The Gospel of Servant-hood

Sunday's readings are still resonating with me:  If you want to be great in God's kingdom, learn to be the servant of all.  It sounds so straightforward and so simple.  Yet it's challenging to fully live out the gospel of servant-hood.

I heard a brief radio snippet of a Catholic speaker -- I believe it was Matthew Kelly -- and he was talking about our journeys.  We are all on a journey that begins in infancy and ends (at least the earthly part) when we die.  Each person we meet is somewhere on that journey; we don't know where when we encounter them; it's not for us to know.  So we need to have patience with them.  Isn't that just golden?

There isn't a lot of patience in the world today.  There's a lot of arrogance. We are swift to judge another as callus, ignorant, uncaring, selfish, stuck-up, petty . . . you name it! It is so hard to remember that we're on a journey; I'm on a journey, you're on a journey, our politicians are, our employers, our noisy neighbors, our homeless, our drug addicted, our children, our enemies, our "frienemies."

The choir did a communion anthem of a beautiful but not well-known hymn, "The Servant Song."  It begins thus,
Will you let me be your servant?
Let me be as Christ to you.
Pray that I may have the grace
To let you be my servant too.

We are pilgrims on a journey
We are travelers on a road
We are here to help each other
Walk the mile and bear the load.

I was convicted by how I unconsciously held that the "pilgrims" were people on the same journey as my own. That's not it, folks, not at all!  In fact, we are all "travelers on a road" and "we are here to help each other."  And that takes love.  It takes self sacrificing, non-judgmental, agape love.  Not the kind of mutual love where you are sweet to me and so then I am sweet to you, but the kind of love it takes to touch a leper; love that is born of sacrifice and respect.

In my daily life, I do not encounter lepers, but I have my own "untouchables."  Just yesterday, I called someone a "jackass," and worse, not to his face!  He's a pilgrim.  He's on a journey.  I might try a little patience and compassion.  I got sucked into the politics of it all.  I forgot I was a servant.  I was grabbing for some power.  There was a little "how dare he?" in my words.  Who's the jackass, by the way?

Home is where the Gospel of Servant-hood really comes into play, though.  Being a servant means loving each of my teens the best I can right where she is in their journey and not thinking she should be farther along. Serving my husband means listening to him and really caring what kind of day he had. It means seeing the cute in the 3-year-old's tears, the 4-year-old's sass and the 5-year-old's temper. It means supporting them, not ruling them. It means intimacy and that takes respect. It means taking time for each and every one of my people. Being a servant means remembering that relationships have seasons -- and being willing to stay on the boat when the sea is stormy.  As C. S. Lewis said in The Four Loves, "There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable."

Judging is easy. And by the way, I've noticed that when I judge someone, I'm usually wrong. If I get to know them better -- that intimacy again -- I see them differently. I can't see their journey when I'm judging them.  It takes compassionate eyes to see it. Only when I truly see them can I truly support them.

I'm not suggesting that we just say "she's perfect in God's eyes" and let it go; quite the opposite. Serving is active. If I see you have dog-doo on your shoe, I'm not letting you track it all over town. Agape love -- self sacrificing, non-judgmental, intimate love -- is active. Once we're in an intimate relationship, we can help each other. You can help me reach my goals and I can help you. I can ask you what would support you and then hold up my end of the deal. "I see you are fixing a ham sandwich and I remember you said you weren't eating meat today."  "I am committed to two hours of exercise each day. Will you ask me about my exercise if you see me sitting in front of the TV?" That sort of thing.

It's a lot to take in, but I know I can improve on my serving. I received an impetus from the prayers and petitions on Sunday when when we prayed for the strength to "acquire a more conscious and vigorous adherence to the Gospel."  Lord, hear our prayer.

In the Doldrums

I've been in the spiritual doldrums lately.  Have you been there yourself at times?  There is nothing "wrong;" I have no complaints.  I'm just floating in a calm sea of tepid water.  Like Samuel Taylor Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

Many years ago --when I was still a United Methodist -- I listened to a taped speech by the Dutch Priest, Henri Nouwen called "The Spirituality of Waiting."  I was in the doldrums then too.  Nouwen considers waiting a spiritual discipline akin to prayer.  He artfully makes the point that although in the modern world we are very accustomed to instant gratification, there is much to be gained in the waiting.  [Note:  I am paraphrasing as it has been many years since I've listened to this tape!]  Many people, Nouwen said,  -- good Christians at that -- dash about from one "spiritual experience" to another trying to "get somewhere" spiritually.  Instead, he suggests, there is great richness in the stillness. Waiting does not have to be a passive experience; it can be a deeply instructive.

This consideration of waiting and the doldrums got me pondering the experience of "being in the doldrums" in a nautical sense.  What must it have been like to be in a wind-powered vessel and stuck in the doldrums?  What did the crew do while they waited?  They couldn't get on a faster ship!  I tried researching the topic but was left eventually to my imagination.

I suspect that when the ship is stuck in the doldrums -- sitting motionless on a glassy sea under a hot, still, suffocating sun -- the crew quite easily falls into the doldrums themselves.  But are they permitted to sit and sulk?  Under a strong and experienced captain, the crew more likely does things they seldom have the time nor opportunity to do.  They may repair the sails, paint the mast, or clean the galley.  Perhaps they take advantage of the slack, lifeless sails to take a rare and refreshing swim in the calm sea. I feel pretty certain they do not spend too much time just staring at the sea or shouting at the sky, thinking the sea or the sky "should be" different.

So what I am I to do in the doldrums?  Maintenance, I guess.  I could fix my video on my computer so I can enjoy my video reflections again, review my training manuals, delve more deeply into the day's readings.  Or, better, enjoy more time in quiet reflection -- which is simply to be still and wait.  The doldrums allows a period of quiet to read God's Word and let it land on me just as the crepe myrtle blossom is lifted by the breeze, settling ever so gently on the pond.  To use Nouwen's phrase, "waiting is active;" I can read the scripture and allow the passage to sit until it soaks into me and is absorbed into my being, becoming part and parcel of who I am and what I have to offer; until It stagnates then ferments then ages and finally effervesces.

In the doldrums there is no where to go and nothing to be done except to listen to the silence.  And that is enough.

What Good Must I Do?

Gospel Mt 19:16-22

A young man approached Jesus and said,
"Teacher, what good must I do to gain eternal life?"
He answered him, "Why do you ask me about the good?
There is only One who is good.
If you wish to enter into life, keep the commandments."
He asked him, "Which ones?"
And Jesus replied, "You shall not kill;
you shall not commit adultery;
you shall not steal;
you shall not bear false witness;
honor your father and your mother;
and you shall love your neighbor as yourself."
The young man said to him,
"All of these I have observed. What do I still lack?"
Jesus said to him, "If you wish to be perfect, go,
sell what you have and give to the poor,
and you will have treasure in heaven.
Then come, follow me."
When the young man heard this statement, he went away sad,
for he had many possessions.

This passage always astounds me.  I'm not so surprised by the part about giving away all our possessions.  I am attracted by a simple lifestyle.

The astounding - yea confounding part -- is earlier in the passage when  the young man says to Jesus, "All of these I have observed . . ."

Really? Some involve mortal sin so it seems quite plausible that one  is not guilty of them right this instant: 

• You shall not kill.  (Check)
• You shall not commit adultery. (Check)
• You shall not steal. (Check) 
• You shall not bear false witness. (Hmmm)
• Honor your father and mother.  (Uhhm, is it open to interpretation?)
• Love your neighbor as yourself. (Clunk)

These are not easy imperatives here, friends. I tend to focus on the end of the passage -- the part about storing up treasure in heaven -- and not notice what is truly being asked of me. It's right here where I live and really, if I just pay attention to that last one -- love your neighbor as yourself -- the others are part and parcel of it, aren't they?

My post a few days ago on forgiveness generated a flurry of side email conversations about just how hard it is to forgive -- and how easy it is to slip back into resentment -- but it is truly all about the Greatest Commandment:  "Love the Lord your god with all your heart and with all your mind and and with all your soul and . . . love your neighbor as yourself."  I am, I admit, quick to forgive myself. Not for the big offenses, necessarily -- I like to carry those around a while -- but the "little" things like laziness, sloth, and envy; I forgive those in myself so quickly.  And yet, it really is asking a lot to forgive them in someone else.  

A couple of days ago I came face to face with my "neighbor."  This is a person with whom I have significant history.  On the face of it, the issues are all on "her" side -- she was the one "in the wrong," so to speak, and you'd have a hard time finding anyone to argue the reverse.  Yet, I am sure that at some point in our long history I sinned against her too; I have to dig for it a bit but it's there just under the surface.  After our falling out, I talked about it more than I should and I did so with bitterness.  I eventually confessed this to her but I needn't have; she had already suffered discrimination because of my words. I did forgive her (and I believe she has forgiven me) and I have to tell you, it sits easy with me. I do get quite nervous around her, but I think -- in all honesty -- that part is my mind-talk.  I am reminded each time too, that forgiveness is a process; it happens over time and requires (in my experience) many conscious acts of choice.

It's a lot to ask of one's self. Yet it is my path to perfection, isn't it?  If I "wish to enter into life," I have to "keep the commandments;" here is the path right here in the Gospel of Matthew. Guess I'd better put down the lap top enter into prayers for forgiveness, right here, right now!  Cheers.

Yelling at the Kids, the Big Oopsie

And do not grieve the holy Spirit of God, with which you were sealed for the day of redemption.

All bitterness, fury, anger, shouting and revling must be removed from you, along with all malice.

[And] be kind to one another, compassionate, forgiving one another as God has forgiven you in Christ.

Ephesians  4:30-32

Every day, this is my testing ground.  Why does it so often seem easier to be cynical, surly, or a sourpuss?  It isn't actually easier of course, but sin often looks easier, doesn't it?  

I am normally nice to strangers -- helpful, friendly, compassionate, even.  It is so much harder at home.  It's hard not to hold resentment, especially the unnoticed little niggling annoyances that simmer and grow just beneath the surface.  You know the ones: the kid who leaves her shoes in the middle of the entryway, again; the well-meaning aunt who calls every day at supper time; the little one who seems to argue every time I open my mouth.  

These little "annoyances", unnoticed and unchecked, grow quickly into animosity and resentment.  One day I wake up and a big, mean monster is on my shoulder, pecking away at my patience and growling at everyone.

Yet today's second reading really speaks to it, doesn't it?  "All bitterness, fury, anger, shouting and reviling must be removed from you, along with all malice" (italics mine).  

Oops.  I have to be compassionate and forgiving, or I am grieving the Holy Spirit.   If I choose to hold resentment, I am choosing to sin. 

Yet we all know it is not as easy as deciding to be compassionate.  In order to forgive, I must first notice and clear the resentment:  

• The first step is letting go of my need to be right and allowing myself to be vulnerable.  
• In order to do that, I have to truly own up to what I am getting out of the resentment, the payoff, as it were.  
• Then before I can finally be free, I also have to take a candid look at what the grudge is costing me in terms of my peace of mind, my integrity, my mental and physical health, even my finances.   
• Then and only then can I fully forgive and finally be free.  
• Lastly, I have to make choices about how I will make amends and how I can avoid falling into the same trap of resentment again.

What is truly amazing to me is that nowhere in this process nor in the directive from Ephesians does it say, "forgive if the other person is right" or "forgive if the kid is not actually annoying you" or "forgive if you are completely to blame."  It simply (and solely) says, "forgiving one another as Christ forgave you,"  which was wholly, completely, unconditionally and undeserved.  So  . . . it's all about me.  It's all on my side; it's my work to do.

If it sounds like a lot of work well, on the face of it, it is.  In the end -- and it is a little hard to admit this -- forgiveness is actually the easier path.  Resentment is like a rock carried on the shoulders; it weighs us down and hunches us over.  It gets us all scrunched up on the inside.  It's a cancer that slowly eats away at that within us that truly lives to love.  In other words, it steals our souls.

Forgiveness is the life-giving water.  It is the stream that courses through the desert and deeply refreshes.  It's the path that looks thorny, rocky and steep at first, but turns out to be the short-cut to paradise.   

But definitely don't take my word for it, taste it for yourself.  You'll be back to drink from the wellspring of forgiveness again!

Post Script (thanks, Aunt Kathy):
The thing I forgot to say is what comes after all of this.  When I notice my resentment, handle it and own it -- then and only then, I get to have gratitude for all that I have.  And you know, I have a lot.  A lot of love, a lot of kids, a beautiful home, a great hubby and family.  As long as I'm thinking my unhappiness is someone else's fault, then I am not getting to be grateful for my many blessings!

From Conviction to Joy

These words from St. Francis de Sales caught my attention:

Be sure always to entertain a hearty sorrow for the sins you confess, however small they are, as also a steadfast resolution to correct them in future.  Some people go on confessing venial sins out of mere habit and conventionally, without making any effort to correct them, thereby losing a great deal of spiritual good.  Supposing that you confess having said something untrue, although without evil consequences, or some careless words, or excessive amusement, -- repent and make a firm resolution of amendment.  It is a mere abuse to confess any sin whatever, be it moral or venial, without intending to put it altogether away, that being the express object of confession.

 Introduction to the Devout Life

I know I am guilty of this. I know that I have made a lackluster confession at times, without truly taking into account my own words as I say, "I firmly resolve to do penance, to sin no more and to avoid whatever leads me to sin."  I am mortified by my ability to say the words without really comprehending them.  It is troubling that in saying "I firmly resolve," I fail at times to, in fact, put behind that phrase my actual resolve, my sacred word.

Of course I have a propensity to sin.  What strikes me, however, is the amazing and huge range of this propensity.  I wonder how much less lazy I would have to be to live a truly devout life?  How often, for instance, would I have to stop my tongue in mid-stroke?  While I know that what I take to the confessional, generally, are not "serious" sins, they must reach the level of seriousness when I make no lasting and committed effort to reform.

It's so easy to live a "good life" badly.  It's the default position, actually, isn't it?  It's easy to speak harshly to my family, to loosen my will power on my diet, to be poor steward, to look away from someone in need.  It's laziness of a sort and an easy garment to put on.

We are called to "put on Christ" and it is a tall order!  As St. Francis says,

The ordinary purification, whether of body or soul, is only accomplished by slow degrees, step by step, gradually and painfully. The angels on Jacob’s ladder had wings, yet nevertheless they did not fly, but went in due order up and down the steps of the ladder. The soul which rises from out of sin to a devout life has been compared to the dawn, which does not banish darkness suddenly, but by degrees.  

I find these words strangely hopeful.  Every step toward holiness is, after all, a step, and one in the right direction.  Conversion is a lifelong process, not a moment in time.  I am tasked with starting anew this and every day, making each moment one of choice, and each choice a conscious one.

Thus, what started for me as a humbling conviction is now a source of hope and joy.

Happy Sunday.

Conversion Part 5 - Signs and Wonders

Did I mention my husband was a born and bred Catholic?  He wasn't a practicing Catholic though and hadn't been since he left home.  We actually got married in Las Vegas by a minister in a Christian ceremony.  Around the time of our wedding, we'd agreed that we would "raise our children in church."  Dear Hubby wasn't too picky about the type of church since he'd not attended any church  since he was a teen.

We started attending  the United Methodist church in downtown Austin.  We loved it, until the second baby came along.  Then it was just too darn hard to get there.  We had moved, too, just before her birth, which added 10 miles to the commute downtown.  Also, it was so big; I'd grown up in small churches and after my work at First Church, I longed for the intimacy of a smaller congregation.

Monday's gospel reading was the story of the crowd following Jesus to Capernaum after the feeding of the five thousand.  Jesus said to them, . . ." you are looking for me not because you saw signs but because you ate the loaves and were filled. Do not work for food that perishes but for the food that endures for eternal life. . . "

Signs and wonders still abound, though sometimes more subtle than those to which Jesus was referring, and yet we still focus on our basic human needs most of the time.  Occasionally, though, my eyes are open.

One such sign and wonder came early in our marriage.  When we first moved to Round Rock with our baby girls, we started looking for churches.  Most were uninspiring; a few were downright odd. After a few unsatisfactory visits to unfriendly, non-diverse local protestant churches I decided to hedge my bets by making phone calls before visiting.

I began calling churches and asking whomever answered about the ethnic mix of the congregation - as we are a inter-racial family -- and what the church's mission was.  Few knew these answers.  I was truthfully just trying to save time but these responses were very telling!  Most were all white churches but they tried to make it sound better by saying, "we welcome everyone."  To a person, no one I spoke to at any of these congregations knew what their mission statement was!  On a whim, I decided to phone the local Catholic church, St. John Vianney.

Fr. Sam answered.  He told me the parish's mission statement  (Our mission is to grow in, give witness to and spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ)  and that while most members were white, they were intentionally reaching out to families of varying ethnic backgrounds.  This was the first sign.  He asked what we were looking for in a church.  He engaged me.  He never once asked if we were Catholic.  His openness and honesty caught me off guard and we visited the following Sunday.  I was a little lost for most of the mass because they didn't use missals, but Dear Hubby seemed right at home.  The second sign and wonder was the homily; it could have been written from my "play book."  It was a lot of what I deeply believe all in one sermon.  It was wonderful.  I was entranced. My husband looked at me and whispered, "So I think you found our church.

Third sign:  the congregation was tiny, but warm.  It was a brand new parish, 3 months old, that met in an elementary school.  Everyone spoke to us.  One of my hubby's public high-school classmates was there with her sister.  Though only 40 or so families were there, several were Hispanic and two were black. This was the best mix we'd found so far.

Over the weeks that followed, I became familiar with the mass, probably due in large part to Father Sam's refusal to use missals; the lack thereof forced me to pay attention and learn to keep up.  While I did not know all I was doing, I was becoming comfortable.  We began to get involved and before I knew it, we were registering as members. Our family was number 68.  

This was the beginning of the end of my life as a protestant.  More later!

Part One of my story
Part Two  - Midnight Mass
Part Three - Crucifix Ephiphany
Part Four - Seeker
Part Six - Annulment
Part Seven - Taking it on Faith

Grace in the Moment

At the hour of the annual blessing of the sacred oils in our diocese, mere moments before our priests would lie prostrate before the altar, I was given a gift.  I was given a gift of grace, of eyes once again opened wide.

It started out simply enough.  I went for a walk.  It was a little mommy-multitasking mission; I decided to walk while my son was in OT.  It was a tiny act of obedience to my Lenten discipline of diet and exercise, on of my last acts before the end of Lent.  And in this little act, though reluctantly and grudgingly offered, was a treasure.

This morning I read some words by Simsha Fisher, one of my heroes, and when I read her post, I couldn't get past the first few paragraphs.  I was astounded.  I wrote about seeing the beauty in the present moment but even in penning the piece, I knew something was missing.

I realize that in all of this, in all of this living, striving, looking back and looking forward, in all of this stuff of which my life is made, I have only now. I have this moment, this now.  I have these children, this husband, this home, this mess, this body, these thoughts.  I have right here, right now.  And yet even in seeing that, I was  missing the recognition of grace. 

I'm living in a beautiful, crazy, chaotic world of clashing bells and clanging cymbals.  It's busy here.  Children are calling, birds are singing in the yard and my oldest is clattering around in the kitchen.  And I live my life as if I had forever to savor these sounds.

In truth, not only do I want to celebrate the beauty of the present moment, I must recognize that all I truly have is the present moment.  I have this time to hear a single "caw" of the grackle on the grass; this second to hear the clock tick one more time (and I never realized it was so loud). It is so quiet in this slowed down experience of the present that you could hear pin drop. Really I have not even a second, but a nano-second in which to reach out and grab it and say, "This, this now is my life.  This is my moment."

I have this tiny particle of time in which to fall to my knees and be grateful. 

And this I do.

And therein is my joy.