Partly cloudy

It often happens at bedtime: so tired, and yet awake. I think, I ought to do something if I am awake. There’s always so much to do. What’s wrong with me? I wonder.

Probably nothing. Nothing, that is, but the ordinary out-of-stepness that is the state of human life lived in too-close cooperation with the fallenness of the world. There is another world, but it is the same as this one, indeed, as has been said by more than one poet and quoted by Rowan Williams. And being between worlds sometimes seems like the state I’m in: finding the ‘other’ in the world doesn’t come easily, when it comes at all.

And who knows how the voice of the Other World will break through? Maybe through something I read, a chance comment somewhere (on social media, even!), in the quiet, or on a walk…I can’t predict. Some days it is as though someone added Felix Felicis to my coffee. The worlds seem to come together. Coming and going, the ordinary things, all seem to lead to a great openness and peace. Other days, not so much.

Like clouds block the sun, sometimes the light that illumines my soul dims. Who knows what ‘clouds’ might float along, stopping the brightness of the sun’s rays? And who knows how long the shadows will cover me? Not I. My only gift, the only thing I have learned to do in this partly cloudy existence is to enjoy the warm sun, to be grateful for the beauty of the clouds, and to find comfort in the sound of heavy rain.

 

 

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Liturgy of Light

My two younger children attend a Montessori school centered on the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd. I am a huge fan of the school, and of the catechesis, and on Friday I was reminded powerfully of the reasons why. After the youngest child’s time in the Atrium, parents received the following message about their experience from guide Sarah Kulwicki. There is nothing to be added to what she says, except perhaps to pray that God grants us the grace to experience Jesus in the way these children do.

Liturgy_of_Light_1Today in the atrium we had a special Easter celebration called the “Liturgy of Light.” 

 For the Liturgy of Light, we enter the atrium with the lights off and gather around the atrium Paschal candle.  The Paschal candle, or the Easter candle, reminds of about the light that came back into the world after Jesus rose to new life on Easter Sunday.  The imagery of light is an important theme for the 3-6 year old in the atrium.  Do you remember being a young child? Maybe you were afraid of the dark.  Light brings us a feeling of security, of warmth.  Early in the year we hear from the prophet Isaiah (who lived 700 years before Jesus was born!) who said that “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”  Who is this light?  The children joyfully respond, “Jesus!”  Jesus is security, Jesus is warmth. 

 As we lit the Paschal candle, I proclaimed “Jesus is the light which no darkness can overcome.”  We remember that ever since that glorious Easter day, the light, Jesus, has remained with us even to this day.  I read the scripture passage of the women discovering the empty tomb and finding out that Jesus was alive again.  Then, one by one, I lit a small candle for each child using the light from the Paschal candle.  The awe, wonder, and reverence during this moment was amazing.  The children gazed upon the light, carefully holding it in their hands.  We sang joyful Alleluias and “This little light of mine.”  At the end, each child brought forth their candle to place next to the Paschal candle.  We were able to see how all of our individual lights together made an even brighter light.  Jesus shares his light with us, and we can share his light with others. 

 As a follow up during the work time, children had the choice to spend more time with the Paschal candle lit and their own individual candle lit.  There was a small group of children that remained at the Paschal candle after the presentation and asked if they could do it again.  I lit the candle again and asked, “Do you want to say a prayer out loud, sing a song, or sit and enjoy the light in silence?”  They asked to sit in silence.  They quietly gazed upon the light.  A child asked, “Can I get the Good Shepherd to hold to say a prayer?”  She brought it to the rug and chose to say a silent prayer in her heart.  She passed it to the next child.  Each of us took turns saying a silent prayer.   They asked me to read the scripture passage again.  They laid on the ground and looked at the light of their candles.  This spontaneous moment of prayer and reflection lasted about 20 minutes. I am grateful to have been a part of this beautiful moment guided by the awe and wonder of the children.

May the light of Christ be with you this Easter Season!

In the middle of America

I am re-reading Gillian Rose and working on my (American) accent. Apparently I no longer sound like I am from California. (See volpe-ayres news for the story on that.) And I am working on a book proposal (the draft of which is on academia.edu), a Lenten devotional (finishing touches), and an article on tenderness–as well as doing editorial work for the Handbook of Catholic Theology and homeschooling my 11-year-old. A bit busy.
 
Gillian Rose is even better on the second or third read: if you haven't read Love's Work, do. And don't worry about what it might really be about. It is certainly about more than what it says on the surface, but it is so beautiful that reading it shouldn't feel like work. Her Paradiso used to be hard to come by, but probably isn't now. It is equally beautiful.
 
These are patches of light in the darkness. I don't do transition well, and this isn't an exception. But I know that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.
 

Notes for the 22nd of January

The 22nd of January (in the US) and that Sunday in October designated ‘pro-life’ (ditto) always get under my skin a bit. Why? My suspicion is that beneath my frustration and anger, there is a point about Christian faith and practice. Too often, Christianity is reduced to a program or an issue. The checklist of what to do and what to believe is a lot easier than the command of Jesus to be perfect, or the command to love God completely, and your neighbour as yourself. It is easier, that is, to slap a pro-life sticker on your bumper, participate in the relevant activities every January (and October), and think that you are pro-life.

But being for life, if it is to be a true expression of Catholic faith, must involve a whole lot more than that. It goes without saying that abortion is a tragedy in every case, and more often than not, an avoidable tragedy. Abortion is not, however, the sum of all evil. It is rather, a symptom of the corruption of our hearts–all of our hearts–and of a world in which scarcity and death threaten us. I wonder sometimes whether the energy expended to protect the unborn is really an effort to protect ourselves. Babies are loveable; it is not difficult to evoke sympathy for the children who are threatened by the practice of abortion. it is hard to imagine a person in our culture (or any culture, really) who wouldn’t mourn at the suffering of an infant, wouldn’t extend him- or herself on that child’s behalf. And so it should be.

I wonder, though, whether that isn’t like loving those who love you. The point there seems to be that loving those who love you is not terribly difficult. There is a reciprocity that makes the love you give less costly. What does it cost you to love those who love you? What does it cost you to be concerned for the unborn? Time, perhaps, and prayer–and that isn’t a bad thing. But if the heart of Christian love is forgiveness (see Matthew 18 and John 20: 22-23, e.g.), how can protesting abortion take center stage?

Abortion is an evil that happens in a world in which evil things happen all the time. Is it a worse evil than child abuse? than malnutrition? than the soul-destroying conditions in which thousands of children live? I’m not convinced it is. I think there is a peculiarly self-serving form of human sinfulness that operates when the choice to terminate a pregnancy is made for convenience, or because of disabling conditions. In such cases, I think the word ‘murder’ is not too strong, and I would rank those decisions at the top of the list of godless human judgments. (I say I think.)

What it boils down to, for me, is this: (1) I firmly believe abortion is wrong. (2) At the same time, I view the law legalising abortion in a similar light to the law permitting divorce; Jesus qualified that law as having been given because of our ‘hardness of heart’–though I appreciate the differences between the two. (3) I look around the world and see sin and need and lack of love everywhere. There are children who live in conditions of abject poverty and desperate need–of material goods and also of the love and affirmation they need to grow up healthy and strong. (4) I see plenty of grown-ups with the same sorts of needs. (5) I am concerned that focusing so narrowly on one evil–abortion–allows us to avoid evils more difficult to confront, and commands more difficult to obey. ‘Love your enemies…’; ‘forgive…seventy times seven’; ‘feed my sheep’; ‘make disciples…’; ‘love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind and strength, and your neighbour as yourself.’ Obeying these commands requires us to be pro-life until it hurts us, to extend ourselves for life, to confess our faith in the Giver of Life in all that we think, say, and do. We have to be conscious of the darkness and sin in our own hearts that prevents us from being the bearers of God’s light and life to others. We have to oppose practices that threaten, demean, or undermine life–like torture, slavery, the death penalty, the drug trade. We have to resist hatred, fear, indifference, unforgiveness and the temptation to leave undone the good we can do. We have to put on love and humility, letting our pride and self-sufficiency be crucified with Christ.

Being pro-life is being for Jesus–the Way, the Truth, and the Life–always and consistently. To follow Jesus, to be his disciples, and to be about the business of making disciples, that is what it means to be pro-life. Praying with others for the unborn is good; mourning the loss of those children who never will be because of abortion is good; protesting a practice that allows us to exercise heartless power over the most vulnerable is right and proper. But if we stop there, we cannot call ourselves pro-life. Unless we get up on the morning of January 23rd ready to reach out to the poor, the unwanted, the unloved, the seemingly unlovable and unforgivable, unless we take seriously the call to be witnesses and make disciples, we have missed the point. Jesus came that we might have life abundantly, and to follow him means bearing that life and giving it away every day of every year, in all that we say and do.

So I get angry when the topic of abortion is the litmus test for Christian faithfulness. Of course we ought to oppose abortion–but that isn’t the cutting edge of our faith. If we are growing into the likeness of Christ, we have to have bigger hearts and a broader vision. Jesus was not speaking about ‘the issues’; he was declaring ‘the kingdom of God is at hand’. Jesus came bearing love, and forgiveness, and grace, and life, and he was and is the light that shines in the darkness–and our hope is and will ever be that the darkness cannot overcome Him.

Two Advent posts (by other people)

First: a blessed feast of St Lucy! My youngest is called Lucy, partly because of St Lucy, and partly because of Lucy Pevensie.

Second: work and getting ready for Christmas have provided a great reason (and excuse) for going quiet on twitter, Facebook and this blog. And I have been busy, it’s true. But it is also true that I find this time of year a bit sad. Nothing extraordinary, just the nostalgia for my childhood Christmas celebrations with my grandparents. And this December it has been particularly dark and dreary in my soul.

So I found this blog post encouraging. ‘God’s faith in Zechariah is enough, even when Zechariah’s faith falters.’ And I have been stumbling along rather blindly. No matter how many times I hear it, it is good to be reminded that it doesn’t depend on me. It (everything) depends on God. Yes, God chooses to work through me, so I should be attentive to the Holy Spirit and allow God to do God’s thing. That’s best for me. But God can also work around or in spite of me. Then, I fail to experience the treasure flowing through this earthen vessel. God, however, is not thwarted. That’s very good news.

If that post had missed me, I might have been caught by this one. As usual, Sr Catherine has hit the nail on the head. ‘We fail to recognise the opportunities offered to us…our loss.’ Indeed so. God wants to work through us for our benefit, not for God’s own benefit: so God’s sorrow is empathetic; God is sorry for our loss. (Again, God isn’t thwarted!)

And Sr Catherine also reminds me that Lucy is derived from the Latin word for light. Even as my own Lucy did bring light back into my life at a particularly dark time, so I pray that God’s light will shine into the dreary darkness of my soul this Advent. And yours, too.

the widow’s mite

‘[she gave] all that she had to live on’ (Luke 21: 4).

Everything. She gave everything. Usually when I have heard homilies or read reflections on this text, the application has been predominantly financial. Giving out of our abundance is good; giving out of our meagre resources—giving ‘until it hurts—is better. And I wouldn’t want to deny that. It is a very good rendering of the way the words go. Giving what we can afford shows generosity; we can spend our discretionary income however we choose, and charitable giving is a Good choice. But the widow’s gift goes beyond generosity. If I were in the New Testament commentary business, I’d now be doing some research on the culture of giving in the first century. (I’d start with L W Countryman’s Rich Christians in an Age of Empire…) Because there is more to be said about this: I’ll pay close attention to future homilies on the text.

But there are other readings of this text. (See here for some centuries-old examples.) There’s an allegorical reading, I think, worth pursuing. Because money is important, and yet it is not ‘all [we] have to live on’. Very few of us will be called to give all the money we have to live on (probably at least in part because the culture in which we give is not at all like the widow’s culture; see Countryman). Discipleship is radical, though. The New Testament is full of parables and exhortations that call for a total trust in God, an unreserved giving of self in the hope that God will give back that self, infused with the light and life of Christ, which is the divine light and life.

All I have to live on names not just what’s in the bank. Even if I gave that away (and it isn’t strictly mine to give, but a resource shared with my husband and children: he makes more of that money than I do!), I would still ‘live’ on the love of my family and friends, my sense that what I do in some small way makes a difference in at least some small corner of the world; I ‘live’ on the enjoyment I take from the tree in the garden and the way it looks against the sky, whether blue or pale or charcoal grey; I ‘live’ on the hope that I still have a future, and I have hopes for that future; I ‘live’ on what I plan to do and the expectation that my plans will not all come to naught.

How do I hand that over? What would it mean to give all I have to live on? I would step into the darkness, emptiness, and despair that characterizes my most desperate days, the days when love and beauty and hope fail to touch my soul, days when emptiness seems a fate worse than death. Very many of the saints have been there, and spent long seasons in that place of anguish; Jesus went there, into the darkness and loneliness of abjection. I have been there, and I know not for the last time. To embrace that place of utter wretchedness and isolation is to offer up ‘all [I] have to live on’, to find myself once again in the formless void.

I hate that place. Because when I am in it, I cannot see. I am totally unable to recognize what I know more certainly than I have ever known anything else: that the Spirit of God is moving over the face of those dark waters. I only love that place when I have left it, when finally the Word sounds forth, fiat lux! Only then do I recall what I have always known, that the darkness was never really dark to Him; for He is the light that shines in the darkness—shines sometimes imperceptibly in the very blackest darkness—and the darkness can never, ever overcome Him.

Deo gratias.