Sometimes Love Is Stronger Than One’s Convictions

Sometimes love is stronger than [one's] convictions.” -Isaac Bashevis Singer

It is my experience that one of the marks of falling in love, particularly in its glorious initial phases, is an unshakable desire to be with one’s partner. This desire is such that even when physical presence is impossible, alternative connections are eagerly welcomed: a phone call that simply brings the sound of that voice. A message with words that capture that charm.  A day on a calendar that marks our next meeting. An imagined vision of what he or she is doing at the present moment…

I realized today that I have fallen deeply in love with the simple Catholic liturgy I experienced on weekday afternoons this past summer. I find myself longing for it, longing to be present to it again, the way I have eagerly longed for the comforting presence of my beloved.  

Watching You Dance

On Thursday evening I looked over the balcony at Century Ballroom as my friends Katie and Frank danced to the final song of the night on the dance floor below. It was the last night of salsa before I head off to Boston, and the only night of the summer when the club hosts a live salsa band.  (I would have liked to think the special occasion was in honor of my departure, but I know it was simply a pleasant coincidence.)  Along with the best sounds the ballroom had heard all season, the live music brought out the city’s best dancers, which made for a night of both great dancing and fantastic viewing.  Of all the swift spins and fast footwork displayed by the evening’s talented couples, however, the most memorable dance, in my humble opinion, was that last one danced by my friends.

The three of us have gone dancing together at least once a week all summer long. And just as I, a clumsy beginner, went from counting out every step (1-2-3—5-6-7…) to moving unthinkingly along with rhythms I instantly recognize, so too had my more experienced friends improved their dance moves. While it was unnoticeable for me when I first began dancing, I have learned that a personal dancing style accompanies this sort of progress: when one attains a certain level of familiarity with the rhythms, steps, and moves, one’s personal style—which is often a reflection of his/her personality, training, and dance community—surfaces in his/her dancing.  Having danced with Katie and Frank for months now, I have gained a great affection for the idiosyncrasies of their styles.  For the neat steps of Katie’s three-count turns.  For the circular swing of Frank’s hands when he leads in open-position.  For the expressions on their faces when they concentrate during a spin sequence, or the sympathetic grins that occasionally break when someone acknowledges a partner’s misstep.

From the ballroom balcony, I treasured every glimpse of these personal tendencies. They were small, endearing reminders that I was not simply watching salsa dancing, but Katie’s salsa and Frank’s salsa.

Something New in Something Old

In my mind, one of the great wonders of religion is that its old things–its texts and rituals and doctrines–can be made new time and time again. Generations fade and arise, and people still find meaning for their lives in many of the same traditions. It’s because so many components of religion are rich, dynamic, so full of potential that people far removed from their origin find themselves in them.

Often times, this process occurs in moments of fresh insight. I encounter something in a totally, startlingly different way, something I’ve grown up with as a Catholic my whole life. This happened on Sunday, and it seems I haven’t stopped telling people about it since.

It began with last Sunday’s Gospel reading from John. After watching Jesus feed the crowd of thousands from the mere offering of 2 fishes and 5 loaves (which we encountered in the previous Sunday’s gospel), the disciples ask Jesus, “What sign can you do, that we may see and believe in you?” In addressing this week’s Gospel passage, the homilist turned to the story of the famous miracle from the previous week. Essentially, he said this:

Champagne from the Bottle

“Well, folks…the cup I left on the table flew away, so do you still want to have the champagne…um….from the bottle?”

No, that was not a line from some classy college cocktail party gone wrong. The line was straight from my lips, and it was spoken during the Communion service at my cousin’s outdoor wedding last weekend.

The wedding officiant, a Protestant pastor and friend of mine, asked me to help facilitate the intimate ritual during the ceremony. When the marrying couple, the pastor, the two Best Men, and I, the Maid of Honor, circled around the small Communion table in front of 200 guests, I immediately noticed that the empty plastic cup I had placed there before the wedding was no where to be found. The mountain breeze must have carried it away during the vows!

We passed the grainy loaf around while the pastor read scripture, and I said, “This is Christ’s body, broken for you.” As we chewed my eyes darted around inconspicuously searching for the cup. “WHY did I pick a clear cup!” I wondered silently to myself. When our jaws stopped chomping and everyone’s eyes turned to the uncorked bottle of champagne we had grabbed before the ceremony (someone forgot the intended Communion wine), I divulged our Communion predicament.

Showing Up

My legs could barely hold me yesterday at Mass. I hadn’t slept much the night before, or the night before that really, and my body had been reminding me of it since I rolled over to turn off my alarm clock that morning.

There are not enough hours in the day lately, which means I am burning the midnight oil. What’s more, I’m certain my physical tiredness is compounded by all the emotional up’s and down’s of late. Consequently, I found myself squirming through the liturgy like a twelve year old, focusing much more on my achy body than any of the prayers coming out of my mouth.

If you would have asked me at age sixteen why I was leaving the Catholic Church, I would have told you about the kind of disinterested Mass-attendee that I was yesterday. As a zealous young believer I felt entitled to a community that clearly shared the same enthusiasm for Christianity that I did. I wanted to be surrounded by actively-engaged worshipers, thought-provoking homilies, and music that kept everyone clapping and swaying. Amid the solemnity of my parish liturgy, I often asked myself, “Why do people even come here? Nobody looks like they actually want to be here at all….” Some of the people I saw every week never sang. Some never even prayed out loud. “Why show up if you aren’t going to participate?” I wondered.

It’s incredible how differently I view this situation today. Life has taught me that sometimes, the greatest expression of faith is showing up to Mass when one no longer has the energy–emotional, physical, or otherwise–to sing, or stand, or even pray out loud. Sometimes all we can do is show up and give God the meager efforts that we have. It’s not pretty, but it’s everything.

It saddens me to think that my judgments blinded me from recognizing the simple faith that surrounded me at Mass growing up. I’m grateful to see it now in others, but also grateful that I can give myself grace on the days when I, too, show up with so little to offer.

Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the temple treasury. Jesus also saw a poor widow put in two very small copper coins. “Truly I tell you,” Jesus said, “this poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.” Luke 21:1-4

Corpus Christi

Today is the celebration of Corpus Christi, that is, the “Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ.” As a church we reflect on Christ’s embodiment, both historically in the person of Jesus and continually in the gift of Christ’s mysterious presence in the sacrament of the Eucharist.

I kept thinking about this as I lay on the cement floor in St. Mark’s Cathedral this evening during Compline. I was between Stephanie and Jen, two of my best friends since childhood. Throughout our friendships they have been constant pillars in my spiritual life. Each of us comes from her own unique Christian upbringing, and even as we all spent our undergraduate years with the Jesuits, we still hold many differences in faith. Yet they have always been embodiments of Christ to me. Real Love in Flesh and Blood. Truth speakers in some of the most trying of circumstances.

According to Roman Catholic doctrine, one of the major reasons women cannot be ordained priests is the fact that Christ became human in the form of a man. The priest, who represents Jesus in the consecration of the Eucharist, must therefore be male in order to adequately reflect Christ’s embodiment. I’ve acquired plenty of strong theological arguments to dismiss the institution’s logic on this matter, but tonight I didn’t need any intellectual assertions to support by belief that Christ’s embodiment was not merely male. No. There next to me, on my right and on my left, Jesus lay in Flesh and Blood. Skin and Bones. Jen and Steph.

The Corpus Christi I witness every day is often female, just as it is often male. It is always a Mystery.

Compline

St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral in Seattle sits atop Capitol Hill watching over the cityscape with its big, round eye of a window.  Since high school, I’ve periodically made pilgrimage to their Sunday night Compline service where their pitch-perfect men’s choir chants the evening prayers in a vast sanctuary full of Seattle’s most eclectic crowd.  Some nights I sit in a pew next to a homeless man; other nights I lay on the cool concrete floor next to a cuddling couple who brought pillows and a blanket.  

Tonight, my friend Casey and I chose the concrete in the front corner of the Cathedral where his friends used to congregate when they attended together in high school.  Casey says the choir sounds different in that spot compared to anywhere else in the church. The sound bounces off the gigantic round pillar in that corner, he explained, giving the voices a magnificent echo. 

When the choir began I closed my eyes and pictured the city below the Cathedral’s gaze.  At first the perfect harmonies hovered magically above me in the room, like the perfect figurines of the Sistine Chapel.  They just hung there, perfectly, while I imagined the city outside the sanctuary walls. As time went on, though, the hum of the choir grew and I saw it pouring, spilling out of the building’s walls, down its hillside and over the freeway passes, lakes, and landmarks.  The sound was alive and twirling as it bounced from building top to building top, hopping on the city’s water masses like they were puddles on a rainy day.  Soon my whole image of the city was reverberating with this beautiful sound…

Every Sunday night the choir fills that space with prayers so incredible that I can’t help but believe they change the world beyond the sanctuary. Most Sundays I don’t hear those prayers with my own two ears, but they are prayed nonetheless.  They shake the city with their beauty, nonetheless. And that gives me great hope. 

My friend Christine told me that when she heard the news about 9/11, she thought of the monastic community she often worships with at Big Sur in California.  She told me that the whole world was in chaos, but she knew those men where praying.  When everything was falling apart she knew they were holding us together with their prayers.  A few people hold the whole world together with their prayers. 

Of the numerous parts of my faith that theological studies have unfortunately confused, my intellectual understanding of prayer–what it is and how it works–has been most affected.  Therefore, upon inquiry, I will not explain to someone how it works. I tell them I just don’t know. But I also tell them that I am often undeniably compelled to do it when I see people I love in pain, especially spiritual and emotional suffering.  I am also compelled to do it when I see people I don’t know in pain.  I tell them my most intimate moments with loved ones occur during prayer.  And, more than that, I tell them that some simple part of me really, truly believes that it both shakes the earth and holds it together, and it does all other sorts of things. 

And now, I will tell them that it sounds beautiful. So absolutely beautiful, and so alive.

The Beauty and Challenge of Being Catholic

The Catholic Studies Program at Santa Clara University, my alma mater, is sponsoring me for a lecture this Thursday on the subject of “Catholic Identity Today.” The great Jesuit I am working with pointed me to a wonderful podcast for some inspiration, and now I’m recommending it to you.

“The Beauty and Challenge of Being Catholic” is one episode in a series of podcasts called “Speaking of Faith” hosted by Krista Tippett.  Before listening to the hourlong podcast compilation of eleven diverse lay voices, I read the its written transcript. Tears streamed down my face as I read the text–so you can only imagine how moved I was to hear the podcast’s real voices recite their personal accounts of Catholicism’s beauties and challenges. 

"Welcome back to non-practicing Catholics!"

I’ve been quiet in the blogsphere…but have no fear, new posts are coming soon! In the meantime, check out my latest post on the CTA Young Adult Catholics blog, entitled “‘Welcome back to non-practicing Catholics!’”  

Good Friday

Yesterday afternoon while sitting in the passenger seat of my boyfriend’s car, I tried to make plans to get together with a friend over the phone.   

“We don’t have many plans for Friday,” I said, “Just Mass sometime in the afternoon or evening.” 

My boyfriend interrupted from the driver’s seat, “It’s not a Mass, Jess.” 

I rolled my eyes and smiled, finished making plans with my friend, and hung up the phone. “I know its not a Mass on Good Friday. You know what I mean.”

My boyfriend shot me a teasing smile.  I refer to him as my personal catechist because he teaches me all the information about Catholic teaching and tradition that I somehow missed out on while growing up in the Church.  This sort of silly yet sincere catechetical exchange is typical of our weird relationship. 

He went on, “I know you know that Good Friday liturgy is not a Mass. I just think that it’s really incredible: it is the one day out of the entire year that you can’t celebrate the Eucharist. I don’t go to daily Mass every day, but I know that it’s always there. I can always gather with the community for Eucharist if I want to–except for Good Friday. It makes me kind of sad in some ways…I guess it makes me appreciate every other day of the year when I have that option.”

His comment has stuck with my all day because I had never considered Good Friday in this way.  It is the one day of the year when things are so shaken, so disheartening, so disturbing, that our most regular Catholic sacrament is missing. What a powerful symbol–to be intentionally without the Eucharist for this sad day.