The Catholic Case for Spanking

Building backbone via the backside

Photo by Ricardo Viana

This article went out via email under my name, which was a mistake, as it was written by my superb contributor John Mac Ghlionn. The byline has been corrected online. My apologies to all. —Dr. K

I recently slogged through a new book entitled The Myth of Good Christian Parenting. “Myth” is right. Not because the authors are clever, but because what they’ve written belongs to the same genre as Greek mythology: fantasy. It’s page after page of drivel dressed up as moral insight, a sermon for soft parents who think firmness is fascism. To read it is to watch common sense being waterboarded with buzzwords — trauma, abuse, violence, harm — until all meaning leaks out.

It’s essential to get one thing straight before going any further. Spanking is not beating. A swat on the backside is not a belt across the face. Discipline is not domination. A spank is a sharp punctuation mark in the sentence of childhood — not the paragraph, not the chapter. It’s the moment that says: Enough. And for generations, it worked. It didn’t make monsters. It made men and women who could take responsibility, tell right from wrong, and understand that life has consequences.

But modern parenting has traded authority for affirmation. Too many moms and dads are terrified of being “mean,” desperate to be liked, to be the “fun” parent — the pal, not the protector. They hover and negotiate, explaining endlessly to toddlers why crayons don’t belong in the toaster. Somewhere along the way, we confused friendship with love. We forgot that children don’t need companions; they need captains. You don’t steer a ship by committee, and you don’t raise a child by consensus.

When I was a kid, my parents loved me enough to spank me. Not often, not cruelly, and rarely in anger. But when I deserved it, I got it. And the lesson landed as firmly as the hand. I learned early that actions had weight. A lie carried pain. A tantrum carried consequences. You could call that “conditioning,” but it’s really character-building. Children aren’t born virtuous. They’re born curious, impulsive, and wildly experimental. Discipline, when properly applied, doesn’t crush the spirit but tames it.

Today, however, every flick of authority is framed as trauma. A timeout is tyranny. A stern tone is “verbal violence.” The word violence itself has been stretched thinner than modern patience. It now covers everything from assault to eye contact. In this moral inflation, real abuse gets lost. When every act of correction is “violence,” actual violence disappears into the fog. Even respect has been redefined to mean “agreement.” The language of psychology has become a moral fog machine, filling the room with smoke until nobody can see the difference between guidance and grief. This inflation of meaning is no accident. A culture that erases distinct boundaries in language soon erases them in life. When every act of correction becomes abuse, correction itself becomes impossible.

This is where the irony takes a dark turn. A society too squeamish to spank its children ends up punishing them anyway — just later, and harder. We call it “real life.” The teacher won’t bend the rules. The boss won’t coddle. The judge won’t sympathize. Life will give the beating that parents wouldn’t. But by then, it’s too late for mercy to do its work.

Of course, there are lines that must never be crossed. A parent who hits in rage or humiliation does real damage. Abuse has nothing to do with love and everything to do with control. The difference is not subtle but spiritual. Discipline aims to correct; abuse aims to conquer. A parent’s heart should break a little each time they punish. That’s how you know it’s done in care, not cruelty.

This distinction — so obvious once — has been erased by a generation that sees every boundary as barbarism. We live in an age allergic to authority, one that worships “gentle parenting” as gospel. But this new gospel produces something worse than bruises: it produces narcissists. We’re raising a generation of children who’ve never heard the word “no” without filing an emotional lawsuit. Every classroom now teems with tiny plaintiffs, clutching their victimhood like a favorite toy. They can articulate their feelings in seventeen adjectives but can’t handle the simplest consequence. They’ve mastered the language of wounds but forgotten the syntax of wisdom.

Parents used to worry their children might go hungry; now they worry their children might go unhappy. But unhappiness is part of growing up. It’s the friction that shapes character. Spanking, in its humble, humane form, was one of the few tools that bridged the moral gap between word and deed. It said: I love you enough to stop you now, before the world stops you harder.

The authors of The Myth of Good Christian Parenting rail against “hierarchical family structures,” as though hierarchy were a sin. But anyone who’s ever run a household knows — someone has to be in charge. That’s less patriarchy than physics. Chaos fills every vacuum of authority. Remove the parent from the pedestal, and the child climbs onto it. And when a five-year-old rules the roost, nobody wins.

Their argument is the usual stew of pseudo-science and sanctimony. Spanking, they insist, breeds resentment, fear, and rebellion. Yet, rather miraculously, the generation that was spanked managed to start families, build communities, and stay married. They held doors, not grudges. Maybe, just maybe, the data doesn’t tell the whole story. Maybe discipline—like faith or common sense—can’t be graphed, measured, or modeled.

In Catholic teaching, discipline has never been about cruelty. It’s about loving correction. Proverbs 13:24 reminds us: “Whoever spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him.” The rod is not a weapon of wrath but a symbol of responsibility. It’s a reminder that love without order is indulgence, and order without love is tyranny. St. Thomas Aquinas wrote that punishment is justified when it seeks “the restoration of order.” Spanking, rightly done, is not vengeance. It is, in fact, a miniature act of mercy.

Photo by Ryan Stefan

Modern parenting, in contrast, treats the child as a fragile deity — a little idol to be appeased with explanations and screen time. The Church reminds us that children are not angels but apprentices in virtue. A parent’s role is priestly, not performative: to guide, correct, and, when necessary, rebuke. To love a child is to prepare them for Heaven, not Harvard.

The Cross itself is the ultimate act of discipline: suffering accepted for the sake of redemption. If God spares His children every pain, He ceases to be a Father. Likewise, if a parent spares every correction, they cease to be a guide.

No one’s saying every child must be spanked. Some respond to a word, others to a warning. But erasing every form of authority under the pretext of “kindness” is moral malpractice. The road from Damascus to delusion is lined with gentle excuses and good intentions.

The truth is simple and deeply Catholic. Love must be ordered. Discipline is that order. It’s what keeps love from dissolving into indulgence. It’s what separates a home from a holding pen. If compassion is the engine of parenting, correction is the steering wheel.

So yes, I was spanked. And I thank God for it. Because the pain faded, but the lesson stayed. I didn’t grow up afraid of my parents; I grew up respecting them. They didn’t raise an abuse victim. They raised an adult — something fewer and fewer parents seem able to manage today. Maybe that’s the real “myth” of good Christian parenting — that it’s supposed to feel good. It isn’t. It’s supposed to be good. And sometimes, goodness stings.