Today at church the sermon was about how our relationship with God is important, and we should focus on that, and on the mystery, rather than trying to know everything. TNTK (the need to know) is something that consumes us, and it can keep us from realizing that God is alive and wants to have a relationship with us. Although I sometimes think our relationship is pretty dysfunctional, I’ve been lucky enough not to lose sight of that.
It just made me think about what it is that God is telling me. I feel like part of my vocation – or maybe this is better described as a pipe-dream – is to somehow bring the fire and energy of charismatic worship together with a high liturgical tradition. I don’t want to feel rootless, I don’t want to lose the gestures. I love the tradition. But, at the same time, I go to Catholic churches and high liturgical services and I feel like…like so many people are just going through the motions, like there’s so little feeling in the moment, so little emotion, so little passion in the congregation. Obviously not everyone’s like that, but I can’t help feeling that people come alive afterward at coffee hour as if the Mass is a separate part of their day, totally solemn and rehearsed, somber, old, and familiar. I want to live the Gospel in every moment of my life (or try to, anyway).
I like the high tradition because I love to pray and I love church and Mass is like an hour long prayer for me. I want to pray with my whole body and all of my senses, I want to get lost in God, I want to respond authentically to overwhelming feelings of awe, joy, and sometimes even sadness or just, like, overfullness. I want there to be passion in the liturgy: we are praising God, why aren’t we more dynamic? Does everything we say have to be perfect beauty without emotion, flat, rushed? Why can’t we burst out into a smile? I just…I wish that somehow I could find a way to bring them together, the two halves of my life that sometimes seem so far apart.
I know at times I try to contain what I feel because for whatever reason I think it’s not appropriate. Is it appropriate to just raise your face and look up with your eyes closed when you experience beauty and evanescence? Is it okay to smile, maybe even to laugh? Sometimes I feel such joy welling up like tears, but one should not of course cry in church. During the consecration, I feel so overcome with awe and littleness, gratitude and unworthiness, but how can you express it? Can I put my head in my hands? Of course we can’t cry out, like ‘woohoo’ or something, but sometimes I secretly want to. Should I pray in church (an odd question I know), really pray, allow myself to just go up and see what’s behind, above, inside and around these walls? I feel like I don’t want to be conspicuous. But it also sucks that I feel I can only have long encounters with Mary in a church if I sneak in mid-day when there’s no one around. I guess that’s why when I was going to St. Pat’s for daily Mass I’d sometimes come in an hour early, to be by myself, to hear, to listen, to see and to feel what it is that God wants to reveal; a place of companionable silence, neither saying anything, just being as if time has stopped. Sometimes I move through the liturgy as if I’m in a bubble, there and not there, focused in something else but still seeing everything and being a part of it.
Is that normal? Am I normal? Sometimes I really do wonder. I long so badly just to be with God, a kind of desperation sometimes, for there to be nothing else and nothing left but me and Him. I want to feel safe enough to let my eyes flow over with tears and laughter spring up at the same time, this awe, this feeling of being carried away, the light and the voice, the feeling in my hands and my face, the sometimes searing pain and overwhelming despair and sadness. But I don’t know how to feel totally safe when the focus is on dignity and propriety. And I don’t know how to feel safe when the visceral aspects of worship are absent, truncated, simplified. I do not long for simple worship. I wonder if there is a place for me anywhere, if there ever will be, if I’ll ever find another person who understands what I experience and long for, someone whose world this is too.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
What's God Got To Do With It?
In relation to this post, the answer is ‘nothing.’ Partially because I’ve been a bad Christian recently, and mostly because I’ve been doing some insomnia-related reading, it’s now time for something completely different.
I’ve been reading a book called “The Body Project: An Intimate History of American Girls.” Among other things, it discusses the commercialization of every aspect of women’s bodies, from the intimate to the public, and the increasing pressures associated with that. The author largely blames marketing for the internalization of physical control (think diet instead of corset) and for the depersonalization of maturational milestones that used to be opportunities for discussion about femininity and motherhood, as well as the dissipated social umbrella that used to protect girls during a confusing time.
I thought that this would be an interesting read with little, if any, personal relevance. But it turns out no one can really escape the body project, mostly because we’re all lodged in the society that creates, executes and expects it. After all, these things are all things normal women do, and they are so ingrained that I think more people take them for granted as a reality than we think. After all, it’s normal for women to worry about the body in a variety of ways, is it not?
I started worrying about my body sometime in early high school. I went to an Italian school and I didn’t exactly fit into the ‘beautiful’ category because, well, I didn’t like really have boobs. Italian women are curvy. So. Since there was nothing I could do about it, I dressed in baggy clothes and wished for a day when affordable plastic surgery would be available. The book talks about boobs and the way women try to live up to that ideal in various historical eras, an ideal that is never exactly the same. Thankfully, the days of Marilyn Monroe are (somewhat) over, so big boobs are no longer the be-all and end-all of fashion. Victory!! At the time, my only consolation was that I didn’t have to worry about being chubby.
Anyway, so I worried about that until somewhere around 11th grade, when I realized that strategically cut sweaters could help me out. And I realized that I would never actually have surgery because, well, those things look heavy, and they’d probably get in the way.
By then, my self-confidence had expanded exponentially: it was bigger than me! Part of that was that I was kind of a ‘late bloomer,’ part of it was that I started enjoying my athleticism and the fact that I could probably kick someone to death if I wanted to (Irish dancer).A part of it was that, for some reason, I looked in a mirror one day and thought I was kind of cute. I suppose I’d never really looked at my face before.
Then, in a variety of ways, my body failed me, or maybe betrayed is a better way to describe it. I ended up becoming ill and losing a lot of my muscle weight while in the hospital, and my self-image has never quite recovered. I feel bad about not having rock-hard abs and strong legs and the ability to show off my physical control and expertise. I thin, I realized for the first time how integral my body was to my self understanding.
Over the years since then, I’ve gone through some pretty weird stuff attempting to regain my old self. I only went on one crazy diet: though effective (1,000 calories a day will do that to you), I was also quite dizzy and paranoid. I hate that. And anyway, whoever told me I had to eat that little food a day to maintain my body weight was clearly insane. Now, I try to keep up a fitness program of interval and strength training in order to be cardiovascularly healthy and to try and ensure good bone density (‘cause the alternative sucks).
I tell myself, Self, I’m being totally counter-cultural by going for healthiness instead of some aesthetic ideal. I like being strong (and anyway I have secret ulterior motives: ha!!). But then that book tells me that this is actually the new cultural ideal, so now I’m wondering if it really is someone else’s fantasy I’m chasing after. All I know is that I’m tired of being unhappy about my body, and that’s true regardless of the origin of my distress.
I told you this was totally not about God or religion or church. Although it was Corpus Christi yesterday…the Body of Christ was a real body after all, and is a real gift…perhaps what I need to learn is that my own body is a gift to me, and I should try to respect its boundaries and limits as much as I should try and make it the best it can be; that I should value it even, and perhaps especially, in its failings.
I’ve been reading a book called “The Body Project: An Intimate History of American Girls.” Among other things, it discusses the commercialization of every aspect of women’s bodies, from the intimate to the public, and the increasing pressures associated with that. The author largely blames marketing for the internalization of physical control (think diet instead of corset) and for the depersonalization of maturational milestones that used to be opportunities for discussion about femininity and motherhood, as well as the dissipated social umbrella that used to protect girls during a confusing time.
I thought that this would be an interesting read with little, if any, personal relevance. But it turns out no one can really escape the body project, mostly because we’re all lodged in the society that creates, executes and expects it. After all, these things are all things normal women do, and they are so ingrained that I think more people take them for granted as a reality than we think. After all, it’s normal for women to worry about the body in a variety of ways, is it not?
I started worrying about my body sometime in early high school. I went to an Italian school and I didn’t exactly fit into the ‘beautiful’ category because, well, I didn’t like really have boobs. Italian women are curvy. So. Since there was nothing I could do about it, I dressed in baggy clothes and wished for a day when affordable plastic surgery would be available. The book talks about boobs and the way women try to live up to that ideal in various historical eras, an ideal that is never exactly the same. Thankfully, the days of Marilyn Monroe are (somewhat) over, so big boobs are no longer the be-all and end-all of fashion. Victory!! At the time, my only consolation was that I didn’t have to worry about being chubby.
Anyway, so I worried about that until somewhere around 11th grade, when I realized that strategically cut sweaters could help me out. And I realized that I would never actually have surgery because, well, those things look heavy, and they’d probably get in the way.
By then, my self-confidence had expanded exponentially: it was bigger than me! Part of that was that I was kind of a ‘late bloomer,’ part of it was that I started enjoying my athleticism and the fact that I could probably kick someone to death if I wanted to (Irish dancer).A part of it was that, for some reason, I looked in a mirror one day and thought I was kind of cute. I suppose I’d never really looked at my face before.
Then, in a variety of ways, my body failed me, or maybe betrayed is a better way to describe it. I ended up becoming ill and losing a lot of my muscle weight while in the hospital, and my self-image has never quite recovered. I feel bad about not having rock-hard abs and strong legs and the ability to show off my physical control and expertise. I thin, I realized for the first time how integral my body was to my self understanding.
Over the years since then, I’ve gone through some pretty weird stuff attempting to regain my old self. I only went on one crazy diet: though effective (1,000 calories a day will do that to you), I was also quite dizzy and paranoid. I hate that. And anyway, whoever told me I had to eat that little food a day to maintain my body weight was clearly insane. Now, I try to keep up a fitness program of interval and strength training in order to be cardiovascularly healthy and to try and ensure good bone density (‘cause the alternative sucks).
I tell myself, Self, I’m being totally counter-cultural by going for healthiness instead of some aesthetic ideal. I like being strong (and anyway I have secret ulterior motives: ha!!). But then that book tells me that this is actually the new cultural ideal, so now I’m wondering if it really is someone else’s fantasy I’m chasing after. All I know is that I’m tired of being unhappy about my body, and that’s true regardless of the origin of my distress.
I told you this was totally not about God or religion or church. Although it was Corpus Christi yesterday…the Body of Christ was a real body after all, and is a real gift…perhaps what I need to learn is that my own body is a gift to me, and I should try to respect its boundaries and limits as much as I should try and make it the best it can be; that I should value it even, and perhaps especially, in its failings.
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