Witness

by | Jun 30, 2006 | main

Note: I thought I’d try to transcribe what I said that night(May 3, 2006). It won’t be exact, but I’d like to capture the ideas while they are still within reach. Warning: this is LONG.

Life is a journey. Faith, too, is a journey.

When I was about 17 or so, I found myself sitting on an uncomfortable – possibly picket – fence. I needed to make a choice. I had been taken, or gone willingly to church all my life, but it was time: make this faith my own, or own up to being a non-believer and walk away. The fence wound up being more uncomfortable than the idea of choosing, so I decided (in a very cowardly way) to take Christianity as my own. This, of course, in my mind meant that I could walk away later if it didn’t work out. [ha! give God an inch and She’ll take that and seep through any other cracks you leave open]

As that walk was getting into full gear, I came away to college at Auburn. A friend in my dorm invited me to go with her over to the Catholic Student Center [hearafter referred to simply as “The Center”] at St. Michael’s. They were planning a coffee house (ok, so I’m giving hints about my age now). My first face to face encounter with a Catholic priest occurred that evening. His name was Bud, and he taught me to play the spoons. I had been to Christmas midnight mass with friends in high school, and I did have several friends who were Catholic, but I’d never really been this close to it.

There was no immediate change in my directions. I was a college freshman who dabbled in Campus Crusade, sang with the Methodist College Choir, became the first woman to show up at local Church of God in slacks (Rev. Sutton claims they were “hot pants” – shorts) on a Sunday morning, and went to mass ocasionally. However, by my sophomore year the world looked different to me. I was sitting on the grass, up by the fig tree near the Center and, if God speaks words, then She spoke that day: “you’re going to join the Catholic Church.” Scary. No I wasn’t. You’ve got the wrong girl here. (or ala Moses: “not me Lord, take Aaron.”)

My personal observation is that while protestant christians seem to have relatively little emotional difficulty moving between protestant denominations, the leap to “Mother Church” is one that is SCARY. One must give up bashing Papists and begin to understand honoring Mary (I’ll not say “praying to Mary” – see “Truly Our Sister”), and accept that communion [Eucharist] is infinitely more powerful than you ever thought. Hold it – that last item, about Eucharist, and mass, was probably the hook that reeled me in. I couldn’t quite explain it, or even totally accept it, but I KNEW that these Catholics were on to something: there’s a lot more happening at mass than meets the eye. God and man at table are sat down.

And so, I started Inquiry classes. These were the precursor to what we know today as RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults). The classes lasted 2 quarters. I went through them twice. Not once, twice. As the classes drew to a close, one had to meet with a priest (and/or sister) before going forward with joining the church. This is serious business. My first external battle was getting past 2 or 3 priests and 2 Trinitarian sisters in order to be allowed to come into the church.

Don’t get this wrong – they had valid concerns. My only close exposure to Catholicism was at St. Mike’s and believe me, St. Mike’s in the early 70’s bore little resemblance to the Church as a whole. They were concerned that I would graduate, discover the rest of the Catholic Church and go away again. In retrospect, a very valid concern. But, because of the power of the mass, I stood my ground, got the paperwork together so that I could be received and confirmed at the Easter Vigil.

All this is mentioned for 2 reasons: St. Michael’s was HOME. In my mind and heart it was Church – the Church. This place, the building and the memories and people associated with it = “Catholic Church.” Get it? HOME. And, whatever happened after that, I still knew that the reason for being Catholic was the Presence of Christ in the Eucharist.

I graduated and with a couple of detours, found my way to grad school in Hawaii where I met JP and got married. The wedding was in Florence, but the musicians and the priest, and many guests were from St. Michael’s. Sort of family from HOME.

Six months later found us in Tallahassee – and not really going to mass regularly – very hit or miss for the next few years. But, when we trekked to Auburn, the center of the visit was the crew at the Center, and St. Michael’s. Eventually, we got involved in a new parish in Tallahassee, and found ourselves raising children and attending mass and doing the music for mass in a movie theater.

After 8 or so years in Tallahassee, we moved to Auburn (well, for me, moved back to Auburn). Aaahh! HOME. It’s not easy to go home again in some respects, but it was good. And, soon we were involved in Parish life and I was home and pretty happy. In a couple of years, I was again involved in music. And still focused on St. Michael’s as The Church. My youngest child was baptised in this parish; all three of my children were confirmed at St. Michael’s.

But, I’ve seldom if ever felt like I really fit anywhere. Mostly, I feel like the odd duck – someone who doesn’t quite fit in. Even now – the night I gave this talk, the small group sharing pointed that out to me again: 3 people who were quite into some traditional Mary adoration – and there I am, needing to share about my reading “Truly Our Sister” and feeling very in tune with feminist theology. So, with this church community it seems I was growing into the round peg trying to fit into a square hole. Mind you, a round peg can be shoved into a square hole if the square hole it large enough – but there will be gaps in the corners; and a square peg can have its corners ripped away until it is small enough to be shoved into a round hole (or if the round hole is large enough – but again, there will be great gaps.)

At one point I remember questioning what the confirmation class was being taught. At another point, I was so distressed with some of what was happening in CCD classes that I no longer sent one of my children, but tried to work with him at home.

There are those [in this room] who knew that I was hurting – I felt under attack. I even received “hate mail” – anonymous notes about a mal-formed conscience. It seemed that there were those who thought that I was not holy enough – that I did not hold the Host, the Eucharist in proper esteem. I’m pretty sure that in some circles I was branded a heretic.

When I realized that I had to look elsewhere, it was rather like leaving home as a teenager. It was painful to go, and more painful not to. The overt conflicts were there – the anger, the frustration, the confrontation with a certain member of the clergy. This church, this building was home, and I had to somehow let it go and set out to find some other place.

I found my way over to Opelika one Saturday evening. Those of you who know me at all know that music is a tremendously important part of worship, of liturgy to me. And you might even realize that I don’t often opt for a Saturday evening mass over a Sunday morning one. Some things are just right. So, here I was, alone at a Saturday evening mass, in a nearby, but different town, at a mass where the priest was leading the acapella singing (and enthusiastic participation on the part of the congregation was not really present).

There have been perhaps 3 times in my life where I have had the distinct sense that there was an unseen entity present. One was the above-mentioned ocasion of realizing that I was very likely going to join the Catholic Church. Another was in confession. And finally, this evening in Opelika when I returned to my seat after communion. I couldn’t see anyone in that pew, but it felt like when I sat down that someone, Jesus no doubt, but his arm around be and said quietly, “Welcome home.” I knew that I would be changing my home parish to St. Mary’s. I didn’t know exactly when, or how, or even if my husband or family would follow. But, I knew it was to be. And there was no music.

And so, my journey began anew. A new community, a new building, a new way of looking at things, a new set of relationships. I wish I could say it was really easy to turn on my heel and walk. It wasn’t. It hurt. I hurt. In some ways, it was less like the teenager leaving, and more like a death or divorce. It took more than 2 years after I finally made the break for me to be able to walk back into the church building at St. Michaels. There were times when I would get right up to the door and not be able to go in.

I know that I hurt other people – those who didn’t understand. Those who, not without reason, may have felt that my walking another way was a rejection of them. Those who asked, when some of the parish staff changed, if I was coming back and were probably caught up short when my response was a quiet, but adamant “No.” I wish it could have been done differently, but I’m not sure that was possible. For any pain I have caused with respect to this, I am sorry.
I still find myself on a separate path. But I have learned. I have learned that my Church is not a building, or even a particular community. I have learned that while every parish is a part of the Church, no parish is The Church. In many ways, I lost my parish and found my church.

My formation has been shaped by my continued exposure to the Vincentians (the priests, the Daughters of Charity, the SVDP Society). Funny – I came into the church in large part because of exposure to some Vincentian priests. St. Michael’s was established by the Vincentians. But, it wasn’t until I left my St. Michael’s home that I began to learn more about Vincent de Paul. This room where we sit was built as the St. Louise Cenacle. And not until I was having to break my ties that l learned who St. Louise was. I managed to leave this church, and learn that truly “[any]where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I also.” I have pushed myself away from one community and learned that we live this Christian Life fully only in community.

And so, the journey continues. I’ll probably never quite fit anywhere. And that’s actually OK. Probably a sign that I am attempting to follow the path laid out for me – a path that crosses the paths of others, and even shares some of the way. I guess I’m beginning to appreciate Vincent’s observation that “God draws straight with crooked lines.”

¡Ultreya!

Point of Light

by | Jun 18, 2006 | main

Thursday morning a friend loaned me a CD with a part of Karen Armstrong’s “The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness” on it. I had never used the cd player in my current car, but I stuck it in an found myself listening every time I got in the car for the rest of the day. She is telling of part of her own journey – and at the point where this reading begins, she is very much a non-believer, finding herself coming close to the apostle Paul as she is doing a documentary on him. After reading the reviews, I believe this is either the end, or near the end of the book.
What spoke to my heart were her observations about the common truths expressed by major religions world wide. The understated thesis that God in some way does not exist, precisely because we are limited in our concept of existence. She spoke of a personalized God – molded in our image as causing division.

Back in the 70’s I had a catechism – the Dutch bishops, I believe had constructed it. It was a source book for our classes when I came into the Catholic Church. It had a section on the common themes of major religions. It made sense to me. I read/hear the words of Jesus in the Gospels: I have other sheep, not of this flock; Whatsoever you do to the least of my people, this you do unto me; The golden rule of do unto others as you would have them do unto you; These words challenge us to accept all people, to treat others with kindness and compassion, and to understand that kindness and compassion based on our own experiences. I had not read the Koran nor the holy books of other religions, but, I have dabbled a bit in trying to understand them, and these sorts of truths seem pretty universal.

Fast forward to Saturday evening mass. I was covering for another musician who had gone home to see her dad for Father’s Day weekend. Time rolls around for the homily, and Marty begins with explaining some of his passion for Texas History. “Remember the Alamo!” – what were they remembering and why? And, on this feast of the Body and Blood of Christ, he turned us to Remembering. At the end of the words of institution, we always hear “Do this in memory of me” – Remembering, he said, involves taking a past event and bringing it to the present. And this remembering must call us to be changed, call us to some sort of action.

At this point, as I read over what I have written, the 2 may not seem related. But, in my fuzzy little head and fearful heart these themes are twisted into one knot. My qualms about the proscriptions of the institutional church fall away as I listen once again to the mass – and hear the call to remember the source of all this institution. I remember, and bring to life in my own life, the love, the compassion, the community of the people who walked with Jesus. I remember the Love of God that passes all understanding. I begin to see more clearly “I am the way the truth and the life” – there is no set path, we must each make our own by walking the Way. It is OK, even right that I find myself walking a solitary path.

Wish I were better at putting this all into words.

Witness – 1

by | May 3, 2006 | main

So, I’m the witness speaker at Ultreya tomorrow night. Which brings to light the question: What am I a witness to or for?

I have witnessed the power of my group – my four sisters (well – ok, one moved away and now we are four total). We gather for breakfast and coffee every week to review our week and put it into focus. This generally involves laughter, deep discussion, sharing and coaxing ourselves into be aware of how God/Jesus has been present in our day to day activities. Or how we have both succeeded and failed at walking the Way.

Wednesday mornings help me to understand and believe that “where 2 or more are gathered in My name, there am I also.” Recent weeks have found us chewing on what it means to be created in the image and likeness of God – and the responsibility of be God in this world. My friend, Amanda, thought I was a bit off when I proclaimed that I believed that each of us has the potential to be Christ until she heard a priest assert that we are all gods (image and likeness, here we go). I had never been struck with the awesome responsibility of that idea until it made her uncomfortable.

Peeling off another layer

by | Apr 26, 2006 | main

Another layer of the proverbial onion started peeling off today. I’m not sure if I went digging, or just had some heat applied that caused old hurts to bubble to the surface. but it seems that I must look a bit deeper and try to let healing come to some very old hurts. These things need to be in the past, and quit bubbling up in the present.

A person well versed in Spiritual Direction once taught me that one can’t just forgive and forget. One must remember, walk back through the situation and remember in order to be able to forgive. Then, maybe you forget, or maybe you don’t. But you don’t forgive without remembering.

One problem I seem to have with that is that often it seems that I only remember the emotion – and have blocked what actually caused it. That makes real remembering a tough project. Today I managed to walk back through some situations, remember some details, and begin to understand why there is a lack of trust on my part. Got to talk this out, so I can put that behind me and allow the trust to grow in the present. Those kleenex can go to better use for a cold rather than tears that seep out when I hurt. Don’t need to carry the baggage… of course I still have to put it down, and I’m still hanging on the handle just yet.

It feels so good when you stop

by | Mar 11, 2006 | main

That is my husband’s take on both head banging and jogging… and it seems to be true of hurting in any form.

Of late, it seems that I am seeing a more gentle, open side of my husband. He’s been talking more, he seems to take things less seriously — or at more with acceptance, rather than resignation. And I don’t know what’s happening. Could it simply be the new son-in-law, and soon to be daughter-in-law? or the potential of becoming a grandparent? Or is it reading/praying the readings in the Magnificat each morning?

I just don’t know… is it me? am I finally able to see this side of him?

Whatever, I am realizing how badly I hurt for a long, long time. And when the hurt starts going away steadily, then Wow! One begins to realize how it stayed in place for so long.

Is this a healing? Is this what Jesus promised? I learn to forgive, even a little, and get healed in the process? I learn to fire up my boundary defenses, and then I can open them up a bit? What is clear is that I now see that for a long time the only emotion I could sense was anger, and now I can begin to sense joy, happiness, a bit of love.

Someone outside of me will have to diagnose whether my sense of fear and anger was a bit of paranoia, or something more grounded in fact. I know that not feeling afraid is a good place to be. I know that I was hurting a lot longer and a lot deeper than I knew at the time. And, that the healing seems to be very much like that old image of peeling an onion. Some days, though, I’m not sure I want to take off another layer.