I have to write about it. Why? Because it's out there, seeping into the culture. Because it is most popular where I live (NY, NJ, PA, FL and MN.) Because women are collectively stating that men need not apply. Because I AM woman - hear me roar.
There is a certain need in every life for fantasy. What would Ignatian spirituality be without imagination, for example? How boring would our humanity be without it? I have been reading fantasy of some sort or another since the first time I walked through a wardrobe into a snowy wood, and the day I vanished by trying on a ring.
I understand that women work hard - at home and in the workplace. That women have been fighting the uphill battles of glass ceilings and loads of laundry for decades if not centuries. I know that fantasy provides an escape to a world of wonder that helps us deal with an uncertain, if not cruel at times, world of reality. And I know that fiction is fiction and fact is fact.
But our appetites for fiction feed our factual world. I don't believe that I am ever going to be able to put my feet in the sand and become a rooted tree. But in considering nature in this way, I perhaps respect trees a little more, embrace their gift, their shade. It makes me consider the specialness of the real world, and acknowledge what is fantastic.
When the appetites of women around the US and the world turn to bondage, sadism, masochism and punishment as a means of escape, the world must be dark indeed. This new affront to the dignity of woman and the value of the body and the well-being of the human person, this novel idea that turns sexuality into something secret and useful and a matter of contract is called 50 Shades of Grey.
I am not going to read this book (or the 2 to follow), primarily because I do not want to fund this book. I hate writing a response to things I have not personally explored. So I am going to say up-front that this is rumor, hearsay, and conjecture when it comes to the factual plot lines of this new book for women. But my sources are the NY Times and Fox News reviews, as well as a couple of well-placed blogs. They pretty much all share the same basic information, and that is enough. My reflections on the nature of the book, are not just hearsay, but will be based on the truth about the human person, not some fantasy.
Some women laud this book about a young woman who signs a contract with a man allowing him to stalk, rape and strike her as part of a world of sexual fantasy. One middle aged woman suggests it is "very romantic" and some feminists seem to agree that anything that helps women discuss sexuality is something they are ""all for." The fact that this sexual aggression is not considered rape because the woman has signed away her sexual rights via contract is, one could argue, merely an academic point. Many, many of those commenting on the books call the sexual relationship "near rape" or "rape-ish".
The take in the New York Times review includes claims that reading the book "makes you feel sexy again" perhaps speaks more to its popularity than first blush of deviant behavior would. The reviewer makes the additional point that women are feeling more free to indulge in this written porn because tablets and hand-held readers allow for an anonymity once impossible. In other words, while you're pushing your three year old on a swing, you can be reading about a woman being sexually aroused by being tied up and hit with a riding crop. Perhaps you can even manage to pay attention to your child in the meantime...
Those who praise the book defend this "sex contract" for BDSM because it has rules which are "safe, sane, and consensual" says the Fox News reviewer. But issues of sanity aside, is this really what women want? The books are flying off the shelves and through cyberspace... what is the attraction, really?
Proposition #1: American women are so desperate for true empowerment, and encouragement, and being valued for their own sake so foreign a concept that any kind of engagement is a palatable substitute. What I am suggesting is that the women who finally "feel sexy again" should be asking why they ever stopped feeling that way in the first place. Have we trained our men to respond only to the advances of whores and deviants, so that sexual attention, even in the marriage bed, can only happen with the aid of riding crops or demeaning words? Have women so forgotten their own feminine power that they are willing to risk their dignity to satisfy their craving for attention? As a teacher of mine once said, women sometimes prefer to be abused than ignored.
I think shows like Sex in the City have driven this idea home, teaching us that relationships are what you want to make of them, that only sex really satisfies, and that any modern woman knows that she has to put herself out there and take what she can get. Right? No kidding, folks, the seven hundred dollar shoes are a metaphor. They're shiny and pretty and what you want, but the pain and orthopedic disasters are going to be epic. We've been trying to redefine female empowerment either as a) the same as male empowerment or b)an endless stream of pretty things and STDs, where abortions are a sad necessity and children are something to add to the million dollar decor. Really?
Proposition #2: Women have become so alienated from their own bodies that they have to imagine a world of fear and pain in order to feel anything. We know it's true- most American women couldn't begin to explain their own cycles, when they are fertile, whether their moods have anything to do with hormonal shifts or how much ice cream they ate last night. Most women are not taught that they can manage cramps with anything other than drugs that bear side effects such as clots, heart disease or infertility... and if not connected to their own bodies, then how can they understand not only what is pleasurable, but how to ask for it? (That last article is pretty strightfoward, folks...)
And in a world where women have been ridiculed for feeling, have been passed over in the workplace because they are "emotional," even in religous work, it makes some sense that this desensitization of women is so widespread that only violent sex might knock it out of us.
Proposition #3: We don't understand the beauty of sexual union. It is possible, just possible that we still think sex is something we "have" to do to keep a spouse happy, or to keep him from cheating. Or we think sex is something that is great while it lasts, but that's just for newlyweds. Or we think that sex is fun but frivolous, or something that relieves stress, or something that brings pleasure however you can get it.
Sex is first and foremost an act of self giving love. If it isn't, you're doing it wrong. Human sexuality is more than animal instinct because we are more than animals. If we are made in the image of God, then our very bodies display this image - and as such, our bodies joined together tell a different story than one of simple give and take. Sex is really about give and give, receive and receive. This is why the clamoring for tales of use and abuse is so disturbing and, ultimately, so degrading to women in general. In this novel, sex is being twisted to satisfy, perhaps both the man and the woman's immediate psychological impulse. But the satisfaction itself is twisted. His comes through domination and aggressiveness, hers from submission and by giving up her own will.
It astonishes me that women find this attractive. I would guess many of these are the same good Christian women who balk at the Scriptural reading on "wives being submissive to their husbands"? I do not suggest their usual distain for the verses out of context is misplaced, not at all. But now we get to the heart of the matter. The call of Scripture is for men to love their wives with such reverence that they will die for them, give up their bodies for them, surrender for them. The call is for women to allow this, to receive the gift of their husband's body and to embrace his love in service to her.
The twisted folly of S&M is a meeting of unequals, who gain some kind of high from denigrating another, or in the act of being used. This submission is rightly defined as a surrender of will, as a negation of self-worth. This submission is frought with the danger of losing one's own mindfulness, one's own passions, one's own identity by being dominated by another.
Sex as it was intended is rather a uniting of wills, a reverence for the other's body, a recognition of value, a gift.
Proposition #4: Woman: you are beautifully, wonderfully made. You have a right and a responsibility to be the image of God, to be sexually whole and live in freedom and truth. Buying books that glorify male dominance, animal behavior, or the perverse "excitement" of being beaten, raped, and overtaken decries your dignity and your value.
Your sexuality does not arise from the "inner goddess" of this novel. You are already image of God in your physical BODY as well as your everlasting soul. You have the power to choose life, to bring life, to bring pleasure, to gift love. There are no simple answers to a perfect sex life, but making yourself less than you are, taking pleasure in abuse - that resets the world to a place where women have no choice to be submissives to domineering bastards. These are your dollars at work here, women - spend them wisely.
Maybe the male reviewer who insisted that this novel left him "feeling confused, bothered, and seriously doubting whether or not I understood what was going on" had no reason to butt in, as the feminists suggest. But I think I may just stand with him. After all this history of being belittled, undervalued and disregarded, women finally have a voice where we can say together that we will no longer be objectified - where we have our own genius to share, and hearts and minds of courage and truth that can change the world. Let's not- plllleeeeassse not strap a leash around our own necks and accept any human being- or tolerate even the fictional possiblity of one- as our "master".
(p.s. to the "feminists" out there- be proud of me - I'm Comfortable talking about my sexuality!)
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Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Friday, April 20, 2012
Catholic Chicks and Cookies
Sometimes love is a ginormous cookie bigger than your head.
Last night I spent several hours with the beautiful women of genius who make up our parish young adult women's small faith group. When the group first started, we were reading and studying, sharing our insights about other people's devotionals or Church documents, or spiritual books on virtue. We have had meaningful conversations about discernment, our relationship to Mary, what it means to be feminine and Catholic.
True to the method of the Holy Spirit, there is not so much of a "goal" (other than continued holiness and sisterhood) but more of an opportunity to receive the Spirit, to become more open to God through one another, to share our collective womanhood and femininity and Catholic faith. And as a result, the conversation has, in many ways, become more and more real. I suppose each of us brings our own ingredients to the recipe, and together we make room for the Spirit to be made manifest in our lives.
It's not that there aren't still walls and guards and such. We don't meet often, and we are all tired from long work weeks, dealing with boyfriends and husbands and children and dogs... But we start at a commmon place, and we share as generously as we can. Even when it comes to sharing a big chocolate chip cookie iced with pink roses. The cookie is certainly symbolic of the way we share life - and certainly bodes of the sweeter parts, enhanced, as all baking is, by the salt and the bitter vanilla that make the chocolate pop.
I have to say that last night was tremendous, because we spent a lot of time laughing. Just being able to kick off the concerns of the world and laugh together is a beautiful gift. And as we reflected at one point on how our little group has changed and evolved, all of us agreed that no matter what we do on a given night, just knowing there is a safe place where we can be with other Catholic women, where we can share even mundane events in that context, gives us hope, and joy, and ultimately increases our faith.
It is such a gift to find women like these - from diverse backgrounds - heck, we're from four different states originially - but who all share two common things: femininity and Catholicism. In the world that challenges womanhood, motherhood, marriage, beauty - I wouldn't want to be in another place. We Catholic chicks need to stick together, if only so that connected, together, we can make room for the Spirit to grow.
Last night I spent several hours with the beautiful women of genius who make up our parish young adult women's small faith group. When the group first started, we were reading and studying, sharing our insights about other people's devotionals or Church documents, or spiritual books on virtue. We have had meaningful conversations about discernment, our relationship to Mary, what it means to be feminine and Catholic.
True to the method of the Holy Spirit, there is not so much of a "goal" (other than continued holiness and sisterhood) but more of an opportunity to receive the Spirit, to become more open to God through one another, to share our collective womanhood and femininity and Catholic faith. And as a result, the conversation has, in many ways, become more and more real. I suppose each of us brings our own ingredients to the recipe, and together we make room for the Spirit to be made manifest in our lives.
It's not that there aren't still walls and guards and such. We don't meet often, and we are all tired from long work weeks, dealing with boyfriends and husbands and children and dogs... But we start at a commmon place, and we share as generously as we can. Even when it comes to sharing a big chocolate chip cookie iced with pink roses. The cookie is certainly symbolic of the way we share life - and certainly bodes of the sweeter parts, enhanced, as all baking is, by the salt and the bitter vanilla that make the chocolate pop.
I have to say that last night was tremendous, because we spent a lot of time laughing. Just being able to kick off the concerns of the world and laugh together is a beautiful gift. And as we reflected at one point on how our little group has changed and evolved, all of us agreed that no matter what we do on a given night, just knowing there is a safe place where we can be with other Catholic women, where we can share even mundane events in that context, gives us hope, and joy, and ultimately increases our faith.
It is such a gift to find women like these - from diverse backgrounds - heck, we're from four different states originially - but who all share two common things: femininity and Catholicism. In the world that challenges womanhood, motherhood, marriage, beauty - I wouldn't want to be in another place. We Catholic chicks need to stick together, if only so that connected, together, we can make room for the Spirit to grow.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
When I Grow Up I Wanna Be A Theologian...
Yeah, I don't know anyone who says that either. I suppose I was on the right track as a kid though. The two things I wanted to do before I can remember thinking about it was teach and write. This desire continued to color my life. (There was a very brief moment where I considered marine biology, but that was primarily due to Madeline L'Engle, and the amazing worlds she painted. Ultimately, it was island life, not science, that was the appeal...)
Due to the counter-culture I inhabited, though, I became convinced by the ripe old age of sixteen that academia was the wide road to hell, and college was a pipe dream. I'm not getting into it. It was weird and wrong, but part of the culture as I experienced it.
So I continued to excel at school, testing, and scholarships, but took a year off after high school (during which I learned to speak German on my own) and on return from travels in Europe, spent two years trying to teach and go to college through the generosity of my aunt. But without the support I very much needed, I walked away.
Amazingly, I come from a long line of well-educated women. My great Aunt Margaret graduated with the first class of Columbia University to include women. My Aunt Mary attended Harvard with full scholarships, and is an internationally respected math professor. Many of my female cousins hold advanced and doctoral degrees in music, math, and physics. But somehow it was still acceptable to just get work, without real attention to vocation.
My husband, my dearest closest male friend in my early twenties, changed all that. He knew there was an ember burning in my heart. And he did everything he could to encourage and nuture the flame. I completed my undergrad degree, and felt compelled to learn more. I began to attend local conferences and courses, and then, with my pastor's encouragement added, went on for my MA in pastoral theology.
That's when the fire was truly flamed. I discovered a knack for theological thinking. It seemed like a natural thing that everyone did. I was assured it was not.
And then, just exactly a year ago during Easter week, over lunch with one of my former theology professors, whom I very much respect, the Holy Spirit whispered. It sounded like a very intelligent woman saying "so what about the PhD?" ... but I assure you, it was the HS.
I need to interrupt myself to explain that during the few years prior, I had been influenced by a beautiful book (and easy read) by Matthew Kelly called "The Rhythm of Life". It's not the kind of thing i usually pick up, but I was giving it to my graduating seniors, and read it myself first. Within lies a two page spread detailing famous people and the ages at which they made their most notable accomplishments. As many were over 40 as were under. And the main point of the book - that holiness is becoming the Best Version of Myself - well, that was so counterintuitive, and changed my life. I had been taught, perhaps not so much in words but by observation, that holiness was being just like someone else. It was aiming to be another saint, another Mother Theresa, another woman with a quiet and gentle spirit. It was repressing my Self, my intellect, my passion and enthusiasm, my language, my desires.
Add to that book the Theology of the Body, which I had begun to study, and found such healing in all the beauty of John Paul II's reflections on the feminine... on being image of God, no less than men, on being a gift, beloved, and the joy of being - never the same - but unique and unrepeatable!
So after the prior year of discernment to move on from youth ministry, the words at lunch wouldn't leave my heart. And we've been planning and praying, hoping and crying, longing and patient ever since.
Yesterday I received a letter from UD accepting me into their PhD program for theology. In the same envelope, I received a letter saying I had been waitlisted for the assistantship/funding.
I don't know how it's going to work. We own a house we bought when everyone was buying. It's not worth much, and the mortgage still looms. But if our little family of two ever had a motto, it is that "God Provides." He always has. And it has NEVER been the way or means by which I expected Him to.
I am astonished and touched by the dozens of "likes" and well wishes facebook has afforded in the last twenty hours. My personality is something like: teacher with artist's temperament. I sometimes think I am All Alone. The support is beautiful. And I am so, so grateful to all those of you who have been hoping and praying for me, listening to my whispered hope, agonizing with me when my patience was stretched thinner than I thought possible. And of course, my dear sweet husband never doubted, dried my tears (many times!), soothed me to sleep against the chaos of my mind.
So I beg you, my readers and my friends, to continue to pray for us as we continue to step forward in faith, that the finances will work out, that we can remain open to His gift, so that there are no obstacles to following the call I believe I have been given. Please pray for us. We are so grateful.
And Godwilling, in the years to follow, I will be able to continue to speak with you and for us, that I can use my gifts to help heal a wounded church, open the doors for the Holy Spirit, find ways to bring hope to the human spirit, and be the gift I have always been meant to be.
No ballet dancer or fire fighter here. But maybe, just maybe, a theologian.
Due to the counter-culture I inhabited, though, I became convinced by the ripe old age of sixteen that academia was the wide road to hell, and college was a pipe dream. I'm not getting into it. It was weird and wrong, but part of the culture as I experienced it.
So I continued to excel at school, testing, and scholarships, but took a year off after high school (during which I learned to speak German on my own) and on return from travels in Europe, spent two years trying to teach and go to college through the generosity of my aunt. But without the support I very much needed, I walked away.
Amazingly, I come from a long line of well-educated women. My great Aunt Margaret graduated with the first class of Columbia University to include women. My Aunt Mary attended Harvard with full scholarships, and is an internationally respected math professor. Many of my female cousins hold advanced and doctoral degrees in music, math, and physics. But somehow it was still acceptable to just get work, without real attention to vocation.
My husband, my dearest closest male friend in my early twenties, changed all that. He knew there was an ember burning in my heart. And he did everything he could to encourage and nuture the flame. I completed my undergrad degree, and felt compelled to learn more. I began to attend local conferences and courses, and then, with my pastor's encouragement added, went on for my MA in pastoral theology.
That's when the fire was truly flamed. I discovered a knack for theological thinking. It seemed like a natural thing that everyone did. I was assured it was not.
And then, just exactly a year ago during Easter week, over lunch with one of my former theology professors, whom I very much respect, the Holy Spirit whispered. It sounded like a very intelligent woman saying "so what about the PhD?" ... but I assure you, it was the HS.
I need to interrupt myself to explain that during the few years prior, I had been influenced by a beautiful book (and easy read) by Matthew Kelly called "The Rhythm of Life". It's not the kind of thing i usually pick up, but I was giving it to my graduating seniors, and read it myself first. Within lies a two page spread detailing famous people and the ages at which they made their most notable accomplishments. As many were over 40 as were under. And the main point of the book - that holiness is becoming the Best Version of Myself - well, that was so counterintuitive, and changed my life. I had been taught, perhaps not so much in words but by observation, that holiness was being just like someone else. It was aiming to be another saint, another Mother Theresa, another woman with a quiet and gentle spirit. It was repressing my Self, my intellect, my passion and enthusiasm, my language, my desires.
Add to that book the Theology of the Body, which I had begun to study, and found such healing in all the beauty of John Paul II's reflections on the feminine... on being image of God, no less than men, on being a gift, beloved, and the joy of being - never the same - but unique and unrepeatable!
So after the prior year of discernment to move on from youth ministry, the words at lunch wouldn't leave my heart. And we've been planning and praying, hoping and crying, longing and patient ever since.
Yesterday I received a letter from UD accepting me into their PhD program for theology. In the same envelope, I received a letter saying I had been waitlisted for the assistantship/funding.
I don't know how it's going to work. We own a house we bought when everyone was buying. It's not worth much, and the mortgage still looms. But if our little family of two ever had a motto, it is that "God Provides." He always has. And it has NEVER been the way or means by which I expected Him to.
I am astonished and touched by the dozens of "likes" and well wishes facebook has afforded in the last twenty hours. My personality is something like: teacher with artist's temperament. I sometimes think I am All Alone. The support is beautiful. And I am so, so grateful to all those of you who have been hoping and praying for me, listening to my whispered hope, agonizing with me when my patience was stretched thinner than I thought possible. And of course, my dear sweet husband never doubted, dried my tears (many times!), soothed me to sleep against the chaos of my mind.
So I beg you, my readers and my friends, to continue to pray for us as we continue to step forward in faith, that the finances will work out, that we can remain open to His gift, so that there are no obstacles to following the call I believe I have been given. Please pray for us. We are so grateful.
And Godwilling, in the years to follow, I will be able to continue to speak with you and for us, that I can use my gifts to help heal a wounded church, open the doors for the Holy Spirit, find ways to bring hope to the human spirit, and be the gift I have always been meant to be.
No ballet dancer or fire fighter here. But maybe, just maybe, a theologian.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Dolorosa
We were talking about all those Jesus movies that pop up around this time of year. Everyone has their favorites, and of course, the ones they abhor. There are so many varied portrayals of the holy story, from hippies in Godspell to John Wayne as the centurion. There is The Robe, The Greatest Story Ever Told, Jesus Christ Superstar, The Passion of the Christ and, of course, Jesus of Nazareth. I'm sure there are others. I remember as a young teenager seeing one movie with a scene where Jesus was basically playing volleyball with his disciples, and I totally loved it.
It's become a more recent interest of mine to notice how Mary is portrayed in such films, if at all. Often she is the stalwart, nearly silent mother. She rarely looks as I imagined her to be, though Gibson probably comes closest.
We were talking about Mary at the foot of the cross, and one of the folks having lunch with us mentioned how she is uncomfortable with the wailing Mary of the Zeffarelli mini-series, Jesus of Nazareth. This isn't just because of creative differences (and the overacting trends of the 1970s.) She wanted a "stoic" Mary, with broad, open arms, and a quiet and gentle spirit. You can imagine, I vehemetly disagreed. And the moms at the table were in my court - can you imagine a mother quietly accepting her child's death? Can you relate to a woman who watches her child tortured and killed, without emotion or anguish? Can you not hear the piercing, wailing cries of a mother who has to lose her son under such absolute and ignominious circumstances?...or the piercing, wailing cries of any mother's heart that is rent in pieces as she watches her child die?
Mary cannot have been porcelain at the crucifixion. Filled with the dynamism of the Holy Spirit, Mary could never have been a stoic.
This is the woman clothed in the sun, the one who "quenched the flame of error" and is "downfall of demons." (want more? check it out ) Can you tell me that this woman would have put aside her humanity at the foot of the cross? I cannot believe it. Inflamed with the passion of Christ's love, known in her womb in silence before His birth, inspired by the Holy Spirit, filled again and again with the glory of Heaven, and radically redeemed Woman, with all the gifts and graces, the emotions and heart, the mind and soul and even more - the blessed body of woman and mother - she had to have cried out against this offense against the body, this offense against God and man...
And I can hear her cries.
Because I have heard them in my lifetime. In my life.
My own cries of grief ring out in my mind and my memory, and if they even shadowed hers, my heart bleeds.
Mary is us. She stands for us. She weeps with us.
Reason enough, I think, to resist putting Mary far from us as an image carved in stone. Reminder not to make of her an idol, but understand her as sister, as mother. Her mother's heart embraces us and our wounds and our crosses. Her mother's heart is pierced by swords - seven swords - an infinite experience of pain and sorrow. I know her body responded to Christ's passion, perhaps before she was even clear on what she was seeing before her. Her eyes were full, perhaps she could hear her own screams before realizing from whence they came. Her heart pounded, and her breath grew thin.
And still in the amazing gift of her humanity, she stood by the cross, unwilling to abandon her son, choosing to love Him in her pain, to be steadfast in His need, ever faithful.
For us, courage. Courage to be women who are open to motherhood in all its forms, because motherhood is fraught with worry and hardship, alongside the joys. Courage to be people who unite our suffering to Christ's at the foot of the cross, without running in fear. Courage to see beyond the tears, and blood, and agony, to the resurrection that waits just beyond. And perhaps most of all, courage to FEEL, to be passionate, to long, and to burn for Heaven, like the woman clothed with the sun.
It's become a more recent interest of mine to notice how Mary is portrayed in such films, if at all. Often she is the stalwart, nearly silent mother. She rarely looks as I imagined her to be, though Gibson probably comes closest.
We were talking about Mary at the foot of the cross, and one of the folks having lunch with us mentioned how she is uncomfortable with the wailing Mary of the Zeffarelli mini-series, Jesus of Nazareth. This isn't just because of creative differences (and the overacting trends of the 1970s.) She wanted a "stoic" Mary, with broad, open arms, and a quiet and gentle spirit. You can imagine, I vehemetly disagreed. And the moms at the table were in my court - can you imagine a mother quietly accepting her child's death? Can you relate to a woman who watches her child tortured and killed, without emotion or anguish? Can you not hear the piercing, wailing cries of a mother who has to lose her son under such absolute and ignominious circumstances?...or the piercing, wailing cries of any mother's heart that is rent in pieces as she watches her child die?
Mary cannot have been porcelain at the crucifixion. Filled with the dynamism of the Holy Spirit, Mary could never have been a stoic.
This is the woman clothed in the sun, the one who "quenched the flame of error" and is "downfall of demons." (want more? check it out ) Can you tell me that this woman would have put aside her humanity at the foot of the cross? I cannot believe it. Inflamed with the passion of Christ's love, known in her womb in silence before His birth, inspired by the Holy Spirit, filled again and again with the glory of Heaven, and radically redeemed Woman, with all the gifts and graces, the emotions and heart, the mind and soul and even more - the blessed body of woman and mother - she had to have cried out against this offense against the body, this offense against God and man...
And I can hear her cries.
Because I have heard them in my lifetime. In my life.
My own cries of grief ring out in my mind and my memory, and if they even shadowed hers, my heart bleeds.
Mary is us. She stands for us. She weeps with us.
Reason enough, I think, to resist putting Mary far from us as an image carved in stone. Reminder not to make of her an idol, but understand her as sister, as mother. Her mother's heart embraces us and our wounds and our crosses. Her mother's heart is pierced by swords - seven swords - an infinite experience of pain and sorrow. I know her body responded to Christ's passion, perhaps before she was even clear on what she was seeing before her. Her eyes were full, perhaps she could hear her own screams before realizing from whence they came. Her heart pounded, and her breath grew thin.
And still in the amazing gift of her humanity, she stood by the cross, unwilling to abandon her son, choosing to love Him in her pain, to be steadfast in His need, ever faithful.
For us, courage. Courage to be women who are open to motherhood in all its forms, because motherhood is fraught with worry and hardship, alongside the joys. Courage to be people who unite our suffering to Christ's at the foot of the cross, without running in fear. Courage to see beyond the tears, and blood, and agony, to the resurrection that waits just beyond. And perhaps most of all, courage to FEEL, to be passionate, to long, and to burn for Heaven, like the woman clothed with the sun.
Salve and Salvation
My parents did their best to raise us in the precepts of the Church, but since it was a time of change, a few things fell through the cracks. The one that still affects me is my First Penance. For those of you who are not Catholic, we Catholics participate in a sacrament of healing - in which we confess the wrongs we have done and seek healing for our own woundedness. This is done in the presence of a priest and under the seal of confession, so that "what happens in the confessional stays in the confessional."
Usually the preparation for the sacrament of Reconciliation (penance) happens in second grade, prior to receiving First Communion (Eucharist). And way back when I was seven, the kids in the Catholic schools did just that. But for some crazy reason, the religious ed office in my parish, where all the public school kids (including me) were taught the faith, planned this event for fourth grade.
Well, wouldn't you know it - after third grade, my parents took me out of pulic school and enrolled me in Catholic school. So on that fall day in fourth grade, when I was lined up along the church aisle with my classmates to "go to confession," I was beyond clueless. Typical oldest child as I was, I was always hell bent on doing everything "right," so this lack of preparation sent me into a panic. I risked the teacher's wrath by whispering to the kids near me - what do I do?
To be very, very fair, the priest who sat with me in the confession room was patient and helpful and kind. Thanks be to God. It wasn't ever the actual sacrament that made me nervous - just everything leading up to it.
Do you know how hard it is to shake childhood "trauma"?
This is all just a long explanation and excuse as to why I find the sacrament of confession a hard choice to make. It's not that I haven't experienced grace and freedom. It's not that I have ever felt judged or chided. Absolutely not. But it's completely inconvenient, and those memories of just not knowing what to do still haunt me, just a little.
If you are at all like me, and Reconciliation seems like a nice idea, but you can go months and months without it, let me share something that changed my heart a bit on the subject.
I was taught (somehow) that this was a place where you go to list your sins, to apologize for the wrong you have done, to admit your sinfulness and be forgiven. And it is. But it is so, so much more.
Reconciliation, as its name suggests, is a sacrament of healing. It is that place in which we find consolation and strength. It is a place where our wounds can be healed - not just those we impose on ourselves and on the world - our impatience, our lack of love - no. It is a place where the wounds done to us can be healed. Seriously. The wounds done to us.
Many years ago, I had an amazing moment with a priest whom I greatly love and respect. I told him in the sacrament that I needed healing for all the wounds that a specific person in my life had caused me, and that I needed to be healed from the wounds that men in leadership had done to me all my life. I admit, I barely got the words out. But with these gaping wounds still sore, I could not find the strength to forgive. And I NEEDED to forgive, so that I could be whole.
A huge weight was lifted from my spirit. I found healing in that moment. Those men and those situations no longer had power over me.
Is there more work to be done in my life? Yes, of course - we are nothing if not creatures of small steps and infinite journeys. But after years of "going to confession," for the very first time I understood the grace. I was made free.
I'm not going to tell you I go to the sacrament as often as I should, or as often as I would like to. It's very hard to find the time, and to fit into the limited schedules our parishes usually offer for Reconciliation. That makes me really sad, to be honest, and it's something Mother Church needs to reconsider. But I will say my soul longs for the grace, the healing, the power to forgive and to be set free. And I wish you all that grace, that freedom.
Happy Holy Week.
Usually the preparation for the sacrament of Reconciliation (penance) happens in second grade, prior to receiving First Communion (Eucharist). And way back when I was seven, the kids in the Catholic schools did just that. But for some crazy reason, the religious ed office in my parish, where all the public school kids (including me) were taught the faith, planned this event for fourth grade.
Well, wouldn't you know it - after third grade, my parents took me out of pulic school and enrolled me in Catholic school. So on that fall day in fourth grade, when I was lined up along the church aisle with my classmates to "go to confession," I was beyond clueless. Typical oldest child as I was, I was always hell bent on doing everything "right," so this lack of preparation sent me into a panic. I risked the teacher's wrath by whispering to the kids near me - what do I do?
To be very, very fair, the priest who sat with me in the confession room was patient and helpful and kind. Thanks be to God. It wasn't ever the actual sacrament that made me nervous - just everything leading up to it.
Do you know how hard it is to shake childhood "trauma"?
This is all just a long explanation and excuse as to why I find the sacrament of confession a hard choice to make. It's not that I haven't experienced grace and freedom. It's not that I have ever felt judged or chided. Absolutely not. But it's completely inconvenient, and those memories of just not knowing what to do still haunt me, just a little.
If you are at all like me, and Reconciliation seems like a nice idea, but you can go months and months without it, let me share something that changed my heart a bit on the subject.
I was taught (somehow) that this was a place where you go to list your sins, to apologize for the wrong you have done, to admit your sinfulness and be forgiven. And it is. But it is so, so much more.
Reconciliation, as its name suggests, is a sacrament of healing. It is that place in which we find consolation and strength. It is a place where our wounds can be healed - not just those we impose on ourselves and on the world - our impatience, our lack of love - no. It is a place where the wounds done to us can be healed. Seriously. The wounds done to us.
Many years ago, I had an amazing moment with a priest whom I greatly love and respect. I told him in the sacrament that I needed healing for all the wounds that a specific person in my life had caused me, and that I needed to be healed from the wounds that men in leadership had done to me all my life. I admit, I barely got the words out. But with these gaping wounds still sore, I could not find the strength to forgive. And I NEEDED to forgive, so that I could be whole.
A huge weight was lifted from my spirit. I found healing in that moment. Those men and those situations no longer had power over me.
Is there more work to be done in my life? Yes, of course - we are nothing if not creatures of small steps and infinite journeys. But after years of "going to confession," for the very first time I understood the grace. I was made free.
I'm not going to tell you I go to the sacrament as often as I should, or as often as I would like to. It's very hard to find the time, and to fit into the limited schedules our parishes usually offer for Reconciliation. That makes me really sad, to be honest, and it's something Mother Church needs to reconsider. But I will say my soul longs for the grace, the healing, the power to forgive and to be set free. And I wish you all that grace, that freedom.
Happy Holy Week.
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