Unless A Grain of Wheat

For a couple weeks, actually, I have been pondering the Gospel for last week, the 5th Sunday of Lent.

Jn 12:24-27

"The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.
Amen, amen, I say to you,
unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies,
it remains just a grain of wheat;
but if it dies, it produces much fruit.
Whoever loves his life loses it,
and whoever hates his life in this world
will preserve it for eternal life.
Whoever serves me must follow me,
and where I am, there also will my servant be.

This spring has come early, and even though our Association has redone the landscaping, I am determined to grow Sunflowers this year. In spite of the un-neighborly ducks and deer and bunnies, I am going to have Sunflowers following the sunshine and eventually providing a wonderful feeding roost for finches and any other birds that happen along.

This year, because I can't beat the Association, (and plant stuff in the actual ground), I was THRILLED to find a "Sunflower kit" from a local store. It was a bucket filled with dirt, a pack of sunflower seeds, and a plastic "greenhouse" lid. Although it's been very warm here, the moment my sunflowers germinated, a cool front was ushered in, such that I cannot transplant them into a far larger pot to be placed outside quite yet. And I am further concerned because it's now been so cloudy and my house has so little direct sunlight that, well...my sunflowers are wilting.

But it doesn't matter. Not really.

The fact that I can't yet take them outside brings the Gospel message home to me ever more deeply, for because life takes place before my eyes, I have been able to witness exactly what Our Lord is trying to convey. As my seeds germinated, I saw what had attracted the ducks a few years ago: the shells of the sunflower seeds. In fact, they are still hanging on even though now they are nearly 6 inches high or more. I see how new life does violence to the "grain" that was planted, and that the incredible beauty that is to come must first be broken into pieces. No matter how hard those pieces try to hang on, they will be forced away so that the leaves can unfurl to receive the life-giving rays of sunshine and both give shade to and allow the roots below to send water to make them grow.

Growth of any kind is violent; there is nothing delicate about it. I watch my little plant orient itself towards the sun, and I watch it wilt when the sun is not forthcoming. I am watching my little plant struggle to survive and because I know it must thrust away, for itself, the seed casings that were once it's own womb, I do not intervene other than to try to provide as much light and heat as possible in our erratic spring, but also the right amount of water And I am always getting it wrong.

Still, this flower is a living metaphor and I cannot help but look upon it while pondering the Gospel of John and why we must all be willing to fall to the ground like the "grain" and be broken apart for the sake of eternal life. That is what holiness is all about. It is what it means to embrace the Cross, and in fact, it is what we must suffer, all of us, in the end, to enter eternal life. We are all that little seed and in spiritually dying or physically dying, it is all the same; it is what allows us to enter into holiness and eternity.

Barking at the Rain

Last week we experienced another summer deluge and I was amused to see my dog leave her cover and stand facing the living room window, nose lifted, sniffing the puffed breeze flowing through the screen. She barked once, sat, laid her ears back, and continued to analyze the scents, finding it necessary to alert me another few times with barks and less urgent "woofs" that it was, apparently...raining outside.

To all appearances, she was indeed, barking at the rain, and I admit I shared her sentiments; I'm tired of the rain, too.

Lately, it's been pouring, and I'm not just talking about the crazy weather we've been experiencing for nearly the last year: the unusual extremes of winter followed by the unusual extremes of summer. And of late, the death, the crisis, the emergencies, the uncertainty....it just won't stop raining.

Still, between the raindrops, there have been blessings, surprising blessings, seemingly small but when considered, reveal the hand of God at work.

My friend died a week ago Friday, and it was with agony on that day that  I reigned in my own grief and called the many other volunteers who knew and loved him, and then I called his students. And my co-workers.

Every so often I had to stop and take a deep breath, perhaps let out a little sob, only so that it would not interrupt my speech. I had to be professional, and still, on several of the calls, it was obvious both to the person receiving the news and to me that we BOTH knew the other was weeping.

I think what hit me the hardest was speaking to one of the students, catching the hitch in his voice, knowing he didn't want me to hear it and yet, I could nearly SEE it through the phone lines.

Willing to Suffer in Joy and Pain

For years, ever since I began at my work, I knew I was not "called" to it. I hate the charismaticsm that surrounds me and rules my co-workers and any area of youth ministry in which I am involved. I hate having to conform to a spirituality I do not possess and find lacking, and then inflict it upon our youth as though this is the ONLY thing.

One of the pillars of my work, then, was the man who recently went to his eternal reward, because although he never expressed it, he and I saw eye to eye on this and worked together to bring our own more...contemplative...spiritualities into the realm of religious education. And I know, from him and from his students, that he truly brought himself into the classroom, engaging them with stories from his life and military service, showing his love for them through teaching our Catholic faith through example, devotion, and practice.

He died praying for "his boys" and all who instruct students in the Catholic faith. To my blog readers...that means he was praying for YOU and for YOUR students as well!

Unexpectedly Finding my Place

When I went to pay my respects, before I approached the coffin I waited to speak with one of his daughters, and in a way, felt very awkward. It wasn't "my parish" because I only worked there, right? Yes, my work parish is a second home of sorts, but...still. Who was I to enter into this moment of grief?

The second she saw me, though, his daughter threw her arms around me and sobbed into my shoulder, "He loved you so much!"

I hugged her back, instantly as tearful, hugging her as fiercely. I've lost my father, too, and now I've lost a friend who was HER father, and all I could expel between my own sobs was, "I loved HIM so much, too!" We cried together, shared joyful stories together, and, well, reveled in the love of a struggling-to-be-holy man who had touched so many souls.

While there I saw many other parishioners, and we alternately wept and smiled, for we all knew our grief was transient; we believe in the Resurrection, and we are happy this dear soul has been called back Home, where we all hope to meet again.

It was there that I understood my place in the parish; I, too, have a role, I have a place, and to those parishioners I am also a part of the the family. Although I had often called upon this man for help in various programs, and he has meant a lot to me, it was through his family that I learned how important I was to him...and to all of them.

They helped me, unwittingly, understand more deeply the bonds of friendship and service and that my parish work has effects I cannot possibly understand.

My friend, in his death, has taught me a great lesson, perhaps the most important I have ever learned, about the value of the smallest things I do in my employment in ministry and their impact on the people I serve, including my volunteers.

It Was Pouring

While learning this great lesson, I was in the midst of fear of greater grief, fear of losing my mother. Fear of being the only family member available during her procedure. Fear of making the wrong decision for her, contrary to her wishes and Catholic teaching.

I couldn't find my mother's medical directive so couldn't bring it to the hospital so trusted, as she'd shown me, that it was with her documents should it be needed. She had to fill out paperwork prior to arriving at the hospital, so when I arrived I thought it would be available to me.

No, it wasn't. Mom remembered her overnight bag, but left all of her documents...ALL of them...on her kitchen table. That meant that her pre-op was delayed as she filled out the permissions and history and contacts all over again, but it wasn't until I was brought back and sat with her for an hour that I learned she didn't have her medical directive.

My own heart nearly stopped when, 40 minutes into what we expected to be a 60-120 minute procedure, I was called back to the "Consulting Room".

I had been glancing at the clock, wondering how my friend's funeral was going, wishing I was there, praying not to be planning my own mother's funeral.

Then in the Consulting room, I was living in two places: planning the future and visualizing the present at which I was not...present.

Because I've written of it, you all know how it turned out...but I cannot accurately express my agony of that time.

Feast of St. Rose of Lima

It is fitting that I finally publish this post on the Feast of such a great Saint, for St. Rose of Lima was well acquainted with suffering, and chose it both for her own hidden humiliation but also to emphasize the necessity of our willingness to unite our own agony with that of Christ in His Passion.

How often I fail at this! How often I complain and squirm and wail and whine!

How often God must roll His Divine eyes at my caterwaling!

When I experience the slightest discomfort, I complain.

Elevated humidity?  Oh, the suffering!

A pain in my knee? Oh, the agony!

A bit more rain than usual?  Oh the torment and drama!

A bit of suffering with the chance of "offering it up"? Oh the refusal to rise to holiness!

St. Alphonsus Liguori, in "Uniformity With God's Will"  wrote with simplicity about how easy it is to just...accept God's will in every moment.

I can't even stand a bit of discomfort. It's "too hot" or "too cold" or "too busy" or "too...whatever". Never mind the toil our Savior suffered for our salvation.

It's so easy to forget that we aren't here on earth to be comfortable and really shouldn't be so shocked at the trials that come our way. After all...we choose most of them for ourselves! Seriously, we shouldn't complain so much when we are faced with adversity of any sort.

While I can't speak for my readers, most of whom, no doubt, buck up so much better, I can say, with great shame, that I am all too willing to give in to venting and anger and passion when faced with the realities of life, when something is asked of me that takes me out of my comfort zone.

That is behavior far unfitting a Christian. 

A couple weeks ago, the  Gospel was about the woman Jesus called a "dog".

I know why He did this, and I know why she compared herself to one as well. She and I are one and the same and I realized it while I watched my German Shepherd respond with defiance to the downpour that was flooding our yard.

I am nothing more than a dog barking at the rain, for the rain will fall whether I bark at it or not. I know Christ and have been baptized into His Body, yet am nothing more than a dog refusing crumbs and barking at the rain, only to seek shelter as though the thunder and lightning do not exist.

Nothing Left - The Reality of Employment in Ministry

My friend Dominisumus over at "We Belong to the Lord" recently wrote:

We each have our own difficulties and struggles in our faith lives that we are usually loathe to share with others. This is doubly hard for people who work in parishes because we cannot burden those who come to us for help with our own struggles, but there are times when it is appropriate and helpful to share at least some of our own journey. Too often people look at us and think that we have it “all sewn up” and we have the ideal relationship with God. Well, let me tell you - Yeah right. I wish I had the perfect relationship with God, but I don’t.

Read the rest of  Lord, Teach Me to Pray.

There was a long off-blog discussion that both gave rise to her post and continued after among we lay people who work in ministry in some form. We may appear to have deep prayer lives, and we may talk a good game because we know how it's SUPPOSED to be due to our theological education, but the reality is that we are just as human as everyone else and we struggle, too.

The problem is, as Dominisumus points out, when people come to us with their needs, we are there to be with them professionally and therefore can't pour out our own hearts to them in return. That would NEVER be proper. Sure, we can share SOME of what we experience in our lives, especially with those parishioners with whom we become real friends, but even then there is a boundary.

Truly, that boundary must exist and that lesson was brought home to me very clearly on Monday when a parishioner I *thought* was my "friend" put my job in danger in the name of her own rebellion against a policy that definitely did NOT provide a hill I was willing to die on for her issue. She invited me to "get fired", in fact, and then when her end of things was resolved to a particular satisfaction, she pretended all was well.

The fact is that after she reamed me out in public (a fact for which I am thankful because a witness told me in private she would go to bat for my job if it came to that), I went to the office, certain I would be fired for this other person's disobedience, and then had to maintain composure while a literal line of people in need of my assistance came forward, one after another.

Much to my embarrassment, after the confrontation, which was my breaking point after several stressful days at work with quite literally no actual "off" day (for even at home I was dealing with work issues on the phone), I went to my office to help someone and couldn't stop the tears of anger and frustration, fear, and betrayal from flowing.

While I wasn't sobbing by any means, and I took a deep breath (several, in fact), while retreating to the back of the office to get what someone needed, the kind parishioner who saw what happened and how upset I was actually was the indirect catalyst for the tears I could no longer hold. It's weird, but when I'm upset I HATE it when people are nice to me because that's when I get truly emotional! And I even acknowledged that I was being ridiculous in my response to a problem that was not my fault or doing.

I know that the witness in question thought nothing of it, but I am conditioned to behave professionally at work, which means...not crying. It is not the job of parishioners to comfort me in my affliction. But sometimes, the stress is too great, the timing is too horrible, the demands far beyond human strength....

Ah...now we get to the real problem

We who work in ministry [Definition: we are not "ministers" but we as lay employees participate in a ministry that flows from Holy Orders, by commission and permission by virtue of being hired for the role] by nature have to handle some very heavy issues. We are held to a high moral standard as appropriate to the Church, for we must be moral examples of holiness, even though we fail.

We preach about Holiness, about the Sacraments, about Mass and Confession and the need to put God first at all times. I know that we often come across as "holier-than-thou" not because we are, but because so many people do NOT put God first and assume we are living lives akin to saintliness. I actually had one parishioner tell me she can't imagine why I would ever need to go to Confession; after all, what sin would I have to confess?

She was sincere in her statement, but completely ignorant about my very real sins.

My answer to her, acutely aware of all of my sinful failings:  I can confess a LOT. I could spend all day in the Confessional and not get it all out. In fact, even if I never left the Confessional, I'd never be at a loss for something to confess for we sin not just in action, but in thought and in omission.

You may think, reading this, that  such positive perceptions by other people about you are good, but the reality is this: they create a dangerous pedestal. Everyone wants others to think well of them, and of course, everyone IS entitled to a good reputation (within reason!), but the reality of parish workers, along with Priests, is that people assume that because we work in ministry, we do not sin.

The opposite assumption is that we're all demons from Hell out to destroy souls.

The answer is much more human. 

Those polar opposite assumptions are the same weird things people say about other professionals:  doctors are all healthy and live totally healthy lives, lawyers and cops know the law so never commit crime, real estate agents never get caught up in scams, psychologists/psychiatrists are immune to mental illness or illogical thought, firefighters never lose their homes or families to fire...the list goes on. Create your own. You professionals who read this blog...you know what I'm talking about. You fight these myths every day and you cringe when you see your fellow professionals in the news for falling against the myth and proving it wrong. That's what makes the news, and it does so because people so strongly believe in the impeccability of...well...everyone. Until they fall.

For some reason, in parish work, more than any other profession in my experience thus far, the mythology and pedestal-elevation in parish work is the worst. In fact, it's like every parish has a Borderline Personality; you are a Saint until you disagree with someone and have to enforce policy. Then you're Satan Incarnate, but damn you if you dare to leave the parish because the parish needs you and the slightest "no" is a form of abandonment.

This condition is not limited to Catholics, but transcends religious boundaries; I know this from conversations with Lutherans Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists.....and bet even the organized pagan religions report the same things.

The Facts

Let me tell you about the reality of my spiritual life: it's a big FAIL.

For the last several months, I've barely been able to pray. While it is my habit to pray the Liturgy of the Hours, it is a miracle these days if I even manage to unzip the cover. While I pray the rosary every day en route to work, on my days off work, I don't pray it at all, and even on those work days, I'm usually praying while stressing out over this or that thing completely unrelated to the Gospel I am supposed to be meditating upon.  So much for the Rosary.

Fr. Corapi used to say, "THERE'S SO SUCH THING AS A BAD ROSARY!" but, well, these days, he's not exactly an authority to most people, is he? [do NOT go off in the combox on the Fr. Corapi issue. Thanks]

He was right, of course, but one must recognize that if one is praying while off in la-la-land having nothing to do with the intended task, it's not exactly a fruitful prayer, is it?

Life Before Ministry

Before I worked in a parish, I attended Daily Mass, during Lent I made to to Stations of the Cross nearly every Friday, and I engaged in all sorts of spiritual activities necessary to the spiritual life.

The reality now, in working for the Church, is that the demands of my job often prevent my attending Daily Mass (I try to go when I can but it's a slippery slope and I've fallen away even when I CAN go..), this last Lent I NEVER ONCE made it to Stations of the Cross at either parish because of work I pray spiritually benefited people to and for whom I'd been preaching on those days. Even though I preach to others the necessity and benefit of going on retreat,  I can't AFFORD on my salary to go, either. Overall, I'm a much MUCH worse Catholic now, a few years later, than I was when this all began.

I'm so burned out that going to Mass on Sunday feels like work to me...probably because, at work, I often have to be at a particular Mass because it's part of my paid JOB to be there. This is a far different thing than mere volunteer roles in the liturgy, which anyone can quit at any time if they find it impacts their spiritual lives.

Maybe some of you are sitting out there wondering why I don't just quit.

That's a valid question but the reality is this: what Dominisumus described and what I am describing afflicts every parish worker. (And whatever you do, don't get any of us started on the "Justice in Employment" BS document we have to sign every year as part of our contract!)

My blog has been erratic as of late, and this is why. I have nothing left. I'm tired, I have no consistent prayer life, I haven't been able to make it to Daily Mass, and even Confession has fallen away for me  as I struggle to get there at least every month. And even then, I have doubts.

The fact is that I don't even have the DESIRE to pray most days, and force myself to do so, what little I do accomplish.

As Domini describes, prayer is a gift from God, and as I've written before, dryness is a purification. We try short prayers, we do what we can, and we MUST press on, no matter how hard it is.

But know this: just because someone works in ministry does not mean their prayer life is perfect. They (We!) struggle just like all of you. We go through the same purifications, the same dryness, the same unwillingness to pray, and it impacts us and YOU even more.

Without God, we have nothing to give, because in and of ourselves, our strength doesn't go far. We flail every day, and we can't reveal our own struggles because to do so is totally inappropriate.

Sometimes, all we can do is offer short aspirations such as "Jesus, I love you!" and "Sacred Heart of Jesus I put all my trust in Thee!" and "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" and hope that eventually we'll be able to do more.

As far as my own particular spiritual life goes, it is failing and every day is a struggle. When I worked in Insurance, it was a struggle to go to work, but I was able to find strength in God. Now, in parish work, not only do I struggle to get up to go, but my source of strength absent for even when I do pray, He does not seem to be there.

All the theology in the world doesn't change the experience of this. You can preach at me, you can offer this or that advice, but the reality is this: until God again grants the ability to pray, I have to rely upon all I have left, that being the desire to pray, and even that is a pure gift, and one I lost months ago.

Don't ever put your parish workers on a pedestal; pray for them, because through their work in ministry, they may be so deprived that they may have nothing left; strength comes from YOUR intercession before God.

The greatest holiness is usually found in the simplest of souls..not we with graduate degrees and professional parish employment.

Please pray for us with all your heart; we depend on you.

Thank you.

Light in the Darkness

Today is a bright, beautiful day here in Minnesota, and the apple blossoms are nearly in full bloom. I still enjoy the scent of them, even though they still remind me of the acrid pain of tear gas.

The trees are varying shades of green, sprouting baby leaves, early spring flowers including the spring-summer-fall mainstays of dandelions, dot the land with their colorful presence. I noted the shadows playing upon the buildings as the sun continued its journey to the western horizon and I was startled to realize that those aren't shadows we see all year round.

Such a minor observation gave me a new sense of wonder at the order of Creation; such simple things as shadows reveal God's nature and care for us, if we but stop and ponder it, even if we psychosomaticaly tear up and sniff a bit at the scent of blooming blossoms.

Think about it: here in the northland where our winters  are long and harsh, and our summers are hot and humid, God has provided for us the maximum benefit of Creation. As the winter approaches, the temperature drops, and the sun retreats behind the clouds while focusing its power on the equatorial lands, the leaves change into brilliant colors, fall off, and leave the stark skeletal branches of the trees standing as our only testament to the eventual return of life.

It makes sense, though, because in that dark season, we have no need of leaves to shade and cool us, for we seek warmth and light, the things that are so important for survival, and dismally lacking in the cold months of winter. The absence of leaves gives us the maximum amount of light possible, and even when the trees are covered in snow, the light reflects off the myriad of surfaces available on the billions and trillions of tiny snowflakes. A winter's night is far brighter than a summer evening when the moon is full.

God never abandons us to the darkness.

Then, in the summer, when the sun is high and burning in the sky, the clouds have scuttled away, we have need of coolness and shade, and then..then, as the warmth begins to return to us, the trees and plants bloom into full life, so that at the hottest time of the year, we have a maximum amount of shade. Even more, at the very hottest time of the day, as the sun is setting and streaming its heating rays directly into our homes, the shadows of the trees become longer, breaking up the light so that we might have sweet relief as we try to relax after a long, hot day.

God knows that even though we need and crave the light, we also have need of shadows to protect us for we cannot tolerate the full strength of the sun.

The Spiritual Life Requires Light and Darkness

We must have both. The Saints have written about their spiritual journeys, using varying language, but all describe "the dark night" in some way. This darkness is a time where God is especially close, so close that they feel abandoned because they cannot "see" Him. They may have difficulty in prayer, and any joy previously found in devotions is gone. They long, then, for the light, but only later realize that they were so bathed in light that all seemed as darkness. It was only as they drew away into a different stage of the spiritual life that they could recognize God in those shadows, and therefore be renewed in spirit, so to always seek, forever, to reside in the shadow of the Cross. Everyone passes through these smaller nights, for they are like seasons, like winter and summer.

We need the seasons, just as the earth does, for they reveal something to us about God, who in turn uses them to reveal something about ourselves in relation to Him. The seasons of easy Joy and difficult Joy forces us to grow, too.

When we've been through a few of these times, even when we know the Joy that comes from God alone, from loving Him and basking in His love, we also know the bitterness of suffering.

I don't mind that the sweet scent of apple blossoms still gives me the acrid sensation of tear gas, like pepper in my sinuses, something I experienced long ago in training.  I don't mind that effect, for even as I can almost feel it again, it is a reminder of a day I entered into with great fear, yet completed in triumph. It was a day that required my willingness to suffer for something greater, and I will always be a better person for it, and once again, it brings a lesson home to me.

It seems that there is never any real joy without the experience of darkness and shadows, for it is they that give definition to the light. And the light, likewise, reveals the darkness that is not dark to God, but only a place of protection as we struggle in suffering to grow in holiness, in being conformed to Christ.

We are writing this so that our joy may be complete.

Now this is the message that we have heard from him and proclaim to you: God is light, and in him there is no darkness at all.

~ 1 John 1:4-5

Amen.

True Piety

One of the dangers of the spiritual life is to give in to the temptation to compare oneself with others, and that temptation may be especially prevalent during Lent.

Last week I heard an insightful homily regarding outward acts of piety. The priest observed that there are some who seem to have deep spiritual lives, but what they do outwardly is actually covering up for a very deep interior wound. To take it further, he observed that there are those who are ever-ready and ever-armed with liturgical, or other books, and prepared to leap upon the smallest error in the liturgy - yet this isn't really their issue. He surmises that there is something deeper there, covered by the outward anger and vigilance.

To be clear, he was not saying that outward piety was a bad thing or that we do not have a right to a properly celebrated liturgy. Rather, his point was very simple: do not look merely upon outward acts and assume that is the whole story.

All of us are carrying about deep wounds, some bleeding, some scars, and we do different things to cover them up so that others cannot see. This is why we need the Confessional, for there we can bare our souls to the Divine Physician. This is why we need prayer, for there we can bring our spiritual torments to the only One who understands how to make us complete.

It is a temptation to look at the lives of others, and their pious acts, and try to compare ourselves to them. In Lent, it is a temptation to compare our failings to the claimed or visible "successes" of others and conclude that for us, Lent has been a failure.

Do not give in to this temptation!

We cannot judge the souls of others, good or bad. We cannot see if their piety is only outward, hiding a seething mass of anxiety or sin. We cannot see if someone's anger, off-putting in appearance, may truly be fueled by a life of holiness.

It is said that Blessed Mother Teresa was a hard woman, yet there is no doubt about her holiness. They say the light of God just shone through her. Yet we also know how she struggled in years of spiritual darkness. Her outward smiles, her ability to care for and love others, her ability to pray, outwardly, told us only a little about her.

There are many Saints whose flaws were apparent to all, and yet, they lived lives of deep devotion and holiness. There's no such thing as a "cookie-cutter" saint, a Saint that ran around on tiptoes, hands open, floating along on clouds of devotion.

It may be tempting to look at this or that person who spends hours in the chapel and claims to fast and pray constantly, and seek to be like them, but this is one of the biggest spiritual mistakes anyone can make. Do not be "like someone else." Be who YOU are - fully - in the face of God.

During Lent we are called to acts of penance, abstinence, fasting, and alms, and each of us does this with some degree of success or failure. The litmus test before God is not one of comparison with others, but resides entirely in our own relationship with God - and with His Church.

Every Saint became a Saint simply because he or she knew him or herself in relation to God, and responded by being fully who they were called to be. They were all human and had human flaws, but in true piety, they never gave up seeking the face of God. They never gave up falling before His Throne in prayer, humility, and obedience. They did not try to copy someone else, or compare themselves to the Saints that had gone before them. Instead, they brought everything they were, from personality to temperament, to favorite sins and passions, to favorite devotions and, above all, their love for Christ - and they were transformed, little by little, so that they could become holy as their Father in heaven is Holy.

That's true piety. That is what makes a Saint.

Do not get caught up in the sin of spiritual comparison. In the spirit and advice of the Saints, assume the best of those you meet, look always to the example of Christ, and always continue onward, for it is He who awaits your love and devotion. It is He who thirsts for you. The world does not suffer from too many Saints; it suffers from not having enough.

Iconography and the Spiritual Life

Outside the wind is blustering, a cold rain is falling and promises to turn into a sloppy mess long before we see the light of day again. But inside, I am blessed to be warm and relatively comfortable as I brush layer after layer of paint on an icon I recently began.

My intent this Lent was to spend more time reading and working on my icons, both things I truly love. Yet this evening at Adoration and through Mass, I could barely focus. I was hungry (although I had not fasted today), I had a lot on my mind, many worries, doubts and in a sense, on the edge of panic. At one point I was near tears, yet thankful I could bring all of that to prayer.

I wondered, though, if I'd be able to focus after dinner, or if my intent to work on my icon would not come to fruition.

Finally, though, I sat down and put my hand to the brush and touched paint to the icon, knowing I must keep this promise, even if only for a short time; it is a promise I made to myself, and more importantly, to God. You see, time spent writing icons is time passed in prayer.

Iconography can be very intimate, like spending time with a dear friend. 

As one should do when reading about the Saints, or trying to understand their writings, so should one do when working on their image in an icon:  converse with them. Pray to them, ask the Holy Spirit for insights into their holiness, into God's grace, and understanding His will. Perhaps there's a reason that *this* particular icon is the one chosen: what is the significance of that? What is one supposed to learn from that Saint or depiction of the Mother of God or scene from scripture?

Even in silence where the prayer doesn't flow in words, there is a divine intimacy, the sense of co-creating with God and the understanding that it is a great and humbling gift to be allowed to enter into such a task.

For lent, though, it seems that this discipline is quite proper, for to write an icon parallels the spiritual life. It is supposed to be done perfectly, and yet, because we are fallen creatures we make mistakes, time and time again. I might go over a line and have to swipe away the extra paint, or perhaps I lean into a fresh spot, destroying it. The mistakes can't be erased, exactly; they remain, there, even if covered by layers upon layers of paint, those flaws become a part of the icon.

The only thing one can do is to try to learn from those mistakes, try to correct them as well as possible, and move on, resolving to not make the same mistake again.

We all know how that goes, though, don't we?

Every so often I pick up the icon I wrote last summer, and I see almost nothing but mistakes. So it is as I continue to work on new icons: mistake after mistake. Others may see something different, but I see smudges and ridges and an inability to stay in the lines.

Ah...such is my spiritual life.

The fact is, iconography, especially perfecting the sacred art, is no easier and no more difficult than growing in holiness; one reflects the other. 

I can already see that some of the mistakes I have made have been out of impatience; trying to race ahead to my own little "goal" for this sitting, even though the paint had not yet dried. That tends to be how I make mistakes in real life, too, and where I falter instead of advancing in holiness.

Lent is perfect for recognizing that kind of habitual fault, for now is the time to step back and decide that it doesn't have to be that way. I can grow in the virtue of patience. Just as I work to increase my skill in painting, so I can, at the same time, grow in practicing the virtues. Perhaps, in the end, there will be fewer mistakes.

When one begins an icon, there is a blank slate. Iconographers through the centuries have understood that connection between personal virtue and the end result. When they are complete one icon, having been through a spiritual process all along, they can put that one aside and, realizing they are not yet perfected, pick up another and begin again.

"Do You Know Me?"

When I was in college, it was a tumultuous time, as I sought to both learn practical knowledge and, as the cliche says, who I was.

Well, one out of two ain't bad: I gained a great deal of knowledge designed to further a career, but it didn't teach me squat about what I was (or am) as a human being.

That is not to say I was abandoned, however, although it seemed that way at times especially the Christmas I spent alone after my Dad's death.

In fact, I had a friend who faced down death in the form of cancer. For a time he'd been in the seminary, and that time had bolstered his own faith. I remember one evening at a party, quite a secular one, where among a few of us, spirituality had become a topic and in particular, the call to Holiness and the reality of Death.

I can still remember my friend looking me in the eye, speaking of Particular Judgment and in his gentle voice, hand against his own chest, looking me straight in the eye and asking in the words of Jesus: "Do you know me?"

Jesus will ask us all, in that moment, "Do you KNOW Me?"

I'll never forget the agony in his eyes, unspoken, hopeful, even as he repeated the words.

"Do you know me?"

I resolved on the spot that if I didn't know Him...I wanted to.

And it took several years and I admit, quite shamefully now, that I wanted to know Him then because of what  He could "get" me, for you see, it took a long time to experience the true beginning of conversion.

Now I hear those words differently and reach out for Him in a different kind of agony. for as I see His pain, I can only offer my own, recognizing in that eternal question all of my years of rejection, of "doing it my way", and a deeply hidden fear that perhaps, maybe...by my choice...maybe I still don't really know Him.

Not for lack of His effort.

In His question I see the Cross as the Tree of Life and I kneel, weeping at the stone at its base, remembering the fruit of my downfall even as I reach for the fruit of salvation.

The other day while working on my Icon I was listening to Miriam Marston's song, "The Gardener", and as the song continued to penetrate my soul, I couldn't help but recall the words of my friend, those ancient words, the ancient question Our Lord asks of each of us, individually: "Do You Know Me?"

In Marston's song, she juxtaposes the theological reality of the Creator; the Gardener as St. Mary Magdalene meets Our Lord on the day of His Resurrection.

As she weeps in her grief he confronts her and she queries, "What do you care?  You're just the Gardener's Son". 

I can imagine His loving gaze as He replies so patiently to Mary Magdalene and to all of us, waiting for us to make the connection, and when He knows that we do or only wants to prompt that leap, He queries,  "Do you recognize me now?"

We are taken back to the Garden of Eden, the parable of the Master of the vineyard and his son murdered by the workers,  the Garden of Gethsemane, and ultimately the Garden where Jesus is laid to rest...and Rise.

We cannot help but recognize Jesus as the beloved Son, our eyes opened in wonder, in love, as we really see  the One sent by The Gardener to open the gates and restore us to original Beatitude..and beyond.

"Do you recognize me now?"

"The Gardener"** 

by Miriam Marston

A faint sign of gladness makes her pause in all her sadness

Fair and so faithful she throws aside careful

Hardly knowing what to expect

She makes her way over

Maybe it’s safe now it’s been a few days now

CHORUS:

And she started weeping as though she’d never cried before

She thought she’d lost the only one she’d loved

And three of the longest days of her life had come to this

Waiting by a stone

And then she saw the Gardener

He asked her how she’d been

“I’m sad and I’m scared but why do you care? You’re just a gardener’s son”

“Do you recognize me now?” (x3)

“Go tell all the others that you’ve met me

They might think that you’ve been drinking through the night

But don’t let all their doubts keep you away from me

The world will likely tell you it’s all in your mind

She comes to the home she’d left

Anxious and alone

But it’s more like a mansion now

Though she can’t yet mention how

Everything around her

seems infused with glory

Her hope expands as the world just stands still

CHORUS

And she started weeping as though she’d never cried before

She thought she’d lost the only one she’d loved

And three of the longest days of her life had come to this

Waiting by a stone

And then she saw the Gardener

He asked her how she’d been

“I’m sad and I’m scared but why do you care? You’re just a gardener’s son”

“Do you recognize me now?” (x 3)

“I’m here…I’m here...I’m here….”

None of us ever needs to ask Our Lord "Why do you care?"

Still, deep in our souls, we DO ask, and we NEED that answer, individually, and we need to eventually lift our eyes and hearts and souls to Jesus, who stands before us, simply waiting for us to recognize Him.

Wherever we are...He is HERE.

But....we still have to respond to that question, "Do you know Me?  DO YOU RECOGNIZE ME?"

** Go to the link, scroll down and find the song title to listen

Fleeing the Cross

Recently I had to give a presentation at work, and it was to an audience that, traditionally, hasn't been very receptive to the subject matter, simply because they are required to be there to receive it whether they desire it or not.

To be honest, for weeks prior to this, months, even, I dread the annual affair, for my own experience of it took something I once enjoyed and warped it into one of my worst nightmares.

In my first year in my job, when I gave a speech on this same topic, I was nearly crucified...after the audience got over their shock at Catholic teaching. Their reaction took exactly one week to percolate before the outrage overflowed upon my boss, the school principal, and the Pastor. Not a single one of the outraged souls confronted me directly, and even at the end of the year their negative evaluations remained anonymous.

It made me realize that, first of all...angry Catholics are largely passive-aggressive. Very few are willing to be hostile to my face, and most, if forced to confront me, find their desire to be hostile melting away. There is a simple reason for this:  humanity speaks to humanity, compassion speaks to compassion, truth speaks to truth.

But...there are those who simply do not want to be confronted, and changed, by Truth, Compassion and...simple Humanity.

It's unfortunate, but it's our fallen nature that drives this.

That knowledge does not make it any easier to handle, however, when one is on the end of receiving the passive-aggressive and sometimes even outright in-your-face hostility.

My first experience of outright anger in an audience was so palpable that if I hadn't had some serious training in speech competetion and in speaking to groups that were open to the Gospel, I probably would not have been able to finish.

As it is, I still bear scars from that horrible encounter, for now, every time I have to go before this kind of crowd, I hit a level of anxiety which, in normal people, has to be medicated. (tongue-in-cheek).

The fact is this:  What I once thought I would enjoy doing professionally has become one of the biggest crosses in my professional life.

I thought, upon entering my position, that the opportunity to speak to groups on my favorite topic of Eternal Salvation was an incredible, and...FUN...blessing!  I imagined all the happy people who would be there ready to receive the Word of God, the Traditions of the Apostles, and revel in our shared Faith, especially in light of the benefit to their children.

In spite of my Pollyanna attitude and my incredibly brilliant soapbox, I learned that the typical condition of humanity in any given Church involves backbiting, passive-aggressiveness and outright hostility, with a little frosting of a few supportive souls who are glad to be there but thrilled they don't have to stand there on the gallows, singing to their executioners.

Every year now, I recognize the gallows for what they are, and I approach in trepidation. What I once loved has become an object of dread. What I once saw as a chance for Hope has become an object of despair. What I once saw as a chance to share our Faith has become the recognition of a Faith rejected. What I once saw as simple charity has become the fulfillment of what Divine Charity is all about.

It's taken several years, and I've groaned and complained, I've tried to get out of it by hiring speakers, but always, my supervisor has intervened and told me, "No, YOU have to do this. Maybe next year will be different, but this time, YOU have to step up to the plate again and deliver this message for Our Lord."

Each time, inwardly, I've groaned, and outwardly, I've complained to my friends and to some of my co-workers, even my boss.

But I've carried on because there is no one else and I simply haven't anywhere to go if I quit.

63 It is the spirit that gives life, while the flesh is of no avail. The words I have spoken to you are spirit and life. 64 But there are some of you who do not believe." Jesus knew from the beginning the ones who would not believe and the one who would betray him. 65 And he said, "For this reason I have told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted him by my Father." 66 As a result of this, many (of) his disciples returned to their former way of life and no longer accompanied him. 67 Jesus then said to the Twelve, "Do you also want to leave?" 68 Simon Peter answered him, "Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. (John 6:63-68)

Every year I agonize, I practice, and I've even been hauled into Father's office for a critique on what is wrong, technically, with my speaking abilities. (He is always right, by the way, and I'm grateful for his suggestions.)

And every year as the date approaches, I sleep less, dread more deeply, and look more and more askance at Jesus, wondering what I'm doing here and why I am doing this.

Each year is a new purgation, skinning layers of my pride as deeply and painfully as St. Bartholomew was skinned by his own persecutors. (I do believe he had it worse).

Perspective

Although I've often thought of it, sometimes have written of it, I know that the privilege of speaking on the central beliefs of our Faith to such an audience as this is truly a gift of God's Grace. It's a gift I don't always want to receive, but I must at least admit to the fact that I have been formally called to it (outside of my own desires) and have had to cooperate with that directive.

I know that in my first year, the reaction of others was partially my own faulty delivery of the message, for I was not as nuanced as I could have been and did not realize how my words would be taken - which was far from the way intended.

Part of what I suffer, even in having been correct in teaching, was still my fault, for even the proper message when delivered improperly ends up in the same place as every other piece of misdelivered mail. Some remember that misdirected mail and still hold me in suspicion.

So it is, so it has been, so it will be.

What I struggle so hard to live, though, is the gift of being able to speak to an audience much like those to whom Jesus and the Apostles spoke:  hostile, unreceptive, unwelcoming, indifferent, outright angry.

Yes. When I have to speak and deliver certain Biblical teachings, certain teachings of our beliefs, and know that unreceptivity of the audience, I know, intellectually, that it is what Our Lord suffered, too, and still suffers.

As I've asked before, WHY SHOULD I BE ANY DIFFERENT???

Indeed. It is a gift to suffer what He did.

I only pray I can learn to bear it so patiently.

The Spiritual Life and Agility Training

This week, I had the wonderful opportunity of introducing my dog to a couple Agility obstacles. I'll admit to being a bit nervous before we began since I haven't worked with her much on obedience lately. Much to my surprise, though, once we were "at bat", she ignored the children watching this training exercise, and the other dog that had otherwise dominated her attention.

(It helped that I had her favorite "high value" treat:  freeze-dried liver.)

Teaching her to go through the tunnel turned out to be very easy. I'd introduced her to it when the obstacle was brought in. She wasn't fearful of it in any way although she had no interest in exploring its depths. I tried to get her to go in but she simply turned away and I didn't push her - it wasn't time yet.

Awhile later the trainer pulled the tunnel into the middle of the classroom and scrunched it up to make it as small as possible so that the dog could look through it and see that I was on the other side. When I called, she came and gobbled up the treat.  The trainer lengthend the tunnel so that it was just a little longer than the length of her body.  Again, no problem. My dog came through and gobbbled up the treat. We continued this process until the tunnel was at full length, requiring the trainer to stand at the entrance with the leash in her hand while I walked to the other end to coax my dog with the nummy treat.

Finally, though, we had to take the next step:  put a curve in the tunnel so that she couldn't look through and see me at the other end. The trainer explained to the children (and of course, to me) that this obstacle is an exercise in trust. The dog had to come to understand that when she entered the tunnel, she would meet me on the other side. She'd already been through it so knew what the tunnel was, but the question was...would she be frightened away by the curve that did not allow her to view the nice treat and enthusiastic praise awaiting her at the end?

We gave the command and I walked the tunnel, ready to greet her on the other end. Sure enough, she came through but this time was different; after she'd reached the straightaway, she was so comfortable inside that she paused to investigate an interesting scent. I explained to the children what she was doing, much to their delight. This was a good sign and a necessary part of her training that would help her with other obstacles later.

 Finally satisfied, my dog completed the tunnel and came to me for her treat. I took her leash and brought her back to the start. As the trainer explained to the children that although rewards are used in initial training, they must be taken away. You see, the dog discovers that the obstacle is fun all on its own; the obstacle becomes its own reward, so they have to learn to pass through it then look to their master to be directed to the next event.

As the trainer spoke, holding the leash, my dog took it upon her own iniative to enter the tunnel. Realizing that this must be encouraged and rewarded, I gave her the command (not that she needed it that time!) and ran to the end to meet her as she emerged, smiling her happy doggy smile.

Mission accomplished; that ended her tunnel lesson for the day. She "got" the lesson, she discovere the tunnel was fun, that I would meet her on the other end, and she had learned to instinctively look for me as she exited. Should I get the chance to work with her further on Agility, I will no longer use the high value treats, or any treat for that matter. Instead I'll be learning how to direct her to the next thing.

Agility and the Spiritual Life

It may sound strange, but my dog learning this obstacle is a nearly-perfect analogy for our own spiritual lives.

In the beginning, as we come to know God, He gives us many rewards to entice us to enter a life of prayer and communion with Him. So it is that we receive many consolations, but once we have established that we understand and plan to continue our prayer lives, God slowly withdraws the consolations, leaving us with "spiritual dryness."

He asks us to pass through that tunnel, first so that we can see Him, eager to receive His reward for us, and then maybe He throws in a bit of an obstacle, asking us to trust that He will be there even if we can't see him right away. And then, once we have reached that level of trust, even though it is a very basic level, he asks us to pass through that darkness again - but this time not to receive a reward, but rather, to grow in our faith, learning to look not for a reward, but another lesson that will build our relationship with God.

In short, we stop looking for mere treats and instead look joyfully for trials.

Of course, this is where the analogy ends; we are not dogs. A dog only knows what is in front of it and needs our constant guidance to understand what we want them to do; they cannot reason, they cannot know their final ends, and they can not act in a way so as to "choose the good."  That is a purely human privilege.

Sometimes when we pass through that dark obstacle, we come out, as my dog did, looking for God, but He isn't there. As the trainer demonstrated yesterday, she went and stood on the other side of the tunnel so when her dog exited, she looked in the wrong direction and had to pause to find her Master. That's exactly what we do!

In our Pride, sometimes when we pass through spiritual trials we make an assumption about what God is doing, so when we are released, we are looking in the wrong direction. Then we get frustrated and lose our peace.

Indeed, it is good that we are seeking God, but not finding Him where we expect becomes a lesson in humility on the way to deeper trust. We must continually learn deeper and deeper trust, for although Our Lord may not always be where we expect, we can be assured He is still there, waiting, ready as soon as we are to take us more deeply into the lessons He has for us.

Some days, it seems I learn more from my dog than she does from me. No wonder dogs are man's best friend; they certainly must be one of God's closest allies in getting us to Heaven! ;-)

Never Alone

Every so often I get very "down" on myself.

It doesn't matter how much spiritual reading I do that warns against "despair" or of excessive sadness for our sins. We aren't always in control of our emotions, and it seems like sometimes, if things are going well I almost completely self-destruct (not a life-ending thing, more a spiritual crash and burn).

Although tonight wasn't a total crash-and-burn, I went to Mass somewhat dejected, and afterwards as I knelt, praying, I couldn't stop what rose from me.

I had just finished reading from St. Louis de Montfort's 33-day Preparation for Total Consecration (I am renewing this year on the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe), and in addition, I read a couple chapters from Imitation of Mary.

Both readings spoke of spiritual despair.

After Mass, suddenly I was struck with a type of loneliness...a sense of near-abandonment of the earthly kind, even almost spiritual. It's very difficult to explain, but there it was.

I knelt before Our Lord, wondering, yet again if I think I am called to religious life only because I fear the love of another, or even more probable, fear that I could never be loved by another.

We all, within us, have a desire and a need for love, for we have been created out of love and to be loved for eternity. 

The last boyfriend I had, the one I thought I would marry, confided to a friend of his around the time we broke up that he thought I would have a hard time "finding someone else."

I admit those words are still as powerfully painful now as when I first learned about them. He denied having said it when I confronted him, but I could see the lie as he shifted his gaze away from me in shame.

There, before Our Lord, tonight, I asked Him for love; to reveal it to me.

I asked Him to show me if I've gotten discernment all wrong and am perhaps called to marriage, but fear it too much. I asked Him how anyone could ever love me, considering all my sins, all my failings, all my passionate obstinance regarding...dang near everything.

I have to admit I am pretty damn unlovable most of the time.  

I asked Jesus, simply, to love me. I had no expectations, I had no specific intentions: I offered Him only my broken heart because it's all I have to offer. I offered him my doubts, my intent to do His Will, and my own lack of charity for Him and for others.

In other words, I came to Him with my utter desolation, knowing  my self-pity was wrong but also knowing I had nowhere else to bring it but to His feet.

I left the church, having wiped my eyes of the tears that did manage to escape without my will, and having waited a few minutes to ensure my composure. With all the colds going around right now, I blended in with about half the congregation.

When I arrived at the chapel door where Daily Mass is held, a man I know held it open for me, recognized me from a committee we are on together, and said hello rather than giving me a typical dispassionate-but-friendly nod in response to my thanks. I walked over to a bench and set my backpack down so I could put my coat on, and while doing so, an elderly man who was waiting for his relative looked at me, smiled, and approached, introducing himself. I was surprised but couldn't help but respond to his sincere greeting.

I recognized him as one of the more devout members of our parish, having always wondered who he was, and I knew he also recognized me as we often sat near each other during Daily or regular Sunday Mass.  Tonight, looking at him, I saw the light in his eyes and the friendliness that was clearly a part of his real personality. He told me he is retired and we discussed how blessed we are to be members of such a good parish with such holy priests that give us more than adequate access to the Sacraments.

Both encounters were somewhat unusual; not because people are unfriendly, but rather because I don't know either at all. The first is a new acquaintance but recognized by face over the years, and the latter, simply recognized but whom seemed to be even more private than I am. Neither unapproachable people, but simply, in typical Catholic culture, willing to let another soul be another soul in the presence of God. (It's hard to explain for non-Catholics so I'll stop trying unless a question is specifically asked).

Upon arriving home I collected my mail and went inside. There I found in that stack, instead of bills, there was a Christmas card from my "second family", the parents of my teen-years best friend who had become surrogates of sorts and without whom I would not be who I am today. I haven't yet sent out any cards, but now when I send one to them I'll be able to offer a response, remembering the love they had given me even though I was not their own. Remembering that without them, I would have been lost.

Completely.

I have written of them previously, HERE.

God answers prayers, usually in small ways, ways only we can recognize because they have to do with our relationships with God and others, what He knows about us, and only He can provide the timing for He knows in advance what we will ask.

Today wasn't a coincidence, but an answer to a prayer, reminding me that I am not a colossal accident, that my discernment isn't over and in fact, He is present with me in any agony, whether brief and petty or deep and abiding.  

That is His love, that is God Himself, refusing to ever leave us alone.

We may experience times of dryness and we may experience abandonment,and it for those moments He gives us these small gifts: to provide memories and bolster our faith in order that we'll always remember His presence.

So often, I think that I am lost, but then God provides evidence to the contrary, reminding me I have never been alone for even a moment.

Thank you, Jesus. I'm sorry for doubting you.

Advent Reflection 1: There is Only One Sin

Advent has begun and I breathe a sigh of relief, for it is indeed a new liturgical year and a new beginning.

Advent is a chance to take a step back, retreat into silence and penance, reflecting on our sins so that we can be rid of them and make way for the Savior to come. Even as we recall the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who was made incarnate at His conception, we look toward His second coming, knowing that one day we must stand alone before Him in our own particular judgment.

It is so easy to get caught up in our lives, to argue that we need this or that knowledge from our jobs or those things for our children (if we are parents). We need to calculate our budgets and remember all the activities that pertain to our loved ones so that we can either get others to those points or get there ourselves. It is so easy to say that our spiritual lives aren't important in the face of all the things we have to "know" to get by every day.

We forget that were it not for God's grace, we would cease to exist. Were He not holding us, breathing life into us continually, none of our paltry concerns would come to fruition. Were it not for our final ends, the moment we forget God, we would fade away.

We need Advent, for Advent forces us to take stock of the condition of our souls, to step back and recognize those things that make us impure, and calls us to especially return to Confession with a strong intent to make amends and start afresh, keeping in mind our final ends.

Recently I watched the movie, "The Kite Runner" and was especially struck by a short monologue from Baba, Amir's father:

“There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. Do you understand that? When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. Do you see?”

I first saw this movie while working on my Master's degree, and spoke of it with the Director of our program, a theologian of note.

I told him I hadn't considered sin in this manner, and knowing it came from a Muslim philosophy (as the characters in the book follow Islam) I was especially struck by the Truth of the statement.

My professor agreed: Yes, every sin is theft.  

Truly, when we tell a lie, we are depriving another of the truth to which they are entitled. (See St. Thomas Aquinas for more commentary on this.)

Truly, when we kill another, from the womb to old age, we are stealing life.

When we disobey our parents, we are stealing the honor and respect due to them.

When we refuse to go to Mass on Sunday and every Holy Day of Obligation (of which we have so few), we steal time and worship from God Himself.

Yes, every sin is indeed a variation of theft; I agree with this, and I've stolen a great deal in my life. I begin Advent with a reflection upon this spiritual and actual crime, and pray not only for forgiveness, but for the grace to recognize all my instances of theft so that I can eradicate them and be reconciled to the Infant Christ who invites us to receive Him if we are "worthy" to do so.

I am far from pure, but thank God for the gift of self-knowledge that brings me to His Throne of Mercy.

I bring to Him this one sin in all its facets, and pray for the grace to overcome them all in accordance with His Will.

Blessed Advent to you all, and may you respond to the call of spiritual renewal in union with the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church, experience the grace of conversion, and be open to receive the Infant Christ in your heart and soul when we celebrate His birth on Christmas Day.

Life is Between the Triumph and the Fall

Some people have horses in their blood. I'm not one of them. I wasn't born into a "horse" family, nor, at any time in my life, has it been among God's design to bring me by adoption, or by blood, if it were, into such a destiny. Instead, He placed horses in my soul.

This morning, I called my boss to request a vacation day, and my request was granted. On the spur of the moment, I decided to go, alone, to the movie Secretariat, and only a few hours later found myself alone (quite literally) in a huge, darkened theater, watching a matinee showing, enjoying the life of one of the greatest horses ever to place a hoof on earthly soil.

Even knowing the story, knowing Secretariat won the Triple Crown in 1973, I still laughed and cried and rejoiced at the triumph and the simplicity of one of God's greatest creatures. (I've given nothing away about the movie; the history of the horse is only the vehicle that carries, as Paul Harvey would have said, "the rest of the story.")

Then, this evening, Netflix, on my pauper's account (the single-disk version), Ruffian was delivered to my mailbox. I have to chuckle at Providence here, for until a few days ago, another movie and another TV series was in line far ahead of this movie. I changed it on a whim.

So it was, today, that I came to realize that I was born between the triumph of Secretariat and the fall of Ruffian, during what may have been one of the greatest periods in the history of American horseracing.

I'm thrilled to have been conceived, born, and weaned during such a time, simply to be able to claim my heart was perhaps already beating in symphony with those of two of the greatest racehorses ever to grace American soil, bar none.

Ah, but do I wax too poetic? I cannot help it; as I said, I have horses in my soul and believe they were placed there by God himself, for He continues to communicate with me through these incredible works of art, these paragons of beauty of His own creation.

I've written before of one of my earliest childhood memories:  Mom holding me up so I could see what was passing by our house:  two horses, two riders. I asked what those creatures were, and Mom explained, carefully, that they were very beautiful animals called "horses".  I exclaimed, "Oh...I LOVE horses!"

I meant what I said, down to my soul, to my heart and to my intellect and will.  Oh, yes, in spite of the fact Mom told me many times as I grew up, upon viewing my many drawings of horses and my many requests for ownership, that I would "outgrow it."

It's the only thing Mom was ever wrong about:  I never stopped loving horses.  That love has matured, but it has never left me, and in fact, was a vehicle to my conversion.

This afternoon, I came home from the movie and spent some time reading, then decided to take a brief nap. As I drifted off, thinking of horses, I thought of Brandy, the Shetland pony owned by a family in my neighborhood.

(As an aside: is it called a "neigh-borhood" as opposed to "the hood" when there are horses in it and not just gangstas?)

Grazing Contemplation

Perhaps it wasn't just fishing that introduced me to contemplation. Perhaps it was horses as well.

I remember the first time I rode Brandy, and I recall, vividly, even though I was only 8, being bucked off. She didn't like the way I rode her very bumpy (to me, the unschooled sack of potatoes on her back) trot, and decided to be rid of me. She succeeded the second I realized she was bucking. I could paint you a photograph of her  hind legs stretched out above me, the image from the impact as I struck the ground, before I rolled away in survival-mode.  I still remember Laura, the girl who was leading Brandy, getting her under control, her mouth a perfect "O" as she turned towards me, shocked, a mere teenager, unsure of what to do, her blonde bob refusing to move itself being in the same state of shock.

I stood up, shaking, assuring her I was fine, but it was years before I rode again - I mean rode.

Still, through Brandy, I also learned forgiveness. I so loved horses that I could not stay away from her, the horse (pony!) who had broken my heart by introducing me to fear.

I decided I needed to really make friends with her and so I visited her often. She seemed so lonely. She was not kept in a paddock like other horses, and the one shelter/paddock she did have was a junkyard. It may have been a shelter, but the neighbor kept all sorts of rusting tools and implements there, and there wasn't a shred of green in that fenced-in piece of hell on earth. For that reason, they kept her tethered with a chain around her neck, and attached on the other end either to a spike in the ground or a tree on the slope across the gravel "road".

That's usually where I found her.

I remember, shortly after she bucked me off, finding her wound by her chain tether around the tree. She let me approach and even nickered at me, clearly recognizing her demise. She kept trying to reach her head to the ground to search for grass, but she was held fast. I took her by the chain and led her, unwinding her from the tree. After awhile she became anxious and started to run. I  ran away, diving to the side as she did so, thinking she was after me, angry with me.  But no...she was only happy to be free!  (It took me years to realize that, sadly. But one best learns about horses by being with them.)

I remembered from Laura's instruction how to leap onto Brandy's back, but because Mom had aways taught me to ask permission to access someone's property, I started asking the neighbor (in spite of my intense shyness - my love of horses, and Brandy was enough to overcome it) if I could visit her and sit on her back while she grazed. The neighbor stood there in his dirty wife-beater, holding his can of beer, and grunted his approval. He didn't care what or when I did it, as long as I didn't let her loose.

It was carte-blanch access to her, and yes, I took advantage. Mom always knew (I think) when I went to visit Brandy.  (Mom was insistent on safety around animals and insistent that she "know" an animal I was around!)

I recall long summer afternoons, either walking or riding my bike along the part-paved part-gravel road of our country neighborhood, approaching Brandy who often took little notice of my presence. I always asked her if she minded if I just "sat along". She didn't, so unless she was obviously agitated (which she was, some days), I leapt aboard and spend the hours daydreaming. Sometimes she would walk a bit, according to what her tether would allow, and my heart leapt at the movement.  In those hours I spoke with Brandy, I spoke with God and...I was fully myself. In all that I was, I was me. Alone, in solitude and maybe...contemplation.

I didn't need anyone or anything else. There was no one there to demand anything of me, there was no one there to ridicule me, there was no one there to laugh at me. It was me and the horse and God. Perhaps it was there that I really learned to pray.  I remember thanking God over and over again, for horses, even if they be at rest in the field. So was I.

As a child I was always a loner. Some of that had to do with the lack of children in our neighborhood. Certainly I had some wonderful friends, but I learned early on never to depend on their presence in order to have fun. I always loved reading, and silence, and nature. If Mom kicked me out of the house and told me to go play outside, I had many places to go...the woods across the road, the yard, riding my bike in our country neighborhood, or maybe visiting Brandy, my favorite pastime.  I was never lonely, and if I felt lonely, I went to Brandy, for I thought she might be lonely, too. Her "family " never seemed to pay attention to her, and she was often without the food and water she needed.  More than once I provided for those things, out of what I knew:  immediately fresh-cut grass and gallons of water from our sink.

Ah, Brandy, who in her passive grazing, taught me so much about forgiveness, compassion, contemplation, and action.  

This afternoon, as I drifted off, I felt myself once again astride that stout little bay as she grazed the bare crabgrass on that shadeless Illinois hill....ah, yes...I forgave her, time and time again for having thrown me that one time. I'm sure it must have been my own damn fault. After all, I'd never ridden a trot before and bounced like a sack of potatoes. She was meant for better things.

God has often used horses to reconnect with me. Of course, it is never He who has needed the reconnection, but me. I have needed the grounding, the foundation.  I have found, in looking at the pattern of my life, how God has used horses to bring me back to "center". Fr. Barron, of Mundeleine Seminary, speaks in his video "Three Paths to Holiness" of "finding the center".

Some find it in the rose-window of a Cathedral, and yes, I see it and find it there, too, and of course, in Jesus in the Blessed  Sacrament, exposed in the Monstrance or held aloft at Mass.  Yes, indeed, there is My Lord and Savior.

But I also find Him, in lesser form, which connects me in perhaps a lesser way to Him, through horses. Through their movement, through nature, through the solitude inherent in an afternoon ride.

While I tolerate commercial trail rides, I prefer the silence and solitude of riding alone or with someone who also prefers the resonance of passing hooves, the dappled shadows of an autumn day, the calls of random birds, and the rhythmic movement of one of the glories of creation in full stride.

It was this that reconnected me with God, years ago now, and it was this that reminded me of my mortality.

Divine Providence

Who can foresee God's Providence? Doesn't He always provide for what we need?

Until a few days ago, "Ruffian" was not on my docket. Other things were. But I came across it and decided to   place it at the top of my queue in Netflix.  A few days ago, I proclaimed I would be in  to work as usual on Monday and able to handle a particular thing (nothing of importance).

This morning I woke up, felt just fine, but...needed a day off. I was tired of all the events of the past weeks, the irregular schedule involving late nights, early mornings, and irregular days off. I don't do well with an irregular schedule; I am a regimented person who needs, to function properly, a regular schedule. I haven't had one in over 3 years. But some weeks are worse than others, and this morning, I couldn't take any more: I needed time.

I called in to my boss, asked for the day, and she gave it to me. I don't know if I've ever been so thankful.

It was with this setting that I went to see Secretariat, and then, this evening, watched Ruffian.

Those who are not horse enthusiasts might miss the connection, so I will lay it out:   Secretariat won the Triple Crown in 1973.  Ruffian's first race was May 22, 1974 (as a two-year-old).  I was born just short of a month later. As I squalled in my mother's arms, some of the greatest horse racing drama in history was playing out, and some of the greatest horses in history lived, translating their heartbeats to hoof-beats, and in that time, I was introduced to their species.

I only wish I could have seen them. I am happy to have lived when they lived. I think, had I not been born a human, I would have instead lived as a Thoroughbred.

Yes, horses are in my soul, and may God will that it ever be so.

Do you give the horse his might?  

Do you clothe his neck with strength? 

Do you make him leap like the locust? His majestic snorting is terrible.

He paws in the valley, and exults in his strength; he goes out to meet the weapons.

He laughs at fear, and is not dismayed; he does not turn back from the sword.

Upon him rattle the quiver,

the flashing spear and the javeline. 

With fierceness and rage he swallows the ground; 

he cannot stand still at the sound of the trumpet.

When the trumpet sounds, he says 

"Aha!"

He smells the battle from afar,

the thunder of the captains, and

the shouting

  ~ Job 39: 19-25

 Amen 

*** *** ***

* The photos of Secretariat and Ruffian were taken from stock footage in their races at Belmont - in Secretariat's case, his winning run in the Belmont Stakes.


* The last pic is my own, a pastel on paper, "The Challenger" from 8th Grade. I may make a more complete picture possible at another date. It just seems to match the scripture and versus of Job.

Unworthy Servant

More and more, I've been struggling not to become disheartened by the state of the Church. Or, rather, by the state of souls that make up the Church.

Those who form their image of the Catholic Church only from their online activities see a great deal of hope, and indeed, there is! However, the active, joyful, and even sometimes contentious drama of the online "St. Blog's Parish" doesn't even come CLOSE to comparing to the dynamics of the average real-life Catholic Church right down the road from you.

I say this with a very heavy heart. So often, for example, I will ask groups of people, or individuals about this or that very popular and well-known Catholic devotion. I receive in return, blank stares. Parents come up to me to complain that they pay for the Church to raise their children in the Faith and become very offended at being informed that the Church has always held that parents are the primary educators of their children and the Church, or rather, those hired (and hopefully qualified) to teach are there to AID them, not take over and turn their children into little Stepford Catholics.

Faith is learned in the home; it is reinforced and elevated through Mass and through religious education so that it may be better lived out every moment of every day. 

When I first began in parish work, I was quite the little idealist.

Well, I think it's time to admit that my last shred of idealism has been completely demolished. Quite honestly, I'm surprised it lasted this long.

I used to love public speaking and when I began in my parish job, I went to work with enthusiasm, anticipating (quite idiotically and naively, actually) that those members of the parish who came to mandatory meetings might actually want to be there and look forward to learning more about their faith. (HA!)

Certainly, there are some who do fit that description, but there are far more who are there but don't really care, and others who are quite openly hostile and disrespectful, not just of the presenter, but of others who are also present.

I now dread each and every time I have to get up in front of a group of adults and teach. It doesn't get easier to deal with hostility and juvenile behavior of adults. Quite honestly, I would rather present to a group of angry, hormone-unbalanced middle schoolers than a group of adults with even one of  whom has taken on the persona of her own hostile teenage self. (And you know, it's never the guys who are openly hostile in a parish: it's the women.)

I was really praying about this yesterday, and after a speaking engagement, afterwards as well. I returned home from work last night so disheartened and frustrated I sincerely considered turning in my resignation and casting it all to the wind.

Thankfully, although I do sometimes consider such crazy things, I don't tend to act upon them knowing that, quite honestly, it is pondering out of emotion and not out of reason, and certainly not making a decision from prayer!

To prayer I went, and, there, I was immediately chastised back to my senses. 

In the Adoration chapel, when considering my change of heart with regard to the joy I no longer find in teaching adults, I  once again had to consider the nature of what I am doing. When I taught RCIA, I was teaching a group of people who wanted to be there. Even if they weren't sure about wanting to become Catholic, they had a sincere interest in learning. Their entire outlook was one of good will, and even on points of disagreement, they asked questions and looked for clarification.

Then, upon working in a parish, I learned very quickly that although there are many people of good will and a charitable outlook, there are all too many who simply don't care. They are not open to receiving the message of the Gospel, they don't know or care to know why the Sacraments are important, and the response they send, loud and clear is, "This is not my affair; I'm paying others to do this, don't bother me by talking about Jesus."

And there, in that contemplation of reality, is where Jesus "spoke" to me, reminding me of His own experience of speaking to the crowds. How many times have I read, or heard proclaimed from the pulpit, the fact that crowds tried to stone Jesus, that they rejected Him, heckled Him, walked away, and returned only to beat Him to a pulp and crucify Him?

"Why should YOU be any different?"  He asked me.

Why, indeed.

Have I not professed to love Jesus with all my heart and soul, and profess to desire to follow Him?  Have I not written on this very blog, over and over again, that following Him is a sacrifice and in order to do so, we must join our own bloody footprints with His? Are we not called to unite our sufferings with His....especially when we are participating in His work on earth?

Before I went to bed last night I read more of "The Imitation of Mary", and it was as if these chapters were exactly meant for me as I passed through that darkness of near-despair last night.

"If you carry your cross impatiently, you only make it heavier, and add evil to evil. 

The way of the cross is the way to heaven....unhappy are those Christians who turn to their own ruin what is intended for their salvation! They are like the thief at Christ's side on Calvary who blasphemed.

We often implore heaven to free us of our crosses, but we do not know what we are asking (cf. Mt20,22), for these crosses are a copious source of merit for us.

Where will you find greater fruits of holiness and surpassing virtue than in the shadow of the cross on Calvary?

Oh, yes, that was meant for me to read last night. But there was more:

What a joy to be judged worthy of sharing Jesus' sufferings in a special degree!

A disciple is perfect when he becomes like his teacher (cf. Lk6,40). Jesus, our teacher, whose perfections we must try to imitate, endured the greatest tribulations.

There are few perfect souls that have not been through some hard test.

In practicing the virtues which involve suffering we show God a more generous love than we do in the active virtues. 

My God, great wrongs, imprisonments, or long cruel illnesses need not always be the lot of Your saints, but You have at least prepared other crosses for them which may not seem so terrible but which serve to make them die to themselves.

I wish I could reproduce these pages for you, for each and every word struck me like a sword to the core of my soul, chastising me for my unfaithfulness, reminding me of the cross I had willingly accepted, and yet, desiring to cast away upon deciding a bit arbitrarily it was just too heavy these days.

What I realized most profoundly, though, was this:  Jesus went to the Cross for each and every soul, personally. We all go to Him for mercy and forgiveness, we all sin, doing violence to Him in choosing to rupture our relationship with Him in favor of some shiny bauble here on earth, or even worse, out of our own self-love.

In my rebellion last night, essentially what I did when I complained to Our Lord, was to tell him, "These souls aren't worth it. They are not worth my discomfort. I am not willing to bleed for them."

And that's when, interiorly, I looked upon the Cross, and understood what I was doing. By turning away from those I have been called to serve at this time in my life, I am turning away from Christ Himself, I am rejecting all the mercy I have received from Him, and I am refusing to show His own mercy and Divine Charity to others.

I am ashamed. Deeply, deeply ashamed.

So it is that this unworthy servant will return to work, carry this cross, and remember that all I suffer, all we who work in parishes suffer, is a direct participation in the Sacrifice at Calvary.

Thank you, Jesus.