Vocation Information
Sister Joy's Convent Files
Episode 23: Ruined For LifeEpisode 24: The Snows Below
Episode 25: Signs
Episode 26: Mom's Revenge
Episode 27: Free Verse
Episode 28: O Felix Culpa!
Episode 29: Treasures
Episode 30: Dying Lessons
Episode 31: Soundtrack
Episode 32: All-Inclusive Rant
Episode 33: Trusting My DNA Episode 34: Sacristan
Episode 35: Wherever You Go
Episode 36: Willing
Episode 37: Table Talk
Episode 38: Play Ball!
Episode 39: Retreat
Episode 40: Shorn
Episode 41: Special Agent
Episode 42: Why?
Episode 43: Sticking Around
Episode 44: Thanks, Dad! Episode 45: Writing
Episode 46: Feelings vs. Reality
Episode 47: Globalization and My Comfortable Life
Episode 48: Remembering
January, 2005
What am I going to say during the reflections? My stomach is a little fluttery before evening prayer. I am supposed to say a few words tonight, to mark my entrance into novitiate. I have already selected the prayers, the reading, the format of this prayer, but I haven't really thought out what I wanted to say. I thought the Holy Spirit would simply drop something into my head to say, which isn't altogether unlikely, since She works that way at times for me. But of course God usually requires some cooperation and good, old fashioned prep work. So I consider what I want to say.
I want to mention how much I have grown to love these Sisters with whom I have passed the last year. I want to talk about the tears I have shed, and how loving the shoulders have been that caught them. I want to say how scary it is to contemplate that I am not yet 100% nun, and that I fear being "found out" as a big ole sinner and asked to leave. And yet permanence is as scary as impermanence, and I am pretty nervous, too, about taking this next step closer to a real, final, "yes" to God. I want to ask about the angry, dry times I have been having and give thanks for the sudden inbreaking of God into my prayer life, when I needed it most. I want to talk about how hard it is to trust, but how much I want to give this my all anyway. I want, somehow, to go off-track, violate a fundamental homiletic principle, and talk about my last prayer insight, rather than the readings I chose weeks ago.
If I try to even touch on all this, I will talk for an hour, probably get emotional, bore everyone, and ramble. So I opt just to talk about St. Rafaela Maria, our foundress, and how much she trusted and thanked. I want to be trusting, of God and of my congregation, even to the point of appearing foolish. I want to be grateful, truly grateful and humble, but years of plumping my ego up for the next battle makes that difficult. Rafaela Maria is on my side, however, praying for me, and leading me by her example. Help, Rafaela!
The prayer service is beautiful. Everyone seems to appreciate my attempt to include lots of quotes from our foundress. I ask some close friends to do some parts of the prayer. These Handmaids are ones that have really helped me along the way. After prayer comes the inevitable hug line, and, to my surprise and delight, presents! I kid around with the gathered community as I open my gifts, until it is finally time to clean up and go to bed.
I reflect, on looking back at the past few years, that I have been irreversibly and radically changed by my interaction with these women of God. Whatever the future holds for me, whether within the congregation or outside of it, I carry with me the insights and new horizons given me through my walk with and among Handmaids. What I have heard, what I have seen with my eyes, what I looked upon and touched with my hands, cannot be forgotten. Going back to a conventional, consumerist, agnostic, careless life is impossible now. I know now what JVC (Jesuit Volunteer Corps) members mean when they proclaim that they are "ruined for life." The genie is out of the bottle, the toothpaste out of the tube, and I have experienced God's healing, leading, and teaching firsthand. No going back now. And it is in this light that I hear Rafaela Maria: "Be faithful to your vocation every day of your life, never looking back for an instant.... I repeat once more: always go forward; die rather than go back."
January, 2005
Once upon a time there was a young woman who lived in a very beautiful house in a place called Haverford. She liked to sit in her special room, which was shaped like a circle, and pray while she looked outside. One day it began to snow while she was praying. It snowed and snowed and snowed. As the snow got deeper and deeper, her eyes got bigger and bigger. She said to herself, "I could just sit here and watch out of one small window and learn everything I need to know about God." She thought about that for awhile. "I guess," she mused, "this is what people in monasteries do. They learn about God in a small place, with a small group of people, and they learn everything they need to know about a big, big God in their small, small place."
She looked out of a single window, not looking to the right or the left, even though the pretty room in which she sat had many windows, all of them showing a lovely sight. But the young woman sat and prayed as she looked out of her one window. "How much can I learn about the universe through this small rectangle?" she asked.
She noticed that the sky was the same color as the snowy earth. It reminded her of the creation story, when the waters above were separated from the waters below. The sky and the ocean are often the same color, and storytellers and wise people from a long time ago realized that sky and earth are all one thing, in the end. The snows above were separated from the snows below on this cold winter day. But the sky and the earth were still, the young woman noted, all one thing, in the end.
The snow was relentless. The sky seemed absolutely full of more and more snow. The young woman thought about God's relentless love. God had loved her relentlessly, never giving up on her, even when she shook off the first layer of graces. She thought about her friend, about whom she had prayed a lot. Her friend was very sad and did not like himself very much, but she loved him relentlessly, with the help of a lot of other really loving friends. Eventually the friend loved himself, too. She remembered saying to him, "you cannot make me stop loving you, no matter how hard you try." The young woman smiled as she recognized that she, too, could not dissuade God from loving her, no matter what.
It was starting to get dark, and suddenly everything seemed to be a darker or lighter shade of grey. This reminded the young woman of the times when everything seemed to be equal to her... that the difference between good and bad choices was very hard to discern. She decided, looking at the snow, that she had better make a note to herself to never make an important decision when things seemed dim. "It is always better," she mused, "to wait for God to shed some light on the situation." Morning always does come, after all.
Through her window, the young woman could see a snow-covered bench, brown and white, lines contrasting with the curves of the snow. "This place is meant for people," she realized. The bench was there so that guests and friends who came to stay in the beautiful house could sit and enjoy nature. "And my life and following of God, too, is meant for people." The young woman smiled as she thought about her own call from God to serve humankind. God had not asked her to hide away in a cave to pray, but to pray and play and work alongside other people, so that the young woman and her friends could enjoy God together.
The room in which the young woman sat was not entirely silent. She thought it was, at first, but she gradually noticed the whispering hum of the heating system. She nodded to herself in chagrin as she recalled all the times she had missed noticing the Spirit at work in her, because it was so quiet and constant. Sometimes God is in the background noise, it seemed to her. It makes sense to pay attention to everything around us, even the ordinary things, because God is even in the quiet whispers we hear all the time.
The young woman noticed a pair of dry, dead leaves still clinging to their branch, despite the wind. "There is always hope!" she said to herself. Life was, and life is, and life will be again. "The same mystery of the seasons is present in my faith," she thought. "Jesus seemed gone forever, dead forever, but he came back to us in a better way than we had Him before."
The young woman was getting a little hungry. It was almost time to eat. But before she left the round room in the beautiful house in the place called Haverford, she thought about how pretty the white snow was, and how it covered all the brown, spiky grass. She could no longer see the sticks and dead branches that littered the ground outside. All was a layer of pure white snow. And she remembered two favorite verses from the Bible. She smiled as she thanked God and exulted, "though my sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow." As she rose, she asked for help. "Cleanse me with hyssop, that I may be clean. Wash me, make me whiter than snow." And with that, the young woman left her window-monastery and went out to be with her friends, to enjoy God and the snow with them.
February, 2005
I feel that I can learn a lot about a new place by the signs I see there. I vividly remember a sign in Athens, Georgia, that makes me laugh every time I see it, or even think about it. It is a directional sign, perched above the 10 loop. It is supposed to show you which way to go for the various highways that connect to the loop there, but it is so impossibly complex that it doesn't help at all. It shows no fewer than six distinct possibilities, at least two of which have cloverleaf exits, thereby making the diagram look like the DOT's idea of an April Fool's prank. There's no way you can make sense of it in the 3 seconds you're able to look at it while driving. If anyone out there has a picture of this sign, I would love to have a copy. I think it would make a great book cover, if I ever write a book about how to discern your vocation in life.
Then I moved to Miami. Miami is, well, Miami. There is no place quite like it, as evidenced by two signs I spied near the airport. You have to understand that Miami has a water table that is about 3 feet underground. There is simply no place for water to drain when it rains. Go figure, live in a swamp, you deal with flooding. So the roads flood at the slightest rain, and there are often signs that remind you of this. The first sign I spied on my way home from classes at the seminary said "Right two lanes move at all times." This was to indicate that the traffic signal nearby only controlled the left lanes, not the right lanes. But within ten feet was the sign, permanently in place and ready to fold open at any rainfall, which said "Lanes Under Water." The combination, "Right two lanes move at all times, lanes under water," is, well, que Miami! Just keep going, it's only a flood. Keep moving, it's just a hurricane. Right two lanes move at all times. Incidentally, I did get stuck in the right lanes once while they were under water. I did keep moving... even though water splashed up around the pedals and doused my feet!
And now I am in Philly. There are signs here that pithily advise, "Watch Children." I always add, mentally, "They Steal." Maybe that's a holdover from Romania, where you really do have to be careful about crowds of children! Sister Mary Ann renders it, "Watch Children, Not The Road." My favorite sign, however, is at traffic signals. Right beside the traffic light, there hangs a sign, on almost all intersections, that says, "Wait For Green." Well, DUH! Is the whole red-yellow-green thing lost on these people? Really, if you have to say, "Wait For Green," you have to wonder whether the driver in question deserves to have a license.
What, if anything, does this teach me about my spiritual life? I'm not sure. It does make me realize that different people, in different cities, have different needs. Philly drivers must have a green-jumping instinct, while Miami drivers better keep their eyes peeled for water on the road. God will keep reminding me of what I need to be aware of, too. And it may take a lot of repetitions until it sinks in deeply! What messages do I keep getting from God these days? Do I even slow down to read them, or do they just fade into the background? It helps if I come to my life fresh, newly looking around to see what's there. And I guess I do need to "keep moving," and to "watch children," in their innocence and enjoyment of life, and I must absolutely "wait for green," wait for God's timing and not my own. They say God works in mysterious ways. Thanks, God, for the prophets of the DOT!
February, 2005
For years in childhood, I tried my darndest to avoid doing dishes. I was convinced that the fact that my family did not have a dishwasher and instead did dishes by hand was a form of child abuse. I pleaded, hid, played sick and whined in order to get out of dish duty. Mom would roll her eyes and say, "If you would have just DONE it instead of complaining about it for an hour beforehand, you'd be finished now!" Oh, and I could never get them clean enough or dry enough. I seemed genetically incapable of the demands of the after-dinner hour.
Fast forward about 20 years (gasp, man does that make me feel old!). Where do I find myself most days here in the retreat house? Yes, the dish room. Thank God, we do have an industrial dishwasher. This makes sense when you consider that sometimes we are doing dishes for 60 people! The funny thing is that somewhere along the line, I stopped disliking dish duty. Maybe it was when I worked at a fast-food restaurant, which I actually enjoyed, and discovered that food service could be fun. The dish room here is actually a pretty neat place to be. Volunteers come on our busiest days to help us wash and dry, and so I get to meet new people. I am a talker, as my friends all know, and drying time is a good chance to chat and joke around with people. Sister Philomena is the primary washer, always beating us to the sink, even when we try to sneak out and get there first. One day I teased her, "Phil, has anyone ever told you that dishwater brings out the green in your eyes?" Sister Ruth usually comes in to help with silverware, which she likes to do, because her hands are perpetually cold. One of my favorite things to do is to do the after-washing squeegee, which involves getting all the spent water off from the washing and drying areas. I can't stand squeegeeing the shower, so why I like squeegeeing the dish room is beyond me. But I digress.
The dish room is, along with the chapel, one of the most important and useful rooms we have in our retreat center. There's something nice about having a big stack of hot, clean dishes, ready for the next meal, and a tray of sorted silverware just waiting to be laid out at table settings. Organization and cleanup are a kind of metaphor for life and for God, I guess. Life is the relentless denial of entropy, of breakdown and disorganization. The miracles of life, the cell, the planet, human love, space travel, are all successes of organizing matter, mind, and spirit, despite the powers of mixing-up and breaking-down that would thwart such efforts. And what we do here is a constant renewal, resetting, cleaning and restoration. Restoration of the human relationship with God. Clearing up of bewilderment.
And now my mind takes me to the gospel last supper narratives. Three gospels relate a breaking of bread, and one tells of a foot-washing. Cleaning and community. Worship and washing. I've always sneered at the saying, "cleanliness is next to Godliness," because I thought it reflected some perfectionistic ideal. My mantra has been, rather, "God made dirt, so dirt don't hurt." Now, writing this, I have to wonder. Is the very act of doing laundry or dishes, undertaking a task that you know will have to be repeated again and again as life undoes tidiness, a possible window into the spiritual life? Maybe so. Maybe I can look at my spiritual development as a constant to-and-fro, a living thing that must be renewed, restored, and scrubbed every day, instead of a static thing that must draw nearer to completion and perfection each day.
Thanks, mom. I'm finally getting it after all.
March, 2005
I work one day a week at our school, Ancillae-Assumpta Academy. I am a language artsy type person, so I do language artsy type things, such as helping kids with their note cards for their history project. I also pop into some classes, too. Today I was with Mrs. Lintner, working with the kids on poetry. Free verse, to be specific. After hearing about free verse and reading two drafts of a free-verse poem, the students were challenged to write their own. I, too, took up the challenge, inspired by the interest and intuition of these intelligent young poets. I, of course, don't have to turn mine in for a grade! But here it is, anyhow:
Junior Rodeo
Thirteen cowhands,
Blue-shirted heroes,
Hanging on to the bucking idea,
Roping it in with ink,
throwing the lasso with whispered complaints.
Thump!
The poem falls,
Still kicking and snorting.
The cowpoke smirks,
Waves the paper aloft.
Yahoo!
Of course, this poem needs a second draft, too, because I have mixed the bull-riding and the roping parts up a little, but anyway. It was enough for me that I wrote a poem today, the first one in months, and that it felt real. And in only ten minutes! That's the power of seeing poetry being born. The art of others, their process, their struggle, brings something to life in me. That's our charism as Handmaids. We bring out and delight in the inner work of our students, our retreatants, our friends. This is especially true in our school. This place is an inspiration. I love to pray in the school chapel, located amidst the lower grades. Seeing the young children make their morning visit to the Lord touches me and challenges me. How precious are children, how worthy of all our attention and hope and love! And what a ministry education is. I never thought I could be a teacher until I saw our school, during a visit to the Philadelphia communities while I was still discerning my vocation. I am a public-skool grad (that's a joke, I actually can spell pretty well and I did go to good public schools). To teach in a public school must be a truly heroic thing. I don't think I could do it. But to teach in a place where Jesus is, well, that I think I could do... if He helped. For now, it's enough that the students are teaching me.
March 2005
I have not often used these files for my theological musings. These days before Holy Week, however, I feel such urgency to explore the theology of the cross, and this means of expression seems a good one to exploit.
Why did Jesus die? What did it accomplish? And why the cross? Why the suffering and ridicule? How does the cross relate to resurrection?
Growing up, I was taught that Jesus "paid the price" for our sins. Now I know that the theological term for that is "vicarious satisfaction" or "substitutionary atonement," depending on your church affiliation. Humanity sinned, and forfeited eternity with God. The penalty for sin, which had to be paid and could not be waived, was death. But instead of letting us all die (eternal death that is), Jesus, who was exempt from death because of his sinlessness, died in our place. So Jesus paid the bill for us. This is standard theology for a lot of Christians, but I never understood one particular aspect of it. Why can't the payment be waived? Why can't God just say, "okay, guys, I'm gonna wipe the slate clean again and this time, don't mess up. You're back on track for heaven." I never got a good answer to this except that well, that's just the way it is. God is just, and a just God won't bend the rules. You do the crime, you do the time, period. So God sent somebody to take the rap for us. Um, my problem with this is that, well, isn't God just because God is God? It's not as if there is this external morality that God has to conform to in order to be just! It's not like God has to obey anyone or anything! So God can waive the penalty without fear of being unjust. God is Just as much as God is Love.
Does that make sense?
So anyway, it seems to me that the only way that the substitutionary atonement theory works is that God demanded satisfaction for our sins not because he "had" to or because "that's just the way it is," but because he wanted it that way. And that seems bloodthirsty and autocratic. God, who is basically a fountain of creative love and goodness, requiring death/damnation because he wants it? Because he likes it? Doesn't ring true to me.
Well, if Jesus didn't die to pay the penalty for our crime, then why did he die?
Bear with me as I use a few silly examples to illustrate where my thought has been going these days.
1) Jesus died to take away our fear and demonstrate that nothing can separate us from God. Did you come from a big family? When it comes time to get inoculations in a big family, sometimes the oldest brother or sister goes first to show the younger ones that getting a shot is no big deal and there's nothing to be afraid of. Could it be that God wanted, in part, to demonstrate through Jesus' death and resurrection, that suffering and death were nothing to be afraid of? That to be judged and condemned by humans, and to suffer the ultimate loss, that of death, could not destroy one's life or one's relationship with God? I think this has some truth to it, but couldn't anyone be used to do this? I mean, why send the Word into humanity, why set up a sinless God-Human for this task? Any resurrection of any human could show that death isn't the end. So this reasoning isn't sufficient to explain the cross.
2) Jesus died to show us the way out of our sins. God felt sorry for our predicament, we having bound ourselves up with sin and pride and disobedience. The only way out of our situation is to let go of our illusion of self-sufficiency and self-will and be docile and obedient to God. So Jesus comes into our world to live out the solution through a sinless, obedient, trusting life, and then is raised up, showing that his way is *the* way. We are to "follow the leader" of Jesus and find our way out of our quandary. I suppose a good example of this is what some wildlife biologists do to teach captive animals the way to behave... they disguise their humanity, try to imitate the animal as closely as possible, and teach their charges how to properly act. Remember the girl who flies a glider that looks like a bird, to teach raised-in-captivity birds how to migrate? The problem with this is that I don't think our salvation in Christ lies simply in imitation. It seems clear to me that Christ's insertion into human history accomplished something objective, regardless of whether anyone would or could imitate his obedience and trust. I think this view of the cross is true, but not sufficient. There's something more going on.
3) Jesus lived and died among us to hallow, to sanctify, the human experience. Before Jesus came, the world was divided between holy and unholy. Judaic law was all about purity... the fact that there were holy things and unholy things, and they could not mix. There were people and situations that were unholy, which were completely outside of God's arena. Jesus came to show once and for all that God had penetrated all of the human condition... sinners, tax collectors, criminal executions, and all. That God had broken through the holy/unholy delineation. The tearing of the temple veil seems like a symbol of this, don't you think? I don't really have an example of this in daily life. This to me is probably the most profound and hard to understand explanation of the cross... that God has slipped into humanity and can be found in the human experience in a new and permanent way. That humanity is always dignified and holy now because of Jesus.
4) Jesus came so that we would know that no matter how awful we are, God still loves us. We wouldn't be sure that God accepted us if he accepted us at our best. So Jesus came so that we could do our worst, torturing and slaying God's own self-and-son. When Jesus constantly forgave, trusted, and was raised to new life still in forgiving and saving-and-setting-free mode, we were freed from wondering whether God really truly loved the real us, the homicidal us, the cruel us. This reminds me of how sometimes kids from a broken and abusive home will be awful to their foster parents, just to get them to reject them. When the foster parents refuse to lessen their unconditional love, regardless of the level of ingratitude and cruelty of the child, some wall breaks down in the child and he is able to trust and to reciprocate love at last.
5) Jesus came as the Paschal lamb, the "proof-of-membership," who would shed his blood so that everyone could claim the protection and favor of God. It had previously only been Jews who were under the covenant, but now, Jesus would shed his blood, like the Passover lamb, so that anyone, Gentile or Jew, could "mark themselves" as belonging to God. Jesus was essentially the fulfillment and extension of the promise of God to the Jews. But why then did Jesus undergo *such* a horrible death? The Paschal sacrifice of a lamb was killed humanely... not tortured. So there is still a gap here, although this explanation seems pretty important in the New Testament.
If you are still reading at this point, congratulations. I promise the next convent file will not be as heavy! I am still trying to get a handle on the cross, but I know it must be, ultimately, about love. Thank God for the cross! I will probably spend my life wondering how such a terrible thing brings me joy instead of shame, relief instead of fear. "O felix culpa, quae talem ac tantum meruit habere redemptorem!" Have a blessed Holy Week.
March 2005
Normally I don't do more than two convent files per month, but in prayer today I got such a clear and powerful light that I felt compelled to share it.
I have been praying lately with the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Today I sampled a few texts by our current Holy Father on the Sacred Heart, but nothing seemed to resonate deeply with me. So I elected to simply dwell, slowly and prayerfully, on the Litany of the Sacred Heart. One of the lines from this litany reads, "Heart of Jesus, in whom are all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge, have mercy on us."
"All the treasures of wisdom and knowledge." This got my attention because today's homily, given by a very entertaining and thoughtful priest who is giving a retreat here at our retreat center, was about the gifts of the spirit. Wisdom, he said, was seeing things from God's point of view, instead of a human perspective, and knowledge was the ability to see spiritual realities. He illustrated knowledge, indicating the gathered assembly and saying, "I see here before me women of flesh and blood. But with the gift of knowledge, I can see sisters of Christ." He gestured to another group of women. "Temples of the Holy Spirit." Acknowledging a third group, he finished, "those made in the image and likeness of God." Wow! So I was really interested to pray about wisdom and knowledge, and how and where to attain them.
The Litany suggests that I find wisdom and knowledge in the compassionate, loving, willingly suffering heart of Jesus. True wisdom, true God-perspective, true clarity and reality are found in this aspect of God? Hmmm.... What does that mean for me? I would have thought that wisdom and knowledge were more explicitly aligned with the omnipotence or omniscience of God, not the feeling and emotive aspect of God.
The Sacred Heart of Jesus is the symbolic expression of a God who chooses to be affected by us, an eternal God who elects vulnerability and com-passion, with-suffering, instead of regal detachment and indifference. I like this God, who empties himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness (Phil 2:6 ff). And yet it is such a challenge for me, because I find myself being stony-hearted and indifferent too often. I am too frequently unmoved by news reports of suffering and poverty. I am too little indignant at injustice and violence. I am too little ashamed of my own consumerism and disregard for human dignity. How do I get from unaffected to deeply moved? How can I tap into this wisdom of Christ?
I have always been a logical type not given to sentimentality or emotion. In my career as a computer programmer, I was once given a personality test which was intended to approximate the longer Myers-Brigg inventory. On this brief test, I scored 0 on feeling and 100% on thinking. My coworkers laughed and said, "well, that explains a lot about how you interact with people!" The fact is that I am not terribly imaginative when it comes to other people's experience, hope, fear, and loss. It's hard for me to empathize with the anonymous masses I see on television or the newspaper. I have to be confronted with pain, I have to experience it myself, through what happens to and around me and those I personally know and love. That is why I am so grateful to be part of an international congregation, because it has effectively opened up the "us" of my life, so that I am affected by more things.
For me to truly enjoy the wisdom of Christ, I must tap into his riches of suffering and solidarity. I suddenly felt, in my prayer today, so very grateful for the variety of circumstances I have experienced in my life... poverty, loneliness, mockery. I am so grateful for having been on the wrong side of a hostile immigration policy, for having been hurt by a racial slur, for having my heart broken. These real hurts help me to connect and be affected by the real hurts of my brothers and sisters. I am grateful for my few excursions into places and situations of real suffering. I need one-on-one interactions with people in order to be able to put on the mind of Christ. Mere consciousness-raising through education and exhortation does not sufficiently "tenderize" my tough heart. I need the one-on-one interaction with the man whose wife is inside the women's clinic, aborting their 20 week old son or daughter. I need to hold the malnourished child, to know his name. I need to look in the eyes of the frustrated student who can't catch up in school.
I can only be grateful for experiences of my own pain and the privilege of being invited into the pain of others if I am fully secure. My deep inner understanding of my acceptance and security, my own sense that I am a daughter of God who cannot, ultimately, be harmed or separated from God, is what gives me the ability to enter into pain joyfully. My goal is not suffering for its own sake, but the amazing witness of being willingly affected by the pain of the world. I want to be like Jesus, to enter into estrangement and abandonment and pain in order to bring healing and freedom. To proclaim the good news.
The Gospel is all one piece, all one amazing Truth that I get to glimpse one facet at a time. Yay, God, for bringing lots of different elements of my prayer and pondering over the past few weeks together in one wonderful hour of prayer.
April 2005
"Are you alright? I'm thinking about you." The email came from a college friend who wanted to be present in my grief over the passing of our Holy Father. I was touched, if a bit amused. She's not Catholic, so I thought it was especially thoughtful for her to think about her Catholic friend and be in solidarity with me during what could be a painful time. I was amused because, well, of *course* I'm alright, in fact, I'm overjoyed that a man I love and respect is enjoying the beatific vision at last! I mean, heck, the Pope's death shouldn't faze me much at all, right? Right? Then why am I so irritable and tense on Saturday, easily dropping into hurt at the slightest provocation? I am reminded, to a slight degree, of what I felt after the events of 9/11 or after Princess Diana died. I felt malaise, a murmur of grief (after 9/11, a bellow of grief), and an abiding sadness. I also felt like I didn't deserve to grieve. After all, I'm not even British, so why should I mourn the passing of Princess Di? And I didn't lose anyone in the attacks on 9/11, so why am I so worked up about it? It made me feel, well, melodramatic, as if perhaps I was trying to insert myself into a famous or infamous event out of ego instead of out of real feeling.
And in some way that was how I passed the first few hours of our interregnum, our time without a Pope. I felt sad, and joyful, and nostalgic, but I felt that in some way I had not earned those feelings. I did not want to weep because it seemed luxurious and affected. I avoided the cable news until evening, trying to avoid the sinking, heavy feeling in my chest when it hit me anew that our beloved Papa had died. At last, however, I sank into the recliner and let the news sink in deeply. I thought about how much the Pope has taught me about how to be ill gracefully and how to die gracefully. I saw the video clips of a young, handsome priest, and wept for the suffering this man would endure as Pope. I heard about his trials under Nazism and Soviet repression and felt a new swell of pride, followed by the sucking feeling of loss as the tide receded. It doesn't matter that I didn't know him personally, and it doesn't matter that I haven't been Catholic all that long. What matters is that a mentor has gone to God and that I will miss him.
I wonder what my Protestant friends must be thinking now. Certainly there are some excesses and misinterpretations on the news these days. First and foremost is the phrase I loathe, "a man with more than 1 billion followers." John Paul II does not and did not have followers. We are followers of Christ, together, the Pope as much as the marginally observant Catholic. I don't know what word I would prefer. "Subject" is probably the most appropriate, but it sounds, well, dictatorial or oppressive. "Pope John Paul II, a man with more than 1 billion subjects." No, I don't like that either. The dynamic of director/directee might be a good example. Or coach and players. I won't resolve this semantic discomfort here, I suppose.
But back to aging gracefully, a lesson taught to me by the Pope and by my own friends. One of the gifts I most cherish in religious life is the wonderful lesson I am receiving on how to grow old. Few people my age are so lucky. How do I grow old well? A few things I have learned so far. First off, I had better keep a sense of humor, about myself and about others. The reigning example of this in my life has been a sister to whom I was explaining my daily dairy routine. "I don't want to get osteoporosis in my old age," I remarked, "so I drink lots of milk."
"Well, Joy, look on the bright side," this eighty-something said innocently. "Maybe you'll die young and not have to worry about it!" A half-second went by in disbelief before the table erupted in laughter. The twinkle in my sister's eye affirmed that yes, I had been zinged, and no, Generation X does not have a monopoly on practical jokes.
In addition to a good sense of humor, I will have to be aware of my own limitations and be willing to accept them with grace and without muttering or complaining. I will need, more than ever, to be very grateful and able to look back on my life with great joy as I recognize the many times God has touched me.
I will need to be a minister, in my health and in my infirmity. I will need to be a student until the day I die, always being enlightened by new ways of thinking and living, always willing to ask questions and delight in others' wisdom. I will need to strive against the tendency to let nostalgia trump progress. These traits are things I observe in my Sisters, women who do not conform to the stereotype of the straitlaced, stern old woman. No, these women are more like Anna, the prophetess who could balance a commitment to routine and fixed worship in the temple with a freshness and ability to seek out and embrace the new and revolutionary. Are all my Handmaid sisters Annas all the time? Of course not. And so I am gently reminded even in the imperfections of my sisters to be aware of my own flaws and negative tendencies.
And how will I die? I have been thinking about this a lot lately because of Terri Schiavo and the Holy Father. I must die, I think, with great hope, with great joy. This is what differentiates those of us who know God from those who do not. I know, as surely as I know most anything, that I have a future beyond this life. For this reason I do not pursue earthly life at all costs and in all circumstances. I think of Jesus' words, "Do not cling to me!" Please do not cling to me if I am dying, but let me go to heaven! Respecting life means allowing natural death as much as it means allowing natural birth.
And so I thank John Paul II, for respecting life and teaching me how to respect life. I thank my sisters for teaching me through their laughs, their barbs, their stories, and their ministry. Aging can be met with laughter. Suffering can be imbued with dignity and hope. Dying is soaked with joy. Life penetrates all of our aging, our ailing, our dying. I hope that I will be given the privilege to use these lessons, to die as an old woman, and I hope that I make these teachers proud when I draw near to joining them again.
April 2005
Songs take up a big part of my mental life. There are some songs and some artists that always take me back to certain periods of my life, either in my memory or my mood. Today, for example, I was driving home from spiritual direction, in the grey yuck of a Philadelphia spring morning. The clouds were heavy and so was my heart, after waking up at 3 am to watch the funeral of the Pope. So when Dave Matthews started crooning on the radio, that was it! Crying time! For some reason even the happy or romantic Dave Matthews Band songs make me sad. Ditto for the Indigo Girls, even though I think their music is awesome. It's good to know what music makes me cry, in case I need a good cry.
I am always singing something or other, whether half-aloud or in my head. My friend Theresa is always asking me, "what song is that?" Sometimes I know, other times I don't. Either it's a tune I picked up somewhere but can't place, or I'm making it up as I go along. Lately I've tried to pay attention to what my inner choir is singing, because I sort of stumbled upon the fact that God uses this as a way to get to me subliminally. I discovered this last week at our school chapel. I was deep in prayer (I have already started engaging John Paul II as an ally in a particularly recalcitrant prayer intention), when a song kept floating around my head. Instead of ignoring it, I just kind of sang along. It is a traditional Pasch (Passover) song, and I don't know Hebrew, so the only word that kept emerging was "dayenu." "Day-day-enu, day-day-enu, day-day-enu, dayenu, dayenu!" Mind you, I was really storming heaven for this prayer intention, which involves the miracle healing of a family member. And in this sober, serious prayer, this bouncy, child-friendly version of Dayenu comes be-bopping along.
Dayenu. It is sufficient. It is enough. Suddenly it hit me! I am praying with my song! Thank you, God! Even if you never do anything for me again, dayenu, it would be enough, the miracles you have done for me are sufficient and beyond sufficient. Dayenu, it would be enough, if the only thing you'd done was to part the Red Sea. Dayenu, it would be enough, if the only thing you'd done was to give us the Law. Well, there goes my emotional blackmail on God! God is gently inviting me to look with gratitude and amazement at my own history and say, again and again, dayenu! And if you'd stopped *there*, that would have been enough! But you kept going! And if you had stopped *there*, that would have been enough! But you insisted on giving me still more! Dayenu! Dayenu!
Since this prayer, I've tried to notice my soundtrack more often. Sometimes it's only a clip. The latest 8-second sound bite I've had in prayer has actually been LL Cool J. Yes, you read that right! There's a song of his, I can't remember which, when he raps, "'cause life is a gift in itself, and only certain people are blessed with good health." And just now as I type this I realize how apt this is for my prayer situation. Life really is a gift in itself, and, hey, if God wants to rap His way into my consciousness, I'll listen!
Music has not always been a part of my life, because my mom was very strict about secular music. We were not supposed to listen to it, ever. Ever! So I got to college having never bought a tape or CD, not knowing anything about music and feeling very out of it. Luckily a friend took me under her wing. "Okay, now this is punk. This is rock. This is ‘electronic' or ‘house' music." With a little help from her and some independent investigation on my own, I started reliving my lost youth. Run DMC, Pearl Jam, Ramones, Madonna, Beastie Boys, They Might Be Giants. Cypress Hill when I felt angry, Cranberries when I felt pensive. Needed to stay up and study? Prodigy. Hungry for dark humor? Johnny Cash. Righteously indignant? Joan Baez.
My CD collection was cast to the four winds when I entered the convent and all I have now is a handful of inoffensive Christian CD's. But my inner life seethes with all sorts of music that wouldn't be on the average convent playlist.
How nice it is to discover that God can be my inner deejay and sort of focus my prayer with just a few bars from a long-forgotten song. Next time I have a song which won't let up, I'll sing it to myself with a little more reflection and awareness. Maybe there is a "hidden message" after all... one that I don't need a backwards-playing turntable to discover!
Episode 32: All-Inclusive Rant
April 2005
Man, oh man, does the conservative vs. liberal thing ever burn me up! I try not to be too controversial in these public musings, mostly because I can be controversial enough in person without dragging it all into the website! But lately the death of the Pope has rekindled some of the uglies in the Catholic faith, so you'll just have to forgive my rant.
There's a list of things I never want to hear again, or at least never again in their current context. The first one is, "I'm an orthodox Catholic," or, "that's not orthodox," Gaaaaak! This is usually a code word that means "ultra-conservative." The fact is that orthodoxy, which literally means "right teaching" is by no means the property only of those on the right. The Church takes some stands that seem conservative, and others that seem liberal. And, by the way, respectful dissent or questioning is not unorthodox! The Church has itself been unorthodox in the past and had to publicly correct its stances. Orthodoxy is about standing up for the truth, whether the human beings leading the Church like it or not. Orthodoxy, real orthodoxy, is all about conforming to Christ. Liberal Christians and conservative Christians both do this to the best of their abilities. Let's not forget that the religious leaders of Christ's own day branded him a far-out radical who wasn't sufficiently obedient to the letter of the law. So can we *please*, *please*, as a church, stop being so picky and downright scrupulous about regulations and details promulgated by cardinals and bishops and start giving a priority to the radical inclusivity and love of Jesus? I mean, hello, people write to their bishops about things like a Eucharistic minister (instead of a priest) purifying the cup (that means rinsing it with water which is consumed to make sure no precious blood remains). What we should be angry about and motivated to change are things like poverty, hunger, homelessness, and addiction... not picky, changeable liturgical rules. I once heard a conservative friend of mine refer to a parish that is known for more liberal views, saying, "oh, no, I want to go to Mass at a *real* Catholic parish." Grrrrr......
But you liberals aren't off the hook either! I am darn tired of hearing people say things like, "I've given up on the institutional Church," or "well, the Holy Spirit guides the Church despite the Pope." Despite the Pope? Arggghhhh..... Sure, there are rotten leaders sometimes, and God has to lead us despite their presence. But I think that's a major exception! I don't think that God leads me *despite* my superiors, *despite* the Pope. I think God leads me through these fallible, imperfect people. I think that I *do* owe obedience to the Pope, because he's the Pope, and to my superior, because she's my superior. Will popes, bishops, and superiors say things I disagree with? Sure they will. And if those things really conflict with my conscience, if I think they are morally wrong, even after talking it over with a spiritual director and if possible with the person involved, I have to follow my conscience. That's a law of God that supersedes the rules of humans. But what if it is something that makes me uncomfortable or annoyed or even distressed, but I don't think it's downright sinful? I think I have to bite the bullet and just submit my will to that of the people God has put in authority over me. Liberals were annoyed quite a lot at things that came out of the Vatican... whether from the CDF, other Curial offices, or from the Pope himself. Time might indeed prove that the Church officials were too strict, too conservative, too whatever. Or maybe time will prove that Cardinal Ratzinger and JP II were right on, all the time. But in the meantime, can't we simply follow our Church leadership? The sensus fidelium, the sense of the faithful public at large, is definitely important, and I think it's wonderful to hear liberals *and* conservatives debating various theological points. But like children (who may or may not be in the right), after we air our complaints and our own point of view to our Papa, we have an obligation to follow his last word. This sounds awful to the die-hard Western individualist, but there you have it. I've had to grit my teeth and grind out the words, "okay, I'll do it," to people with authority over me, at times because I thought something was too liberal and at times because something seemed too conservative. Ack, I don't know it all and sometimes I had better bite my tongue and let my ego get a little smackdown. I have the desire to be right and prove I'm right and talk about how right I am and convince others I'm right, but I don't have to act on that desire. God has freed me from slavery to self.
But what really gets my goat and makes steam come out of my ears is the habit issue. People judge us Sisters immediately based on what we wear. That is so wrong on so many levels. The first assumption is that habit = conservative. So, many conservatives glorify wearing the habit and bad-mouth sisters who don't wear the habit. Conversely, liberals feel drawn to sisters in "ordinary" dress and think that those who don the habit are behind the times and freakishly conservative. Honestly. HELLO! Can we not just be grateful that these women have dedicated their lives to God and left behind marriage, kids, their own property, and the following of their own will? The overall tendency may in fact be true here in the US, that habited nuns are more conservative. However, it's not entirely so. I know sisters who wear the habit who are definitely liberal, and sisters who don't wear the habit who are way, way, conservative. Besides, referring back to my first two rants about conservatives and liberals, WHO CARES? As long as we are trying to emulate Christ, there will be a healthy variety of political, liturgical, and theological points of view. Yay God! Also, I don't tell you how to raise your kids or conduct your marriage, so what gives you the right to tell me what to wear? Women who wear the habit do so for convenience, or to be a public visible witness of God, or to be uniform with their sisters, or for any number of reasons, holy and mundane. Sisters who don't wear the habit do so in order to avoid special treatment, for ease, to be accessible to more people, to be in solidarity with humanity at large, and for any number of reasons, holy and mundane. Liberals, quit telling me not to wear the habit. Conservatives, quit telling me to wear the habit. Nuns can be the worst about this! I have heard habit-wearing nuns rip to shreds those who don't wear the habit, and non-habit wearing nuns dismiss their habit-wearing peers as hopelessly childish and 19th century. During my discernment, such criticism was a big indicator that a particular community was not for me. Thank God my Handmaids try to rise above this pathetic stereotyping. I try to keep my own house in order rather than get into some other Sister's business and criticize her choice of attire, and I reserve the right to switch between habit and lay clothes in order to serve God's people better.
Inclusive language, the habit, the priesthood, sexual ethics, liturgy, theology, collegiality, etc., etc.... all are occasions for us to set up camp and gaze smugly and maliciously across the battlefield at the other side. Whether you call it "Satan" or "evil" or "division" or whatever, the force that opposes God must absolutely love it when we get so wedded to our political stance that we vilify or dismiss other Christians. So as we all buckle down in prayer before and during the conclave, can we all please pray to be joyful and hopeful Catholics, who listen respectfully to one another and try to listen more than we preach? I know I need this prayer for myself, for my own critical nature. May the God who reconciles all things reconcile us, from the left and the right and all parts of the world! Amen!
April 2005
Today I was reading from the spiritual notes of our foundress, St. Rafaela Maria Porras, and sort of slid into my hour of prayer for the day. Lately I have not felt drawn to the same manner of prayer that has been my old standby for a long time, so when I feel the impulse to pray on something, I act on it right away. Rafaela says in her notes for one year's Spiritual Exercises something along the lines of: "God made me for a reason, and has to give me everything I need to fulfill my purpose, as if I was the only person he created. So I must quit worrying about my insufficiency." It's a good thought. I was kicked back in a community room recliner, almost 180, and was glancing at the budding tree outside as it bobbed in the wind. I eyed it almost enviously, thinking that it would be nice if I, like the tree, didn't have to think about how to be me, but just naturally fulfilled God's will for me. I had been grumbling about how difficult it seemed at times to discern God's will, and how able I am to second-guess myself. But between glancing at the tree and reading St. Rafaela Maria, something happened.
Maybe I'm making this too hard, this life, this commitment to prayer, this Christian walk. Maybe it really is simple and naturally flows from who I am, and I just have to let it happen rather than force everything. As I looked at the tree, I thought with chagrin about my own poor luck with plants. I don't know how to water them. Either I drown a plant or I let it dry out beyond repair. I don't take time to set up a regular system of watering and then check the results. Rather, I water when I think about it, unable to remember the last time I watered it, or how much I gave it, or how the plant looked then as compared to now. Of course my neglect eventually kills my poor plant, and I move on to the next victim. If I were a little more systematic, I might learn which plants like a lot of water, and which plants need just a misting. If I simply paid attention, I wouldn't have the reputation of Joy, Destroyer Of All Green.
And then my prayer brought me around to my cholesterol. I recently brought my cholesterol from 261 to 212, using food alone (not even exercise, although I have added that now, too). It hit me, Oh, I am like the tree, my body does naturally do the right thing as long as I pay attention to what it needs. I made a change in my diet, watched the results, and learned something. My body really does take care of almost everything I need, all by itself. I just need to be attentive to a few things to optimize my health and well-being. So I am like the tree, after all, at least physically. The tree's DNA and my DNA are miraculously set up by God to activate selectively and organize cells into tissues and organs that take care of everything for me, without my having to think about it. I delighted in this for awhile and affirmed Rafaela's realization, that God really does provide for me and I need not be so stressed about things. And little by little, I realized that this applies to my spiritual life, too, not just my physical body.
I am a plant that needs a lot of sun... a lot of Son. Adoration is for me the light that pours into me every day and feeds me. Not every Christian needs such intense light... but I have enough experience of myself that I know I need it. Daily access to the sacraments and daily prayer are what keep me healthy. They are the unglamorous but necessary water and light that keep me green and supple.
And I don't always have to feel like a branch in full flower. After all, most plants are ablaze in their full glory for only part of the year, and spend the rest of their time sort of being a nice but not eye-popping green. And during winter, they simply rest. So if my prayer is not knock-your-socks-off revelation but rather kind of mundane or even bored and inattentive, that's okay. As long as I am still supple, not brittle, and seem to be following a general pattern of growth and good health, then hey, that's good enough for me.
Cholesterol, springtime buds, Rafaela Maria, DNA, water and light. If God can make a nice prayer out of such mundane things I suppose I can trust my own ordinary life to bring some good into the world, too.
May 2005
World, meet Joy Payton, Junior Sacristan! This duty is a traditional one for novices and at last has fallen on me. It is my job to set everything up for Mass – get the bread and wine ready, mark the Lectionary to the proper day, etc. Now, the thing about this job is that no one notices what you do, unless you do it badly! So I have been really nervous about being in charge of the "chapel stuff," especially because I am a new Catholic, still. Four years of experience is still not enough for me to be able to know all the intricacies of liturgy. But, with faithful Sr. Philomena as my guide, I sally forth.
The first time I set up for Mass, I carefully inspect everything before asking for Sr. Philomena's sign-off. "Look," I say, proudly. "What do you think?"
"That's very nice," she says pleasantly. "And where's your chalice?"
Uhhh.... chalice, right. That would come in handy, dontcha think? Sigh. Well, here we go again, take two. The next Mass I had everything set up and double-checked. It was a Mass with lots of people, so there were two chalices. I remembered! Well, this time I only forgot a purificator (the cloth used to wipe the chalice after each communicant). Thankfully Sr. Philomena caught this one, too. I watched the Mass unfold with the tense attention of a soccer mom on tournament day. I was convinced I marked the wrong reading (I didn't), sure I forgot to put the key in the tabernacle (I hadn't forgotten), and positive that I had forgotten something that would bring Mass to a screeching halt while I ran to the sacristy to get whatever it was I had forgotten. "Oh no!" I thought to myself as I watched the wine being poured. "There's way too much wine!" Later, as communion was being distributed, my heart sank. "There aren't enough hosts!" Why, oh why, was I burdened with this awful task of estimating the number of communicants? I would live the rest of my days in ignominy, as The Novice Who Blew It As Sacristan.
As usual, my internal drama played out only in my head and not in real life. The cups were easily emptied, the hosts were sufficient, and no disaster befell "my" Mass. At the end, I pressed clammy hands together in a gesture of gratitude. My tension must have been either noticeable or contagious, because I got a couple of relieved congratulations from my Sisters.
It is odd to consider the fears I have. Speaking in front of the public does not frighten me... even if they are hostile public. As a pro-lifer who has done a few stints trying to convince women at abortion clinics to make a choice for life, I can tell you about hostile public! And as someone who has had many occasions to teach and preach the teen set, I am intimately acquainted with a bored public. But this doesn't faze me at all. In fact, on Ascension Thursday I gave a talk that actually put one of my audience to sleep. A sound sleep. This, despite repeated jabs from his wife's elbow. Oh well, you can't win them all. I take it all in stride. The stress from a seemingly simple and behind-the-scenes job like sacristan, however, seems mythic by comparison. Stress! Fear!
But now that I'm a bit seasoned, a few days into my sacristy duty, I am starting to like it. The azaleas are in full bloom and I found florist's foam in the sacristy closet... so my new hobby is cutting and arranging the bright pink blossoms. And I even like (well, kind of) cleaning the chapel. Translating the cryptic abbreviations in the Ordo isn't as intimidating as it was the first day. And of course the privilege of exposing and reposing the Blessed Sacrament is amazing. Why Christ commends himself to our hands, and into my hands in particular, is beyond my understanding. And on this Mother's Day weekend I am struck with the comparison between my bustling nervousness and the nesting instinct of an expectant mom. Everything just has to be flawless! Everything has to be ready! Something amazing is about to happen and I want to welcome this person (this Person) with everything perfectly in place. Including the chalice.
May 2005
Not to beat a dead topic, but music is still kicking around my head these days. The latest song to make it on my personal top 40 is "Wherever You Go," which is the theme song for Atlanta TEC and is near and dear to my heart. I am learning to play guitar, and besides giving me rock-hard fingertips, my newfound musical ability is giving me lots of prayer time. I have only just started learning this month, so my entire repertoire is the one song I most want to play... "Wherever You Go." I practice every day, so the lyrics are tattooed in my brain more than ever now. Thank God!
The first time I prayed with this song, I was praying on the topic of forgiveness. There is someone in my life who hurt me quite badly when I was a teenager, and I have found it very difficult to forgive this person. I really battle with strong negative feelings verging on hatred, and I don't like being in that place. I want to have a forgiving spirit, but I know it has to be God's gift. So, with this intention, I was praying about forgiveness and asking for a loving heart towards X, the same loving heart Jesus has for me. And then the second verse of the song started: "we will be together, forever...." Oh no! If I honestly believe that God intends for this person to spend eternity with Him, and intends for me to spend eternity with Him, that means... oh, great. We will be together, forever. Well, if I am going to spend forever with someone, I had better figure out how to deal! I kind of laughed. You mean I have to see this person in the afterlife, too? Well, hell doesn't sound *that* bad... just kidding, Lord! God didn't whisk away my hostility in one fell swoop, but He did sort of throw a bucket of water on my superiority and pride. Did this person behave badly? Sure. Does that mean I'm somehow better, more important, and more loved? Not in a million years.
Then today I was praying, again in some childhood-related themes. I have been angry at times with God, because I feel like there are some things in my life from which God could have and should have shielded me. "Where were you?" I asked the Lord. And again the song came into my mind. What a gift the Incarnation is! It struck me anew how amazing it is that God came into the human family with all the limitations and terms of human life. "Wherever you go, I shall go. Wherever you live, so shall I live." Jesus has gone through the human sensations of loneliness, anger, sorrow, and pain. The historical Jesus was itinerant, and the Eucharistic Christ of today goes wherever the human family goes.
"Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God, too." Christ makes us a family. Our new Holy Father refers to this. I don't often quote long passages of things here, but this is a doozy, taken from one of his writings as Cardinal:
"We all eat the same person. We all are in this way taken out of our closed individual persons and placed inside another, greater one... To communicate with Christ is essentially also to communicate with one another. We are no longer each alone, each separate from the other; we are now each part of the other; each of those who receive communion is ‘bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh.'. For this reason, I must always keep clearly in mind that in this way he unites me organically with every other person receiving him - with the one next to me, whom I might not like very much; but also with those who are far away, in Asia, Africa, America, or in any other place."
And to think that Jesus worshipped the Father and taught us how to do the same! After his resurrection, Jesus told Mary, "Go to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am going to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.'" Jesus, who was God's beloved Son, placed himself alongside humans as a needy, worshipful human, and was obedient to God, not ‘flexing his muscles' because of his special status, but choosing to be fully human like us. Jesus didn't go preaching in order to round up a bunch of people to worship him. He preached and liberated and healed and rounded up a bunch of people to worship and serve his Father.
"Wherever you die, I shall die, and there shall I be buried beside you." Jesus, who was one with God, did not consider equality with God something to brag about or use as leverage, but emptied himself of all rights and privileges, becoming as needy and empty and filled with longing as the rest of humanity. He put himself so thoroughly into the human condition that he was subjected even to death, and a torturous death at that. My version of Philippians 2:6-8.
"We will be together forever, and our love will be the gift of our lives." Amen, Amen, Maranatha!
May 2005
Really, I don't know how he does it. Every time! Lately my Jesus has been really on top of things as far as meeting my needs. I have had lots (and I do mean LOTS) of opportunities to go to God in agonized prayer lately. Bruised feelings, family worries, old-hurts-made-new, and even the occasional hint of vocational "buyer's remorse." And without fail, I get an immediate or nearly immediate answer. Every single time. That's kind of new to me. In the past I have had to wait awhile, which has been fun in itself as I watch things unfold. But I wonder if God is not having pity on my wavering self these days and is intentionally knocking my socks off with answered prayer. Or maybe I am just paying more attention. Anyway. I am just amazed at my Jesus who manages to make these days the happiest and clearest of my life, in spite of the gale swirling around outside. As Rafaela Maria would say, "let hell rage, what does it matter?"
So today I talked over some things with my novice director, and we agreed that I would not plan to go to a friend's wedding next year. That really cost me a lot, heart-wise, and I felt that I had received a body blow. Oof. This is one of those friends who has been with me through thick and thin and I am possibly as excited as she about her wedding. So what did I do? Pray about my disappointment and sacrifice? No, try boo-hooing into my pillow and feeling sorry for myself. "God," I wailed, "why does this ha-a-a-ave to be so ha-a-a-ard?" Anyone walking by would have thought I lost a family member, a dog, and my job all in the same day. Waaaaaahhh!
I did manage to snuffle downstairs to help out at lunch, and to pray. Knowing that I had plans to see our school show tonight, I took time to pray this afternoon, since it would be my only free time to pray before being booked the whole of the evening. My prayer was a sorry excuse for prayer, actually, filled with self-pity alternating with self-disgust at my self-pity. I did not want to feel better, but I wanted to want to feel better. Does that make sense? I was awake enough to say, "oh man, this is gross, I hate this," but not together enough to suck it up and deal or even bring my heart to prayer. It was too much fun (but not really) to sulk and pout. So I wrote, "God, help me be willing to be happy and pious and supple and healthy. God, make me willing to be willing." This, like many things in my prayer life, overlaps bigtime with my 12-step program as well as with Ignatian spirituality. Give me the grace to want the virtue. Make me willing to be willing.
Less than an hour later, I drag my pouty self to Mass and hear the most awesome homily ever. It was absolutely a message from God to me. "Keep going! Jesus gave his all to you, can you give less to him? Don't slack off in prayer, keep pushing forward." The group on retreat was made up of secular Carmelites and the homily touched on a lot of St. John of the Cross and St. Teresa of Avila. It was jam-packed with gems of fortitude and humility and sacrifice and joy and consolation. So yay, God. I am cheered and inspired to do the next mile smiling and waving the whole way. I have so few opportunities to give anything up for God, so let me do these small renunciations with total joy. Finally I am not only willing to be willing, but I am actually willing, period. Thanks, Jesus, you did it again!!!!!!!
June 2005
"Bran, what is that?" Theresa looked at me quizzically as I poured the brown sticks-o-fiber into the bowl. Theresa is like an English sponge... she soaks up all the words we throw her way. Her attempts to teach me her native tongue have been a little less successful, unfortunately. My Vietnamese is likely to send my Vietnamese-speaking Sisters into guffaws, whereas Theresa's English is actually beautifully accented. Still, she often runs into words that are new to her. "Bran" must be one.
Always the helpful and kind Sister, I promptly responded to my friend in need. "Bran? It's lizard intestines." Well, fortunately or unfortunately, Theresa is used to my sense of humor, and she simply pressed her lips together while wrinkling her forehead in concentration.
"No, it is lizard tail!" she exclaims, shaking her head at me as if I am daft. Indeed, the pieces of cereal do sort of look like withered old lizard tail, I must admit. Yum. Meanwhile, Sister Mary Ann is trying to do damage control and explain in laborious detail the process of stripping the husk off the grain, etc., etc. I accuse Mary Ann of making up a fairy tale. After all, everyone knows that bran comes from lizards. I mean, taking apart a grain and eating the indigestible part? How could anyone believe that?
Yes, this is another ordinary meal in an ordinary day at St. Raphaela Center. I cannot believe I ever thought that convent life was boring and unfun. Sisters are often the most hilarious people around, and usually very open-minded. They are also warm and loving. When they aren't being the perpetrators or victims of some practical joke, or cracking some you-know-you're-Catholic-when jest, my Sisters are often some of the most caring people I have ever known. A few examples stand out.
"Other than us, of course, do you have any family? Brothers or sisters?" This fine Sister, welcoming me to my new home in Haverford, wanted to get to know me a little better. I will always remember how with her casual question, she named me her sister. "Other than us, of course." Of course it goes without saying that we are family now, you and I. What a fine woman and dear Sister, to welcome a new novice with such delicacy and open arms.
On another occasion, I was shucking corn (for you city slickers, this means removing the outer leaves from the corn cob). As we were shucking and silking the corn, I reminisced about growing up in a first-generation city family. Everyone I was related to was no more than one step removed from farm life, and my earliest memories included breaking beans, shucking corn, and picking strawberries. "Oh, this makes me so homesick," I sighed as I hurled another leaf floorwards. A Sister chided me lovingly. "What are you talking about? You are home!"
I am home. And home means saying, "I love you," and the occasional, "I'm sorry," and yes, even the rare but necessary, "It's lizard intestine."
June 2005
I was praying yesterday with two things on my mind. One was my upcoming thirty day retreat, which will be happening in July. The other was the "sixth step" of the twelve steps. Because it is June, the sixth month, I am hearing a lot in meetings about the sixth step of the twelve steps: "Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character." Being entirely ready is a crucial aspect of the retreat experience. I am preparing myself for this wonderful God-vacation and want to be in a mental and spiritual state to be able to receive all the blessings God wants to give me. And this prayer thing, well, it's God's doing, not mine. So my job is to be ready, ready, ready, and let God do what God wants to do.
As I was praying about being ready for my retreat, an odd image kept popping up in my mind. Well, not odd exactly, but a little uncharacteristic for me, anyway. What I imagined was a father and young son playing catch. After trying unsuccessfully to shoo this apparently unrelated image away, I finally decided just to pray on it and see what happened.
"I'm ready," I imagined the kid saying to his dad. But he says it without lifting his hands to catch the ball. He just stands there, arms limply hanging at his sides. He's not ready, he just says he is. Of course dear old Dad is not going to throw the ball – it would sail uselessly overhead, or worse, smack the poor kid in the face. No, Dad is going to cajole his son... put on the glove, okay, now bend your knees so you're ready to change direction if you have to, alright, hands up, let's go.
I want to *be* ready, not just to say I am ready. So what does that mean for me as I prepare for my thirty day retreat? What is this baseball metaphor telling me? Well, I might want to start by putting on my glove – by "gearing up," literally, for my retreat. For me, this means leaving my room in the convent and moving into the retreat house, away from the distractions of books, television, Internet, and community. It means making intentional prayer, entering prayer with forethought, announcing to God and to myself that I am now prepped to toss a few insights with the Creator. Suiting up means such basic things as kneeling, making the sign of the cross, lifting my hands. It may seem simplistic to say that the position of my body makes a difference in the quality of my prayer, but it's true. I put on my glove and start pounding it, softening the leather, as I await the first gentle toss from Dad. I put on my prayer habits, my physical signals that I am in praying mode, and I soften my heart by recalling the prayer insights I have had before, the many times I have met God.
Getting in a spiritual position of readiness is like crouching and waiting for the pitch. It requires trust – God is not going to try to clean my clock with a fastball to the nose. He wants me to actually catch what he tosses me. And God will throw me a few gimmes, a few easy lobs, to let me warm up, before he starts really stinging my hands with the fastballs. I've also got to be ready to move. I may have to stretch, to scoot over, or even jump in order to catch what is tossed my way. In prayer, that means being willing to suspend disbelief, cynicism, and ego. I might have to move out of my comfort zone and be willing to hear things I don't want to hear, or face things that are a little painful. I can't shift my weight to one side because I think I know where God is headed. The fact is that God is full of surprises and he likes to keep me on my toes. He's not malicious, but he will give me a workout in prayer, if I'm willing. I might feel invited to pray in ways I've never tried or don't care for (I've never been much of one to use movement as a prayer form, for example). Or maybe I would like for God to address a certain need I have, only to discover that God has other plans. If God and I are going to play catch, I had better be flexible.
Or maybe I'll even have to dive in the dirt for a ground ball. A lot of things that we in religious life do seem foolish and ridiculous to our oversexed, overconsumeristic American society. If I feel called to a new, more radical commitment to obedience, it will seem to some that I'm just throwing myself to the ground for nothing. But I know that I'm not hurling myself down for no reason – I'm scooping up a treasure. The dirt is secondary! Whether it's obedience or ascetic practices or devotional prayers that seem silly or old-fashioned to some, I can bet that God will occasionally toss me something that seems a little extreme or ridiculous to another. I have to really remind myself that God is real, and prayer and the fruits of prayer are real, in order to do "silly" things that introduce me to humility.
Finally, and I think this is most important, I have to toss the ball back. God is not a tennis machine, popping off random blessings. No, God is a partner, who wants reciprocity. Any blessing I get in prayer is not meant for hoarding, but to be tossed back, to be shared with the God I meet in others. So a good game of catch requires me to have a good throwing arm. To be able to meet God fully in my thirty day retreat, I need to be well-acquainted with returning my blessings and doing good in the world. Why would God throw me a new blessing and prayer insight if my hands are full and there's a big pile of unused graces at my feet?
I am not a baseball fan, having lived in Atlanta during the "choke years" of the Braves. So the fact that such an unusual image would pop into my mind made me stop and really analyze it. Am I really ready? Am I getting in shape, at least warming up a little? Am I listening and paying attention to God's cues, so I don't miss a pitch? I am looking forward to my long retreat, not without some trepidation, but mostly with anticipation and joy. How few people get such a treat in life. Dear readers, I ask you to pray for me and with me during July, that I can have a wonderful game of catch with the Lord – grass stains, dives, fastballs and all.
August 2005
Okay, okay. I know everyone is just dying to know how I made it thru a thirty-day silent retreat. I haven't written prior to this because 1) I was waiting for the retreat to "settle," and 2) as soon as I finished my retreat I landed smack dab into leading a vocational retreat for women and didn't have time to write a File. Now that I'm adequately rested and settled, I can report on God's work in me during July.
First off, I should explain what the Spiritual Exercises, the thirty-day retreat, is all about. Saint Ignatius of Loyola developed the Exercises some 500 years ago, and they are still going strong. The structure of the retreat is that I have a director, someone with whom I meet every day to talk about the prayer and the various movements in my heart of that day. My director was Sr. Margaret Scott, a British Handmaid who happened to be in the States this year. So every evening, following a day of prayer (which included five distinct prayer times of an hour or so each, plus Mass), I would meet with Sr. Margaret and talk about how I felt, where I was drawn to pray next, and how God and I were interacting. I did have a couple of break days during the retreat, in which I could talk and be with the community, but otherwise I was in silence... eating in a silence-only dining room, living apart from the community in our retreat house, and generally staying out of my typical daily life (newspaper, internet, television, mail, etc.).
Those of you who read my last File will be amused to know that I did have not one but two baseballs given to me on retreat... both of which I practically stepped on while out on walks. God tossed each one to me at crucial points in my prayer, and I simply had to laugh. Okay, God, thanks for the attagirl. Lots of other graces happened, too. One pretty important one was my giving up caffeine, my last chemical crutch. Another, which I didn't expect, was returning to my long-abandoned vegetarianism. I had been thinking about becoming vegetarian again, and praying about it a little, but it was made very clear to me on retreat what God was calling me to. (Note: I am not making any judgments about carnivores!). The most important graces, though, are between me and God. Important healing happened on retreat, and a deepened trust, and new ways of praying, and a solid belief that I can rely 100% on God's providence. This kind of intimacy with God is impossible to put into words, especially in a public forum like this. All I can say is, "thank you!" Thank you, God, for pouring out so much love. Thank you, Handmaids, for giving me the luxury of taking a month off to revel in God. Thank you, friends, for praying for me during this time.
How wonderful it was to return from retreat just in time to help lead a vocations retreat. It was definitely God's plan that I was able to meet the wonderful women who came to investigate God's dream for their lives. We had a wonderful time, with lots of prayer and lots of fun. I truly believe that we Handmaids have something special, and the eight women who were on retreat with us here agreed. A home in which the Eucharist is the center is a treasure, a pearl of great price. Following my retreat, I am more amazed than ever that I am privileged to sell all and call this pearl my own.
August 2005
Usually my Sisters are awesome women who support one another and are very kind. However, in the interests of full disclosure, I have to admit that occasionally, there are times of disagreement, hurt feelings, abruptness, and all the rest. Alas, in case you are looking to the convent as a new Eden, guess what? We're all a little bit Eve, with the sin, greed, forgetfulness, and finger-pointing that entails. Nothing truly injurious has befallen me in religious life, but plenty of little nicks and scrapes have come my way. But even these inevitable abrasions of life take on a different tone here. I'll share an example of what I mean.
Earlier this week, I cut the hair of some of the Sisters. The first was a Sister who is homebound these days, and feels the heat (it is in the 90's here) terribly. So I carefully cut everything shorter, and trimmed really closely around her neck and ears. She was very pleased with the cut (and the price!). Next was my original guinea pig, the Sister who I first tried my shears on some months ago. It was past time for a trim, and I really got into cutting her hair, because it is thick and curly and beautiful. "Can I just play with your hair for awhile before I cut it?" Finally, it was my turn. I used to cut my own hair often in college, and have taken to doing it again in the convent. Now, it's not because we aren't allowed to go out to get our haircuts. Most Sisters do exactly that, and go to the nearest low-cost salon. I, on the other hand, hate to go to the salon and pay even a measly $15 for a haircut. My hair grows very fast and it galls me to pay so much for someone to do 10 minutes of scissoring. With mirror in hand, I go about doing my own hair. I cut it much shorter, and the way I like it, which can be hard to explain to someone in a salon. I liked what I saw, but running out of time to get the back exactly right, I simply cleaned up the pile of hair in our bathroom and went to dinner. "I can always get it perfect later," I reasoned.
While I was sitting in our front hall waiting for dinner to be ready, a Sister asked me, "Who cut your hair?" I replied, "I did." She laughed. "Yep, it shows!" I gasped at her callousness and clucked my tongue. "Well," she defended herself, "it's just uneven, that's all." Mortified, my hands went to my head in dismay and I spent dinner feeling irritated and a little holier-than-thou.
"After all, I don't like the way her stylist fluffs her hair up, but I don't say so! I always tell her it looks nice," I harrumphed. How dreadfully unfair my persecution! After dinner I checked out my hair again. The back needed work, which I gave, but the front, which is what this Sister criticized, looked good to me. I asked another Sister for feedback. "It looks fine," she said. "I like it!" Feeling restored in my self esteem, I thought over the exchange. This Sister isn't American born, and maybe she didn't realize how untactful her words came out. It could be a cultural or language thing that made her sound so blunt. C'mon, Joy, just let it roll off. I laughed at my own hypersensitivity.
The next day, I was sitting beside one of the Sisters whose hair I had cut, and the Sister who hurt my feelings walked by. "Wow, your hair looks great!" she told my neighbor. "Did you go out with someone to get it cut?" When she was told that no, I had done it, she said, "Wow, Joy, you did a much better job with her than you did on yourself." Ouch. Now I was really paranoid! Was my hair hideously ugly and I just couldn't tell? Was I blinding myself to my awful haircut? Or was this Sister just out of touch with the "choppy" look and long layers that I prefer?
I spent a little while fuming, but then was able to mostly let it go. The fact is that I know this Sister, and I know that she is not a person who aims to hurt people. She didn't mean to hurt my feelings, and I have to assume that she was acting out of a sisterly and friendly instinct, not a predatory one. We tease a lot around here, and she just didn't realize how much this particular interchange hurt. I could choose to be catty to her, to be less complimentary or charitable to her. I could elect to ignore her, or to gossip about her. I might be tempted to nourish a sense of persecution and mistreatment. But because Christ has liberated me, I can also choose to laugh it off, be grateful for the chance to be a little humble, and move on.
These little things, more than any great lights received in prayer, are what form me into a woman of God. Small choices... to assume the worst about someone, or assume the best? To wail over a slight, or to be amused and glad that my egotism has gotten roughed up a little bit? To hide and protect myself, or keep going in the belief that I'm fine the way I am, regardless of what someone else might say? These little choices, these decisions between light and darkness, are what Ignatius calls consolation and desolation. Culture at large tends to emphasize retaliation, sarcasm, and aggression in the face of insults. Christ, on the other hand, has a much different approach. When I choose to pursue consolation, when I go toward goodness, humor, forgiveness, and light, I make something small and petty into something wonderful, instructive, healing, and big. An act of worship, even. An act of trust.
August 2005
When I was a kid, I often played "spy" with the neighbor kids. We were secret agents, living a life of danger and adventure, using our wits and our secret technology to complete our mission. Espionage lost its luster when I got older and the Cold War ended. As an adult, I was disillusioned with what I discovered about the intelligence community. Spying, it seemed, was less about idealistic missions to ensure safety and freedom than it was about political advances. But I still enjoyed reading spy novels, imagining myself as a party to the intrigue and excitement. My tastes gradually evolved, and I found myself reading more thoroughly researched and well-written novels, which included aspects of intelligence that were less thrilling ... the research, the waiting, the painstaking development of one's cover. Excitement and adventure were only a tiny part of spying. The adrenaline rush could only get one so far. The secret agent's real skill must lie in consistency, hard work, endurance, and persistence. The results of such dedication could be amazing! Crime pyramids crumble, corrupt or oppressive regimes topple, terrorism is averted, assassinations are thwarted, lives are saved. Yes, the idealism was still there, lurking within the cynic.
I normally don't do a lot of pleasure reading these days, because I have a lot of theology, history, and other "job-related" reading to do. But I have had a brief lull of activity between the end of vocation retreat stuff and the start of school in September, and taken advantage of it by curling up with a good spy thriller or two. It really made me think about my own life. If only I had such a compelling motivation as the spies I read about, I, too, could tolerate the boring or seemingly meaningless parts of my life with a certain nobility. If only! Knowing that every action had a purpose, that every bit of daily life was the foundation necessary to enable my larger mission, I could see my life as a whole, with the most mundane as needed as the most exciting. Mulling this over, the comparison between spy life and religious life seemed obvious!
I *do* have a compelling reason that shapes my every move, my every decision. I am an agent, after all. I have an unseen Master who calls my shots and in whom I place all my trust. He trusts me, too, and as I complete small missions, he grooms me to take on greater ones that have more at stake. I am in possession of a powerful incendiary device... the Gospel. I seek to disrupt life as usual, interrupt the status quo, and topple power structures. I may seem to be an average, everyday citizen of my planet, my nation, my city. But I'm not what I seem. I have a different loyalty, and I struggle to make the desires of my homeland and my Leader come into reality here, in this foreign land. I recruit others to do the same thing, and I free those held captive.
I work in concert with a great number of other agents, the vast majority of whom I will never know. Sometimes I work in a quiet support role, working in our safehouse here at St. Raphaela's, where my fellow workers can debrief and build themselves up for their next mission. Other times I work in the information and publication department, infiltrating society with revolutionary messages. Occasionally I do recruitment, helping those who feel drawn to ally themselves with our cause find their place in our organization. I try to expose the lies of the culture I have been inserted in, and bring justice and freedom wherever I go. In order to better my service, I learn more about the culture of my assignment, immersing myself in the customs, language, and manners of the people, while never giving in to them or forgetting who I really am. It can be a tough balance sometimes, let me tell you!
I touch base with my Boss daily. Nothing he says to me is trivial, even though I may not understand why I am being asked to do a given thing. I have learned that he sees the network and the situation on the ground from a much better perspective than I can, so I try to remember to just obey. Occasionally he needs to get into contact with me apart from our regular communication time, and sends me a signal. He's very talented at hiding messages for me in plain sight, and I'm learning how to discover them, too.
Can life as an operative be dangerous? Well, many in my organization have been killed for their work over the past 2000 years. In most places, we're not exposed to danger to life and limb, but our work is hampered by the long-term anaesthetization of those whom we would seek to liberate. They have fallen prey to "Stockholm Syndrome" and now parrot the same lies by which they were ensnared. It takes a long time, and lots of gentle, subtle activity, to free someone so entangled. Infiltrating the culture and changing structures of authority and power can be likewise frustrating. But we keep going, because we know the stakes are high. Lives are on the line.
I've made it sound like we are only a covert operation. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Many of those working for our Leader work in overt recruitment and dissemination of information. Where we can, we work out in the open, proclaiming the Good News. But we who are special agents have a 24-7 assignment. It's less a job than it is a posting... an intelligence posting. When we're "off the clock", we keep up our subversive work. That's what differentiates us from those who have the job of diplomat or ambassador, those with families and property and self-determination. They, too, revere our leader and work for him, but they have their own personal lives, their own plans and dreams, and they haven't made an unconditional pledge of their everything. Their role, an important one to be sure, is not the role of the special agent. The entire lives of God's special agents, God's consecrated people, are devoted to the mission of putting everything according to God's dreams. We willingly drop our current "cover", our current situation, in a heartbeat, in order to be placed elsewhere. We own nothing, we possess no one, we use no power. We are completely at the disposal of our Boss, with nothing that would hinder us from carrying out whatever mission, dangerous or boring, that he might assign us.
The basic foundation of our work has to be in the small actions and words we do without recognition. Love is our explosive device... it blows away fears, resentments, hatred, and other tools of our Enemy. We plant tiny bits of this powerful agent wherever we can, especially in situations where love would be surprising or unexpected. We slip away before anyone can pin credit on us. Often we find that love has some of the characteristics of a biological agent... it is communicable. The more places and situations in which we can sow this in this prison camp of an unloving world, the faster the revolution will come.
We in religious life are not playing a game, we are not escaping from reality. We are engaged in something very, very real, with high stakes indeed. There is such a thing as the battle between good and evil, even though Reagan might have cheapened the term through cold war rhetoric. Working for good, fulltime, can be exhausting, frustrating, and even dangerous. And there's nothing I'd rather be doing.
September 2005
Of all the convent files I've written, this may be the one I dislike writing the most. I am writing today about prayer, and I am struggling heartily with prayer. I don't want to pray, I don't feel like praying, I don't even want to talk about praying. And I certainly don't want to sit down and think about my prayer life in detail so I can write this. But my need to write, my inner impulse to write, won't let me rest. Neither will my inner draw to prayer. I am doing, in my writing life, and in my prayer life, that which I don't want to do, because unless I do it, I won't be authentic, I won't get any rest, I won't feel peace. I've quoted my friend Jeremiah here before, and here's another line of his that I like: "I say to myself, I will not mention the Lord, I will speak in God's name no more. But then it becomes like fire burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones; I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it."
The horrors of Katrina have really brought home the basic problem of religion: suffering. The problem of suffering is certainly not restricted to Christianity, but our claim of an infinitely loving God exacerbates the dilemma. Why didn't God work a miracle and steer the storm off course, or make it die out altogether? Why didn't God make the levies hold up? Why didn't God save the people who died? Where was God when all this suffering was going on? Why, when people around the world are praying, are people still lost, still dying, still stranded on rooftops? Why, why, why? And why the starvation in Niger? And the killing in Sudan? And the armed conflict in Iraq? And the cruel deprivation of North Korea? Why? Katrina has simply put in my neighborhood the troubling reality of God. There are many times of extreme suffering in which God either cannot, or chooses not to, intervene to end the pain. If God cannot end the suffering, what kind of God do I serve? If God can, but chooses not to, what kind of God do I serve?
Then there are the "religious" jerks (sorry, my ecumenical well has run dry) who claim that this is divine retribution. Well, if God's that way, I don't know whether I want to be in a close, personal relationship with Him.
I've tangled with all these questions before, with no easy answers, and I am not finding easy answers now. My faith has always held tight through disasters, so I have no reason to think that I won't come through this disaster with full confidence in God. My only quandary right now is that I feel paralyzed in prayer. How do I pray, when I am struck dumb with shock? How do I pray when I don't even want to look at God, I'm so angry and disgusted? How do I pray when I don't know what to ask for? How to touch the pain of so many? How to be a source of healing and reparation?
I started off, the first day after the destruction of the city, praying in adoration. In my imagination, I brought affected people into the chapel with me, imagining them gathering around the altar. I presented to God these people, these groups... the women and men of the police force, the frightened children, the sick in hospitals, and so on. I gradually filled the chapel with these people, placing myself in solidarity with them and praying for them. But I felt that my prayer was impotent and useless. I couldn't figure out what to pray for, what to ask God for on behalf of these suffering sisters and brothers. So I switched modes and started taking a mental tour of New Orleans with Jesus. We waded in chest-deep water, but didn't get far. I stopped before a house that had a woman on the roof and stared. I could see her lips, cracked from thirst and heat. She was fanning herself, miserable, feeling so abandoned. To be poor, black, Southern, a woman, and stranded, alone, on a roof... it is too much for one person to bear. I turned to Jesus and let him have it. "What exactly are you doing for her? I don't want to hear about all the things that you're doing elsewhere... what are you doing for her now? Is this supposed to help her? Is this the loving thing, to let her cook on her roof, dying of thirst, in the middle of a poisoned lake?" I let all the anger spill out, and when I didn't get an answer, I sat, sullen, for a few more minutes, and then stalked out of the chapel.
The next day, I returned to my prayer. I wanted, simultaneously, to help the people affected by the hurricane, yet avoid God. How could I pray without being intimate with Him? I finally decided on doing some rote, memorized prayers, in which I could consciously bring to mind the people and places in need, without getting into a one-on-one conversation with God. The Divine Mercy chaplet was soothing, and I said it over and over, placing myself with people in need, praying specifically for some I had seen on the news and then for all those who I did not see. Later I prayed the rosary, bringing to mind on each bead a specific group: "for the looters, Hail Mary, full of grace....for the pregnant women, Hail Mary, full of grace... for those who are dying, Hail Mary, full of grace... for separated families, Hail Mary...." I went around the beads twice, finally tiring myself out and feeling enough peace to continue a "normal" day. Then, on Saturday, I prayed at the bedside of a Sister who seemed near the end of her life. We said the rosary together and I and many of my Sisters sat in silence and prayer with her. It felt good to be in an environment of prayer that seemed truly effective and useful, and I made those hours my prayer time.
Yesterday I had a couple of abortive attempts to pray, but felt such tension that it seemed impossible. I did not want to talk to God, but found that I couldn't go on without some real heart-to-heart. A day without prayer, even if it's full of everything else, doesn't feel right anymore. Even if I couldn't make a whole hour, I had to do something. So I started to read the gospel account of Jesus quieting the storm. Maybe interacting with Jesus here might shed some light on what God is all about and why He didn't calm the waters this time. Feeling anxious and desiring to flee prayer, I picked up the guitar and started strumming as I read the gospel aloud. I stopped a few times to sing my frustration (although as I discovered, it is hard to make an angry sound on an acoustic guitar). "Wake up, Lord, don't you see they're perishing? Dying? Don't you care? Don't you want to help? WAKE UP!" And then hearing Jesus reply, "Why are you afraid?" Why am I afraid? Hello, Lord, isn't it obvious? I'm afraid of suffering, of my suffering and the suffering of others. I'm afraid you might be an abusive God, ignoring our pleas for help. I'm afraid that I'm wrong, and that there is no You, no God, and that all this suffering is just one more proof of that. I'm afraid I've put all my money on a losing horse. I'm afraid I'm the last chump to figure out that I've been had. None of that rhymes, but that was the kind of stuff I was singing as I worried the guitar strings.
My prayer didn't get me any answers, but it at least was a personal prayer, a prayer from my heart right to God's Heart. It was real, and it felt real, which was reassuring, even though my questions weren't answered and my fears weren't totally quelled. Jesus didn't say much to me on the boat, but He did hold me. And that, for now, is enough. That's part of what attracts me to Jesus so much... the fact that I can yell and cry and blame and doubt, and He just holds me.
I want to end this file on a pithy, inspirational note, but it just doesn't come. I think back over the little things I have tried to do to help the victims of Katrina. Somehow it seems clear to me that the universe is all one thing, one system, and so what I do affects these sufferers. So I complain less, knowing that they have so much to complain about, and make a sacrifice of unfelt positivity so that it can somehow filter through humanity to them. I set aside a favorite food, knowing that many have gone without food for days. I try to be extra charitable to my Sisters, since I cannot be charitable to the victims of Katrina, and know that somehow, my efforts are not in vain. We're all one, really, on some level. So maybe this unchosen, unpleasant drought in my life, this sorrow that I carry, lifts the load off another. I'll keep plugging along, keep praying, even through clenched teeth if need be. And Jesus will keep His end of the deal, I know. When I feel I can't hold on to anything, He holds on to me.
September 2005
I have a lot to say, but I feel that my hands are tied in a way. I am feeling... angry... betrayed...disgusted...embarrassed...vengeful...sad...and a lot of other emotions, following the release of the Philadelphia grand jury report about the priestly sexual abuse scandal and its subsequent cover-up. If you aren't from Philly, and have no idea what I'm talking about, you can read the report here. Be warned... it is graphic. My sadness and anger encompass more than just this latest abortion of justice and love. There are plenty of ways that the Church and her ministers are failing, and not just in Philadelphia. But I won't waste my time delivering another diatribe. It won't solve anything, and besides, I feel that because of being in religious life, I have a responsibility not to vent irresponsibly. That's why my hands feel a little tied... because I'm no longer just Joy... I have letters after my name, and my thoughts are posted on a website that belongs to my Sisters. Poorly thought out, vitriolic outbursts can no longer be part of my literary repertoire. Alas.
So instead, I will share (actually, by writing, I hope to discover, first, and then share) why I don't walk out on my Church. It's not because I am in religious life. There are Anglican sisters. I could always join the Orthodox. Even Lutherans have religious life, I think. Although I have to admit that religious life is not all of a piece, and a congregation is not a commodity that can be swapped out without noticeable effect. I am a Handmaid, not a Franciscan or a Benedictine, so the fact that the Handmaids are part of this Church might indeed prompt me to stick around a little longer than I might otherwise. But the Handmaids aren't the reason I stay Catholic.
When I first started RCIA and was preparing to enter the Church, the sex abuse scandal was already hitting the press. People would ask me why I would bother to enter such a hypocritical and dysfunctional Church. My answer then went like this: I choose Catholicism not because it does what it says it does, but because it is what it says it is. If I chose my religious affiliation based on performance and standards of holiness, I would be all over the map... in one city, I'd be a Baptist, but in the next town, I'd find that the most loving church was Methodist. Two states over, the Catholics really do a lot for the homeless, and in my hometown, I might find a pew in the Presbyterians. I might even be (gasp) a Mormon! People, and individual worship communities, vary widely. There's no Christian denomination that has the monopoly on gospel living.
Rather, I choose Catholicism because the Church is what she says she is... the Church Christ intended, the Church founded in the apostolic age, led by the Holy Spirit and sustained by God. The Body of Christ. The People of God. The Catholic Church is substantially different than other Christian communities of worship, because it is the Church founded not by a 19th century charismatic, or even by a 15th century reformer, but by Jesus.
That's the way I explained myself 4 years ago. Now I probably wouldn't put it quite the same way. But even given its lack of theological sophistication, I think it gave me a good foundation. No, I didn't choose to be Catholic because Catholics are so good. Thank God my reasoning didn't run that way! If it had, I suppose I'd be religiously homeless once again. Still, even though I didn't choose Catholicism based on the stellar reputation of Catholics, it would be nice to be able to look to our standards of kindness, mercy, and love as a reassuring sign that I was indeed in the right place!
What do I do now, to ensure that I not only stick around, but really dig in deep and invest myself in this Church? I believe that Christ is here in this Church in a privileged, unique way, so I'll stay. But I want to do more than just linger like a malcontent, remaining Catholic in name while I grumble and let my inaction do the seceding. How do I go back to a relationship in which I feel let down, cheated on, hurt? How can I bring love and healing into my Church?
One thing my various spiritual mentors have told me time and time again is that gratitude is a fail-safe help for much that ails me. Okay, fine, gratitude. Without hiding from the reality of our sins and crimes, what within this Church can I be grateful for?
I'm grateful for the pro-life movement, which the Church has stood behind even in the face of an anti-life culture. I'm grateful for the beautiful churches I've worshiped in. I'm grateful for the Catholic understanding of enjoying life (this is a delicate way of saying I'm glad we can drink and dance and gamble and have fun). For pretzels (Catholic invention) and coffee (ditto) and cappuccino (yep) and Graham Greene and Andrew Greeley, and hot cross buns and advent wreaths. For illuminated manuscripts. Oh, and the mystics! I'm grateful for Catholic Charities. And for my Catholic philosophy professors, who were themselves educated by Catholics. Marist brothers and Jesuits, I believe, although I might be mistaken. I'm grateful for art, and for literature, and for incense and the Easter vigil... and Midnight Mass at Christmas. I'm grateful for Eucharist, of course, above everything else. And for the Bible, gift of the Catholics of the early Christian centuries to everyone who would follow. How I love the Bible! And philosophy, so much of it, rooted in Catholicism. I'm grateful for the Saints, and for the memories of the martyrs kept alive by the Church. I'm grateful for stained glass and sacraments and saying the rosary at a wake. I'm grateful, so grateful, for confession. For the liturgical seasons. For Mass. I'm grateful for Vatican II!
The thing is, like it or not, this is family, and this is where I belong. Jesus in the Eucharist is my everything, and all my eggs are in the Catholic basket. So be it. I don't always feel lovey-dovey toward my family, and I don't always feel lovey-dovey about my Church. But that's okay. Even Jesus got exasperated with his friends at times... "Peter, you are a real blockhead sometimes. Get behind me!" Jesus never left his pals, though, and he never kicked them out of the club. And thus, though I may grind my teeth and weep and feel my heart break, I will not leave. I will not leave. I will not leave. I will stay, even though the cost of staying is stigmata of the heart.
September, 2005
God has such an awesome sense of humor, and knows exactly what I need, even when I don't. Lately I have been connecting to God most profoundly in nature... eschewing words and conversation and instead just trying to experience, without commentary, the loving embrace of God. It has been a very healing time for me, in ways I cannot explain. So today I was out for my morning prayer, walking around the edge of our property and observing. It's hard to shut off the intellectual part of myself, the analyst who wants a quantifiable result of her prayer, but I was trying to let go and let God.
One of the things I was thinking about was my trip home this December. I'm attending my younger sister's graduation from college, and plan to see the rest of my family, too, while I'm in Tennessee. I have written my dad a letter but not posted it yet, asking him to save some chestnuts for me from his trees. It's what I want for Christmas, and it would be a nice thing to bring back to the convent. As I walked, I was wondering if my dad would heed my request or not. He might not be going up to the farm these days. The trees might not be that fruitful. He might forget, or feel like there's not enough to spare. "I really need to put that letter in the mail," I thought. I observed some interesting things on my walk, and tried to ponder their significance. It's hard to break the habit of compulsive analyzing! I picked up a walnut, still green, and smelled it. It has been only lately that I have realized that the smell of fall that I love so much here at the retreat house is not the smell of the earth, but rather the smell of the walnut trees. It is a rich, organic smell... hard to put into words, which is the point, I guess. Words cage me and hold me back, as much as they give me wings. The paradox of the mind.
The walnuts on our land seem to be too small for eating. I've gathered some and taken them inside to crack only to discover that the marble-sized nut gives literally couple of grams of meat. It tastes like a regular walnut, but you'd have to crack a dozen to get the equivalent of one storebought walnut. They're not particularly useful for food, but I love the feel of the walnuts rattling around as I pour them back and forth between my hands. "Maybe I can make a rosary with them," I mused, but then realized how much work that would be. I inspected the walnut trees to see if there was the promise of larger walnuts, but it doesn't seem likely.
There's something I like about foraging for edible plants. This year I have used the dandelion flowers and leaves from our property for salads, and picked wild raspberries for our morning cereal. The walnuts have been a letdown, but maybe next year I'll be a little more serious about the wild onions, and use them for baked potatoes or salad or something. I wish I knew about mushrooms so that I could pick those, too. But the prospect of killing my Sisters and myself by a poor selection keeps me from expanding into the world of fungi.
I was disheartened to see our lilac broken, apparently by wind, and splayed in three directions, branches sagging to the ground. The purple flowers are long gone, but white ones remain, and I pulled off a few to see if I could siphon nectar from them the way one can from honeysuckle. The smell of the flowers is similar, so it seemed worth a try. Well, either the butterflies had already drained them, or the tiny blossoms don't produce enough sweetness to be detected by my tongue. What was I supposed to learn from the lilac? From the fox den in the western corner of the yard? From the weird, spiky needle clusters I found beneath an apparently deciduous tree?
I was nearing the far corner of our property when I spied an unusual fruit on the ground. It was spiny, but not fearfully so, and egg-sized. I was intrigued: "There has to be something interesting inside there." I carefully peeled off the outer hull, which easily gave way once I had a little leverage. Nuts easily shed their outer hull when they are ripe, but cling to them if they are still too green. There's a lesson there, I'm sure, but it is still cooking, not quite emerging just yet. Out popped a lovely red-brown, asymmetrical nut. "Hazelnut?" I puzzled, perhaps aloud, although I can't be sure. Well, it certainly looked edible, and I kept shelling, opening a few more, until it hit me. "Chestnuts!" Chestnuts, for those of you who don't know, are a delicacy that used to be a lot more popular here in the States than they are now. A chestnut blight in the early 20th century, the 1920's and 30's, I believe, wiped out almost all the American chestnuts, so to find a fruit-bearing tree is a treat. I spent the next half-hour scouring the earth for nuts, and then proudly bore them home, cradled in a makeshift pouch I made from the hem of my turtleneck.
And then I remembered... my thought from earlier... will Dad remember my chestnuts? I had to smile. Dad may or may not, but God remembers. And nothing is too trivial for him. Not just one or two chestnuts, but dozens! Rich, warm, chestnuts, ready for roasting. Another confirmation that God has amazing things for me, if I just slow down and look.
Oddly enough, the Sisters didn't know that we had chestnuts. "On our property? Where?!" One Sister said, "I thought I recognized the tree once, by the leaves, but then I never saw fruit, so I wasn't sure." Only I, today, could have experienced a windfall of chestnuts as more than a little surprise delicacy, but as a revelation from God... God who does not forget, who gives me more than I need, and who delights in my curiosity and attention. Thanks, Dad.
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October, 2005
Writing has become for me my way of thinking. I think things through, often, by writing about them, or thinking about how I would write about them. It is in the process of composition, of word choice, of structuring my thoughts, that some new truth emerges. Sometimes I am startled by sudden clarity which cuts through the mud and tangle of unmoored thoughts and ideas. For some reason, trapping words on paper gives them intelligibility and power, and I go from a dithering, confused incoherency to a focused, clear, commitment. I like to write, but what I enjoy more is reading what I write, because it is such an adventure in self-discovery. Self-exegesis, I might even venture to say.
Lately I have been swamped with ideas I need to write about, but I don't know where to start. Perfectionism, pale but present, still manipulates me to some degree, even though I've largely moved beyond her control. Where to begin? I want to knead and stretch each theme thoroughly before starting on the next, but the ideas bleed into each other and overlap. I start thinking about one topic and the next butts its way into my thought process. The solution is simple. A Sister of St. Joseph told a group of us yesterday that "the answer to ‘How?' is ‘Yes.'". How will I get all this fruitful wondering out in words so that it's useful and not just an undifferentiated seethe of energy? How? I don't know how, but Yes I Will. Yes, I must write... even if all I can get out is my intention to write and what I need to write about. Here goes.
I want to write about adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. This month's US Catholic has an article that in part frets about the prevalence of adoration in the American Church. The concern is that people are drifting to a medieval understanding of Church and in danger of becoming individualistic instead of communal, oriented toward piety instead of justice. The writer states that he doesn't see the connection between adoration and just action. I do! I have done a couple of presentations on Eucharistic adoration that to my mind really bring out the connection between this strange God of bread and wine and a personal, real, relevant living out of the Gospel commitment to humankind (and all of creation). I need to write it all out, because it's good at any rate (or at least I've been told by those who have attended my talk), and it addresses very directly this concern, which I am sure is shared by many progressive Catholics.
I need to write about "paying it forward." I am talking to the seventh and eighth grade kids at our school about living out Eucharist in their daily lives. The concept of "paying it forward" is that at times, people do things for me that I cannot pay back. I cannot reimburse or reciprocate, but I can continue the momentum of the good done to me by "paying it forward" – by extending myself and my resources towards another. Eucaharist, I think, invites us to pay it forward. Eucharist has consequences, or should have consequences, in our everyday actions. But if I ask the kids to do something, it's only fair that I do the same thing myself. I have to pay forward what the Eucharistic Christ has given me. And that means that I have to record what exactly He has done for me. Vague warm feelings of being loved aren't sufficient to compel me to do likewise. I have to really state specific and concrete ways God has changed my life and healed me through Eucharist... through the Eucharistic assembly, through a Eucharistic life. Only once I know what I have received can I accurately pay it forward.
Oh, and reparation! I want to write and write and write about that concept. It is the core charism of our Institute, but it is such a slippery concept, and one that does not translate well into the English word "reparation." The worldwide Handmaid community has been reading, researching, and praying over reparation for the past few months, and there is a wonderful document that includes selections from sisters all over the world writing about what reparation means to them. I have been kicking around different expressions and understandings of our reparative/reconciling charism with another sister, but I want to do some etymological research on my own, and dig into what reparation really means for us. This topic is very germane right now, because the Cardinal Archbishop of Philadelphia has invited the faithful to make Holy Hours of Eucharistic adoration in reparation for the harm done to sexual abuse victims, their families, and the church as a whole. The secular press has responded with their understanding of reparation as being "payback" and "setting right". Prayer, some would assert, does not sufficiently make reparation thus understood. The fact that Cardinal Rigali has linked reparation and Eucharist is a real grace and invites me to recognize what a richness I have in our Handmaid charism, which has linked Eucharist and reparation to the Heart of Jesus since our earliest days. In fact, since we are "experts" in this area, I am drawn to want to invite the faithful of the Archdiocese to come to our retreat house and hear some good theology of reparation and adoration. I daren't move on this idea until Sr. Sagrario returns to Philadelphia, but I need to at least write out some of the rich flow of thought regarding reparation that I have been blessed with lately.
I want to (and have been asked to) write about my experience of novitiate so far. It is so important for me to name the graces I have received, in order to remember them and be more grateful for them. Writing about my experiences so far will give me the opportunity to discover patterns I didn't even know were there. It gives me deeper gratitude, greater awareness, and clearer focus. I think I will start by describing how this year has been a profound time of release from tension. I am more relaxed in my own skin than ever before, and my faith life is no longer a rigid, rule-oriented military drill. I am more real, more authentic, and more at peace now than I was a year ago. And why? Well, that's what the writing will give me, I suppose. But the answer is always grace, however it ends up being mediated. Grace, and my response, that is.
Words are holy. The Word is the Holy, the expression of God. The name of God is so holy that the it is not even spoken by pious Jews, and the word is never written. To write G-d reminds one that the reality of the Most High is too great for us to approach casually. And ditto for my own reality. I include some degree of self-disclosure in these files, but always respectfully. My life is sacred, and it is this sacred history I want to discover and enjoy, and, to some degree, share.
Episode 46: Feelings vs. Reality
October, 2005
"You don't happen to work with kids, do you?" the doctor casually asked me this morning.
Um, well, I was actually about to leave from the doctor's office and go to school to teach religion! "Yes, I teach," I mumbled.
"Mmm. You're highly contagious. You need to stay home, away from the kids."
On the way home I indulged in a couple of four-letter words. I didn't even feel sick! I mean, sure, I had gone to the doctor because I felt a lump in my throat for over a week, but I didn't feel tired or achy or scratchy-in-the throat. I just felt like I was wearing a too-tight necktie, or that someone was slowly strangling me. Surely it was just a strained muscle or something. But no, one look at my tonsils told the story. Strep or some other bacterial infection, with the outside possibility of mono. Mono! Please, God, anything but mono! Hopefully a round of antibiotics will do the trick and I won't have to wrangle with the evils of mononucleosis.
I am ticked about missing school. I don't feel bad enough to have to restrict my activities! But God has paved the way for me today as always. While I waited my turn in the doctor's office, I had been praying over I Corinthians 13. I read it in Spanish, which always helps me slow down and mull over a text, mostly because I don't understand it at first, and occasionally because the difference in languages highlights a new aspect I've never noticed. "El amor es paciente y muestra comprensión...." I thought about true patience. True patience does not come from a virtue, but from a greater understanding. I'm not patient with the sometimes-insubordinate teenagers at our school because I'm so virtuous, but because I have the perspective of time and I know that this, too, will pass. Patience is the fruit of knowing from head to toes that all is okay, that things really will work out, and that there's nothing to be irritated about. And love is the wisdom that enlightens us to the point that we are always patient... because we see things accurately, from a God's-eye view, with love. As I was thinking on this, and watching the clock as it ticked to 10, then 20, minutes past my appointment time, it seemed clear I'd have to put into practice what I had read. How can I be patient when all I can think about is getting to school on time for my afternoon classes?
If patience is all about right knowledge, what is the knowledge I lack, the understanding I need to acquire so that I'm not impatient? Well, I reasoned, I had better face the fact that with or without me, classes would go on and the kids would be taken care of. I'm not indispensable, and I'm not superwoman. My ego would have me believe I'm Really Important and that things will go Badly Wrong if I'm not around. Well, living out of love and trust in God reminds me that God is in charge... I'm not. And God cares more about the kids than I do, and will make sure everything turns out as it should. Leaning on God, and not on my own stellar abilities, lets me chill when things don't go the way I planned. God has a plan and s/he won't leave me twisting in the wind.
Minutes later, I got to test that hypothesis. NO SCHOOL?!?!? Sigh. I don't even feel that bad, like I said earlier. I considered ignoring my doctor and just going to school anyway, except I don't want to be patient zero, starting a strep-or-mono outbreak at Ancillae. Besides, even though I don't feel terrible, I don't feel great, either. The dilemma, to ignore the doctor or obey her, started my mental juices. Let's see if I can put it into words.
One thing that I have heard several times in several contexts lately is, "you have to learn to listen to the world and reality around you as the place where God will enlighten you." Okay, okay. So I listen. I plopped down in my trusty recliner, feeling good and sorry for myself, not to mention guilty (after all, shouldn't I be at work unless I am on my deathbed?). What is this situation teaching me? What is the grace I can draw from this?
That's when it hit me. My reluctance to trust in and believe the doctor, a woman with years of medical experience, reminds me of my reluctance to accept the diagnoses of my spiritual "doctors". Several times I have been encouraged to be easier on myself, to recognize my goodness and stop holding myself to such rigid standards. Yet I brush off these suggestions with the same ease I am tempted to disregard Dr. K-B. "I don't *feel* that way, so it can't be true."
Could it be, maybe, just maybe, that my subjective experience is not the final word? That I can rely on the objective opinion of those wiser than I in a given field? One strength of Catholicism over the fundamentalist, evangelical faith with which I was raised is that Catholicism emphasizes objective reality. Whether you feel a zing or not, when you receive communion, you're being graced by God. Whether you remember your baptism or not, you are included in God's family by virtue of it. It doesn't matter if you feel guilty for a sin you've already confessed – because feeling is not the ultimate reality. If you're forgiven, you're forgiven... no need to worry because of a twinge of guilt that remains. Compare fundamentalism, in which if you doubt that you're "saved", the doubt itself is an indication that you might not have been "really" saved to begin with... and you better get saved for real. There's not a lot of objective reality to hold on to... simply feelings. "Did I really give my heart, all of it, to Jesus? Or was I holding something back unconsciously? Am I really saved?" It's enough to drive someone crazy. Note that I don't speak for all evangelicals, I just share my own experience.
Just as I trust my doctor, I need to trust the lights I receive in prayer or in spiritual direction. If I'm going to only accept those things which square with my preconceived notions, I shouldn't even bother going to a professional. Keeping an open mind and listening to reality, and to the insight of others, is key to my growth... and my health! And so I take the medicine prescribed me, even though I feel not-quite-rotten. I'm not being a hero by showing how strong I am and ignoring doctor's orders. And even though on some level I might think it's really holy to think of myself as a big ole worthless sinner and beat up on myself, the truth is, it isn't holy. It's stubborn and egotistical... my willingness to rely on my own understanding of myself instead of the counsel I've received in prayer and from friends who are far more advanced than I am in the spiritual life.
Okay, God, I got the message, I think. Can I please get my tonsils back, now?
Episode 47: Globalization and My Comfortable Life
November, 2005
"It's not okay!" I kept repeating this mantra to Sister Mary Ann yesterday in our class. "It's not okay that we have food that was picked by migrant farm workers who are exploited and whose kids might not even get to go to school!"
"It's not okay that the clothes I wear were made by factory workers with no rights and practically no pay!"
"It's not okay that we are so comfortable here and that our ministries are enabled on the backs of the poor!"
"It's not okay!"
I am complicit in some very extreme human rights violations. Chocolate, I have learned, comes from cocoa largely grown by child slaves. Computers? I love them, but they are often made in Chinese or Korean factories by exploited workers. My clothes? Well, I stopped buying clothes a while ago, and learned to sew, but what about the fabric? Is fabric, too, made in sweatshops? And my shoes, and the things I cannot sew... where do they come from? And the gold in the ring I hope to wear someday – where is the gold mined from, and who mines it, and what do the proceeds fund? Does gold pay for war and genocide, like diamonds do?
I joked with Sister Mary Ann that the only gospel response to the exploitation in the garment industry was nudism. Either that, or I become what I have jokingly referred to as a "feral novice." I can exist quite happily living outside on nuts and berries and harvested field greens, sewing clothes out of leaves and living in a tree. True, I might survive only a week or two before freezing to death or poisoning myself, but at least I would die outside the consumeristic, exploitative system I abhor. Sigh. What's a thoughtful, hopefully prophetic, yet realistic and ministry-minded person to do?
It's not like I can ask the Handmaids to take up subsistence farming, using organic methods and our own labor to prevent the human rights abuses that are rampant in the food industry. It's unlikely I will convince my sisters to start our own fiber, cloth, and garment network using sheep, cotton, and flax that we grow, spin, weave, and sew. We have work to do that requires us to use the conveniences of the modern age.
Or are we really obligated to collude with the systematic crushing of human lives?
Am I?
Since my thirty-day retreat, the question of my own response to injustice has not left me alone. A few things happened as a result of my retreat. I stopped eating meat, for one. Meat is a very inefficient way of using our water and grain resources, and it seems to me like a slap in the face of those people around the world who don't have sufficient water and grain for themselves. Also, as Alice Walker has famously said, "Meat is misery." Interestingly enough, I have no problem with hunting for food. Hunting takes a happy, wild and free animal, and snuffs their life out in a brief instant. Farmed meat, on the other hand, means violently squeezing the life out of another creature, forcing them to live in horrible conditions, and then killing them, often in inhumane ways. Note, I am not PETA, I do use leather and I have no problem with people eating meat. My problem is with the meat industry and how it works. But what about coffee? We don't use fair trade coffee, and I drink plenty. And electricity and gasoline, which my country uses at hugely disproportionate levels, polluting the earth. And paper, and garbage in general, which I produce at incredible levels... yikes. I am really "in" the system.
These really radical questions won't leave me alone. What would my country look like if buying and selling were not the state religion? Instead of stores and malls, what would there be? Would family farms start to crop up again? What if advertising was not the motivating force behind entertainment and life choices? What was life like before money? Before industry? What would a truly sustainable retreat ministry or school look like? How could we possibly process our garbage? Our sewage? Our food needs? Our power needs? What if we stopped funding war? Stopped shopping? Got off the power grid? Started growing our own food? What will happen if I ask these questions of my sisters? Will I be laughed at? Dismissed as naïve? Sent for a psychiatric evaluation?
This is one of those Convent Files without a nice closing paragraph that sews everything up nicely. I don't know what I'm called to, not just yet. Am I called to radicalize religious life, or to drop out of society as a protest against consumerism? Will I start an environmentally sustainable retreat house on Tennessee farmland, or will I continue to live in the system while preaching against it? Will I start washing my clothes on my hands and growing an organic plot of vegetables, or will I get comfortable again with agribusiness? Months ago I wrote in these Files that whether I'm called to be a Handmaid for life, or just for now, I know I'm "ruined" for life... totally ruined for a life of careless consumerism. That's more true than ever. Who wants to join me?
December, 2005
Lately I have been kicking around words for our unique charism in the Church. Typically, we speak of "reparation" as the term for our work of healing and building up the Church, but that word doesn't work terribly well in English. It reminds some of financial settlements and others don't have a connotation for the word at all. I, for one, complain that it smacks of mechanical "fixing"... car repair, shoe repair, etc., instead of organic healing and whole-making. So I have been trying on new words.
One word that many have used is "reconciliation." But to describe our charism as reconciliation can be troubling, as well. One friend of mine asked, "oh, does that mean you work with people to get them to go to the sacrament of reconciliation?" So even though reconciliation is a better description for English speakers, it isn't perfect.
All the terms I've tried seem to have flaws. Renovation and restoration sound like architectural actions, and healing is too vague. I tell people we are in the relationship business, that we work to bring reconciliation and wholeness to relationships between people and also to the human-God relationship. It's wordy, but it serves.
Today, however, I have been tumbling the word "remembering" in my prayer. Not remembering as in "aha! Now I remember!", but rather, re-membering as the opposite of dis-membering. This world does a lot to dismember organizations, societies, families, and individuals. The ongoing creative job of God is re-membering, rebuilding, regrouping, shepherding a flock into a cohesive whole after the members have gone astray.
I have been re-membering who I am this past week. I went back to Tennessee, where I grew up, to make contact with family whom I've not seen in a few years. I went to facilitate some reunions between family members, too, in order to be prayerfully present when folks were reintroduced to one another after decades of estrangement. And I went to remember myself, too.
After my parents divorced, I lost contact with my dad's side of the family. This trip South included a tentative outreach to my Payton kin, who constitute so much of my history and my person. It was a beautiful experience of going back into my memories, into my basic identity, and reclaiming parts of myself that have lain dormant for a long time. Particularly wonderful was my time with my grandmother Payton, who has long ago slipped into the soft darkness of advanced Alzheimers. How graced our meeting was, even in her impairment. To be able to say, "thank you," and to gaze with love on this remarkable 92 year old woman was the best Christmas gift I could have asked for.
God has been my constant companion in my re-membering this year, along with my Handmaid sisters. Re-membering who I am gives me insight into helping others remember. Advent is a special time of remembering who we are and whose we are, and for this time, and this wonderful experience of family, both biological and religious, I say, "Thank you, Lord!"