Maundy Thursday

Mother, Washing Dishes by Susan Meyers
She rarely made us do it—
we’d clear the table instead—so my sister and I teased
that some day we’d train our children right
and not end up like her, after every meal stuck
with red knuckles, a bleached rag to wipe and wring.
The one chore she spared us: gummy plates
in water greasy and swirling with sloughed peas,
globs of egg and gravy.

Or did she guard her place
at the window? Not wanting to give up the gloss
of the magnolia, the school traffic humming.
Sunset, finches at the feeder. First sightings
of the mail truck at the curb, just after noon,
delivering a note, a card, the least bit of news.

On Holy Thursday, I kneel down on the cool hard floor of the sanctuary before a small basin of water. I take a stranger’s feet into my palms.  With my small hands I tip the heavy pitcher of water, and with great care, I wash these feet. I dry them.

And every year when I am through, I look up at a warm, humble smile. And for a brief, still moment, I offer one too.

I would never want to give that up.

Lying Awake

Recently, I read a beautiful little novel called, “Lying Awake” by Mark Salzman.  The novel chronicles the story of Sr. John of the Cross, a Carmelite nun in a community nestled in the hills surrounding contemporary Los Angeles.  Sr. John’s spiritual poetry has brought her fame in the world outside the monastery walls; this writing talent surfaced with recurring and increasingly intense mystical spells that leave her unconscious after a fit of voracious spiritual writing.   Not long after the novel begins, Sr. John is diagnosed with a form of epilepsy known to result in common symptoms not at all unlike those that have enabled her fame, including tremendous interest in religion and philosophy and rigorous fits of writing.

The good news appears to be that the epilepsy is treatable with a fairly safe surgical procedure.  Free of this illness, Sr. John’s community would be free of the burden of worrying about and caring for Sr. John when these trance-like experiences come over her.  Yet, assent to such a procedure is in no way simple for Sr. John: while the symptomatic mystical writing has brought her fame, it has also, more importantly, given her a consistent, incredibly intimate experience of God’s presence.

Amid her story, any reader is inevitably confronted by the question she faces: If I were in her position, what would I do?  Would I rid myself of these symptoms for the sake of my health and my community—but at the potential cost of losing this feeling of intimacy with God?  Or, would I accept ill health for the sake of this mystical life?

When discussing this book with friends, I have often said that I would choose mysticism.  So much of our lives are spent seeking clarity about the decisions we make, about the convictions we live by—thus, I can only imagine how liberating it would feel to experience the kind of clarity and peace that would accompany this type of mystical intimacy with God.  How could one consciously give that up after experiencing it?

However, one scene from the book made me re-think all that.  On the night when Sr. John must make up her decision, she vows to stay up all night, keeping vigil in the monastery chapel until she finds peace with her choice, one way or the other.  After a few hours in the darkness and quiet, her sisters, one by one, fill the chapel.  Saying nothing, their presence implicitly communicates that they, too, will keep vigil with her until she reaches her decision.  And in reading this, it occurred to me: It is very rare that God gives us the type of mystical clarity that Sr. John experienced for so many years. More often, I think, God gives us each other.

Surely, most of us still long for the sky to open and a divine voice to call out how to live and what to think.  But a longing for this type of clarity, for this type of conviction, can distract us from the gift of God in our midst—the God embodied in those who sit next to us, in word and in silent, as we discern all those small decisions that make up a lifetime. Would I exchange that for mysticism?  Well, maybe—I’ve never experienced the sort of thing that Sr. John did.  But, when I recall the many nights when people have kept vigil with me—around dinner tables, on long walks, over drinks at the bar—I can’t imagine trading that for anything. And I can’t imagine that God wasn’t right there, too.

What If Resurrection Is A Choice?

Check out my reflection on the Easter Sunday readings at From the Pews in the Back, entitled “What If Resurrection Is A Choice?“.  You can also find this entry cross-posted on God’s Politics, a blog by Jim Wallis & Friends.

Mother Teresa’s Footsteps

Check out my New Year’s entry on CTA’s Young Adult Catholic Blog, entitled “Mother Teresa’s Footsteps.”

Where Do I Stand?

Today the sun finally broke through the clouds in Boston.  So, after finishing lunch in a cute little Italian cafe in Beacon Hill, I decided to head to the nearby Boston Public Gardens for an afternoon stroll while making a phone call to an old friend from school.  I didn’t get very far.

Still a couple hundred feet from the park, I could see the flashing blue lights of the police cars that blocked the road along the permitter of the Boston Commons.  I heard horns honking, voices chanting, and as I drew closer I began to recognize the “NOW” logos on the large white picket signs along the sidewalk.  My studies in feminism have familiarized me with NOW, the “National Organization for Women” that headed up America’s Second Wave feminist movement. I have fantasized about marching in their protest lines at the height of their movement in the 60′s and 70′s, a time when it seems collective action was so much more energetic and visible than today.

As I drew closer, there were other familiar images. Banners with the colorful emblem of Our Lady of Guadeloupe.  Masses of people, their hands thrust into the air cradling rosary beads or wooden crucifixes. Women in habit, and men with starched white collars. The anger in the air shook me as I realized: I am walking straight into a feminist/Catholic standoff over abortion rights.  And that’s exactly what it was.

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.

"…the trauma I have experienced as a woman."

For months I had been hearing about this friend-of-a-friend. We have so much in common, I was told. She recently finished up two Master’s degrees, one in social work and one in divinity, so we share commitments to social justice and faith. What’s more, during her studies an intense interest in feminist theologies blossomed. After hearing all this, I eagerly awaited our introduction. A few weeks ago I had the pleasure.

Right away we began discussing her work, my work, her seminary experience, the plans for my own. And at one point I asked her about the origins of her interest in feminism and faith. I am often perplexed by my own process of coming to a feminist world-view, so this is a question I like to ask others. Like many to whom I’ve posed this question, she mentioned books and eye-opening class work. But then she said something I had never heard before, and something I think I will never forget. Spoken like a true social worker, she explained, “Amid my initial exposure to feminism, I began to consider the trauma I have experienced as a woman.” The more in touch with this trauma she became, the more feminism resonated with her life.

Her words facilitated an “OH-my-goodness-YES!” moment for me. I had never conceived of my feminist awakening in terms of “trauma” before, yet when she phrased her own experience in this way it was as if I had conceived of it a thousand times before. I had simply never articulated it with words.

Like this friend, my gender has led me to encounter certain culturally-gender-specific, disturbing experiences–certain traumas. Feminism has helped me begin to recognize these existential traumas. It has also aided me as I have begun to tend to the wounds created by these traumas: the low self-esteem, the struggles with body image, the desire to please others even to an unhealthy degree, the confusion about female sexuality, the fear for my safety and even my life, the self-doubt…

Even as feminism has helped me to see and heal the gendered traumas of my life, I continuously struggle to articulate them to others–particularly to men. I get defensive. I fear their judgment and misunderstanding as I vulnerably share about the impact of sexism on my life. I want others, men and women alike, to affirm the reality of what I experience as a woman, and I get nervous as I try to share these personal, often abstract, sometimes painful traumas with them.

That makes me all the more grateful for moments like the one I shared with this wise young woman. In spite the brevity of our acquaintance, her words reassured me that she would probably sympathize with some of the very personal things about my life as a woman that I so often struggle to share with others.

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

Craving Dillard

“I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wondering awed about on a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty bats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them…” –Annie Dillard

Today I am craving Annie Dillard. If you are not familiar with her work, she’s an incredible nature writer who captures the violence and beauty of our world like few others I have encountered. I am craving her today because an old boyfriend of mine has cancer. I just found out.

Cancer is one of those things that is not supposed to happen to anyone. Especially 25-year-old newlyweds. Especially really, really good people. Right? I’ve been sitting with it for a few hours now, and I can’t stop thinking about how horrible it is. How terrible this monster is that affects so many people. And this kind of thing, the frailties of our bodies, the suffering of all sorts that people endure, this is life. They are not the exceptions. They are horrible and they are not exceptions. It breaks my heart.

I want to sit with Annie Dillard’s vision of the world right now because she sees the terrible things I see. In her writing she watches moths irresistibly fly into flames that devour them; she tells of random plane crashes that kill innocent bystanders. I haven’t encountered it in her writing, but I bet she sees cancer, too. And amidst all this, Dillard has a way of pointing out the way that “beauty bats and shines not in [the world’s] imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them.” I need to see those things right now.

Especially because this past year has been full of this sort of beauty/terror paradox. I traveled in Europe with one of my dearest friends; my cousin—my soul mate—is getting married to the most wonderful man; I was excepted to Harvard with honors beyond my wildest dreams; my work is being published; I’ve fallen in love; I have good, meaningful work. Yet amid all this I’ve been broken hearted, too. My friend has cancer. Bad news comes all the time.

I need Dillard’s worldview to piece this all together. To live with this heavy tension. To find stability amid the incredible goodness and hard horrors of this world.

When the Earth Stops Spinning

There are days when the earth stops spinning. It happened today.

The scene was rather ironic: I walked out of German class where I had spent the last half hour laboring over a German passage about the Galilean controversy. Having finally conquered those simple sentences about the earth’s rotation, I picked up my cell to dial a friend whose call I had missed during class. Her words stopped my world on its orbit.

She gave news about a potentially serious health condition facing an old friend of mine. He and I have lost touch over the years, moved in different directions I guess, but he remains one of the most significant influences of my life. His happiness and well-being mean to the world to me.

Despite the fact that I have increasingly faced the reality of suffering and hardship in my community in recent years, this news halted the momentum of my day. As the bewildered question, “how is this happening?” lingered in me all afternoon, I yearned for the world I had woken up in this morning. A world where I took the health of my friend for granted. A world where we were so safe I didn’t have to think about the state of our bodies.

We don’t notice the spin of the earth because we are accustomed to it. If the world suddenly stopped we would realize that we’d been spinning, unthinkingly, this whole time. Our bodies would feel it. I think we often take our way of life for granted until something suddenly interrupts its momentum. It happened today.