The Smallest Voice

During Lent, we are supposed to draw closer to Jesus, but that's difficult in a world such as ours, isn't it?  Many of us grew up watching cartoons that portrayed the conscience every now and then. They were typically a cute little red devil on one shoulder whispering sweet nothings of encouragement to do the wrong thing juxtaposed against a very un-fun white angel giving solid direction to do what was right and good.

In our world, we're surrounded by many voices and temptations. We're surrounded by nearly pornographic images in magazines, on buses, on TV, and merely turn on a radio stations to hear the latest gossip of a sexual nature ranging from anything from the guy next door to the DJ's to celebrities or whatever Jane or Joe has grabbed the headline due to some obnoxious and depraved immoral act.  

We are surrounded by voices that denounce our faith by holding up examples of those who didn't meet it so well, or at least are accused of not having done so. 

We are surrounded by people who hate the Church, hate Christianity and are more interested in mindlessly spreading lies about the Church, tempting us to give into those lies rather than seeking the truth for ourselves through legitimate historical documentation the Hitlery Channel and A&E refuse to consider for fear it would completely wreck their ratings.  

These voices tend to become the most shrill during Lent, and even as we try to seek the silence and prayer, we are called into outright battle, either from our knees or in verbal defense of our Faith. And if we refuse to fight, we are at risk of being assimilated into the destruction of  the cacophony of annihilation.

That's what happens to the fallen away Catholics and other Christians; they give in to "The Nothing" in the Swamps of Despair that make up our secular world. 

STOP! What voice are you listening to?

Tonight I was reminded of a training incident in which my life was literally hanging by my fingertip.

In that incident, I can still remember the loudest voices demanding that I do the wrong thing - the thing I KNEW was wrong, and even though I wanted to give in to those terrible demands, and was sorely tempted to do so, there was a stronger instinct to just hang on. To pray. To wait for help, even as I felt the rope slipping away. 

And there he was, the Captain who refused to be shrill, refused to be loud and was only as loud as necessary so that I could hear him. So it was that his instructions cut through the noise, for rather than calling for me to give up, he saw in me a survival instinct he chose, as a good teacher, to build up. He didn't want to see me let go and fall, but rather, to learn from the struggle. 

It was to his voice I responded, for his reason cut through my panic, his brief instruction cut through my defiance, step by step until I could follow him.

It was the smallest voice that was the most powerful, and the voice that may have quite literally saved my life. 

So it is with Jesus.

This Lent of 2011, we have seen the wind, and the earthquake, and the flood, and the fire, (1 Kings 19) but the Lord has not been in those things; only the cacophony of the popular media. The Lord has been present to those who suffer, but it was not He in those things in and of themselves. Those events were mere distractions.

The Lord is in the voice we refuse to hear, the interior voice that gives direction, cutting through the noise and exterior disasters. 

The Lord is in the smallest voice, the whisper in the wheat the underscores the tornado's gale. It is in the crumble of shale and limestone in the fury of the earthquake, and it is is the silent falling of ash in the tumultuous explosion of the volcano. His voice is in the mysterious footprints in the soot left after the wildfire, and in the most insignificant debris left after the floods. His voice is in the animals fleeing before what is coming, but never leaves anyone behind.

No matter what the source of the Roar, the Lord can be found speaking quietly in a register the gales can't touch, for it flies beneath the radar to pierce us through hidden and deeply personal means. 

I spoke of that day at the Tower, that terrible day, and even now, I am coming to understand the lesson ever more deeply. Truly, I won't ever forget the Captain's voice cutting through my panic, working with me instead of against me, asking me to work with him in following his direction. He saw my faith and called me to reason, knowing that was the bridge between equal failures. 

So it is that we struggle in the same way during Lent. We try, we fail, and every day we are faced with the assault upon our senses and intentions. Every day we are called especially to seek Our Lord, and the sad thing is this: we relegate this struggle only to Lent and, in a lesser way, to Advent. 

Although this struggle takes place every day of our lives, we only give it attention during penitential seasons, and we try to play it down to make it more comfortable. The reality is this: the path to holiness is not comfortable. 

We are willing to sacrifice much to lose weight or get in shape or become healthy or get a better job. But to become holy - we give it two brief seasons encompassing 10 weeks out of 52 in an entire  year, then totally disregard the rest as though our lives and souls are meaningless. 

It's no wonder we complain we can't hear the voice of God; we don't listen long enough to take His voice to heart. 

Murder in the Heart

Tonight I watched the movie "The Quick and the Dead" (1995), a movie I thought I'd seen before, but it turns out, well....I hadn't.

It's not the kind of movie I normally watch, but tonight I did so with theological themes in mind, and I have to be honest; under the influence of the philosophy of Flannery O'Connor. I can't explain exactly why, but I think she would have loved this movie.

While there are themes of vengeance and outright violence, it takes place in a town seemingly-improperly named: "Redemption".

The characters are all fallen, none are necessarily likeable (outside of the little girl who suffers an unspeakable offense), and even that child displays the concupiscence of the world that surrounds her, yet none of the protection given to other children her age.

The film juxtaposes those who are murderous by nature, those who have reformed and are trying to overcome their nature, and those who are there by choice but truly have a more benevolent nature. All are fallen, all have sinned, and in the same way, but not all share the same level of depravity.

The lone voice of reason and holiness is quiet (but far from silent), is vilified by all sides and even falls himself, seemingly a discredit to his own attempted reform. In this movie, that which is holy is chained, disarmed except to be armed for battle for the enemy, and then forced into that battle, forced into a temptation so strong he cannot overcome it.

The protagonist enters with a vengeance, but in the process, learns the soul of the antagonist and seeks to flee. She is bolstered by a voice from the past, the only one who knows who she is and what she seeks. That, too, is a temptation, and she returns to the  battle, only to learn that her chance to stand down is gone. It is a metaphor, at this point, for addiction.

"Your chance to back out is gone."   The words of evil Herod are clear.

The duel scene between Herod and his son, "The Boy", are the antithesis of the Gospel, for in this movie, the Father not only directly kills his son in a town named "Redemption" but does so for his own glory, and then denies his patronage to the deceased boy. The Boy was somewhat of a town hero; if anyone should have won the duel, it should have been him, but in Redemption, evil holds court, reveling in a taste of Hell that just continues.

It's no surprise that the Woman, the protagonist, deals the killing blow, crushing Satan beneath her heel, and in so doing, passes on the star that represents the Law into the hands of the Holy Man, the lone representative of moral law.

I don't know if the author of the original story, Simon Moore, is a Catholic, but based on this movie, I see Catholicism, I see Christianity.

Now, before you object, I am not saying that the moral play-out of this movie is Christian, or that what the characters did was right, or that it didn't twist Christian themes a bit. However, I do see an allegorical nature to it and think we might legitimately take notice and use it to examine ourselves.

Examination of Conscience

The protagonist, the female gunslinger, came a bit too close to home for me, although I'm not willing to express all the dimensions of that. Certainly, as a woman who once ventured into law enforcement and worked hard to harden myself to the world around me, the main character here could "speak" to me.

In all honesty, I sought to be what she was:  cool, collected, tough, and a great shot. She could play with the big dogs and still maintain her femininity while placing them at bay.

Tonight, as I watched the movie, though, the scene that most stood out to me was her response to the vermine that stole the innocence of the only innocent character in the movie. She struggled with justice and mercy, opted for mercy even as "Satan" egged her on, then found herself in a position of self defense. She was triumphant, but struck to her very being. She was not innocent and had entered into this walking her daddy's line.

I'm no different.

When she blew the pedophile's *ss away, I said to myself that I would have done the same thing, but I would have had no mercy.  I would have taken him out piece by piece, slowly and with great relish to ensure he suffered as slow and painful a death as possible.

That's murder, folks.  That's murder in the heart, and yes, I'm capable of it. I hold a hatred and anger so deep within myself that I could look you straight in the eye and tell you in person what I stated above, and I'm neither the victim of such a crime nor the relation or friend of one who has suffered it (to my knowledge).

But oh, yes, I know it is within me and in that knowledge, I am brought to my knees by the words of Christ, who, in Matthew, 5 asserts that sin in the heart is as real as that sin made manifest. As we give life to temptation, so that temptation becomes sin and therefore palpable in the eyes of God, even if not physically committed.

Yes, I have committed murder in my heart, I did so tonight and have done so many times before. Too many to count.  I know I could and will kill in hatred and vengeance; my own conscience tells me  it's possible. What I learned in psychology tells me this: That which we can conceive in our imaginations we have the propensity to commit.

I recall standing in the early morning corridor of an apartment building, a gun in my hand, loaded, pointed at a man who had just drawn on us. I did not want to kill him, for truly, he was just being stupid and had no intent, on his own part, to kill anyone else, certainly not us. We were to learn he was a regular guy, if a not-so-bright-one and in my professionalism, I had no desire to pull the trigger. Although I knew I might have to kill, I had an innate sense that the level of force we offered was sufficient.

I can't say, though, that if I was emotionally involved I would have the same restraint.

Yes, I have it within me to pull the trigger. I have it within my fallen nature to take a life.

I have it within my nature, for I have, through the trials of life, been formed in a murderous culture that fed into my own propensities, making it possible to give license to such murderous evil.

I have had murder in my heart, and therefore, in God's eyes, I have been guilty of murder.

Lord, have mercy on me, and defend me from evil.

Sed libera nos a malo. Sed libera nos a malo....

Harsh Reality

I have been pondering Faith in the last several days, and the reality of why I continue to choose sin in the face of what I know of Divine Revelation.  I've considered my moments of disbelief, and those moments where the reality of God brought me to the dirt.

I can boil it down to this:

1.  When we want to sin, when we want to engage in what we know to be contrary to our dignity of human beings, we choose not to believe in God, and we get really militant about our disbelief.

2.  When we become dissatisfied, and when our own behavior is so offensive to our sensibilities that we are brought to the realization that we have a dignity that transcends our animal appetites, and we are so brought to repentance...then we choose to believe in God.

There is no in between. We either love God or we don't.  

And that's why we have, as our center, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. Because we cannot remain indifferent. We are brought, through  the Cross, to face God and face ourselves...and we must make a choice.

And every day  I wake up and realize that Faith is a decision and life is a gift, and I immediately come face to face with the above-defined fork in the road.

And every day may involve a different decision.

I can't express to you how grateful I am for the trails between the fork in the road on those days which I choose the wrong road.

God is merciful.

Finding God...finding me

I just finished watching "Flicka" a movie based on the book, "My Friend Flicka". I still remember reading this book as a horse-crazy teen, although I can't recall the details.

You should know...I'm still horse-crazy, but still, without the horse to satisfy my cravings. Yet God is merciful and provides what we need, when we need it. In fact, horses figure prominently into my conversion, although that part was omitted from my overall conversion/reversion story.

Several years ago, I was living in an apartment with a roommate from whom I was becoming more and more estranged as our paths were parting. The bar life wasn't enough for me, and had no depth. I hated my job, I hated our apartment, I hated having no space. I hated that I didn't know who I was, where I was going, or why I existed. I knew there was something more...but what?

For a long time I'd desired to go horseback riding. All summer I bugged my roommate and other friends about it and got the lipservice, "Oh, sure, one of these weekends..." But that time never came. It was too expensive. There were other things going on. There were other people who would rather go to this or that.

Day after day, night after night, I sat on our deck in the summer months, watching the sun set over the cracked pavement and flickering neon signs that comprised our view. I was a caged bird, and I couldn't even sing anymore.

Finally I decided it was time...and one Saturday morning, I got up and called a local horse ranch, making a reservation for...one. I asked for a 2 hour ride, which they advertised but couldn't accomodate for only one. But they said I could ride as long as I wanted and the price would decrease each hour, allowing for the same cost for two hours.

I put on my jeans, found my boots, and drove the forty minutes out of the 'burbs and into the Minnesota River Valley.

There was something that day that struck me. Forever burned into my memory is the image of descending into the valley, along the ravine that rose above us. I can still feel the careful steps of the horse, and I recall looking upward, only to see an eagle soaring above.

Finally, I had found peace. Finally, I knew who I was again. Finally, I was where I belonged, if only for an hour or so.

I literally fell in love with the land we were on, seeing beyond it, seeing the Creator, seeing our place in things. I remember the gait of the horse, passing through dappled shadows, the fields, the forests, the vistas, the river flowing, glistening, endlessly in praise to God above.

When we were allowed to let the horses run, I remember first the sense of being out of control as I found my seat again, and then, the second time, laughing joyfully in rhythm with my mount as we passed through the field together, of one mind, of one form.

All week, my heart soared up there with the eagle, and I knew I could not stay away.

But I knew this wasn't it. It wasn't so much about the horses, but it was about God. I had been seeking His face, and found it, once again, there at the ranch. I was quite familiar with horses; when I was 13, Dad paid for English riding lessons for me, every other week. That is a gift that has and will last a lifetime, skills applied to one of the greatest loves of my heart, something that continues to bring the presence of my Dad into my life.

And so, in the horses, the memory of my Father and the knowledge of God merged, and made me more aware of my mortality. Horses can be dangerous; they are animals, they are herd animals, and as such, they can be unpredictable. They are beautiful and noble and even obedient (some of them!), but no matter the temperment, one has to respect what they are and what they were created to be. It would only take a misstep of the horse to cause our downfall. If the horse spooks, takes a jump, runs into a tree...death can come quickly and unexpectedely.

This realization brought me back to Mass, although, sadly, not to Confession. Yet there I was, every week, at Mass, wanting to know God again. Wanting to be with Jesus, not having the courage to seek Him truly. But I could not stay away. Each Sunday, even if we were out until 2 am, I got up early enough to get to the 8:30 Mass before heading out to the ranch. It was in this time that I actually began leasing a horse, so each weekend meant that I was out there in the pasture, catching my horse, feeding him, brushing him, riding him...for hours.

I was living a childhood dream. I was a child again. That October was a very warm one and a couple of us crossed the river one day in favor of galloping along the state trails. It was amazing! THIS was the dream I'd had ever since I was a little girl, desiring to gallop headlong through the woods, under the shining sun, over hills, along paths reserved for the hoof, endlessly reveling to the rhythm of the horse.

I think I'm STILL picking bugs out of my teeth from that day.

All good things must come to an end, though. That winter I bought a house and so discontinued my lease with the horse. But something even greater happened, that took me beyond where I was and confronted me with reality.

There was a horse there that had been dumped off. This little guy was just cute as a button, and attracted me to him instantly. It was his condition I saw first; his sunken neck, his terrible hooves, the spine standing ridged by sunken furrows the entire length, his tail, the hairs broken off near the top, indicative of worms, along with his swollen belly. His inability to keep food in his mouth from his overgrown teeth.

Each time I was out there, I paid special attention to this horse, and it wasn't long before he would follow me around like a puppy. He nickered when he saw me, and when I left. His stricken shadow followed me wherever I tread. And so I named him "Nickers" and wondered if I should try to adopt him?

He was obviously neglected, and my friends who worked at the ranch tried to approach the ranch owner about him. But over months, nothing happened. Finally I took matters into my own hand...I could not stand to see this suffering, especially after the story I heard.

My friend revealed that a few years prior, there had been a neglected horse named "Silver" who had also been dumped off by an unknown person. Over time his condition worsened as the herd there in the boarders' pasture excluded him...he was weak. He was beaten upon, he was reviled, he was set apart in order to die for the betterment of the herd. The boarders got together and in pooling their money, got a vet out to care for him. And each did what they could according to the vet's instructions. Silver rallied for awhile, and then took a turn for the worse, this time one from which he could not recover. So they called the vet out again and together paid to put him down.

I knew I could not let that happen to Nickers. And so on New Year's Eve when I went riding, I spent some time in the last daylight to take photos of my friend Nickers. The photos were forwarded to both the Humane Society and to the Carver County Sheriff, where I made a report of animal neglect. They had my name for the purposes of records, but I did ask to remain anonymous.

The ranch owner found out it was me, though, and I was banned. He said I was a "troublemaker" and it wasn't any of my business. He said that it was all for nothing, too, because "they" said that he was just old, and look what I'd given up in order to become such a chancre sore.

I can no longer return to that ranch, ever again. My friends kept me updated, though, and told me that the Humane Society made repeated visits, charging the ranch owner to fatten that horse up.

And the Humane Society doesn't make repeated visits if nothing is wrong. They are far too busy for that.

In some ways it saddens me that I can't return to that paradise on earth, but even that wasn't untouched by sin. It was a stepping stone God used to bring me back. He reminded me who I was, who I was supposed to be.

Loving horses...that's secondary. He reminded me that I am His own adopted daughter, so all of this already belongs to me. What is God's is ours and when we see injustice, even if it is detrimental to us, we are called to act, We are called to speak for those who cannot speak, we are called to remember that we do not act alone and for no reason.

Yeah, I'm still that horse-crazy girl who once fed a staving pony with fresh-cut grass from our yard and gallon jugs of water from our kitchen. (That's a different story). And I'm still that idealist that wants to see the world from the eyes of a child. Because no matter where I go, every paradise is corrupted because nothing on this earth will ever satisfy what I truly desire. Even horses.

Conscience, Dignity, and Prayers

This morning I headed out to Caribou Coffee in order to get out, get some caffeine, and organize my Vatican II paper on "conscience". When it comes to crunch time and I still have 3 papers due in one short week, well, I find that if I try to do this at home it's too easy to putz around with the computer or other household duties. Amazing....I hate cleaning house, unless my other option is to do some serious intellectual work, and then I'm right in there with the scrub brush and the detergent!

So I took my books and my notebook and went methodically through my notes, trying to figure out the major themes and how to organize them. And then I came across this gem:

16. In the depths of his conscience, man detects a law which he does not impose upon himself, but which holds him to obedience. Always summoning him to love good and avoid evil, the voice of conscience when necessary speaks to his heart: do this, shun that. For man has in his heart a law written by God; to obey it is the very dignity of man; according to it he will be judged.(9) Conscience is the most secret core and sanctuary of a man. There he is alone with God, Whose voice echoes in his depths.In a wonderful manner conscience reveals that law which is fulfilled by love of God and neighbor.(11) In fidelity to conscience, Christians are joined with the rest of men in the search for truth, and for the genuine solution to the numerous problems which arise in the life of individuals from social relationships. Hence the more right conscience holds sway, the more persons and groups turn aside from blind choice and strive to be guided by the objective norms of morality. Conscience frequently errs from invincible ignorance without losing its dignity. The same cannot be said for a man who cares but little for truth and goodness, or for a conscience which by degrees grows practically sightless as a result of habitual sin.

~ Gaudium et spes, Vatican II document on the Church in the Modern World

I've read this before, but something about it today convicted me, stopped me in my tracks, and made me put my head down. And then I read on:

17. Only in freedom can man direct himself toward goodness. Our contemporaries make much of this freedom and pursue it eagerly; and rightly to be sure. Often however they foster it perversely as a license for doing whatever pleases them, even if it is evil. For its part, authentic freedom is an exceptional sign of the divine image within man. For God has willed that man remain "under the control of his own decisions,"(12) so that he can seek his Creator spontaneously, and come freely to utter and blissful perfection through loyalty to Him. Hence man's dignity demands that he act according to a knowing and free choice that is personally motivated and prompted from within, not under blind internal impulse nor by mere external pressure. Man achieves such dignity when, emancipating himself from all captivity to passion, he pursues his goal in a spontaneous choice of what is good, and procures for himself through effective and skilful action, apt helps to that end. Since man's freedom has been damaged by sin, only by the aid of God's grace can he bring such a relationship with God into full flower. Before the judgement seat of God each man must render an account of his own life, whether he has done good or evil.

~ Gaudium et spes, 17

And then, when I finished my sudden attack of conscience in recognition of my sinfulness, I happened to look up. There in front of me was a coffee display, which, of course, in a coffee shop is not out of place. It would be odd had the display not been present. It wasn't the existance of the display, then, but WHAT the display supported, and it seems that I will nevermore darken the door at Caribou Coffee.

Caribou is offering a coffee called "Amy's Blend"; apparently Amy was a roastmaster who succombed to breast cancer, and in that, I ask you all to offer prayers for the repose of her soul. However, Caribou has decided that the proceeds from the sale of Amy's blend coffee and other specific items will be donted to the Susan B. Komen Foundation.

On the surface, that's not such a bad thing; we all agree that breast cancer is horrible, and breast cancer research and prevention are good things. Being that I had my own scare a year or so ago, I am all for the search for a cure; but not at the cost of support to Planned Parenthood. I'd give up both my breasts to whatever horrible disease, and even my life, if it meant an end to abortions.

There is a very well publicized link between Susan B. Komen and Planned Parenthood; the former has donated over $400,000 (as of 2002, I think) to the latter, ostensibly for breast cancer screenings. However, given the other obvious link between contraception and breast cancer, abortion and breast cancer, Planned Parenthood and the slaughter of innocents (to include their mothers), well, that kind of support cannot be justified.

Right now I feel literally ill. I should have dumped my coffee and walked out.

So I am now asking for all of you to contact Caribou's corporate offices and voice your concerns, and your willingness to go elsewhere for your coffee until such time as they choose to donate the money from Amy's Blend to a research organization that does not also happen to cause the very disease and death that killed the woman they are tying to honor.

Additionally, I'm also requesting all of you to offer Divine Mercy prayers on behalf of the soul of Emily X, a pseudonym given to proud abortionists and workers at Planned Parenthood. "She" obviously believes in what she is doing, and why not? Consciences are deadened in this world, and with what she sees every day, what she does every day, in reality, she HAS to be dead to it! One day, by the grace of God, she will realize with indescribeable horror what she and her cohorts have done. Pray that we as a pro-life community will be there for her when this happens for she will not be able to pass through that horror into the mercy of Jesus Christ without other hands to assist her through that dark passage.