Spencer Moseley

I was kicking a soccer ball outside a house I was renting with four roommates. I had gone through 5 preliminary interviews to re-enter seminary, and I had one last interview with the Bishop left. It was more of a formality, really. Entering Seminary to become a Catholic priest was nothing new to me; I'd done it twice before. My acceptance was basically guaranteed unless I spit on a crucifix in front of the Bishop or something.  I'd been a Youth Minister for the past three years. I loved working with the middle and high school students and teaching them Catholicism. But it wasn't enough. Perhaps I could become a married deacon, I told myself. It was starting to feel like a pathetic substitute for the deeper fulfillment I craved. I wanted to hold Jesus in my own hands as I consecrated the Eucharist. I wanted to baptize new Catholics. I wanted to preach homilies, hear confessions.  I stopped kicking the soccer ball and just stood there. That's when it all hit me all at on...

The myth of the cherry tree is probably the only myth I know about America's founding (or was Paul Bunyan in there somewhere too? #lumberjacklife). America's bootlicking of George Washington gave Mason Locke Weems the occasion to cash in a fat check with the ole cherry tree myth.  Weems tells us that George's dad surprised George with a hatchet one day (I guess this was an acceptable gift for a 6-year-old back then). George took the hatchet to his father's favorite cherry tree, damaging it so badly it would never recover. George's father asked everyone who did it, and George, holding the hatchet at the time he's asked (reducing the value of his admission in my opinion), confessed in his famous line , "I can’t tell a lie, Pa; you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.”  This story shows a great response when children act according to personal values. George's dad, after the confession, has a whole prodigal son moment, welcomes his son in ...

We’ve all heard someone say, “I got spanked as a kid, and I turned out okay (usually accompanied with a cringy smile).” Spanking is defined as, “slapping  with one’s open hand or a flat object, especially on the buttocks (great word) as a punishment."  I think parents who spank their kids run to the defense of spanking in one of two ways: 1. When they're too young to listen to reason, spanking's all that works.  2. Other forms of discipline are weak compared to spanking.  The first one is perhaps the most difficult discussion. If a child is too young to listen to reason, spanking will correct negative behavior but also instill fear at a young age. Sure, the child is no longer crying, but only because they’re afraid.  Studies have shown that kids who grow up spanked tend towards aggression and see hitting as a way of resolving conflict. Studies have suggested benefits to conditional spanking from ages 2 to 6, where two open-handed swats to the buttocks (couldn...

Thank you, Brad Pitt, for baring your sexy ass in one of Troy's opening scenes (a fact which a dear friend has told me was the actor's request). Of course your introductory scene as Achilles opens with an implied threesome—two gorgeous gals lying next to you on the tent floor. Reflections that follow are from the movie, Troy, not Homer's Iliad (source material).  Achilles' perfect hair, hairless abs, and dirty-braided blonde hair make him irresistible eye candy—his go-to combat maneuver: the euro-step-jump combo ending in a sword thrust to the enemy's neck. His every movement poised and collected. His final battle with Hector showcases the best of his skills, and he needed them too, apparently, since he claims that Hector was the best fighter he ever fought.  Hector, tamer of horses, is as far from Achilles as I am from Jason Momoa's body type. He's loyal, puts aside his feelings when a higher purpose calls, and fears things. Contrast that with Achilles nea...

I need time to walk—taking steps into some secluded corner of nature. I'm a philosopher at heart. My mind belongs in Ancient Greece, while my body is in 21st century America. Kietzman said it well when he spoke in our last podcast, Average Joes (shameless plug), about the rustling of the wind among leaves as an "ancient sound". Being in nature, alone, is lifegiving.  Crunch, crunch, hot pavement, back sweat, sore calves. All of this is part of the hiking experience. The hot sun bearing down and offering a reddish hue to my exposed limbs reminds me that I'm alive. Hearing the crickets and cicadas, I feel a rhythm pulsing through the earth beneath my feet—that same earth spinning at a speed I cannot comprehend, yet somehow I am not flung from its surface. The miracle of life becomes apparent the deeper you walk into a forest, swatting spider webs and avoiding thorn bushes. We are here. We exist. We are connected. I spend most of my days asking myself questions that have...

Trump. Pence. Kamala. Biden. 2020 election. Pandemic. Hurricanes. Karens. Face masks. BLM. California fires. Jeff Bezos. Concentration Camps. Critical business losses. TikTok. What a time! Finally priests can catch a break! The various groups in this country need to have conversations: "Hey, other groups, you hurt our feelings the way you went about x,y, and z." The other groups could respond, "We understand, we will try to be better, and here's how." Instead all we get is both sides raising their defenses and throwing up red herring after red herring so they don't have to self-reflect and admit fault.  I recently had a disagreement with a friend who approached me about a bad way I made him feel. Instead of saying, "hey, I'll try to be better in the future, and I'm sorry I made you feel that way," I said, "that doesn't make sense, and I don't much like your tone either."  Here's the reality. When we hurt other people, ...

Everyone I know wishes they were somewhere else most of the time. They're successful, and they wish they didn't have the fame that destroyed their privacy. They're financially secure, but not finding a sense of purpose. They're motorboating the girl of their dreams, and begin to notice all the other girls out there.  I was dating this girl of my dreams a while back. We'd have fun, kick back, sip coconut rum, and pass out to TV shows I didn't like. We'd immerse in conversations as deep as the ocean and sunbathe on grassy hills; but I was tortured by the idea that I could be happier with someone else, so we broke up. Rather than accept that the "what if" question is integral to any relationship, I let it drive me mad. If success was a destination, I think I should feel successful now. I have a good job that sustains me and lets me keep bettering myself, but I'm not "there" yet. This "there" is an intangible utopia where I'...