Rainbow Fish -- Get Out Of That Net!

This Sunday at church we had a double-Baptism: two very cute little children being welcomed into the community, accompanied and supported by parents, godparents and family. A great opportunity to show them what we're all about -- as the priest said at one point in his homily, to do our duty by leading people to Jesus.

Some great readings, too. In the Gospel, Jesus tells his disciples to leave behind their nets and become fishers of men. Exactly what we're called in Baptism to do -- to bring people to Jesus by using all our gifts to catch them up in a love-affair with the Gospel.

The homily began by asking if we have, in this day and age, the courage to follow the Faith of our Fathers. A Biblical Faith.

The homily was mostly about gays.

The words 'gay' and 'homosexual' were never actually used. But it was obvious what he was talking about. He said things like that the idea that we need to engage in 'moral expansions' is bad. That the idea it's okay to live this way or that way, any way we want, is wrong. That God is eternal and unchanging, and what He always hated He still hates.

The words 'repugnant' and 'abomination' were used.

It was terrifying. As bad as when that guest speaker from Jews for Jesus (or whoever) came to our church and told us to pray for the conversion of the Jews because all his Jewish friends and family who didn't believe in Jesus were going straight to hell.

I found myself thinking about those poor people who were there for the Baptism -- what must they be thinking and feeling? Were they thinking: your homophobic sermon is ruining my special day? Were they thinking: who are you people? Were they thinking: that's it, Christianity is definitely not for me? Or were they thinking: right on, brother!

Mostly I was thinking about me, and how I wanted to run away in terror. I worry about speaking up. This is odd for me, since at one point I went head-to-head in a radio interview with one of Canada's experts on why gay marriage is wrong. But now, I worry that if people in my church know how strongly I disagree with the things he said, I wouldn't be allowed to preach anymore. I'm supposed to preach next week.

If you want to call what I do a ministry, which I guess you could if you were desperate, it's a very fragile one. I read from the lectionary, set up a Morning Prayer for the church once a week, am on parish council. Sometimes I get to preach. I have no certification or licence from the diocese, so it all depends on the forbearance of my priest and the community. I have not forgotten, and cannot forget, what it means to live with secret convictions, to fear that what precious little I have could be taken away. And I fear that without honesty everything I say is meaningless anyway.

I had to remind myself that taking Eucharist is not a political act. Receiving Jesus' gift of Himself in no way implies that I agree with the message. Sacrament and sermon are not indelibly connected. But I still felt a little like a traitor.

The message I got from the sermon is that Jesus sends his disciples out to become fishers of men. And if you happen to catch a gay or lesbian fish, by God you have to throw it back in the water because God doesn't want to eat that kind of fish. That's our Baptismal mission.

But that isn't the faith I believe in. That isn't the kind of Christian I believe we're called to be. And that isn't the kind of God I could love.

The Case Of The Missing Church Service

I like to choose my church services based on the sign; not that I look for particularly flashy or inventive signs or anything – I check the times of the services written on a given sign and go from there. I like to pick services that mesh well with the AMT train schedule. So yes, if you must know, the transit commission for the greater Montreal region (or whoever) is, indeed, directing my spiritual life.

Today I wanted to go to the 12:15 service at a downtown church I haven’t been to in years. Time-wise, it’s within sprinting distance of a train that gets me there in the nick of time. Pretty convenient, eh?

So anyway, the train was late and I was a bit worried but, as I said, sprinting distance. I got there about three minutes before what should have been the start of Mass. Should have been because there was, in fact, no service that I could find. The hunt is now on for the missing service, which the sign tells me surely should have occurred.

The Gazette tells me in its religion calendar (which I read every week) that there should have been a service with a discussion following it. But I’m telling you I could find no such service! Was it relocated somewhere within the church, like a secret location known only to true initiates? If so, why would they advertise in the local paper? I went in the main door, checked out both side chapels, and saw nothing. Perhaps I should have looked for hidden entrances in other parts of the building?

If the service was hidden in a new secret location, and yet still open to the general public – including miscreants who wander in off the street because they’ve seen the sign – why did the church not contain clear directions on how to find said secret chamber?

Curiouser and curiouser.

The events calendar on the church's website tells me the service should have taken place in one of the chapels at 12:15, as it said on the sign. But both chapels were spectacularly empty at said time. In fact, nothing was set out that would even indicate there was to be a service. Perhaps the service was kidnapped? I saw no evidence of other foul play: no obvious signs of violent struggle, no clues of any kind, really.

This case is turning out to be particularly hard to crack.

The calendar of events, also on the website, tells me that there is an informal Eucharist at that time, and refers to another informal prayer as taking place in the treasurer’s office, wherever that is. There is also lunch and teaching. Perhaps they have Eucharist in the dining hall, wherever that is? This is all a moot point, because weekday Mass can’t be in the chapel, hall, and office all at the same time (though that would be pretty Trinitarian).

I thought for a moment that perhaps the service did not exist during the summer months, but there’s nothing anywhere on the website or elsewhere to justify that suspicion. Anyway, I can tell you I’m pretty disappointed that I couldn’t catch a service today. I woke up early and everything! I’m also worried that something terrible might have happened to it to make it miss out on itself. I mean, what kind of a service does that if not for a grave and serious reason? Without leaving any notice?

I just can’t fathom what happened to this missing service. If anyone has any information about this or any other unsolved crime, feel free to contact us through this blog.

Feast Of The Visitation

Three of my friends had children this year within weeks of each other. It really is something special, to share that experience with someone else. "You're having a baby? Me, too!" Just like Mary and Elizabeth.

In our lives, in so many ways we don't realize, we share in the life of Jesus by living these biblical experiences. The ordinary, everyday humanity of Mary; the extraordinary lives to which we are all called. All of it is miraculous, even to the smallest of things.

Magnificat anima † mea Dominum,
et exsultavit spiritus meus in Deo salvatore meo,
quia respexit humilitatem ancillæ suæ.
Ecce enim ex hoc beatam me dicent omnes generationes,
quia fecit mihi magna,
qui potens est,
et sanctum nomen eius,
et misericordia eius in progenies et progenies
timentibus eum.
Fecit potentiam in brachio suo,
dispersit superbos mente cordis sui;
deposuit potentes de sede
et exaltavit humiles;
esurientes implevit bonis
et divites dimisit inanes.
Suscepit Israel puerum suum,
recordatus misericordiæ,
sicut locutus est ad patres nostros,
Abraham et semini eius in sæcula.

My soul † proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour;
he has looked with favour on his lowly servant.
From this day all generations will call me blessed;
the Almighty has done great things for me and holy is his name.
He has mercy on those who fear him,
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm
and has scattered the proud in their conceit,
Casting down the mighty from their thrones
and lifting up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things
and sent the rich away empty.
He has come to the aid of his servant Israel,
to remember his promise of mercy,
The promise made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and his children for ever.

Grace, Raphaël, Giulianna, you are all holy and beloved. God be with you always.

In Memoriam

Today I went to the memorial service for the father of two friends of mine. In a way, it's a bit incomprehensible to think of someone my age losing a parent. I don't know why it's any different this time -- I've had other friends whose parents have died of cancer, and P.'s father murdered his mother -- but somehow this was closer to home...maybe because in a way it reminds me of my own relationship to my father. I see some of the same tension here, and I think that makes the loss harder in some ways.

The minister talked about how, in some ways, the Bible is all about boats. The disciples always going out onto the water and fishing and stuff, and they respect the fact that it can be dangerous, and are grateful when they come back safely to shore.

She read the story where Jesus and the disciples are out on the water and Jesus calms a storm. First, he calms it and makes them safe. Then he asks, "where is your faith?" Not "ye of little faith!" or "have you no faith?" like in other versions. It is more, 'I know you have faith, why aren't you drawing on it?' In facing death, both our own and others', we have to draw on faith to see that it's not an end to be afraid of, but a beginning. If the gospels are all about boats, they're also all about faith. And in death, all our storms are calmed.

Something I realized again today is that maybe we should all be having our memorial services while we're still alive to enjoy them. I mean, for some of us this is the only chance to have people say nice things about us, a chance to see ourselves in a new light -- the best light possible. Imagine the lives we might lead if we knew the good things our friends and loved ones see in us, if we knew what they saw and strove to live up to that.

I think I'll go review the list of music I chose now.

Don't Worry, The Riot's Still Over There

I met up with an old friend (J.) for dinner tonight. Really good Mexican food at those hole-in-the-wall places, I've gotta say. Then we went to Hurley's and had broken-down-golfcarts (don't ask; I don't know what's in them, either). It's always good to catch up with a good friend.

Tonight was also hockey night - the Habs playing the Pens. Of course, we won! All is right in the universe once again.

Nothing brings home the fact that this is a hockey town quite like the police helicopter hovering up above after we left the bar. The game had just ended, you see. And in case you didn't know, the Crescent Street bar scene is almost on top of the Bell Centre. So you can leave your drunken revelries right after the game and feel secure in the knowledge that the police brotherhood has (probably) got your back.

J. to me: "You know, I do hope they win the game. Then maybe we'll win the Stanley Cup and they'll burn down half the f*cking city."

1 1/2 hours later, J. to me: "Let's hurry, the last thing I want is to be stuck in the middle of a hockey riot."

Me: "Oh, don't worry, the riot's still back there," gesturing vaguely behind me at the crowd of people pouring out of the Bell Centre.

Motorcycle cops, cop vans, cop helicopter, that camera guy from CTV, all the honking and flag-waving...it's all really exciting! Our hooliganism may sometimes be embarrassing in the international media, but what else do you expect from a people with hockey for a religion?

Anyone want to watch the next game with me? Seriously, anyone? I'll totally bring snacks!

There's only one thing left to say: Go Habs Go!!

Light Of Christ

Is it strange to say that I met God in the church parking lot when I was a child? God was in the light. I saw the light in a moment of clarity where all things fell into place and I understood. The moment where I believed what my life should be. That moment has never left me. The light was not God, but the light was from God and God was in the light. It was underneath and within and between everything. The light filled all that I saw and all I could see was the light.

I feel like I've told that story so many times before. Oh well. Endlessly repeating myself is kind of my forte.

In class tonight we talked about Eastern Orthodox mysticism. I started learning about Orthodoxy a few years ago and, in some ways, found an unexpected friend. For one thing, it's nice to find a tradition that can make at least some sense out of why I sometimes cry at the overfullness of Eucharist. It doesn't make it less embarrassing, but I'll take what I can get. It's nice to find a tradition where devotion to the Light of Christ is normal. Given these things, it's really a shame I haven't read my Philokalia in the last while. I should get back to that.

Learning about the mystics and reading their work makes me wish I was a better person. In the course of my life, I've failed God so many times. In the examples of the Saints, we see what's possible, the kind of life God calls us to live, and I can't help but feel wanting.

The church has given me so much, and I wish I could give something back but, really, what can I do? Nothing. I feel like I'm wandering, trying to find a place for myself that doesn't exist, and that I am not worthy or capable of being anything other than I am. There's that pesky despair again. It's ionic to feel that in some ways one has been given so much while at the same time finding oneself bereft of a means to share the blessings God has so abundantly given. What's the point in having something if it can't be shared or given away?

Since I've got nothing else, I'll include a song that was in the Vespers service I put together in memory of Fr. Lowe.

A hymn to the Light of Christ

Daylight has seasons,
sleeping at the dawning of night;
sunlight has shadows
hidden in the midst of its brightness
yet the darkness never overcomes
the shining of that radiant light
as our Lord is not overcome
shining His love in our lives.

Life has its seasons,
fading at the end of the day;
roads have their endings
turning off at the wayside
yet a new path always opens
leading to green valleys and fields
where the Good Shepherd leads us
to rest at the end of our days.

Daylight has seasons,
waking at the slumber of night;
darkness hides shadows
revealing the presence of sunlight
in our darkest days we turn to Him
shining so radiant and bright
revealing the treasure
of His love in our lives.

Amazing Grace

Welcome to the world Grace! You're beautiful! Everyone loves you so much, you are a miracle and a gift from God.


!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Congratulations to Amanda and Garcia, you must be so proud and excited.

Truly a miracle.

Behold The Mercy Of God

[in lieu of a real post, the homily I gave on Sunday]

Well, here we are, at the first Sunday after Easter and, in a way, it’s kind of a let-down, isn’t it? I mean, we’ve just finished celebrating Jesus’ Resurrection! We’ve come through a difficult Passiontide and arrived at a place of pure joy and miracle. Finally, Lent is over! Finally, Easter has arrived! We’ve had all the family dinners, the chocolate Easter eggs, the sugar high and the inevitable cranky period after it. We’ve been exhausted and reborn, horrified and overjoyed. Finally, it’s Easter! The Lord is risen! Alleluia!

So, what do we do now? What’s left? It’s like coming home from a really great party: now that the excitement is over, we feel a bit empty, kind of disappointed. “Oh, it’s over.” Don’t get me wrong: it’s great to be home. But there’s still that feeling, you know? That feeling of emptiness. Even though it only lasts a little while, because life goes on, it’s still a pretty powerful experience. Maybe part of that feeling comes from being suspended between times. Jesus is risen! But we’re waiting for him to ascend into heaven, and we’re waiting for Pentecost. What are we supposed to do with this time in between?

On the second Sunday of the Easter season – which is today – a little-known celebration is observed: the feast of the Divine Mercy. A Polish nun named Sister Faustina (who is now considered a Saint) received visions from our Lord Jesus Christ throughout most of her life. These visions – these messages from Jesus – infused her life, leading her to join a convent and shaping her mission as an Apostle of Mercy. Jesus instructed her to record everything he told her in her diary, and ordered her to proclaim his message of mercy to all people.

One of the things Jesus told her to do was to paint an image of him. In the painting, Jesus stands with one hand over his Sacred Heart and the other reaching out in a blessing. He looks pretty welcoming, like he wants you to come to him. Two rays of light emerge from his Heart. The red ray represents the blood he shed on the Cross, as well as the life of the soul; the whitish-blue ray symbolizes the water flowing from his side, and the soul being made righteous. Jesus’ death both gives life to our souls and purifies them, making them whole again. Most Divine Mercy Icons have these words written on them: “Lord Jesus, I trust in you.” Jesus promised Saint Faustina that the souls genuinely devoted to his Divine Mercy would never die.

Celebrating the Divine Mercy actually takes nine days: it consists of a series of prayers extending from Good Friday until today. Each day, prayers are offered for a different group of people. We begin by praying that all sinners will be immersed in the ocean of God’s mercy. And on the last day, we end by praying for all the souls that have become lukewarm – the people who once cared about God and don’t anymore, the people who have lost the fire of faith. We pray that they will be enfolded in Jesus’ mercy and regain that fire and passion. In Jesus’ revelation to Saint Faustina, the lukewarm are described as the people who caused him the most pain during his Passion: the people standing by who didn’t care, one way or the other, about what was happening to him.

All of these prayers are offered in the name of Jesus’ body and blood, soul and divinity. They are offered for our own sins and for the sins of all people. We pray using these words: for the sake of his sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.

I personally love this feast of the Divine Mercy. I know, I know, it seems really weird to be talking about this now. You’re thinking, ‘man, this is depressing! Why in the name of all things are we talking about Jesus’ Passion and death right after Easter? You remember Easter, right? It was just last week! Stop ruining my cheerful mood with all this crucifixion talk and get back to the Resurrection where you’re supposed to be.’

That’s a perfectly normal reaction: we are an Easter people and we want to live there. But we tend to forget the difficult reality of the Cross a little too quickly after the Resurrection – I know I do. But there’s no such thing as Easter without the Cross! If we allow ourselves to forget that the two are part of the same act we might as well toss Easter onto the pile of things that have become totally secular. Totally meaningless. We might as well spend Good Friday saying: ‘Now, you just be patient a few more days, honey, and Jesus is going to bring you a nice basket full of candy, just as soon as the Easter Bunny rolls that giant egg away from the tomb!’

The fact that we’re here today testifies that we believe in something more real. To really believe, to really be Christian, means that Easter has a real effect on our lives. It is transformative, and not just some ritual involving chocolates and draping the church in white. This means we can’t just receive the promise of Easter and squirrel it away like a precious secret. Like the light flowing from Jesus’ Heart, it has to shine out of us, because if we don’t let it flow through us and out into the world we haven’t really received it, either.

What does it mean to receive this promise? How do we allow it to live in us? The answer is in the blue and red rays: we receive it by allowing God to breathe life into our souls and to transform us in His image. First, we must ask for the mercy offered to us on the Cross. Then we must be merciful. Today’s readings are full of the truth that Jesus’ resurrected life is an offering of, and call to, mercy. Acts of Apostles tells us that “The God of our fathers raised Jesus whom you killed by hanging him on a tree. God exalted him at his right hand as Leader and Savior, to give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins” (5:30-31). Revelation says “Jesus Christ [is] the faithful witness, the first-born of the dead […] who loves us and has freed us from our sins by his blood” (1:5).

In the Gospel reading, the Holy Spirit is given to the disciples along with the power to forgive sins. The idea that the Resurrection is about mercy is one of the oldest truths of our faith.

The final element in receiving the Easter promise comes with the command that we place all our trust in God. Blessed is he who does not see, and yet believes! The marks remaining in Jesus’ hands remind us that his sacrifice and mercy will never disappear. We can confidently rely on him as we strive to live the risen life. Accepting this truth is the source of our great joy, as in the light of Easter we see life.

And what life that is! The celebration of the Divine Mercy is meant to help us realize that Jesus’ forgiveness and compassion are total, that he forgives even the worst sin, and that it’s never too late to embrace his mercy. Our Resurrected Lord stands reaching out to us, calling us to him as beloved children. He bathes us in the light of his Crucified Heart. By taking his outstretched hand and standing in his life-giving mercy, we participate in the Passion that broke his Heart and make the heavy pain of it easier for him to bear. We must give ourselves over to Jesus in complete trust, believing firmly and absolutely that his mercy will indeed save us, covering over our sins and clothing us in righteousness.

I asked before what we should do with this time in between Easter and Pentecost. What we need to do is prepare to receive the Holy Spirit. We know there’s more to that than just running around proclaiming, “Jesus is risen! Jesus is risen! Alleluia!” To share in the risen life – to be faithful witnesses – we need to devote ourselves to God’s mercy. The crucial part of this devotion is committing ourselves to actually being merciful, to living the mercy for others that has been freely given to us.

To proclaim the Resurrection, we need to forgive other people. To anticipate Jesus’ ascension to his Kingdom, we need to evangelize the world by giving to those in need, whatever that need may be. To receive the Holy Spirit, we must be set on fire by love for others. And to await God’s coming in glory, we need to pray for the salvation of all the world.

We must always stand faithfully at the foot of the Cross, even now, especially now, as we celebrate Easter. It is by doing so that we, through believing, come to have life in Jesus’ name.




Readings: Acts 5:27-32; Ps 118:14-29 or 150; Rev 1:4-8; Jn 20:19-31
(11 April 2010, Second Sunday of Easter)

And Then There Were Four

I went to a lecture yesterday entitled "The Beatles and the Gospels," or something like that. It was held at the office of the Archdiocese of Montreal across from the Roman Catholic seminary - easy enough building to locate once you've ruled out the Masonic temple.

Something like 1/4 of participants came from 'our' parish: there were jokes (on our side) that we were infiltrating our sister diocese as spies. Haha, St. Jerome is taking over! It was kind of bizzare to be the only 'Anglican' there, especially given the location. (not that I'm a 'real' Anglican, either...I guess I'm technically non-denominational.)

Anyway, the basic premise was that you can match the four gospels up with the four Beatles.

Mark doesn't mince words, is the shortest, the oldest, and is political. Also, in its original incarnation it ends with the word "afraid." We paired this gospel up with Ringo because he had a limited vocal range, was the oldest, the shortest and accidentally used malapropisms that ended up becoming important.

Mathew starts with a geneology, is most Jewish, is the strictest, emphasizes law the most but also has some cool saying about lilies and sparrows (for examples, see the Bible). This one was paired with George. He was the 'baby' and was quiet, spiritual and very disciplined. The thing about discipline is what cinched it.

Luke is the only gospel to have a sequel (that we know of), is full of payer and the Holy Spirit, is social-justice oriented and is the most civilized, in the sense that it understands social communities. Luke got paired with Paul, who was the cute one, political and sophisticated, had a good second career (i.e. sequel) and who tried to keep in touch with the others.

The final gospel, John, has a weirdo beginning, lots of "I am" statements, is metaphysical and can be read on two levels. John was paired with...you guessed it: John. John was arrogant, visionary, cerebral and abstract, sarcastic, competitive, and tended to inverse meaning. He thought he was the leader.

Since two hours is a really short time, the whole exercise was fairly superficial. But I still think it's good to try and look at these familiar texts from an unexpected angle, because it's jarring enough that it might just shake something loose.

What I need to do now is listen to Beatles music, since I've only ever heard, like, five songs. Maybe I'll understand the exercise better if I actually know what we're talking about, eh?

New Life

Things I've experienced recently have really enlightened me to the fact that new life is not confined to the Easter season. Renewal and newness are also here in Lent, in the journey to the Cross, in the going from one place to another. In general, I'd say that new things in life rarely happen while one is standing still.

In terms of my church life, I started going to a new congregation last year in Lent, where the people are great but the style of liturgy isn't one I'm used to. I'm not comfortable in the liturgy. At all. Ultimately, I think that this is allowing me to stretch my way of thinking as I get more comfortable with being uncomfortable.

The feast of the Annunciation will mark exactly one year since I started receiving Eucharist in the Anglican church. Eucharist still makes me uncomfortable, I admit it. But I'm not nearly as obsessed by guilt and sin as I was last Lent when I wasn't receiving Eucharist. There's a newness here for me because my whole experience of Lent has changed. Obviously, communion in Christ's body makes me a happier, more stable person, which I think is fairly theologically sound.

All of this is nice reflection, I'm sure. But what really brought home to me that the power of newness infuses Lent as much as any other liturgical season was my visit with my friend yesterday. I felt baby Raphaël moving in her belly and it was FANTASTIC!!!!! I'd use the 'A' word right now, except that I ranted about it a few posts ago and that would make me kind of a hypocrite.

I feel all warm and happy right now. Getting to feel this miracle reminds me that there's no time when God is not making new life, that there is no joy God can't give, and that there's nothing that can overcome the sheer power of human life - not even death on the Cross, not even the journey through darkness, not anything.

For more reflections on newness, feel free to read: http://allsaints-twomountains.blogspot.com/2010/03/all-things-new.html

A.......! It's Still Lent!

[note to the reader: the virtue of Christian charity has temporarily left me due to the vices of annoyance and criticism, otherwise known as liturgical wrath]

Today I went to the Tri-Wizard Tournament, which is of course a worship gathering of the three theological colleges wherein we compete to see who can be most creative with the order of service while still maintaining a semblance of tradition and decorum.

Today’s theme was “When in Our Music God is Glorified: a celebration in music and praise.” The idea was great, actually: that there would be a service crafted around the singing of hymns all centered around the theme presented in the first hymn, whose refrains were sprinkled throughout the order of service as a structuring meditational aid, bringing you always back to the main message. A+ for actually crafting a service that looks like what it intends to celebrate.

Unfortunately, the first hymn was “When in Our Music God is Glorified,” whose refrain is “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”…during Lent. I’m not sure if I was the only person who didn’t sing those words, since of course this word is supposed to disappear from the liturgy, since it’s Lent. In the pre-Vatican II rite, the omission of the word actually began on Septuagesima; do we have to go shortening that liturgical period even more by ignoring it entirely?

Because this was the first – the central – hymn, the whole order of service was sprinkled with reflection phrases saying “Hallelujah!,” which I admit sort-of ruined the mood for me.

Music is important to me. Liturgy is important to me. I feel like I’ve been horribly betrayed on both counts here. Ironically, the third verse of the song reads, “So has the church in liturgy and song, in faith and love, through centuries of wrong, borne witness to the truth in every tongue.” Um, hello? What exactly do liturgy and song witness to if not the birth, ministry, death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus Christ, each in their own season, following an ever-flowing rhythm? Today’s service feels something like being betrayed by Harry Potter – as if something so loyal and good were broken, leaving a trail of broken pieces that make it difficult to recapture that pure magic again.

The refrain of the closing hymn, “Go to the World,” reads, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” So the whole worship service, expressing our praise through song, is framed and filled with liturgically improper worship and praise. Wow. Nothing this total has ever happened to me before. Oh sure, sometimes people add “Alleluia” to the closing blessing during Lent (which also happened today, and which already pisses me off enough), but an entire service? Wow.

I admit that, during the blessing, I actually rolled my eyes. This probably makes me a bad Christian, since that’s not exactly worshipful, but I couldn’t help it. I think I may not actually have been in a frame of mind for any of the service to count as prayer. What with the disposition of the heart being important and all.

After the service, people actually clapped for the organist! Dear Lord, why would anyone clap after prayer? I’ve never seen anyone break into applause after evening prayer. This is probably because a) you were all praying together so you’re congratulating yourselves, which is weird, and b) because laudatory applause directed at a musician makes the whole thing seem like a show, put on either for you or for God Himself. Prayer is not a show. Nor is it to be congratulated. The ‘well done, good and faithful servant’ belongs to God alone to give. Prayer resides in the heart and, though expressed in music, liturgical gesture and word, is not composed of them.

After the clapping, I confess that I started to laugh. Couldn’t help myself, and actually it took a while for the feeling to subside. I still kind of feel it right now. My levity makes me feel strangely joyful about it all…perhaps my heartfelt mirth counts as prayer?

Or is my sin of pride / intolerance / wrath / annoyance / and criticism in dire need of repentance and reconciliation?

Only the great Tri-Wizard Cup can decide.

Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

(Mk 7:31-37)

The thing that unsettles me about this passage is that I don’t understand why Jesus would tell the crowd to keep quiet about what he’d done. He can’t be serious, right? The best way to make sure gossip spreads is to tell people not to talk about it: we all know that from belonging to parishes. The more he commands them to keep it under wraps, the more they’re determined to make sure everyone knows.

I personally doubt their disobedience had Jesus pacing around, anxiously pulling out his hair and thinking, “Why doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?!” This leaves me with a problem, because now I have to question why Jesus would say something he doesn’t mean.

I think that Jesus intends to test their faith in a way similar to his interaction with the Syrophoenecian woman in the passage immediately before this one, when he initially refuses to heal her daughter because she doesn’t belong to the chosen people – in both cases, he says something that elicits a proclamation of faith. A proverbial “you say that you believe: prove it.”

This healing episode is particularly interesting because it brings to life Isaiah’s prophesy about the healing of a mute man, and thus contains a message of Jesus’ messiah-hood that goes beyond his reputation as a wonder-worker. Here, Jesus-as-Messiah appears to everyone, and not just a select group of disciples. The story presents a conflict between silence and speech, between secrecy and proclamation. It is from within this conflict that the people must decide what to do.

Deciding whether to preach the Gospel or to curl up with it somewhere safe is a choice each person must make for himself, and the crowd’s decision not to shut up about it testifies to their belief that it should be told. They’re courageous in their own way, risking the wrath of Jesus himself. And we’re left with the uncomfortable truth that Jesus intends what he’s saying to have a different effect than what’s implied in the words themselves.

It shouldn’t be that surprising: most of Jesus’ teachings are parables. To understand him, it’s necessary to look beneath the surface and search for the truth. Mutely accepting everything he says could lead to some scary consequences, like not spreading the word, or thinking that God’s Kingdom is a giant mustard bush in the sky. I guess what I’m trying to say is that to really live the Gospel, you have to be willing to challenge it and allow it to challenge you, to push at it and follow what it calls you to do, even if the words you challenge come from Jesus himself.

I wonder what would have happened if the people in the crowd had actually done what Jesus told them to do. I don’t think it would have made much difference. The deaf-mute man walking around hearing and speaking probably would have given it away. And even if this story never spread at all, the effect of God’s Kingdom would still be present. Their involvement in it, their decision to act and participate, is what would have been lost; the real and crucial effect of their decision is in their own lives.

Of course, this thought experiment is a moot point, because the people in the story do go out and tell everyone. I don’t think they would have been capable of secrecy: revealing the Kingdom’s presence and then expecting the people to shut up about it is about as effective as trying to smuggle sunshine past a rooster. There are places in Mark where people do agree to keep silent, and their decision is the correct one. The key is discretion and judgment, allowing the Gospel to successfully reach into a specific time and place.

Our response to the Gospel should be no different. We should be fearless, always exploring our faith and proclaiming it, but never letting our own designs or desires displace the message of God. Our response to the Good News requires discernment. It requires the joyful courage to stand up and proclaim what we know, even when every voice is against us, even when it’s something no one wants to hear, even knowing that telling it isn’t without risk to ourselves, at the same time always being careful to discern what it is the Gospel calls us to do, and when.


(additional texts: Ps 81:8-16; 1 Kgs 11:29-32, 12:19)

I Have To What??

So today one of my friends wrote my name on the sheet of people who have to do sermonizing-and-what-not on Fridays. I know that if I erase it, she'll just write it back again.

Curses!

In other news, I am still obsessed with exorcisms. Also, I learned a new card game, which I lost but had fun playing.

Tomorrow I'm going to have breakfast with my uncle and meet his new gf: I'm excited!

Also, I am noticing the fact that my ability to comprehend and synthesize complex ideas is still sub-par, thanks to a series of medical interventions. This will make my saying anything remotely worthwhile unlikely. That includes this blog, which also serves as excellent proof that the Internet allows anyone to publish anything. Thus, not particularly looking forward to Friday.

Curses.

The Lovely Bones

I went to see the movie “The Lovely Bones” today. For those of you who have no idea of the plot, and who don’t want to know even the basics, I suggest you stop reading right about now.

The story is constructed around the main character, a fourteen-year-old girl who is raped and murdered. Because it wasn’t graphic, it was easier for me to watch than it might otherwise have been.

One of the things that struck me most was the way she hesitated before going with him, at some level aware that something was wrong and yet pushing that aside. I know all too well what that’s like, that feeling, and the consequences of naively believing that nothing could be wrong. How you later feel like you were so stupid, even though it’s really not your fault.

The most poignant moment, however, was the look on her face when she realized what was going on, a sick sort of terror mixed in with the feeling of pretty well knowing there’s nothing you can do.

I, of course, have never been murdered, so I can’t claim to know what that’s like. I have to admit, there were many times after what has happened that I wished I had been murdered, so as not to have had to live with it. However, after watching what the girl’s family went through, I have to say I’m glad I was not killed. As the girl says of her killer, he stole her life from her. What was taken from me was not as precious as my life, after all.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to forget.

I sometimes worry that I’m weak or a bad Christian because I can’t put these things aside, learn to forget, to leave it completely behind me. While I don’t actually feel angry (which my psychiatrist thinks is a problem btw, a ‘lack of appropriate rage’), the things that have happened still suffuse my life. So when the killer tells the girl she’s pretty, it makes me feel a little ill. And I feel deep inside of me, in that part still holding onto it, the painful recollection of things I’ve tried to lock up, hide away, and bury. Yet, like the killer, I return to these mementos in a sick fascination, an obsession that seems to make them live forever, captivated in a way that makes things repeat rather than turning me away from them.

I will never understand why people like the killer do the things that they do. I’ll never know whether or not they hurt someone on purpose or simply don’t understand that they’re hurting someone. But I do understand what it means to be caught up in the same moment, stuck within the space of a memory, and both wanting and not wanting to move beyond it.

Jesus Has Come!

It’s funny how much we think about what’s missing at Christmas time: friends and family who aren’t here, things in our lives that didn’t come to pass, things that did and left us feeling empty. It can leave you feeling like a bit of a Grinch if you don’t feel the holiday cheer. Sorrow, darkness, anxiety – the opposite of the Christmas story, no?

The Nativity stories tell us that this is precisely what Christmas is. Christmas is about a woman scared of what is to come; about a man who doesn’t understand what has happened; about lonely shepherds in a field; about a difficult and dangerous journey undertaken at someone else’s whim; about a couple desperate to find a place to bear their child. Our sad and empty feelings are exactly the place in which the Christmas message appears.

These last weeks, we’ve been calling on God in our prayers to return and rule the world, to free us from darkness and pain – our Advent prayers expect us to be experiencing these difficult feelings. Sorrow, waiting, hope. Waiting in joyful hope for the coming of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. The joyfulness is in the hope, and not necessarily in the lives we’ve been living.

Our community in particular has experienced a great deal of loss and sadness. We’re faced with the reality that none of us will be getting our Christmas hug this year. Forty days ago, we celebrated our first Mass after Father died, some of us learning for the first time that God had taken him from us the morning before. Forty days we’ve been in the desert. What have we been preparing for? What, like Elijah, have we been calling for? Where have be been journeying to, if not the promise of the Lord?

Today is the forty-first day: today, as our Savior is born for us, we are coming out of the desert. Tonight we light candles in the darkness and see anew in the glow of that flame.

That promise – that light in the darkness – is fulfilled, the answer given to us in the Nativity story. Although Mary is troubled and afraid, so scared of what will happen to her that she hides at her cousin’s house for three months, she accepts God’s promise and is given a beautiful baby boy. Joseph, who is angry and confused, listens to the message of an angel and enters into the greatest story ever told. The shepherds are gathered together amid tidings of great joy. The Holy Family makes it safely to Bethlehem. In their hour of need, God provides through the kindness of a stranger.

We, too, experience this amazing love and joy, this great gift of light. And it isn’t because we’ve forgotten our sadness, or because we’ve left it behind and no longer feel it, but because God’s promise is fulfilled in the midst of it. Christmas is about those feelings, that sorrow, darkness and anxiety, and about how God embraces those feelings – those moments – in something greater. A light so great that the darkness did not comprehend it.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Here We Go A Wassailing

So today (Friday) I went to an Advent Carol service being put on by the Anglican chapel I normally go to. It was really, really pretty, with candles and readings and singing. But I was having a really, really bad day. I skipped saying the Rosary this morning, so I lost that little bubble that I usually have, and it just went downhill from there.

I had really been hoping to hear from someone, because I wanted to see them, so I was a bit disappointed about that. When I got to my carrel, all my books had been moved (again), and I had to wait for the girl using my desk to come back from God knows where so she could move her stuff. And I was tired and, due to exertion-induced asthma, couldn’t really breathe and needed to get my wind back, for which sitting is helpful.

Then, my kidneys etc. were doing that thing again where they don’t function properly. So that was frustrating as well as worrying, since I thought I’d gotten a handle on that. In any event, it causes a good amount of pain, so that didn’t make me cheerful. My meds were making it impossible to eat, so I was dizzy and lightheaded but couldn’t eat anything without getting nauseous. I skipped Advent devotions and evening prayer, which I’m sure was a bad idea. Coming home so late, I’ve also missed Compline. So I’m out a good, oh, two hours of prayer. That always makes me a bit cranky. I wrote a draft of a letter requesting medical leave – a concept which is itself worrying and stressful, ironically – but didn’t get a response to that, either. Also, I’ve had a constant headache since Wednesday. Ugh. I haven’t been sleeping and so I’m exhausted.

Anyway, so I go to this service and only actually know one song, which made me feel like a bit of an outsider, especially having spent the last few days with people singing songs I know. Holding the candle made me think of J---, God † rest his soul, who I was always afraid was going to light his music on fire during the Vigil. I’ve been missing him a lot lately: singing songs we had parts to together, expecting to hear his voice in my ear and sometimes almost hearing it.

I guess I was in a bit of a nostalgic mood. I also thought about B---, God † rest her soul, that time driving back from St. Mary’s hospital when my mother and S--- convinced her that Styrofoam grew on trees, and I was trying not to laugh. Or was it plastic bags?...What it felt like when she didn’t sit next to me in choir anymore. About S---, God † rest her soul, who sometimes drove me home from choir, and how much I cried at her funeral. About B---, God † rest his soul, whose funeral I altar served at and then cried later, realizing how much I never knew. About T---, God † rest his soul, and the first Christmas that he was sick. About my grandfather, God † rest his soul, where there was never any service and they wouldn’t let us into the hospital room to see him when he was dying. About P--- and R--- and K--- and R---, God † rest their souls. About Fr. S---, God † rest his soul, whose CBW I hymnbook I just got. About my friends and family who are dying. Most of all, I thought about Father, God † rest his soul; I got a Bible that belonged to him, and now I carry it with me.

I’ve been surrounded by so much recent grieving this last while, but I haven’t had the opportunity to share my stories with anyone, to have anyone hold me while I cry, to have anyone willing to be there in all my sorrow. I’ve been trying to be that person, the person I don’t have and have never had, and it’s at the point where I’m not sure I can deal with this all alone anymore. At any rate, I don’t want to, but there seems to be nowhere to go.

Add to this the fact that I already kind of dread Christmas – the year I was really sick, some horrible things happened and were said in the family that kind of tainted it forever for me – and you have a mixture of everything that’s fucked up about me, and it’s really volatile.

So I leave after the service and go sit in my little alcove, where, of course, I cry. Some really cool friends saw me and came and made me laugh, and I felt a bit better. But I had been bursting into tears all day. I was afraid to go to the thing they had afterward because, well, it’s humiliating to cry in front of people, especially when they have no idea why it’s happening. I was also really embarrassed to see the person I had wanted to meet, because I think it’s not really fair for me to ask, again, for someone to help me out by listening. I mean, really Kat, get a life. I’m sure everyone now thinks I’m even weirder than they thought before, but I’m not sure I actually care. Better to seem like some sort of social phobic person than some sort of crazy freak who keeps crying. That’s my theory, anyway. I am grateful I was able to make it through the skit part, which is what I really wanted to see.

Going back toward the train, I had to keep stopping to cry. I thought about jumping in front of the Metro, but then I realized that that’s stupid. Having been in the position where I’ve almost died, waking up in the ICU freezing cold with monitors and IV’s and various other medical stuff, not knowing what happened, I understand that just because everything happens to hurt right now isn’t a good reason to not struggle to live. You know that you’re a bit of a wreck when random homeless people ask if you’re alright, though.

So, it’s been a long day, full of me sobbing and trying unsuccessfully to hold it together, of me gathering yet more proof about why it is I need to get off my current medication cycle given that it’s actually making me physically ill, full of me embarrassing myself and whatnot. Retrospectively, I probably shouldn’t have tried to stay at all. But I wanted so badly to try and be normal, to try and do a normal thing that I used to do all the time, to do something that I really wanted to do, and I underestimated how much everything is still affecting me. It’s difficult to explain it to people and it’s difficult for people to understand. It actually really hurts when people make fun of me for it, because it isn’t something I can control, nor do I fully understand it myself. But that feeling of hurt, which makes it harder to think even of trying, is something that I can’t really articulate because it makes me more vulnerable and more fragile in the face of future making-fun-of-me. So I don’t talk about it. Except in this blog, which has no bearing on or effect in the real world.

Wow: it’s Saturday, and I’m still crying while typing this stupid post. Aren’t I special.

It's A Crazy, Crazy Faith

Our emergency priest last Sunday (the 15th) pointed out in his homily that, sometimes, our Christian faith is crazy. We always talk about heaven and the resurrection and saints in glory, about how that is our goal and the fulfillment of our lives. Except when someone actually dies: then we don’t want to talk about those things at all. Which is healthy – it would be a bit worrisome if one didn’t grieve.

However, at some point we must transcend our grief and share in the joy of our loved ones, who are in the Kingdom of God. I don’t know how it is anywhere else, but in the Catholic Church that transcendence is meant to occur during the Mass of Christian Burial. This may strike one as ironic, but really it isn’t. The whole process of Catholic dying leads up to it.

If a person receives last rites, the celebrant will be wearing a purple stole. The rite includes Absolution (or presumed Absolution, depending on the circumstances), Unction and Viaticum. The purpose of final Absolution is pretty obvious: it is a cleansing of sin before a person goes to meet God. Unction is an anointment of the body that embraces a kind of holiness of the flesh, presumably; I tend to understand it more as a sacramental recognition of the fact that the body already possesses an inherent holiness. It blesses the body before you die, imbues sanctity, but it is not intended to heal – which is of course why it’s permissible to anoint a dead body. Viaticum is simply Eucharist received for the last time as part of, or constituting, the last rites. Originally, it was so named because it was intended to give strength for the journey. Now, Viaticum is a plenary indulgence, making it the only indulgence in the Catholic Church that itself carries and creates the conditions necessary for receiving it.

Anyway, the point of all this is that it emphasizes the fact that you’re going away. The purple is a color of sorrow and mourning; but notice that it is the celebrant who wears purple, and not the person who’s dying – they don’t, like, drape a purple cloth over you or something. We are sorry about the going away, because it is our lives that you as we knew you will be missing from.

Purple, of course, has a second meaning, that of awaiting or anticipating the arrival of Christ and his Kingdom (hence the use of purple during Advent). Already, even in the sorrow, there is the anticipation that lies deep within all of us, always.

So here, here in the beginning of the journey, there is mourning for loss, as well as resolute anticipation of the things to come. There is anointing of the person who is dying in a way that expects the effects of that anointing to travel with him.

Next comes the actual handling of the body after death. The body is (thank God) embalmed, which has more to do with the people at the viewing than the actual body, so we’ll leave that aside. The body is laid out in clothing, usually something in some way representative of the person. In this case, Father is wearing his Christ the King chasuble. The vestment was new and unworn, probably because he was saving it for the feast, and he is now wearing it for the first time. I find this to be appropriate. For one thing, it’s white. For another, it emphasizes the kingship of Christ, a Kingdom which Father is now experiencing, the Kingdom to which our deaths look forward and which already abides among us: now is the Kingdom, now is the day. The feast brings a clarity to this reality and to our faith, as do these vestments. As we are in communion with all the Saints, the Kingdom is already our reality, though in this present darkness we cannot see it clearly. But we believe, and so we celebrate both Christ’s kingship and our Christian deaths. The vestment also points to the fact that, even though there is no Eucharist in heaven, the sacrament of Holy Orders leaves an indelible mark. Father is, like all other clergy, a priest forever, as we all remain ourselves in one way or another. After all, it is we ourselves who are saved, we who are loved, in all our sin and human frailty; our lives shaped and sanctified by the sacraments and realized in our deaths.

[A brief aside. I was saying to my brother, ‘Father is wearing his Christ the King vestments,’ to which he responded with something along the lines of, ‘no he’s not. He’s dead: his corpse is wearing them. He’s gone, he no longer exists.’ Of course, this is unacceptable. The person and the body we understand to be connected in some mysterious way that passes beyond death and into eternity. We speak about the body as the person because we recognize that, in some way or another, the person is coming back to get their body in the resurrection – or, perhaps more precisely, that the final resurrection will be an embodied one. Catholicism is not a faith that believes we shed the body as a snake sheds its skin, leaving it behind as a useless and meaningless thing. We take such care to prepare and present the body because we believe that even in death and eternal life a person is still themselves, still who they are, though they have also become so much more in the transformation that awaits us all. This conversation drives home an interesting point: in the reality of death our faith is both most deeply challenged and most strongly affirmed. Death exists. Death is real. This is no mirage. But eternal life is also real, also exists, is also not a mirage. Powerful stuff, this collision of two realities. Powerful. One might perhaps call it the center and definition of our faith.]

Then there is the funeral Mass. The celebrant(s) wears white vestments: the color of resurrection, eternal life and glory, sanctity. All sadness has been left behind, at least liturgically. At Father’s Mass, three bishops celebrated, along with a bunch of priests, at least one deacon, and a seminarian. The priests sang a song around the coffin: Ave Maria. In our Mother Mary, whom Father loved very deeply, the saint closest to the throne of God, we find an expression of brotherhood. That, too, is everlasting. We sang his favorite song (Lord of the Dance) and all simultaneously thought that if he were singing the Ave Maria with his brothers he’d be ruining it. Father loves singing, but can’t sing at all. Incense and holy water anointed the casket: again, we pray and sanctify the body until the moment when we commit it to the earth. We celebrate the Mass, the gift of God to us, the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus Christ, given for us for the remission of our sins. In the Mass we are all united in the mystical Church (itself a sacrament – the only one remaining after the final coming of the Kingdom, the one only fully realized within it). In the Mass we realize that God has shared in our death, in all of its horror, and so we are never alone in it; the feeling of aloneness is real – even Jesus felt it – but in reality it is an illusion. It is something we, in our humanity, must feel, but it is also a time when the Lord does not leave our side. I will be with you always, even to the end of the age.

The priest who gave the homily said something I believe is brilliant. He said that, throughout his life, Father experienced a dark night of the soul – only once did he feel the Lord’s presence and joy, when he was in the choir loft at seminary (perhaps why he loves singing). The fact that I seem to already have known this is a story for another time, or perhaps never. The priest said that it takes real courage to keep going, day after day, as a priest, without ever feeling anything, and he is right. Saint John of the Cross said that wood needs to be thoroughly dried out in order for it to burn. Father was consumed by the fire of the Holy Spirit when he died – a moment he had been waiting for all his life now come in completeness. Maybe that's why he looked so at peace, in a way I've never seen in a body before. Sudden, but not something for which he was not ready or unprepared. The Lord comes like a thief in the night, and we must be ready, because where one is taken there is another who will be left behind.

Thus we see, in dying and death, the promise and reality of our faith, in which we all participate through the rites and sacraments surrounding it.

Holy F*@# !

This is unexpected. I was going to write about the Remembrance Day service at the University, and what it means to me in my life.

And now for something completely different.

I went to the same church my whole life: I was baptized there, received first Eucharist there, was confirmed there, and, illogically, I want to have my funeral there. (The feasibility of this plan remains sketchy. I also have music picked out, though the list is constantly evolving.)

My relationship with this congregation has been one of the most rewarding relationships in my life thus far. I love the people there. They watched me grow up, as I watched others grow up. I love people there very deeply, and it’s those people who make me miss the congregation most.

This church brought me to God. I felt God there, I loved God there, I hated God there, and I clung to God there. The Church was my life, which is why of course I will never fully let it go. Not really. This is still my church, my home, the place to go when there’s nowhere else. Even in all the sorrow and grief – especially in the sorrow and grief – it is the place to which I return. There are some things that never change. In many ways, the Roman Church is still the center of my world, and will be forever.

Sure, there was strife. For example, the priest and I sometimes disagreed. Vehemently. But, then again, I loved and cared about him very deeply all the same. So stubborn, but so sure of his vocation; so traditional, but so in love with the Church; such a terrible homilist and uneven in pastoral care, but the most love and the biggest heart that there could be. He loved this church, and I don't think he really wanted to leave it. The church was prepared to send him off into retirement, but they also would miss him desperately. He defined the church, and it defined him.

Now he’s dead. That was unexpected. It seems as though he died in his sleep, which would be good, since he wouldn’t have felt any pain. But he always said he’d rather have a priest by his deathbed than a saint, because he wanted to receive unction and Viaticum. Instead, he died alone. It’s so haunting, to not have the one thing you’ve always wanted, having performed the rite so many times yourself. He was sixty-five years old, and was a priest for thirty-eight.

I loved that man. Oh sure, sometimes I wanted to strangle him, but that doesn’t mean I loved him any the less. I believe that God put me in his life on purpose. Over the years, interacting with him forced me to think about what I thought Church was. What the priesthood was. What it was that God wanted for me in my life, in the sense of discerning what is important to me about my faith and what isn’t. Ultimately, this meant that I left the Roman Catholic Church because I realized that what matters most to me is Jesus: loving and following Jesus, not any church. A church is a community in which I can do it but, ultimately, the path is only mine to take. I do, of course, need the Church. The sacraments are very important to me, and I have a…profound reverence and awe for them, as well as a fairly full and robust understanding of them. He gave that to me, and for that alone I will always be grateful.

He also taught me the importance of Canon Law, being a canon lawyer himself. I was always a ‘canon-law-observant’ Catholic, which meant that I could not receive Eucharist in other particular churches outside communion with Rome, and that I cannot now receive Eucharist in the Roman Catholic Church. He taught me the language of the Church, and to be respectful of its traditions. At the same time, the language he taught me opened up a world in which I was able to explore and question things like doctrine, tradition, and Church. His ecclesiastical ministry has shaped the entirety of my life in the Christian faith. He married my parents, baptized me, gave me Eucharist, and was there at my Confirmation. He prayed over me (although I don’t think he was the one who’d actually decided I was possessed). I owe him a lot, including, ironically, my stubborn refusal to just accept things as they are without prying into them, always questioning, always trying to better understand.

I have always observed Canon Law. I do it because it was important to him, and so it was important to me, and it forms a very real part of what I understand the Roman Catholic Church to be.

However, I’m going to Holy Family tomorrow and I plan to receive Eucharist (should no one stop me). Fuck the law: life is short. See, he taught me something else, too. About what matters in the living of one’s life. Because ultimately Eucharist isn’t about him, it’s about Jesus and my relationship with God. And I want it. And I need it. Therefore, probably only this once, I will break the law. Which I’m sure he would have found infuriating.

May the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit; May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.

Here In This Place

So, by now I'm sure everyone out there in cyberspace who cares about these things has heard the news about Ep. Lahey. I personally seem to be taking this rather hard because, for a variety of reasons, it hits close to home.

I think that what makes it worse is his role in the reconciliation process with survivors of child sexual abuse in his own diocese. It does take a great deal of courage to open up at all about such intimate issues -- not only what happened (though that is of course a part of it), but the ways in which it has affected and affects your life. What makes childhood abuse so difficult is that it does not really allow for a sense of the past...there is no real moment when you can look behind yourself and say 'it's over,' 'it's behind me.' Instead, it becomes an element of the present, of one's reality and lived experience of the world. It shapes everything around you so that it can never be left behind, not really. You carry it with you every day, in so many ways...a constant companion. These are the things it’s perhaps most difficult to talk about, because it involves opening up your private world, trying to express something that, at the end of the day, can't really be put into words. It involves the acknowledgment to another person of your vulnerability. It is very important that the people you choose to reveal these things to is able to listen, and to feel and express compassion, not so much for what has gone before but for the shape of your present, for the sheer challenge of trying to live a life where you've passed through it even while knowing that this passage can never be complete. It involves realizing that the journey itself is full of danger and that the constant evolution of your healing means you are never really in the same place more than once...that you may need to say it more than once, more than an hundred times, because each time you are not exactly the same person who is saying it, not saying exactly the same thing.

Because it takes a great amount of courage, trust is very important. A lot of the time, I think, it is not obvious why people choose to confide in those they do: a vague feeling, knowledge that the person has previous experience dealing with this sort of emotional fragility, sheer timing in that they're the only person around when it happens to explode out of you. In this case, it is fairly obvious why Ep. Lahey was chosen as someone to trust. His position in the Church makes him an ideal person, both because he represents the institution that allowed the harm to go on in the first place and because, well, we inherently trust our priests, do we not? We tell them our secrets, we come to them to find God, we entrust our children to them, because the lives they have chosen to lead reflect an undeniable goodness, service, and sanctity. It is a sad day when we can no longer look at our clergy without doubt, without concern, without a shadow of suspicion. Hopefully, that day will never come for most of us.

Trust is so important that it forms, I think, an integral part of the reconciliation process...reconciliation with yourself about the truth of your life, if nothing else. That trust makes it possible to see beyond, to hold onto the goodness of another person and know that you are not, after all, completely alone. The people involved in this particular case trusted Ep. Lahey and felt that his compassion and understanding played a crucial role in their ability to constructively confront their experiences. To not be alone in the public proclamation of it. To feel that, through all the shame, confusion, anger and hurt there was someone there whom they could trust and who might even, perhaps, help them to forgive.

So, obviously, finding out that the person you trust is involved at all in the same kind of hurt you’ve been entrusting them with is devastating. Because if the people who profess to care –- and even really do care -– do the same thing that they’ve listened to you talk about, who is there left? Who is there left to trust? I think it carves a new wound on top of an old one, making it even harder to really feel that you’re not alone. That’s what makes this case so particularly bad.

What should have happened is that Ep. Lahey never became involved in this case in the first place. What should have happened is something like this: Dear Holy Father, the diocese under my jurisdiction is about to enter into the process of reconciliation with child survivors of sexual abuse at the hands of our own priests. I request to be relieved of my Episcopal post immediately and to retire from the clerical profession. The grave reason necessitating this action is that, as it turns out, I have also been engaging in child sexual abuse. It would show a complete lack of regard for the souls entrusted to my care if I were to risk wounding them in such a horrible way. I am not requesting to be moved to another diocese not embroiled in a clerical sex-scandal; this would, of course, be terrible, repeating as it does the past sins of the institutional Church. Please accept my resignation immediately. Also, this event has spurred me to realize the implications and harm my actions can cause to other human beings. I’m thinking of turning myself over to the police, perhaps allowing them to catch more people involved in the trafficking of child pornography. Sincerely, your faithful servant.

But, of course, this didn’t happen. I sincerely hope that Ep. Lahey is able to find the courage to repent of what he has done. And it does, I think, take a great deal of courage to truly repent for one’s actions –- all the courage of your life. It means seeing, really seeing, what you have done for what it is, allowing yourself to feel all the deep pain of it, allowing the devastation to penetrate your soul, accepting the hurt and responsibility without any equivocation, any denial, any attempt at proving innocent. That willingness to suffer, that willingness to see yourself as you truly are, is the real measure of a life. And it’s something we all of us will have to face when we stand before God in judgment. I pray that we all find the courage to immerse ourselves in repentance so that we can all accept God’s forgiveness. God can forgive anything, but embracing that mercy means first accepting in all of its horror what we have done. We are all sinners, none of us more than another –- not really. None of us deserve or merit forgiveness. But, through God’s freely given grace, it is poured out upon all of us. The choice of our lives, I think, comes on the final day, and the task of our lives is to love and trust God enough that we can brave the horrible sorrow that accepting forgiveness will mean, trusting that God’s love for us will save us even from that, even from ourselves. So I pray for Ep. Lahey, just as much as for any of us, that he will find that courage and strength. Maybe facing the consequences of his actions in this life will help him to do that...though human justice can never look into the mystery of the human heart, it can help a person to see, to see as clearly as it’s possible to see in a dark glass, that they have sinned, and that they need forgiveness. So God can save them with a Mercy that knows no measure, and a Love that knows no end.

But I ramble.

The point is, I feel really, really sad and weepy and vulnerable about this, because I know what it’s like to have someone you’ve trusted with your most painful secrets break that trust by committing the same offense. To whom can I turn but God? But, of course, God is not all I need in this life –- God can’t really hug me or hand me Kleenexes. I need other people. Which is another reason I feel so bad. Because I, like the people of Antigonish, need to find the strength and courage to forgive, the strength and courage to trust again, to really put it aside and hand it over to God, and not live my life inside anger and vengeance and all that it means to not forgive. It is difficult, and I’m not sure that it can ever be fully accomplished until the end, when I come face to face with the true depth of my own sinfulness, which I can never fully appreciate behind the cloud of this life. Like everyone else, I need the final resurrection to be whole. But forgiveness now is necessary, as necessary as possible, because that too prepares you to accept the love of God, to understand the depth and meaning of mercy, that it is beyond anything that can be expected or comprehended or deserved. That only in God are all things possible.

We pray to the Lord: for the sake of your Son, have mercy Lord.
May everyone, all of us in need of your mercy to escape the darkness of hell, be lead into new light, and see your face.

Welcome Home Outcast

You can tell it’s not summer anymore when you go back to the school chapel for Wednesday Mass. What you can’t tell is why. It feels a bit odd actually, maybe because family members keep asking me when I’m going to stop going to that chapel. I admit that I do sometimes worry I’ve outstayed my welcome: after all, it’s not exactly normal to finish your theological program and keep coming back for such a long time. Especially since I was never affiliated with the college and so never actually contribute to it. It’s almost like I break into a seamless, uninterrupted rhythm. It feels a bit like I’m intruding, which for some reason I feel more strongly than usual. The weird thing is that, at the same time, I feel so happy to see my friends again.

The relief that follows a long absence…there’s nothing quite like that; for a moment when I entered the chapel and picked up those familiar books, I felt that same happiness, that same lightheartedness, that same joy. I dunno, it’s like…for an instant thinking ‘Oh, so that’s what it’s like being where I’m supposed to be.’ Then I felt like usual. But it was still pretty awesome!

It’s not summer anymore because something has changed. I’m hoping that something is me. Maybe chapel, like, gave me a little electroshock or something. Maybe now I’ll get off my butt and go back to church, which I’ve been skipping prodigiously.

I really, really hope that summer’s over, mostly because I’ve been, well, sick all summer. I really, really hope that coming back to this place and centering my life around communal worship will somehow put me right. I hope the lethargy and oppressive exhaustion are over, that I can start again. I admit it didn’t help this summer that one of my really close friends from my Arts degree decided to ditch me. I mean, I know that sometimes when you’re struggling, especially when it seems you’re not getting better, you can’t expect people to stick around, but it still sucks even though I understand it. And anyway, my best friends (excepting her) have always been there for me, and that’s what matters. And there’s always God. I think we’re all really blessed that God’s always there no matter how much we sometimes ignore Him and take Him for granted. This summer, at least, has helped me realize that God is not a friend but something greater. I also realize I need to struggle harder against the isolation I tend to retreat to when I’m having trouble. Because the people who care about you are tougher than you think; even when you’re not perfect, not happy, not well, even when you almost believe you won’t survive, they’ll believe for you. And sometimes they bring you flowers.

Final requests: if it looks like I’m trying to hide or otherwise withdraw, don’t let me get away with it; don’t ask me how I am because the answer might really suck; and kick me in the ass if I don’t go to the clinic to get those horribly elaborate blood tests that you need a transfusion to get over; and don’t let me skip on those meds they’re giving me to try and mitigate a ‘disease’ that no one really understands. Yay, mystery ailment! I’m pretty sure there’s a prize when I finally get to the bottom of this.

P.S. My hair is a fuzzball from hell.
Also, I really want a cigarette.