Steadfast.

Advent begins on Sunday. It is the time of waiting and preparation for Christ. Advent is the beginning of the liturgical calendar; a new spiritual year. As I begin to make spiritual preparations for the coming year, I liken it to New Years and the making of resolutions. This year, my focus is on the spiritual concept of “steadfast.” Steadfast is defined as being firmly fixed in place; not subject to change; firm in belief, determination, or adherence.


A part of me laughs at my goal. I know me and my cyclical/chaotic personality. I am an idea person quickly filled with enthusiasm regarding dreams, visions, and new concepts, but once the dream moves to actuality and the necessary details, I grow bored. Another part of me knows that integrating steadfastness into my life is critical in my pursuit of the sacred life.

I do not wish to squash or dampen my personality. It has great assets in life and allows me to see possibilities in people, relationships, organizations, and empty buildings. It is this exact enthusiasm that fuels my hope and allows me to help highlight a path of hope for others. A year ago I would have framed my mood cycles and short-lived enthusiasm as negative. I would have looked for ways to extract it from my life. With grace and greater understanding, I have grown to recognize that to wish this part away is to also believe that there is something wrong at a core level of my being. Not to say that I do not have plenty of short-comings or above fault and wrong-doing. What I am saying is that my mood cycles are part of how I am created to be and rather than shame this part of me, I need to instead find ways to enhance it.

I do wish to bring something new to my personality, that being the virtue of steadfastness. Liturgy has a rhythm – times of preparation, times of celebration, times of repentance . . .. While there are various spiritual seasons, there is a repetitive element to the liturgical calendar such as daily readings, daily prayers (often to be said at multiple said times throughout the day), daily Mass, and weekend Mass. The Mass itself has a rhythm and repetition from week to week. There are practices within the liturgical seasons that are not subject to change – they are steadfast. These practices keep one anchored to religious beliefs through seasons of doubt and famine. I may feel distant from God, but I make a public proclamation of my faith through a weekly recitation of the Creed.

I look to bring an attitude of steadfastness into my own cycles. While I may vacillate between enthusiasm and drudgery, I must have something to anchor me spiritually. I must have aspects of my life that are repetitive – that I cling to even when I feel like curling up with the sludge of boredom and depression. I have decided that two things will become non-negotiable in this next liturgical year. I will start my day with daily readings and a time of contemplation and prayer. I will also run the Geist half-marathon in May 2011. For those who have trained for a half-marathon know that it takes a disciplined and determined mindset to make it happen. While this is not entirely spiritual, I do believe that we are holistic beings. In other words, the physical and mental discipline it takes to train for a half-marathon should have natural spiritual implications and lessons to learn. I look forward to the wrestling match as I attempt to incorporate steadfastness into my fleeting and sporadic personality.

Rebellion.

I am a rebel. Though I may be ultra-preppy, clean-cut, and rule-liking, nevertheless I am coming to grips with my inner rebellion. I can unpack this self-awareness many ways – examining impurities, flaws, self-righteousness, hypocrisy, pride, fierce independence, all of which are legit and deserve reflection, but this is not what I am talking about today.


Last week was an “ah ha” moment for me. I sat across Sister Olga, a wise nun who also happens to have a Ph.D. in psychology. I meet with Sister Olga on a regular basis to wrestle with my anger and the intentional distance I hold between myself and God. Not exactly an easy task for myself or Sister Olga (thank goodness she is equipped to deal with my craziness!). I entered her office, sat on the couch, and promptly announced with intention to stir up some debate, “I am angrier with God than I have admitted in the past.” She was not moved. I again stated, “I would like to declare that if I am honest, I hate God.” Again, she was not provoked but instead stated, “I do not think it is God you are angry with.” She reminded me that I have encountered God on the mountain and in my heart, in the core of my being, I know it is not God who has disappointed me.

As I unpacked the source of my anger, it became evident it was toward individuals representing God and Christianity whom I believe unjustly caused me harm. I believed they had labeled my thoughts and questions as rebellious. I wore the label as though I were a rebellious teenager. I impulsively resisted and rejected others because I believed “they just didn’t understand me.” I assumed I was rejected and therefore with anger, began rejecting them. I wrote others off as closed-minded and preemptively rejected them. I was a rebel with the cause of self-preservation. I believed a lie that others were out to harm me. In my assumptions (which we know what an assumption does), I believed that the worldview from which I came could no longer accept who I had become. The problem: I never gave them the chance.

Adolescent rebellion occurs in the midst of one’s quest for identity. The adolescent is unsure of who they are, but sure of who they are not. Specifically, they are NOT their parents. As I reflect on my adolescent spiritual rebellion, I was NOT that which I assume others stated I was. I was searching for who I was becoming, but this had (and still has) no concrete certainty.

While I am still discerning out my identity, specifically my spiritual identity, I believe rebel still fits – that is, rebel with some degree of maturity. I do wrestle with complicated questions and am content with maintaining a “sacred agnosticism.” In other words, I believe in the Christian story, I believe that Christ is who he says he is, but I approach this with humility. I also believe that much of what I believe about God and religion is wrought with my own projections, anxieties, experiences, ideologies, and cultural values. As I peel back these layers, I do believe that the Truth exists. Unfortunately, I have come to believe I will spend a lifetime peeling back the layers and will only ultimately KNOW TRUTH in the next life. So yes, I rebel against the idea of absolute knowledge in this life and cling to faith and hope that in my pursuit toward the truth, I will not be disappointed in the end.

I also believe that most of life is complicated and cannot be answered with a simple four-step plan that will make life lovely. Those four-step plans, riddled in the worldview of modernism, seem trite in the face of suffering. Telling a young widow with small children that, “It was God’s will for her husband to die and that she should rejoice in his eternity” is a cruel denial of her suffering. Instead, I believe we are called to suffer with those who suffer, even when the suffering has no immediate solution, quick fix, or magic words to make the pain go away. Suffering is a part of life. It was a part of the life of Christ. So yes, I rebel against trite answers to life’s complications and in doing so, I hope that I am being like Christ in my actions and in my willingness to walk alongside another.

Can They All Be Redeemed?

I sat with a group of students today who stated they would rather die than have their name disrespected. They went on to explain that they had “worked hard to build up their reputation” and they would not allow others to make them look foolish. These students reminded me that I do not walk the streets of their neighborhood. They told me I could not possibly understand what it is like to have someone disrespect them in the presence of women and other onlookers. They are partially right. I do not live in a violent neighborhood where the strongest survive and displaying vulnerability could cost one their life. I do not have parents that expect me to fight and would be ashamed if I walked away. I believe in turning the other cheek and walking away from violence. These students stated they “could not look themselves in the mirror” had they walked away from defending their reputation. I would be ashamed if I had fought back.


And then I ponder. These children are handed a script of values. Their parts require a willingness to engage in violence and condone parental irresponsibility (e.g. parents who are abusive, neglectful, and often prioritize their own substance abuse over their children’s welfare.) Is it possible for these children to rebel against the societal/familial script and embrace a part that respects all life, including the life of an enemy? Is there a hope for these children beyond a life of crime, prison, chemical substance abuse, and violent deaths? Can they be redeemed?

I like to believe that all are redeemable, but then I ask, redeemed to what? Redeemed to a life of achievement and social success? I struggle with imposing my own values onto others, specifically the value of hard work and good citizenship. Should everyone contribute to society in a way that is positive and productive? Maybe.

Despite the complicated questions, I am reminded of what is common between these students and my own life. We are rebels against that which institutions expect of us. I was expected to stay close to home and live in suburbia and instead spent one summer living in a tent in Tijuana, Mexico and a year in Vietnam. Not exactly conventional. And while I now live in a vinyl village in the midst of American suburbia, I still look for ways to fight for social injustice and the cycles of poverty. We share in our intention to stand strong for our values and fight for that which we find meaningful. I remember vividly sitting in a high school classroom where the teacher and students were displaying a strong desire to “stone the homosexuals” and I stood alone and asked about the missing grace and love. I stood against what was expected within the walls of my private school because of my belief. Had I chosen to remain silent, I would have been ashamed.

Ultimately, I do believe there are better lifestyle choices. Though these students place high value on maintaining respect, I do not believe that violence is justified. Violence leads to more violence. Crime leads to more crime. My wish is that someday we can embrace our common brokenness. Under the anger and the attitude are hurting, lonely children. As I confronted my own anger, I encountered hurt, grief, and loneliness. Our difference – I also encountered safety, support, and grace. I wonder if these students will ever find emotional safety. Will they find the courage to encounter their own brokenness and vulnerability? Will they find the place where they can encounter grace and redemption? Will I be an instrument in helping create space for vulnerability, or will I turn my back and write them off as unredeemable?

The Power of Presence.

I had a conversation with an “old” friend on Friday. We were camp buddies throughout elementary and junior high school. For a brief moment, we remembered Sugar Creek Camp and I specifically remembered Elizabeth Davey, my beloved camp counselor. I remember Elizabeth for helping me and another camper pull pranks on the other counselors (most likely to avoid being pranked herself). Mostly though, I remember Elizabeth for sitting beside me in silence as I searched for words to describe my inner experience. Those words never came in the six summers I attended camp, but Elizabeth did not seem to mind. She sat there; often in silence.

There are others in my life who have granted me the grace and blessing of presence – Lois Deyo, Lori Phillips, Karen Hartmann . . . just to name a few. These are women who loved without conditions and gave with no expectations. I remember intentionally getting in trouble in the sixth grade only to have a “bathroom lecture” from Mrs. Deyo. It was usually the same, “I am disappointed with the choices you are making, but know that I love you anyway.” I had no response at the time, but I craved that loving attention. Like my wordless experience of adolescence, my gratitude for the countless gifts is also beyond words.

Our culture promotes easy fixes. Television shows resolve themselves. When there is a conflict or crisis, the sappy music will cue, people will hug, and all will return to simple happiness. We like things nice and neat. We are a brilliant culture with many resources to problem solve. But sometimes, there are no words. There are no quick fixed. There are no bows to wrap around the packages. Sometimes, the problems are messy and complicated. Sometimes, no words can make the suffering go away. But being a loving, silent presence with another plants seeds of hope and healing.

I think of the people I have encountered who say, “I want to help. Give me something to do.” Sometimes, there is nothing to “do.” What is needed are people willing to simply “be.” To sit with someone in silence and be the physical manifestation of grace and peace, this is a great act of service. It comes with no immediate results or grand effects. We may never see the impact of our gift of presence. We may never get the credit or the glory. But being present may be the only Christ others experience.

Doubt.

I recently watched the movie Doubt. I was left pondering the role of doubt in my own life. The film begins with a sermon given by the character Father Flynn and he stated, “Doubt can be more of a bond than certainty.”

I get doubt. Or perhaps a better statement, doubt gets me. From a humorous perspective, religious belief is rather crazy. Think about it, the story of Christianity includes a bush that burns but is not consumed, a donkey that talks, a virgin that gets pregnant, dead who are risen . . . let’s face it, not exactly rational and reasonable. I was taught that I can be sure of Christianity in comparison to the “faults” in other religions, but they are no more far reaching to believe than Christianity. Mormons who get their own planet is not so ridiculous when compared to the Christian belief that we will receive a mansion in heaven. No matter what our religion teaches us, it takes faith and trust to believe that it is true. It takes a degree of craziness (crazy as defined by rejecting that which is rational) to embrace one’s religion with zeal and earnest pursuit.

I may be offending some. Christianity is not a total blind faith. After all, there were eye witnesses accounting to Christ’s life, death, resurrection, and assumption into heaven. There have been archaeological findings supporting the stories in Scripture. I admit this does make it easier to believe that Christ is indeed as he claimed, “The Son of God.” Despite this, I have never been to heaven. I have never seen Christ face to face. I believe that Christ is present in the Eucharist, but I have no “evidence” to support this. I believe, but as strongly as I trust it to be true, I am equally pulled in the opposite direction of disbelief.

I live in the tension between certainty and doubt. I am ambivalent – torn between faith and cynicism. It is in this tension, in the darkness of doubt that I find myself bound to God. Doubt should not be mistaken with disbelief. For one to have doubt suggests that there is at least a desire to believe. Perhaps if we took a snapshot of a soul plagued by doubt, we would find a caged being fighting to break free from chains of bondage. This bondage likely has many names – science, reason, or inner torments such as shame or a history of abuse . . .. We may not understand the captivity behind the doubt, but we do know the doubter is a fighter and resistant to that which holds them down.

I have had the honor or walking with many survivors of horrific abuse and legacies of tragedy. Not all outcomes are the same. There are some who accept the tragedy as their reality, and they give up and believe the lies they have been told. They grow up either believing that they are destined to be evil doers or destined to continue the story of evil being done to them. Then, there are the fighters. Despite their story, they fight the lies. Their fight may look frightening to the outsider – filled with fits of rage, but it is in the rage that they are fighting their inner shame. Those who endure, who do not give up, eventually find healing. They find that they are indeed lovable, acceptable, and able to love in return. They clung to hope that their fight was not in vain. They refused to give up and believe the lies.

Doubt is such a fight. The doubter has not given up. To many, in a wrestling match with disbelief, atheism or agnosticism often wins. They have given up on the idea of a God who knows the number of hairs on their head. Some believe, but their belief has yet to be tested. They have certainty and blessed assurance. But to those who live in the tension of doubt, their faith is being tested. In the midst of this crisis they refuse to give up on God. They grip on to faith despite “knowing” for certainty that what they are clinging to is true. They refuse to let go despite an equally opposing force pulling them toward disbelief. Their doubt has bound them to God.

From Desperation to Gratitude

In the search for intimate connection with God, I have come to realize how much I struggle (at times even hate) the idea of a “personal” God. For many years, my dislike centered on the idea of a personal and all-powerful God. I suppose I am like many who struggle with the idea of a personal and loving God allowing horrific and unfathomable things to happen to seemingly innocent people. While I contend that many bring on much of their own pain through destructive choices, I cannot say the same for children. I had a client, a not-quite teenage boy, who encountered abuse beyond description, and then once finally removed from his biological parents, was no longer able to feel safe enough to be loved. At a young age, he was already committing criminal acts and it was a matter of time before he was arrested only to enter into another system where love is sparse and perpetration commonplace. Where was this personal God during the innocent months of his infancy and toddlerhood? And then the question, due to his early circumstances rendering him unable to experience love, can we blame him for hating God, society, parents, and all humankind? I have believed for some time that as humans, we have the capacity to nurture or destroy, the choice is ours. To not have this freedom would mean we are reduced to God’s puppets in the grand theatre of life on earth. While I can swallow this pill – we are products of our choices, it is no less easy to witness the tragic destruction of our choices.

Thinking of the consequences of abuse, poverty, greed, generational patterns of substance abuse . . . they are real and valid reasons to question the validity of a personal God. They stir up a righteous anger and a passion in me to want to make the world a better place, even it is just one life I have the honor of touching. But this righteous anger also serves as a distraction to my own “hatred” toward a personal God. I can talk about my own inability to trust or to truly believe I am lovable and this is why I struggle to connect with a personal God. I can even justify this with psychobabble diagnosis– I am in a mode of self-protection . . . yadda yadda ya. But if I look for a spiritual diagnosis, I contend it is the sinful thought of Pride.

To acknowledge a personal and intimate Creator God means admitting I need something. To need something is to further admit a state of dependency and lack of self-sufficiency. I was reading this morning in Matthew about the hemorrhaging woman who had enough faith to reach out, touch the tassels of Christ’s robe, and trust that her years of shame would be healed. Women who bled were not permitted into the temple because they were declared unclean. So for thirteen years, she was “unfit” to enter the temple, or sacred space symbolizing God’s presence. I tried to imagine myself as that woman and wondered what I would do. Part of me wonders, would I be sitting in bitterness stewing over the legalistic laws that kept me away from worship? Maybe. I really think I would be looking for ways to “fix” it myself, perhaps hoping for a huge stash of tampons to hide the bleeding. I cannot picture myself in a place of desperate faith, reaching out with all that is within me, hoping against hope I would indeed find the healing I needed.

Actually, I can picture that. It happened nine years ago while living in Vietnam. After nine months of living in a third world country I got pretty desperate. That summer, things starting breaking down. An international family returned, and despite never meeting me, started spreading harsh lies about me. I witnessed international children being groped by Vietnamese nationals while their missionary parents stated, “it is cultural.” I experienced the suffocation of poverty – children sold as prostitutes and propositioning me on the street; beggars emaciated (some deformed from Agent Orange used by American troops in the Vietnam War); people sleeping on dirt floors . . . and I was left feeling helpless and hopeless. I was on a self-destructive downward spiral quickly heading to the end of my rope. One particular night, I remember in vivid detail. I curled up on my bed in the fetal position wanting the world to go away. The only thing I could do was utter the name “Jesus” over and over. I made it through that night, and the weeks and months until I came back to the States. The desperation I felt scared the hell out of me. While I believe I was granted intimate grace that night, an angry root soon took over. I swore to myself I would not get that desperate again.

Looking back now, almost ten years later, I recognize something significant happened in Vietnam. I was granted peace and rather than allowing that seed to find root and grow, in my pride I cut it down. A part of me has feared that to be desperate for God, I must enter back to a state of emotional insanity. As I tell my three-year-old, that is a silly fear. I think the better response would be gratitude. Grateful for the kiss of grace received that night, and grateful that it is available every night if I would just simply push my pride aside enough to notice it.

An Invitation.

One of my favorite Psalms is “Be still and know that I am God.” Recently, I have found myself meditating on this verse and the themes of resting, relaxing, and trusting. The more I attempt to incorporate these themes into my life, the more I find myself on the brink of something. I am not certain exactly where this is leading, but I know it somewhere deep; it is significant and it involves writing.

Kathleen Norris (one of my favorite authors and thinkers) spoke of a writer as being a witness and essayist of life’s experiences. I like that. What I do not like is the dreadful thought -- what if the experience is my own inner struggle with trust, resting, and relaxing? Trusting God and having faith have never come easy for me. And while I have tried to ignore, reject, shut out, and plain not believe, this has yet to become a possibility for me. Francis Thompson wrote the poem,” The Hound of Heaven.” I can relate. The harder I run, the more I seem to be pursued by God. It is as if surrender is the only possibility for me despite my desperate resistance to let go. I cannot outrun God. Though I secretly cling to layers of anger and pride, I cannot silence the stirring voice inside that longs for intimacy with God.

A few months ago, I started meeting with Sister Olga for spiritual direction. She challenged me to find time every morning to sit in the presence of God, find a simple phrase to meditate on such as “let me know you love me”, and allow God to love me. While this sounds simple, it is profoundly difficult. I vacillate between “let me know you love me” and “I believe, help my unbelief.” As I sit (usually the duration of a cup of coffee), my eyes begin to fill with tears and I look for ways to avoid feeling anything. I find myself terrified of what is around the corner. Terrified of what the tears are about. Terrified to see and know the unknown. I assume it will be painful, though I know it is likely to also mean embarking on a journey of healing and reconciliation.

I am making a commitment to explore the depths of my soul. A commitment to take an honest look at the baggage and barriers which inhibit my trust. For those who wish to embark on this journey as a fellow traveler, I invite you to come with me.

The Slow Pace of Faith

My husband has described me as “a bull in a china shop.” While I resist this description and look for ways to prove it false, I must embrace another cliché, “if the shoe fits, wear it.” What fits is that I know what I want, and I want it now – this could be clean carpet, freshly ironed clothes, or a family fun day. I have grand ideas of self-improvement; embark on these demands full of energy and good intentions only to quickly run out of steam. The same fifteen pounds has made itself home in my body for the last ten years. Even now, as I chew away on a celery stick, I am conflicted with the thought that this health kick shall quickly fade away. And then I face my failure, my lack of discipline, my disappointment in myself (not too mention the chubs remaining on my body.)

At times of anxiety and stress, I demand perfection from myself. I expect that I should be super-woman. I should be able to grow vegetables, have nutritious meals, read books to my children every night, write love notes to my husband, comfort friends when they are troubled, feed the homeless . . . I should be able to do it all right now, at this season of life. Reality – my kids eat cheeseburgers and French fries and the garden flopped. Many nights, at the end of the day I am out of patience and long for the children to be quiet and go to sleep. Once the disappointment passes, I am reminded of a nun who had a sign over her doorpost, “I shall not should on myself.”

I want perfection in the physical realm as well as in my spiritual life. I want regular time for contemplation and meditation; I want connection with creation, passion that never fades, and my human deficiencies to be erased. I am coming to realize that I approach faith and the process of being made holy much like that bull in the china shop – I run after it with full zeal, only to realize that in my haste for perfection I have trampled upon the treasures.

Faith is a marathon, not a sprint. To approach it too quickly and demand instant results is to ignore the treasures along the way. To step into that which makes us anxious and uncomfortable is not popular. I do not hear people saying, “Oh yeah, I get to feel awkward and various emotional pains!” On the contrary, if you are anything like me, you will try anything to skip over the difficult emotions and experience the victory of the finish line. But the difficult is where we are met with our human condition – our vices, short-coming, yearnings, and passions. In the difficult, we find our needs and the Source of our fulfillment.

Faith is a slow meandering journey. We are meant to stop, look, examine, analyze, and pursue perfect intimacy with our Creator. When we allow ourselves to take the slow path, we enter the lifetime journey of coming to know the True Self, the self created in the image of God. It is a path that never ends, but around each bend are new details to behold and new dynamics to grasp. When we allow our anxiety and avoidant behaviors to rush us past discomfort, we miss the point of the journey. We find more of our false self and its many layers of unrealistic demands and traps of self-deceit. We miss opportunities to know God and willingly be known in return.

Lessons from the Pea

I planted a vegetable garden this year -- a back row of giant sunflowers, a couple of rows of carrots, watermelon, tomatoes, and peas. Watching this garden grow has been nothing shy of watching daily miracles. The pea plants in particular have captivated my attention. What started out as tiny, hard seeds that looked like shriveled up peas have turned into intelligent plants!

Peas are to be planted in a double row six inches apart. While I did not understand the rationale for this in the planting process, I definitely understand the need now. The plant grows “tentacle” vines that reach out and hold on to other pea plants (and sunflower stems) to support the branches. The pea plant literally reaches out to its neighbor both in need of help as well offering itself to the other plants to accommodate their needs.

There are many lessons I have to learn from this intelligent plant. First is a lesson in faith and creation. From dirt and a small green ball has come the miracle of plant life. From the first leaves breaking through the soil to the vines reaching out for support to the flowers developing into peapods – each phase is nothing short of miraculous. It takes faith to believe that placing a worthless seed in some dirt will produce something of great worth. Okay, so it is not gold or silver, but my kids love to eat peas and I cannot wait to let them eat fresh peas from our very own garden that they helped plant. The participation in creating something good is priceless.

The second lesson is yet another reminder to pay attention to the small details. Everyday something new and exciting is happening to the pea plants. Yesterday the first pod emerged! Miracles are not always grand spectacles like the parting of the Red Sea. We may miss the quiet whisper of God by awaiting the loud thunder. Likewise, we may miss many miracles through our own inability to notice the delicate details. A seed feeling the dirt and somehow knowing it is time to start sprouting branches and leaves. And then, through the darkness of the soil, the plant somehow knows how to find its way to the light where it can be nourished and grow and nourish others. Do we notice that if it were not for bees pollinating the flower we would have no vegetables to eat? Nature is full of tiny God-whispers. May I have ears to hear and eyes to notice!

Finally, the peas have taught me a lot about community and vulnerability. They are planted in such a way to help one another. A pea plant could not survive in isolation for it would fall over, be trampled, and the pods would be unable to grow. The pea plant literally reaches out trusting its neighbor will be there to support it. To quote Simon and Garfunkel, “I am a Rock. I am an Island. For a Rock feels no pain. And an Island never cries.” While isolation may protect us from heartache and tears, it also robs us from being known and ultimately from knowing ourselves. Alone we only see aspects of ourselves we want to see and we easily blind ourselves from harsh realities. But in community, people become the mirrors in which we see ourselves. Within relationship, we can be noticed, and our own small miracles appreciated. When we are exposed and made vulnerable, we can also be pruned and weeded in order for our growth to become more fruitful.

By reaching out to others, we have the privilege of being witness to their stories and small miracles. We have the opportunity to be forever changed through the touch of another’s life. May I grow to appreciate the other and their influence on my life!

Amazing grace. Confessions of a wretch.

“Amazing grace that saved a wretch like me.” How many of us are willing to look at our own wretchedness? It is easy to point the finger at another’s obvious shortcomings rather than take a good, honest look at ourselves. Some of us are rather lucky – we can cover up our wretchedness and hide it from the scrutiny of society. Others are not so fortunate.

Over the last several months, I have had a few encounters that have left me pondering the idea of sin, judgment, and grace. A family friend became pregnant out of wedlock and a cloud of shame followed her. She lost her job because she could not hide her “mistake.” Her family thanked me for being so kind and understanding as if harsh criticism was the anticipated response. I had a second encounter with a woman who has struggled with obesity her entire life. She cannot hide her coping mechanisms – her body announces to the world that she finds comfort through food. Lately, I find myself thinking of these encounters and wondering how my life would be different if my own “mistakes” and shortcomings were open and obvious to the world around us.

There is a spiritual practice known as “the examination of conscious.” One obvious purpose of this practice is to identify areas in our own lives that need to be confessed, absolved, and forgiven. Recently, I have begun to understand another dimension to this practice, that being to increase our capacity for humility and grace towards others. When I take a look at my own ugliness I realize I am no different than anyone else, I can just hide it better than some.

Ever played the “what if” game? I do. I think about a friend of mine. We had similar obstacles to overcome and we both sought means to escape our difficulties. I chose the socially acceptable escape of church activities and she chose marijuana. We both got what we desired; an escape from reality and a high. My high came through singing and dancing, hers through chemicals. Our intent, motivation, and outcome were the same. We got a break from the world that annoyed us (my mom frequently thought I was using drugs at church because I came out of youth group so “altered.”) When it comes right down to it, I was avoiding pain, but because I chose church activities as my escape no one questioned my morality. Sure some of my motivation was a desire to know God, but if I am honest, this was only a small percentage. If my thoughts were exposed and obvious to those around me, I am certain I would have met the critics of society like my friend who chose marijuana.

Christ, in his Beatitudes talks about the “pure in heart.” The law was summed up as “Love the LORD your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.” When I consider pureness of heart and the pursuit of God with the entirety of my being as the mark, well, I can say I have yet to attain it. My thoughts and motives always have some degree of selfish gain. If I am honest, I am a wretch in need of amazing grace. Who am I to cast the first stone at those with obvious blemishes?

Why not suffering?

A few years ago, there was a tragic accident involving Taylor University students. Two girls, one who died and one who was severely injured were misidentified. For months, one family grieved the loss of their daughter while the other sat hopefully by the bedside awaiting healing and recovery. It was only after several months of mourning and waiting that the two families learned the identities were mistaken. In an instant, one family “got their daughter back from the dead” while the other sadly buried their daughter. In national interviews following the breaking news of the tragedy surrounding the mistaken identity, the mother of the child who died was asked “Did you ever ask God why he would allow this to happen to you?” Her response surprised me as she answered with great wisdom, “No. Why should I be exempt from tragedy.”

As a mother, I cannot imagine anything worse than losing a child. I do not know if I would have the same maturity to not give a regular shout out of “Why me!” While I can speak rationally now and know that I am not entitled to a life free of tragedy, I cannot say what I would honestly do in the throws of grief. But, bad things happen to people everyday. It is not only the evil or the deserving that face suffering. Likewise, it is not only the good and gracious that reap rewards and bounty. A six year old suffers abuse and neglect while a greedy middle-aged man cruises around the world in a multi-million dollar yacht. Life’s ledger simply does not balance.

There are those who believe that if one asks enough, or has enough faith then they will be spared suffering. In essence, this makes God into a “genie in a bottle.” I rub my lamp and God grants me my wishes. Believing this raises me to a “god status.” I know what I need and want and therefore I control and manipulate God to get what I want through my insistence and faith. I become entitled to blessing. Then, there is Abraham. God wanted to destroy Sodom in its entirety and Abraham convinced God through negotiations to spare a few people. It appears through Abraham’s pleas that God’s mind was changed. I cannot deny that God is not moved by our prayers and pleas. But, I am not entitled to get what I want (like that two-door soft-top Jeep Wrangler.)

Suffering takes us into some really dark places. Places we rightfully would prefer to avoid. I love hiking through the Appalachia Mountains. One of my favorite spots is along the bald ridges of Roan Mountain. It is a vast area of grass top hills, and no trees. To get to the top requires a long and winding hike through a dense valley of rhododendron, pine trees, and other wildlife. It is easy to lose one’s footing in the valley – tree roots are hidden under shallow piles of leaves, rocks are moss covered and slippery, and following the spring thaw and rains, the rivers and creeks can make parts of the trail nearly impassable. Little sunlight breaks through the thick cover of the forest. If it were not for the white hash marks marking the Appalachian Trail, it would be easy to lose one’s way.

On top of the bald ridges, the views are spectacular. One can see clearly for miles upon miles. I learned the hard way that mountain tops are no place to set up camp. With no trees to block the wind, tents are battered and fire does not light. With no creeks or streams, there is no place to refill empty water bottles. While it is a beautiful place to stand and bask in the sun and openness, one cannot stay there. One must enter in to the valley in order to find life. Suffering takes us through the valleys and it is there, in the midst of our desperation that we find life.

Confessions of an ex-feminist

For years I assumed that to value woman’s rights and equality meant that men and women should be treated equal. Equality meant that differences among the sexes were to be ignored. As a feminist, I fought for the right to be able to do all that a man can do, both in the workplace, the home, and within the religious realm. I fought hard battles . . . and mostly came out wounded and feeling misunderstood.

My first “real” job was as a youth minister in a large evangelical church. I had entered a boys club – from church leadership to fellow colleagues, I was surrounded by men with few exceptions. I believed that my role was to be just one of the guys. This was not too difficult for me as I played guitar, loved sports, and had a general disdain towards nail polish and dresses. By silencing the woman within me, I short-changed the ministry.

It was not until my late twenties that I began to respect my feminine side. It was not until I entered motherhood that I began to see it as a blessing and not “the curse of Eve.” In watching my husband interact with our children, it became apparent that I would never be a father. Likewise, my husband could never be a mother. Roles were quickly prescribed. I was the bearer of our children – I carried them in my womb and fed them in the middle of the night. These were two things only a mother could do (with exception to bottle feeding.) As the bearer of the miracle of life, I had the gift of holding something sacred in my womb. I was an intimate part of creation. My husband made it clear that he was not fond of the common cliché “we are pregnant” for clearly it was only me, the mother, who had the distinction of being pregnant and ultimately birthing our children. A part of me became sad for all men, and especially my husband for I had the rich blessing of knowing, holding, nurturing, and loving our children within my own body for nine precious months. I was the first to hold them and look intently into their eyes. Even now, it is mommy they ask for when they are scared or injured and I have the unique ability to make it all better with a simple rub on the back and a kiss on the boo boo. For I am woman, hear me love.

As a Catholic convert, the adoration of Mary, mother of God, became a difficult doctrine/religious practice to embrace. My feminist blood equally had difficulty with the concept that only men could become priests and ultimately the “head of the Church.” As I began to further settle into loving my own identity as mother, the idea of honoring THE God-bearing mother became natural. Even more, she became an example of how to nurture, love, and fulfill the roles in ways only a mother can. And the priest – well, watching my husband embrace his role as father and realizing I could never be father to my children convinced me to try and be “father” to the Church would only rob the Church of a much needed mother.

Availability

Mindfulness in Buddhist terms consists of being aware of one’s thoughts and actions in the present moment. Those who seek to practice mindfulness spend years meditating in order to clear their mind of distractions and barriers that would keep one from being aware. The early Christians (Monastics and Desert Fathers) wrote of being alert to the Spirit of God and awake to the Spirit’s movement and direction. In response to others, the early Christians spoke of the practice of hospitality, or availability to others. Within the tradition of psychotherapy, the concept of emotional availability enters the picture. In other words, when I am in the presence of another person I attune to the other’s needs, wants, and desires rather than being distracted by my own thoughts and feelings.

To be in a state of availability is no easy task. There is a walking/biking trail near my home. One mile of the trail consists of a creek on one side and an open field of wild flowers on the other. When the weather is nice, I walk this trail on a regular basis with my three toddlers. I have been doing this since they were infants. One motivation for these walks is to help myself and my children become more mindful and alert to the world around us. I usually begin our walks by arousing curiosity – “I wonder what we will see, hear, and smell today!” Our walks have brought many surprises including snakes, frogs, butterflies dancing with the stroller, woodpeckers, and the occasional doe and buck eating flowers in the fields. As I became more alert on our walks, I began to notice minute details of an ever-changing environment. Each week brought about new and different wild flowers. The blades of grass changed colors. Caterpillars turned into butterflies. Rains changed the flow of the creek, and thus it echoed a new tune. And the smells – each season, each day, and each step brought a new fragrance. The more alert I became, the more curious I grew, and the more I desired to wake up and experience even more of the small details.

I do not notice the small delicate leaves of a budding maple tree when I am distracted by my mounting to-do list. Part of being available is surrendering control and to know that if I relinquish my involvement in the world, the world will still go on. Letting go of control requires us to loosen our grasp on our possessions, thoughts, and relationships.

Being available to others is no easy task. People are messy. To be emotional available to people is risky. We might get hurt. Being available is being empathic. In other words, I enter into another’s emotional experience. There are times of celebration and times of great sorrow. I allow myself to connect with another and suffer alongside the hurting soul. To avoid feeling another’s pain we may try to “fix it” and come up with solutions, but sometimes there are no words. It is in these moments where the presence of another becomes critical. If the other is emotionally absent their physical presence is of little comfort.

How alert we are to our world and how available we are to others is often a reflection of our availability to Christ. Am I still enough to notice the Presence of God? Am I emotionally available to Christ? Do I allow myself to know the suffering Christ? Do I allow myself in all my beauty and ugliness to be known by Christ? Availability is no easy task. It requires bravery as it might bring to light those aspects of ourselves we prefer to keep hidden in the shadows. It requires discipline and intentionality as we still our souls in order to be alert to the quiet whispers of God.

Sacred Objects.

The other day my almost three-year-old bumped her finger. This bump resulted in an invisible “boo boo” and a few shed tears. “Mommy, kiss it; kiss it, Mommy!” The magic medicine of a mother’s lips on a sore finger is usually all it takes for the tears to stop and my daughter to skip away happy and content. Unfortunately, this mommy had her hands full of dirty dishes and I could not provide an instant kiss and I told my daughter she would have to wait just a moment for that kiss. Her response shocked me. “That’s okay Mommy. I will just rub it on your shirt and it will be okay.” And like the magic kiss, she touched my shirt, the tears stopped, and she skipped away happy and content.

My daughter’s solution to touch my shirt brought to mind the story of a woman seeking healing from Christ. She had enough faith and believed that if she only touched his garment, a garment worn by someone holy, she would be healed. And indeed, she touched his cloak and she was healed. I began to wonder, was it faith that healed her, or the garment, or both? Is there a place for relics within worship or is some type of idolatry?

In recent news, there has been conversation regarding the Shroud of Christ and it will once again be on display in Italy. It is expected to draw over a million pilgrims seeking a glimpse of this relic. I remember walking through Vatican City several years ago and being moved by Michelangelo’s Pieta. The sculpture of Mary holding the dead Christ is truly a powerful image of suffering and a mother’s love, but this was not the only thing that caught my attention. The toes of Christ were worn away from people kissing the feet. The Pieta was placed behind glass in order to protect it from pilgrims seeking to touch this piece of sacred art. To some, the Shroud and the Pieta are sacred – set apart and made holy. To stand in the presence of these relics is to stand before something holy.

Some may refer to relics as idols and those who make the pilgrimage to these sacred objects as idolaters. I used to believe this. While in Italy, I saw the jawbone of a saint encased in glass. I did not understand the point of preserving a bone. And then I remembered stories of the Old Testament prophets and how the people preserved their bones. There were legendary stories of people touching these dry old bones and being healed. The miraculous powers of the prophets somehow carried over to their bones.

Perhaps opening our minds to the ideas of relics may help to reconnect us to our rich spiritual history. I find it ironic that we readily accept objects that connect us to our national heritage and yet shudder at the idea of embracing a relic connected to our spiritual heritage. In fifth grade, our class took a fieldtrip to Greenfield Village in Michigan. It was mostly made up of historical artifacts from Henry Ford, Thomas Edison and others from their era. One student from our group kept asking if it was “the actual” object used by so and so. She was on to something. The actual carried more meaning and importance than a replica.

I remember walking through the secret annex that hid Anne Frank and her family in Amsterdam. I could not allow myself to take pictures inside because in many ways I could still feel the presence of their story. A few days following this, I had a similar experience walking along the gravel pathways at the Dachau Concentration Camp outside of Munich, Germany. No one found it strange when I shared my powerful experience from walking through these places of history. I wonder if people would be as understanding if I shared about touching and smelling the bones of Saint Teresa of Avila and feeling connected to her and her story. Or more, would we accept that a miracle occurred after touching a garment worn by someone holy?

Rituals.

It was during the Easter Vigil of 2009 when I officially joined the Catholic Church. As a former Evangelical youth/non-profit director, my transition to Catholicism has raised many questions. One frequent question centers around the many rituals involved within Catholicism and how I find this to be beneficial. Ritual was a dominant motivation in my journey toward becoming Catholic (that and my belief in transubstantiation, but that is a topic for another day.)

Faith has never come easy for me. I appreciate doubting Thomas and his need to see the evidence. For me, it was not so much a need to see the facts and evidence but rather a need to trust completely that which I was going to follow. I needed to trust before I could be vulnerable, be seen, and be known. I realize that an all-knowing God already knows, but I preferred to live with the illusion/delusion that in my lack of trust I could somehow remain invisible. When I was twenty, I hit a major “crisis of faith.” I felt nothing, believed nothing, and yet longed to be intimate with God. I sought the counsel of Dr. Higgins. Dr. Higgins taught a Sociology of Religion class I was taking and found her to be a woman worthy of seeking spiritual advice. In a surprisingly simple statement she said, “Look to the liturgy and rituals to hold you through your unbelief.” To a Catholic or mainstream Protestant, this would sound familiar. But, within the Restoration Movement/Independent Christian Church I was coming from, ritual and liturgy were nearly absent. We were taught, “No Creed but Christ.” In other words, worship and church life focused on “preaching the Word” and the only rituals I can recall were marriage, ordination of preachers, and baptism by immersion. I heeded Dr. Higgins advice and I began looking for ritual and liturgy.

As a therapist, a lot of my therapeutic practice has been working with children who have experienced abuse and trauma, and as a result have difficulty forming a trusting attachment and bond with their caregivers. Even children who have been removed from horrible conditions and placed with loving and devoted adoptive parents resist being loved. They fear people getting close to them and so they use protective means to maintain a fortress of protection. These children often believe they are unlovable and so rather than resist others finding this out and rejecting them, they do the rejecting first. It is a painful cycle that is difficult to break. But there is something that helps these children begin to trust that their new world is safe, that there new relationships are not painful. This something is consistency. The more the child’s environment is predictable, the safer they feel (this goes for all children, but especially those who have experienced trauma.) In other words, families that create rituals and routines help these children heal and feel safe.

Life in a predictable and consistent family is full of rituals. My own children learned from a very young age that we have a clear bedtime ritual. We have bath time, movie time, story time, prayer time, turn on the music, and then I move from bed to bed and rub their backs and give kisses and hugs. Last night, Bill tucked our kids into bed and did not follow the routine. He left the room and the crying began. I asked him, “Did you say prayers and rub their backs?” He shook his head no. I went back into their room and completed the ritual. No more crying and they were asleep within minutes (it does not always work this well.) They knew their ritual and they knew when it was being altered. The alteration left them feeling anxious and the return to ritual calmed them down. Children feel safe when they know what to expect.

Religious rituals, I believe, have a similar effect. The predictability leads to a feeling of safety. There are clear expectations, forms, and patterns. In times of anxiety or “crisis of faith” the ritual provides a consistent environment. I remember sitting in a Mass in Germany. I was clueless and feeling out of place. Bill, a cradle Catholic, was able to follow along and speak his parts in English. While the Mass was in German, he knew the rituals and form and this gave him a sense of belonging. I told Bill I was ready to join the Catholic Church. I wanted to be connected to the Church universal and all its rituals.

Faith, at least in my experience, is also like a marriage. There are times I do not like my husband (and I am sure he would say the same about me), and during these times I remain married out of commitment rather than a romantic love relationship. Loving my husband during times of “marriage crisis” consist of acts/rituals of love rather than a feeling. These acts (kisses on the lips, conversations about the mundane, date nights . . .) carry our relationship through until the romance is rekindled and/or I have sought reconciliation for my toxic attitude. Spiritual rituals have a similar function. During the “Dark nights of the soul” where there is no passion or zeal to be devoted to God the rituals carry me through until the passion returns. I continue to pray, to cross myself, to state the Creed through those times when I lack a vibrant intimacy with God. Rituals remind me of my need for reconciliation even when my pride tells me I am “right” and do not need forgiveness. Rituals keep me physically connected even when I feel emotionally isolated from God.

Rituals connect to memories. My late grandmother always kept gardens – flowers and vegetable. Every spring as I grab my garden tools and start the rituals of prepping the soil, planting seeds, and pruning trees I remember my grandmother. I feel deeply connected to her when my hands are dirty. I can picture her looking down from heaven and smiling. Like gardening, Church is full of rituals. This past Sunday, Father Tom stood at the baptismal font and as a congregation we reaffirmed the vows of our baptismal covenant. He then took water from the font and walked up and down the aisle sprinkling each of us. The ritual reminded me of my own covenant as well as the covenant Bill and I made with the baptisms of our three children. Within the context of a ritual repeated every Easter I am reminded in a very real and tangible way of the covenant I made with God as well as the covenant God made with me and the Church.

And then there is Tradition. Since the time of Moses, there have been rituals associated with God. Rituals regarding food, cleanliness, sacrifice . . . rituals guided the Hebrew life. Rituals dictated the early Church, especially around the Eucharist, baptism, and catechism. We do it because this is how it has always been done. Sounds a lot like family holidays – we expect certain foods prepared in certain ways because that is how grandma and her grandma and her grandma before that did it. Holiday traditions connect us to our lineage. Religious rituals connect us to our spiritual family including their stories and legacies. We do it because they have done it for hundreds and even thousands of years.

Sacrifice

Recently I watched A Nun’s Story, a 1950’s Audrey Hepburn movie. I have been chewing on this movie since viewing it, especially on the themes of sacrifice and obedience. For those who have not seen the film, Audrey Hepburn’s character was a smart, intelligent, independent, free-spirited woman who joins the convent, voices her vows, and thus makes what was intended to be a lifelong covenant with the Church. In her process of becoming a nun, she learned about sacrifice and denying herself. Her life dream was to be a nurse in the African bush. She excelled in her studies of tropical medicine. And then she was asked to make a sacrifice – to intentionally fail her medical exam in order to tame her pride. She was unable to make this sacrifice and because of this, her talents were “wasted” and she spent a year working as a nurse in an insane asylum. She is eventually sent to be a nurse in Africa where she continued to wrestle with sacrificing her natural personality and talents in order to remain obedient to the Church. I was left with the question, would I be willing to sacrifice who I am, my personality and natural talents, in order to be obedient to the covenants I have made?

Two days ago, this question became very real and very personal. I saw a lot of myself in Audrey Hepburn’s depiction of the nun. I have always been free-spirited and independent. Even when not intending to be viewed this way, others have been quick to point out I have a rebellious streak in me. I am a good, responsible citizen with a strong work ethic, but I have never felt I fit into a particular mold. I am not a stereotypical image of the feminine. I like dirt on my hands, riding on tractors, and doing manual labor. I feel truly alive when I am backpacking in the woods, cooking over fires that I built, and digging a hole for a toilet. I feel alive riding in the back of a pick-up truck across dirt roads in third world countries. I take pleasure from mixing concrete by hand and building outhouses to help prevent disease. I love landing in a foreign country and embracing the mystery of new foods, new language, new smells, and a different pace of life. This was my life and my identity until 2005.

On May 22, 2005, I entered a lifelong covenant with my husband. Independence was replaced with interdependence – my decisions are no longer about what I want but about what is best for both of us. Sometimes that means sacrificing what I want or think I need. In September 2006, I became pregnant with Saris. I learned first hand that my body was not my own – no glass of wine with a great steak dinner, and always carry a plastic bag to combat the nine months of vomiting. In October 2007, I had an ultrasound because I was again pregnant. It was then that I first saw Jakob AND Maddie just six weeks after they were conceived. Pooping in the woods has been replaced with changing thousands of diapers and trying to convince a two-year-old that pooping in the potty is really the best choice. And the pick-up truck . . . it is now a seven-passenger mini-van complete with three car seats and toddler tunes loaded in the CD-player.

I love being a mother. I love watching Saris, Jake, and Maddie come into their own personalities. I still get excited at each new word spoken, motor skill developed, and as each new spark of their individuality emerges. I love being “mommy”, but I find that I do not fit the mold of stereotypical mother. I did not dream of someday becoming a mother. I preferred building forts and exploring the backyard over playing with dolls. I still hate Barbie. Up until 2004 when I met Bill, I was fairly settled on the idea I would be single forever. I am grateful to Bill and would not trade the life I have now.

Two days ago, I came face to face with the sacrifices that come with being a wife and mother. I got a phone call – “we need you and your unique skill set to got to Haiti for five days.” An old fire quickly rekindled. I pictured myself getting dirty, hugging orphans, and riding along dirt roads. I saw a glimpse of my old life and parts of me that have grown dormant were suddenly alive and feeling very excited. I was going on an adventure. And then as quickly as the fire lit, I remembered I am a wife and mother – I could not make this decision on my own. It was not faced with the support I had hoped for, “You have three babies. You cannot just up and leave for five days.” I grew angry. No one was going to tell me what I can and cannot do. If I were a husband needing to go on a business trip for work, this would not be an issue. While I could justify this as a very important business trip – it was my expertise and unique skills that were needed, others saw it as optional and not necessary. I was reminded again and again, “You are a mother of three small children. How could you just leave them for five days?” I began to mourn and grieve the loss of Heather, free-spirited, independent, and adventurous woman. I faced the sacrifices that accompany motherhood. I am now in the process of trying to fan out the flames and once again squelch these aspects of my personality. But like the nun, this does not come easy.

I think of the Blessed Mother and her humble obedience and faithfulness to the Covenant. I think of Christ, giving himself fully even to death. Something in me truly believes that as I mourn the loss of my independence and natural personality I will only find more life. But if I am honest, this lesson is not pain-free.

The Unspeakable Place

I had a professor in graduate school that we affectionately called, “Yoda.” He was a wise, awkward man who looked and spoke like Yoda. His psychotherapy courses contained readings that required a general knowledge of calculus in order to fully understand. I, of course, dropped out of my high school calculus course to avoid receiving an inevitable failing grade. I would read Bion’s and Bollas’ depiction of object relations psychotherapy and comprehend very little of the content and yet I knew somewhere in the depths of my mind I was grasping something. Frequently I commented in class, “I know this makes sense, and I know a part of me understands it, but I simply cannot find the language to communicate it.” Eight years later, I still do not have the language.

When I think of the soul and its encounters with God the same struggle to find language and words emerges. Rudolf Otto coined encounters with God as Numinous. The Numinous experience is something wholly other and outside human reason. Something holy, something sacred happens and it transcends all language and meaning. My favorite passage of Scripture is in Exodus where Moses has a Numinous experience. He is taken to the mountain top and asks to see God’s face. Yaweh tucked Moses into a crevice and covered his face until the Glory had passed him. The hand lifted off of Moses to reveal the back of Yaweh. Moses descended the mountain radiating light, for he had seen and experienced God directly. But even Moses did not see the LORD face-to-face for surely it would have destroyed him.

I was twenty-two when I had my first Numinous experience. I had led a group of high school students up to the top of Roan Mountain on the border of Tennessee and North Carolina. I had climbed this mountain ridge several times and I knew its terrain well. On this particular June day, a cloud rolled in and covered the mountain top. I could not see my hand in front of my face. The wind howled so loud I could not hear myself talk. A part of me worried about the students I was responsible for, but in a moment all that worry lost. I found myself utterly alone. It what seemed like an eternity, I sat naked before God. I wanted to hide my face, to cover my shame, but in that moment I knew all was exposed and there was no where to run. My soul encountered God in a way that language cannot describe. It exceeded logic and reasoning. It was both terrifying and comforting. I often wonder if this is how Moses felt during his mountain top experience.

I have since returned to that mountain several times and create an altar of stones as a remembrance that this was and is a sacred place. Each time I secretly hope for a Numinous moment but know that I cannot force it to happen.