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Many Catholics are unaware that Holy Thursday commemorates the institution of Christ’s ministerial priesthood. Perhaps this is due to the absence of Christ explicitly ordaining the apostles in the Last Supper narratives. Are there clues that suggest such an ordination? Karlo Broussard gives the answer.
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Transcript:
Most Catholics are aware that Holy Thursday commemorates Jesus’ Last Supper as the First Mass. But what some miss is that Holy Thursday also celebrates Jesus’ institution of the ministerial priesthood.
When you read the Last Supper narratives in the Synoptic Gospels you don’t find Jesus ordaining the apostles. You’re left wondering, “Where does the Catholic Church get off thinking that Jesus made the apostles priests at the Last Supper?”
There are three clues that support this claim.
First, Jesus commands the apostles to “do this remembrance of me.” The Greek verb for “do,” poieo, can be translated literally as “offer” in the sense of offering a sacrifice, as it is in in Leviticus 9:7 of the Septuagint (the Greek translation of the Old Testament).
Now, offering sacrifice is a priestly function. Therefore, Jesus’ command to offer the Last Supper as a sacrifice suggests that Jesus made his apostles ministerial priests.
A second clue is the washing of the apostles’ feet in John 13:5. This calls to mind the ritual washings of Aaron and his sons, which included the washing of their feet, at their priestly ordination in Exodus 40.
Finally, Jesus says in John 13:8 that the apostles could not take “part” in him unless they were washed. The Greek word for “part,” meros, echoes Numbers <a class="yt-simple-endpoint style-scope yt-formatted-string" spellcheck="false" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OdGd59Yj8r4&amp;t=1100s">18:20</a> and Deuteronomy 10:9, which refer to the “portion” (Greek—meris) that Aaron and the Levites have in God as priests.
So, did Jesus make the apostles priests at the Last Supper? I think these exegetical points give us sufficient reason to answer yes.
If you want to learn more about this topic and others like it, visit our website at catholic.com.
For Catholic Answers, I’m Karlo Broussard. Thanks for watching.

Did Jesus Make The Apostles Priests?

<div>May a baby be baptized during lent? </div><div>Yes, infants may be baptized during Lent.  There is no Church law or liturgical guideline that prevents or discourages the baptism of infants during the Lenten season.
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May a Baby Be Baptized During Lent?

There is a joke that Jesuits don’t worry about meeting Christ in the afterlife as much as they worry about meeting St. Ignatius.
There are reasons why Jesuits are called “Jesuitical,” referring to the perception that they employ fast-and-loose justifications around hard facts of faith that Ignatius of Loyola lived and died for. It’s tragic that the Jesuits now evoke a slinking, sidewinding spirituality that integrates too closely with the wayward world, compromising Catholic teaching to justify a “new” Catholic position.
The great missionary and founder of the Society of Jesus departed this earth on July 31, 1556. The current state of his order would likely incite his soldierly wrath. Such heroic Jesuits as Francis Xavier, Claver, Borgia, Brébeuf, Hopkins, and Schall once dominated our view of the Society of Jesus; now, on the contrary, it seems people can summon to mind one or two remaining “good Jesuits” amid a whole lot of “less good” ones. The Jesuits as an order have entrenched a reputation in recent times as the radical progressives of the Catholic Church. And the tendencies that have taken root in the Jesuits are the same as in progressive politics, so it is little wonder that Jesuits not infrequently take up <a href="https://shop.catholic.com/confusion-in-the-kingdom/">leftist causes</a> in a dangerous blend of Church and state.
The Jesuits leaned into action and breaking new ground. Ignatius himself, for example, vied to <a href="https://www.newliturgicalmovement.org/2009/10/compendium-of-reforms-of-roman-breviary_06.html">unshackle his men</a> from the well-respected custom of singing the Divine Office in choir—this not to disdain tradition, but rather out of single-minded zeal to open up opportunities for apostolic missionary work. Regardless of their saintly founder’s motivation, this trailblazing inclination brought the Jesuits more into the political sphere, and over time, more into the liberal sphere. The Jesuits have been drinking political water for some time—and now there’s something in the water.
Let us take a brief look at the life of Ignatius, this hero of the Faith, to see the origin of the Society of Jesus. Born in the Castle of Loyola in Guipuscoa, Spain, 1491, Ignatius was reared from his boyhood in the arts of chivalry, and after his unruly and amorous service at the court of Ferdinand V of Aragon, he was stationed at the barracks of Pamplona in 1517. Ignatius heroically led his comrades in the defense of the city against France’s siege, falling only after a cannonball shattered his right leg.
Ignatius’s convalescence was prolonged and painful. The boisterous knight lay restless, and though his reading had to that point been devoted to the escapades of Amadis of Gaul and El Cid, all he had on hand at this time were the life of Jesus Christ and the lives of the saints. Ignatius found in them chivalric battles and enraptured ends that put all his beloved legends in the context of a larger drama of which he had never dreamed. The Crusades were enkindled in the wounded knight of Loyola as he vowed to rival the saints in sanctity. He swore to take Jerusalem from the hands of the heathen, laid his naked sword across his knees, and waited.
As soon as he could walk, Ignatius went to the Benedictine monastery of Santa Maria de Montserrat, placed his armor before an image of Mary, and then went to a cave in the solitude of Manresa, where he spent ten months in self-mortification. Ignatius prepared his heart for a new type of battle, training in the arms of the spirit, strengthening his resolve to serve heaven through prayer and fasting. There in that cave, Ignatius learned asceticism and discovered the foundation of his Spiritual Exercises. He emerged lean and battered but happy—ready to storm the Holy Land.
Six followers gathered around this strange and striking ascetic. Ignatius led them like a military officer in serving the poor, in study, and in community prayer. Together, they vowed lifelong labor as missionaries. The Society of Jesus was born. These first Jesuits crossed the Alps toward Jerusalem, but they found Venice ravaged by war with the Turks and their passage blocked. In Venice they were ordained to the priesthood, and turning their footsteps toward Rome, they placed themselves under Pope Paul III, who approved the order in 1540 and named Ignatius the first superior general.
Jesuit spirituality was marked by unwavering faith, indomitability, and intellectual acumen. The Jesuits clashed with Protestants, rescued beleaguered Catholics from England, and defended the borders of France from heresy. No challenge was too daunting, difficult, or dangerous. They marched to India, China, and Japan. They sailed to the New World. They conquered countless souls for Christ.
The Jesuits have always sought to be the tip of the spear. Such motivation can lead to new ideas that are not as sound as old ideas. The healthy urge for discovery goes astray when liberal humanitarianism creeps in, with openness, however mentally justified, to shifting traditional paradigms. The cutting-edge quality of the Jesuits is a reason why they are often accused of being more political than theological. The progressive character of the Jesuits has brought the order to slippery theological places while giving it a place of regard within the eye of progressive politics, who are comfortable on slippery slopes. The unnatural positions adopted by both the left and many Jesuits regarding human sexuality and society are clear indications of a bad direction.
All this is not to denounce the holy order of St. Ignatius or wallow in thoughts of its decline. The Jesuits’ missionary zeal changed the world in tremendous ways. But now the world is having its revenge. It is terrible how effectively the secular can seize and twist the spiritual. But the world will not have the last word.
Ignatius was a knight who charged the giants of his day with the unconquerable valor of Don Quixote, proving himself, through buffets and bruises, a mighty champion who led an army on for the greater glory of God. It is never too late, and the Jesuits, by the persistence of their patron, can yet be brought back from the brink and earn a better judgment.

St. Ignatius and the Jesuits

<div>What is non-theism?</div><div>Non-theism includes a range of beliefs that reject traditional belief in God. This includes denials of God&#8217;s existence, such as atheism, or skeptical attitudes toward God&#8217;s existence, such as agnosticism. It also includes religious beliefs that do not include worship of God, such as pantheism and some forms of Buddhism.
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What Is Non-Theism?

Does the Good Thief Disprove Purgatory?

Yesterday’s reading at Mass contained that most marvelously pithy saying of John the Baptist from John’s gospel: “I must decrease. He must increase.”
Today we see this play out in Luke’s account of the Lord’s baptism in the Jordan. This is, let’s remember, pretty incredible. People wanted John to be the Christ. If he had said he was the Christ, they would have had no trouble believing him. And John takes that potential power and influence and casually sets it aside.
His humility paves the way for the even greater humility of the true Christ, who himself enters the waters for John to baptize. Our Gospel selection for today doesn’t include some of the dialogue reported elsewhere between John and Jesus, but in a way, it’s predictable. John is confused. He has been talking all this time about the one who is greater than he, whose sandals he is not worthy to untie, who will baptize the world with fire, and this great anointed one approaches him and asks to be baptized like everybody else. Really, Lord, why? I mean, shouldn’t you be baptizing me?
This is part of a large pattern in the Gospels. Perhaps one reason this story appears to us in the immediate context of the Christmas season is that we are conscious of the Son of God’s human vulnerability and humility. This is all headed to the cross, but before that we find Jesus washing the feet of his disciples and declaring that he calls them not slaves, but friends.
At the baptism, Jesus is publicly identified as the Son of the Father, and this identity is witnessed by the Spirit in the form of a dove. Various heretics in the early centuries, grouped together under the loose label adoptionism, saw this as a moment when the human person Jesus was somehow elevated to divinity. Church councils repeatedly rejected this theory in the first several centuries, even as the formal articulation of Trinitarian and Christological doctrine developed. But the problem I have with this view of the baptism is that it seems to miss the way it fits in with the whole gospel trajectory. If the baptism necessitates some kind of progression or elevation of Christ, so does virtually every other incident of his life. If it is merely human to submit to baptism, what would it take to submit to crucifixion?
In fact, the Fathers’ reading of this story show how it is precisely Christ’s divinity, in his baptism, that makes the difference. Christ was not baptized so that he might be sanctified in the water and become somehow more divine. He was baptized so that he might sanctify the water.
What does it mean to sanctify or consecrate something? It means to set it apart, to mark it somehow. That is the most fundamental meaning of holiness—including, as a transcendent example, the holiness of God. God is utterly unique; he has no equal, no real comparison. When we are baptized, we are consecrated; we are set apart by what the Letter to Titus calls the “laver of regeneration” and the “renovation of the Holy Ghost.” And water has specifically been set apart for this purpose.
But think about this: when we are baptized, is this consecration something ultimately contrary to our nature? True, it is an elevation of our nature, yet it is an elevation that was always intended—our nature was, from the beginning, oriented toward supernatural fellowship with God. And so it is not so much that baptism changes us—though from the perspective of sin, it certainly does that—but that it restores and reanimates what we truly are.
We can apply that to other kinds of consecrations. When we bless water for baptism, we aren’t adding something to water; we are in a way reminding water of its true purpose, which is the life of God. When Jesus entered the waters of the Jordan, he wasn’t somehow invading nature with a foreign substance. He was meeting his own creation face to face and saying, “Remember me?”
There is a liturgical and sacramental shape to creation. When we celebrate the Mass, part of the miracle is not so much to realize that bread and wine can become body and blood, but to realize that so much of the time, they do not do so even though they could. Think of it as pulling back the curtain and showing the true purpose of all time and space—which is to say that it is the time and the place for fellowship with God. This is why we have—in the normal sense—sacred times and sacred places: to heighten our senses and our intellectual contemplation of the fact that God has entered all times and all places to the end of bringing all things into the light of his glory.
Today, as we remember the Lord’s baptism, remember also the hope that it contains—the hope that all things can and will be restored to God’s goodness. In our own baptisms, we were restored to who we are, but it is only in holding fast to our communion with Christ that we can remain who we are. We can say, with John the Baptist, I must decrease; he must increase.
Another way of putting it is this: if I am only myself alone, I am not even that. I can find who I am only in the voice of the one who calls me beloved, who knew me even before I knew myself, and who will call me again to himself in the last day. Amen.

Jesus Greets the Water

Easter Vigil Mass celebrated by Fr. Paul Check at St. John Fisher Seminary.
Exsultet
Exult, let them exult, the hosts of heaven, exult, let Angel ministers of God exult, let the trumpet of 
salvation sound aloud our mighty King&#8217;s triumph! Be glad, let earth be glad, as glory floods her, 
ablaze with light from her eternal King, let all corners of the earth be glad, knowing an end to gloom 
and darkness. Rejoice, let Mother Church also rejoice, arrayed with the lightning of his glory, let 
this holy building shake with joy, filled with the mighty voices of the peoples. Therefore, dearest 
friends, standing in the awesome glory of this holy light, invoke with me, I ask you, the mercy of 
God almighty, that he, who has been pleased to number me, though unworthy, among the Levites, 
may pour into me his light unshadowed, that I may sing this candle&#8217;s perfect praises.
V. The Lord be with you. 
R. And with your spirit. 
V. Lift up your hearts. 
R. We lift them up to the Lord. 
V. Let us give thanks to the Lord our God. 
R. It is right and just.
It is truly right and just, with ardent love of mind and heart and with devoted service of our voice, 
to acclaim our God invisible, the almighty Father, and Jesus Christ, our Lord, his Son, his Only 
Begotten. Who for our sake paid Adam&#8217;s debt to the eternal Father, and, pouring out his own dear 
Blood, wiped clean the record of our ancient sinfulness. These, then, are the feasts of Passover, in 
which is slain the Lamb, the one true Lamb, whose Blood anoints the doorposts of believers. This 
is the night, when once you led our forebears, Israel&#8217;s children, from slavery in Egypt and made them 
pass dry-shod through the Red Sea. This is the night that with a pillar of fire banished the darkness 
of sin. This is the night that even now, throughout the world, sets Christian believers apart from 
worldly vices and from the gloom of sin, leading them to grace and joining them to his holy ones. 
This is the night, when Christ broke the prison-bars of death and rose victorious from the 
underworld. Our birth would have been no gain, had we not been redeemed. O wonder of your 
humble care for us! O love, O charity beyond all telling, to ransom a slave you gave away your Son! 
O truly necessary sin of Adam, destroyed completely by the Death of Christ! O happy fault that 
earned so great, so glorious a Redeemer! O truly blessed night, worthy alone to know the time and 
hour when Christ rose from the underworld! This is the night of which it is written: The night shall 
be as bright as day, dazzling is the night for me, and full of gladness. The sanctifying power of this 
night dispels wickedness, washes faults away, restores innocence to the fallen, and joy to mourners, 
drives out hatred, fosters concord, and brings down the mighty. On this, your night of grace, O holy 
Father, accept this candle, a solemn offering, the work of bees and of your servants’ hands, an 
evening sacrifice of praise, this gift from your most holy Church. But now we know the praises of 
this pillar, which glowing fire ignites for God&#8217;s honor, a fire into many flames divided, yet never 
dimmed by sharing of its light, for it is fed by melting wax, drawn out by mother bees to build a 
torch so precious. O truly blessed night, when things of heaven are wed to those of earth, and divine 
to the human. Therefore, O Lord, we pray you that this candle, hallowed to the honor of your name, 
may persevere undimmed, to overcome the darkness of this night. Receive it as a pleasing fragrance, 
and let it mingle with the lights of heaven. May this flame be found still burning by the Morning 
Star: the one Morning Star who never sets, Christ your Son, who, coming back from death&#8217;s domain, 
has shed his peaceful light on humanity, and lives and reigns for ever and ever. R. Amen.

Easter Vigil Mass: April 11, 2020

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DAY 121
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CHALLENGE
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“Catholic apologists say we must not use ‘private judgment,’ but we can’t avoid it. The point of apologetics is to convince someone to use his private judgment to accept a position.”
DEFENSE
This misunderstands the role that our exercise of reason plays.
It should be pointed out that, whatever happens in apologetic discussions, the theme of “private judgment” is remarkably rare in Church documents. The phrase does not appear at all in the Catechism of the Catholic Church, and when it does appear in Church documents, it does not reject the role of the intellect in theology.
That would scarcely be likely given the rich intellectual tradition of Catholic theology, which has always celebrated the contributions of theologians like Augustine, Aquinas, and others as gifts from God. Indeed, God has granted every individual an intellect, and he expects them to use this gift “that they should seek God, in the hope that they might feel after him and find him” (Acts 17:27; cf. CCC 31–38).
Apologetics thus has an important role providing evidence so that people can understand the reasons for embracing the Faith—whether it is understood as the Christian faith broadly or the Catholic Faith specifically.
When understanding and appreciating this evidence, the individual exercise of reason is indispensible. However, once one has come to the point of faith, the situation changes, because we no longer rely on reason alone but on God’s revelation.
Jesus did not start a philosophy club but a religion. He “taught them as one who had authority” (Mark 1:22), proclaiming God’s definitive word to man (John 1:4; Heb. 1:1–2; Jude 3). Consequently, when one embraces faith in Christ, one must accept certain things as authoritative that one did not accept before the point of faith. It is here that the individual exercise of reason can become problematic.
It is praiseworthy to exercise one’s intellect in accord with the authorities established by Christ, as the great theologians have done. How- ever, it is problematic to exercise one’s intellect contrary to them. This was the origin of the heresies that have arisen in Christian history.
Both Protestants and Catholics agree that it is a mistake to prefer one’s “private judgment” to the authorities established by Christ. The question is what the authorities are and how we are to understand them.
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Private Judgment

For several decades now, our culture has associated Christianity, and especially traditional, creedal, Catholic Christianity, with “family values.” This association cuts across the Catholic/Protestant divide, and the idea is further tangled up in American political identity and modern disputes about the direction of liberal society.
Back when I was growing up in the eighties and nineties, there was “Focus on the Family” in the evangelical world. Now we have a variety organizations attempting to promote what they see as authentic human and social virtue amid the increasingly hostile secular space, where pride, pleasure, and personal autonomy have emerged as the lone permitted path to peace and happiness. Whether the shrill voices on the so-called left and right are anything more than noise, we can certainly understand the basic problems that go with a culture seems intent to untether itself from basic human realities, which we would call natural law. The natural human family—the natural relationships among fathers, mothers, and children—does in many places seem lost to the competing vision of human life as merely the quest to do whatever we happen to want, to be whatever we want to be, and to employ science and technology as unregulated tools to accomplish those arbitrary ends.
So if we have been accustomed to a certain role in that culture war, as Catholics who defend the moral principle behind the Fourth Commandment—honor your father and mother—against these hostile forces, it can come as a shock to recall the Lord’s hard words here in Luke 12:
<blockquote>Do you think that I have come to give peace on earth? No, I tell you, but rather division; for henceforth in one house there will be five divided, three against two and two against three; they will be divided, father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against her mother, mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law and daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law.</blockquote>
Perhaps at the moment, having experienced such divisions in real time, the words did not come across quite as shocking. But we have to read these in the aftermath of the many declarations of the Lord’s peace, especially after his resurrection! Isn’t he the Prince of Peace? Doesn’t he say, in the upper room, “Peace be with you”?
These are contradictory only if you take for granted that there is only one kind of peace. But the Lord does clue us in here. Before his passion, Jesus says to his disciples in John’s Gospel, words echoed quietly by the priest at every Mass, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you” (John 14:27).
Not as the world gives. What does that mean? The world’s “peace” could be the temporary end to conflict. It could mean compromise between opposing forces. It could be the peace imposed and protected by a victorious army. It is external, pragmatic peace. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it is distinct from the “peace that passeth understanding,” the peace that is harmony and communion with the triune God.
The two kinds of peace aren’t always and inevitably at war, but they do often conflict. Our observation about “family values” is a case in point. Families are good. God made them as the ordinary and natural structure of human life. But the family is not more important than God. It is not even more important than the divine family of the Catholic Church. If this is challenging to us, it was even more challenging to the Jewish culture of the first century. Scholars have pointed out that this is one of the more subtle ways that Jesus claims his divinity: For a pious Jew, the only thing that could possibly be more important than the family was God himself.
One of the ways, I fear, that our conservative Catholic culture has at times lost itself, is in a subtle assumption that “family values,” the promotion of the traditional, natural family, is somehow opposed to larger social values. When you combine this with the larger trend to geographical transience, not to mention the sheer size and de facto anonymity of many American Catholic parishes, you have a situation where many Catholics and other Christians feel that the Christian life means somehow valiantly going it alone as a family, without any broader support network, against a hostile world.
But the good of the natural family is a relative good, a good that finds its place in the Church. There are far, far too many Catholics who, when faced with separation, or intractable division, or many other problems, feel, and are made to believe, that they simply can no longer be good Catholics because of their family situation. For them, I wonder if the Lord’s hard words about division may be something of a comfort. “Family values” cannot just mean some pious ideal of a mother and father and 2.5 kids—or maybe 7.5 kids in the more pious Catholic circles. It has to mean the submission of all natural family relationships to our relationship with God.
Is it sad to have a family without a natural father or mother? Of course. But this is why we have godparents; it is why we have a whole range of spiritual fathers and mothers and cousins. We cannot focus so much on preserving one good thing that we neglect the even greater things that the Lord provides for us.
Put another way, we cannot define ourselves by the things we like to complain about. Perhaps our moral situation, in the modern West, is something like Jeremiah being thrown down into a muddy cistern. We could complain about it. We could try to figure out how we got here. We could ask God why he allows bad things to happen to good cultures. Or we could remember the point of the story and look for and expect God’s rescue, ready to grab the rope that he throws down.
One way out was discussed just this past week in <a href="https://churchlifejournal.nd.edu/articles/a-solution-to-the-churchs-biggest-problem/">an interesting article</a> by a pair of social scientists analyzing several decades’ worth of material on the decline of the Catholic Church in America. Things aren’t looking good, from a demographic standpoint. Lots of people are leaving the Church—or rather, lots of people aren’t even staying in the Church, because the most striking figures are those showing how few Catholics stay Catholic as they get older.
But the silver lining to these statistics is pretty obvious: it is very clear that the difference between those who stay and those who leave centers not on family life, or even on clear doctrine, as important as those are, but on the larger communal and social life of the Church. On one end of the spectrum, you have someone who is baptized, who goes to Mass occasionally, but whose family doesn’t really practice the Faith in any meaningful way. Such a person is very unlikely to practice the Faith later in life. A little better is a child raised in a family where the parents take the Faith seriously, where they catechize and discuss matters of faith. But such a person is still quite likely to leave. Those who stay have not only a living faith in the family, but a regular social connection with a parish community. In other words, faith is more than just for the family. They know other adults who practice the faith, not just other children. They spend time with them outside Mass.
I like to think that we naturally practice this social dimension of the Church better in the Ordinariate because of our small size, but we don’t get a free pass. We’re not just talking about whether people are friendly; we’re talking about the salvation of souls.
Let us join the fight against the false peace of the world and seek the peace that only Christ brings. This is a peace worth sharing, a peace that alone can bring us true happiness through all the changes of the world.

‘Family Values’ Is Not Enough

I can’t stop thinking about a conversation I just had with my sister, a therapist. She poured out her heart to me about an encounter that began as one of the most challenging moments of her career—and ended as a profound example of how God works through us.
She became a marriage and family therapist to help people through their darkest times—addictions, post-traumatic stress disorder—and to provide a safe place for those in need. Sometimes her work tests how well she can balance her Catholic faith with her professional ethics and responsibilities. This was one of those times.
Her client—let’s call her Jane—was facing an unimaginable situation. She was planning to end the life of her unborn son, who had been diagnosed with Down Syndrome and water on the brain. Jane’s anguish was heartbreaking. Through tears, she explained that she didn’t want to have the abortion but felt she had no other choice. She believed it was an act of love to spare him from suffering, but her doubts were palpable.
My sister was deeply moved. She knew this was a moment of mission, one she hadn’t expected but to which she had been called. She silently prayed for the Holy Spirit to guide her words, to give her client clarity and courage, and to bring about a miracle. Within the constraints of her profession, she gently advocated for life, focusing on the emotional and psychological toll an abortion could bring.
After their session, my sister felt a mix of hope and helplessness. She had done all she could, but the decision ultimately rested with Jane. So, she continued to pray, trusting that God could work even where her influence seemed to end.
Then, the miracle came. The next morning, Jane told her that she and her husband—after hours talking, crying, and searching for answers—had canceled the abortion. Her relief and newfound hope were overwhelming. My sister saw the fruit of her prayer and cooperation with God’s grace. She had responded to his call, and a human life was saved.
In moments like this I’m reminded that love isn’t about avoiding suffering—it’s about embracing life and trusting that God will provide the strength to carry our crosses.
It is also a powerful reminder to me that we are all God’s agents in the world, often in ways we don’t expect. We might not see ourselves as capable of great things, but God uses us in small, situational missions to carry out his work. Whether we’re counselors, teachers, students, apologists, or parents, God will give us opportunities to be his partners, his instruments, in his good works. When we respond to his call, even in ways that seem minor or are constrained by circumstances, we become part of his plan.
For those of us engaged in apologetics and evangelization, this is the heart of our mission. We are called to be ready, to listen for God’s voice in the moment, and to act in cooperation with his grace. Just as my sister did not, we may not immediately (or ever!) see the effects of our choices, but in those moments, lives can be changed—and even saved.

We’re Always God’s Agents

Jimmy Akin explains the Biblical basis for free will in man, which is indicated wherever Scripture instructs us to make the right choice, and then walks through the concept of logical contradictions to show exactly what we mean when we say that God has free will.

Is Free Will Biblical and Does God Have It?

Often when asked where the Bible condemns contraception some Christians appeal to Genesis 38:8-10. There, Onan, son of Judah, is told to have intercourse with his deceased brother’s wife to “perform the duty of a brother-in-law to her and raise up offspring for [his] brother” (v.8). But knowing the offspring wouldn’t be his, Onan “spilled the semen on the ground, lest he should give offspring to his brother” (v.9). The author immediately reports that “[God] slew” Onan because of his deed. This, it’s argued, reveals that contraception is contrary to God’s will.
Recently, <a href="https://www.tiktok.com/@catholicanswers/video/7269917297798794542?is_from_webapp=1&amp;sender_device=pc&amp;web_id=6983056260526589446">someone in our TikTok comment section</a> was not convinced:

Let’s take the latter objection first—that the text only describes what happens and doesn’t give us the prescription that we ought not to contracept.
Our critic is simply wrong. The text does tell us Onan’s deed conflicted with God’s will: “And what he did was displeasing in the sight of the LORD” (v.10). Given the implied assumption for this kind of religious text that we should avoid doing what displeases God, we can conclude that the passage is prescriptive and not merely descriptive. We can derive an “ought” from this event pertaining to at least one form of contraception: spilling semen to avoid conception.
This leads me to the first objection.
Our critic is right in saying it would be fallacious to move from God’s displeasure with one form of contraception to His displeasure with all forms of contraception. Spilling semen is not the only way a couple can contracept. Since that’s the only form of contraception that the above passage deals with, the appeal to Onan’s sin would only achieve the goal of providing evidence against that specific form of contraceptive act that Onan committed. More work would have to be done, whether biblically or philosophically, to determine whether other forms of contraception (e.g., the pill) are also displeasing to God. For an introductory philosophical explanation, see my articles <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/for-goodness-sake">“Sex for Goodness Sake,”</a> and <a href="https://www.catholic.com/magazine/online-edition/how-contraception-thwarts-love">“How Contraception Thwarts Love.”</a>
This is not to say, however, that a Catholic who makes the above argument is blameworthy for his lack of nuance. Often, the argument is given as an answer to the basic question of whether the Bible condemns contraception without any specification as to a particular form. And for a general question like that, Genesis 38:8-10 suffices.

Onan Died for This (and Nothing Else?)

<div>In 1 Samuel, David and Saul’s son Jonathan make a sacred covenant. What type of covenant was it?</div><div><blockquote>By the time David finished speaking with Saul, Jonathan’s life became bound up with David’s life; he loved him as his very self. Saul retained David on that day and did not allow him to return to his father’s house. Jonathan and David made a covenant, because Jonathan loved him as his very self. Jonathan took off the cloak he was wearing and handed it over to David, along with his military dress, even his sword, bow, and belt (1 Sam. 18:1-4).</blockquote>
The exact nature of the covenant is not explained. The fact that Jonathan hands over his clothing and weapon, which as the king&#8217;s son and a military commander would have been royal clothing and a royal weapon, is generally interpreted as a sign that Jonathan is ready to hand over the future throne to David. The general idea seems to be that Jonathan knows that David is a potential rival to the throne after Saul dies. Jonathan&#8217;s actions symbolize that he does not care if David is the one to ascend to the throne instead of him; he values David&#8217;s friendship too much to fight over the throne. This appears to be a covenant to mutually support one another as close friends, no matter what happens.
We see this arise when Saul plots to kill David (1 Sam. 20). Saul, knowing Jonathan&#8217;s affection for David, conceals his plan from his son. When David confronts Jonathan about the plot, Jonathan pleads his ignorance and promises to find out the truth and warn David if his life is truly in danger. For upholding his half of the covenant, Jonathan is rewarded by never having his family and descendants cast off as enemies of David when he ascends to the throne.
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