a variety of hot topics…which really just ended up being a competition of who can spew out the most deplorable, politically incorrect takes that would disgust the imaginary libt**d in the room. In the end, conversations served as—pardon my vulgarity—a massive circle j*rk.

One person tried to explain to me why we needed a Christian nationalist dictator to force Catholicism on the masses, pointing to Constantine’s legacy as the prime example we should be following. I asked him if he actually loved Jesus, and he said that didn’t really matter. “What matters is the truth, and making the truth known. Not that sentimental form of Christianity which has only generated a feminized gynocracy.”

Guess he took the liberty to ignore 1 Corinthians 13…

A young lady in flapper garb came up to me and another friend to tell us she heard about our writing and—surprisingly enough—had no interest in schmoozing or networking. Rather, she asked us if we were “unironically Christian.”

“Ummm…yeah,” I said. “I like, actually love Jesus…at least I try.” She exploded with excitement, sharing that she’s been on a spiritual journey and has been looking for a church to go to. Needless to say, unironic Christianity is hard to come by in such a scene.

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Later that week, I attended an event at the Catholic Worker Maryhouse, where the scene was also weird, countercultural, radical, even trad…but in a very different sense. There are plenty of overlaps between the two scenes: there are people smoking outside, but no alcohol at the CW (it functions as a shelter for the needy…many of whom struggle with addiction); there are a bunch of edgy young people, but there are also lots of old people at CW, many of whom have lived there their whole lives (whereas at the other scene, you’ll rarely find anyone over 40); there’s talk about radical politics, but rarely of fascism or nationalism at CW; and many (but not all) of the people are Catholic, though at CW most of them earnestly believe in and (at least) attempt to live out the Beatitudes.

As I walked into the CW, I found a wall with a giant “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” sign, hand-drawn with minutely-detailed flowers inside the block letters, under which read names and dates—most noticeable was Dorothy Day’s (November 8th), in addition to those of volunteers and shelter residents. I made my way down the stairs into the basement, the walls of which were covered in peeling paint and adorned with images of saints like Therese of Lisieux, Oscar Romero, and Our Lady of Guadalupe, activists like MLK Jr. and Gandhi, photos of Dorothy Day and residents current and past, and stickers with political slogans like “Boycott Wendy’s,” “Systemic Racism is Immoral,” and “every time media lies a neighborhood in Gaza dies.”

The crowd was mixed—people of different ages, races, religions, and political orientations were listening to a professor speak about Sufi spirituality and poetry. The woman demonstrated her erudite knowledge and personal passion for the subject, giving examples form her experience. The crowd sat on the edge of their seats, many of them uttering exclamations of amazement and fascination upon hearing some of the things she said. The Q+A turned into a real dialogue, as attendees shared their own experiences and bounced questions off of each other.

Afterwards, the volunteers offered (complimentary) tea and homemade pastries. Quite unlike the previous event I attended that week, people seemed genuinely interested in getting to know strangers, with little interest in networking or knowing anything about anyone’s credentials. Some had no credentials to boast about—at least none deemed worthy within “respectable” society—as they had just gotten off the streets and were living in the shelter. Yet no one seemed to distinguish between the in- or out-crowds…every one was worthy of making small talk and getting to know.

There was sharing of life stories, of past sufferings, and huge belly laughs at jokes that were substantially hilarious (and not just provocative posturing). One woman who had worked there for over 30 years asked me about what I write and why I find it interesting. She told me she loved writing, as she taught English to middle school students for nearly her whole life.

Later in the night, I snuck with my friend into the chapel and to the bedroom where Dorothy Day died. I was overcome by the awareness that something sacred was in our midst.

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For the sake of fairness, I must concede that there are plenty of incredible people involved in the various iterations of trad Catholicism.

Yet I can’t deny there was something more genuine, something “unironically Christian” about the vibe at the CW. And I say so not on the grounds of theology or ideology, but on the grounds of lived experience. You can feel a tangible sense of charity and hospitality at the CW that you don’t feel elsewhere. They made not be as cool or edgy, but Jesus never said that this mattered very much.

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photos taken at Maryhouse