Livin' On a Prayer

So we're halfway there. It's Day 23 of Lent (which technically is, contrary to conventional wisdom, 46 days long).

Halfway to Easter, I feel a personal sense of accomplishment that I've remained steadfast in one of my Lenten disciplines—this blog—and I'm encouraged that this particular discipline is one that really has helped me to feel more whole, closer to God, and more "on the road" than I have felt in years. Daily reflection on scripture and its relevance to my life and community has enriched each day. As a relatively new wife and mother, I'm realizing how much I want to make sure that these practices, along with attendance at Mass and, overall, an authentic identification of myself as a Christian, to be part of my life and part of my family's life.

Growing up in a big family, there was often a sense of chaos. There were five of us kids, all going at different paces in different directions, plus two parents who worked hard and often AND remained active volunteers in various school, community and church activities. At times life felt a little crazy. In the past, I've drawn a blank when asked some of my favorite family traditions; I'm not sure we ever did anything the same way twice!

However, in starting my own family, I've come to realize that there were some key traditions we could depend on. Every week throughout my childhood, my parents got five kids to Mass on Sunday. Almost every night, the seven of us sat down for dinner together, first joining hands for Grace to thank God for our food and good fortune and to pray for special intentions. Holidays like Christmas and Easter were celebrations of our faith first. (I have vivid memories not just of Mass on Easter Sunday, but also feet-washing on Holy Thursday, Stations of the Cross, and veneration of the cross on Good Friday.) 

My parents may not have had a lot of time or money, but they made sure to instill in us the tools and values that I still feel make me who I am. This Lent, I am very grateful for the spiritual homecoming that the past 23 days have been.

What Great Nation?

Yesterday I observed a debate on Facebook concerning the restriction of homosexuals’ rights in civil law. Would it surprise you to know that one participant in the debate introduced biblical teaching as a defense of these restrictions? And in emphasizing the importance of teaching our children right from wrong, this particular Christian compared practicing homosexuals to murderers? It didn’t surprise me, but it disgusted me and made me really sad. 

Several people responded, rightly, that biblical teachings shouldn't dictate civil law. I couldn’t resist including my two cents: that I want to teach my son that it’s “right” that each of us should get to live out the full nature of our God-created humanity, and that it's "wrong" to think that loving someone of the same sex is any kind of crime. I would add that the most important law Jesus taught us is to LOVE. What’s loving about excluding people and forcing them into the shadows?

And then I turn to today's reading from Deuteronomy, in which Moses reminds his followers to adhere to their laws, regardless of the changes they're about to encounter as they enter a new land. He says that by observing these laws faithfully, they will show the world their intelligence, wisdom, and connection with God. What great nation, he says, has statutes and decrees that are as just?  Moses knew that God expected them to remain faithful to the commandments set down before them. Just because their world is changing doesn't mean their laws should.

Hmm ... can I reconcile these two ideas?

The latter portion of the passage tells me I can. Moses continues:

However, take care and be earnestly on your guard
not to forget the things which your own eyes have seen,
nor let them slip from your memory as long as you live,
but teach them to your children and to your children’s children.

He reminds the Israelites that their own experiences inform and augment his teachings. We can’t read scripture in isolation. What have we seen, heard, and felt that helps us to understand the full meaning of God’s word? What have we gone through that might bring us closer to what God intends for us?

The Israelites were enslaved; their rights were completely restricted by nature of their birth. Surely the atrocities they experienced would inform their sense of right and wrong. Later, in the New Testament, we observe Pharisees living by the letter of God’s law; Jesus calls them hypocrites as he tries to help his followers understand the spirit of the law. He was troubled by the way that human beings perverted God’s word to fit their own notions of right and wrong. Both, it seems to me, were encouraging people to think critically about the laws that were handed down to them.

As a Christian, I feel the same responsibility to think critically about our nation's laws as well the dictates of my faith. As an American Catholic, I'd like to be able to say: What great nation has laws that are as just as ours? 

Practice Makes Perfect

From Daniel:

We are reduced, O Lord, beyond any other nation,
brought low everywhere in the world this day. ...
Now we follow you with our whole heart ...

This echoes the words that brought me back this Lent. "Return to me with your whole heart."

It does so often happen that when we're at our lowest point, we look to the Lord to lift us up. It almost seems as if we're saying we have nothing left to lose, so that's when we seek the grace of God.  It's definitely been true for me throughout my life, and I wish it weren't the case.

I need to remember that using the tools of my faith continually might keep me from sinking so low that only God's grace can rescue me. What tools? What are the best reminders that God is always there, not just in the bad times?

For me, I'm at my best when I reflect regularly—on scripture, and on my own actions. I've always kept a journal, but I find it hard to stay consistent with it. (That's why this blog helps to keep me accountable. It "forces" me, for lack of a better word, to examine each day's readings and think about what they mean for me.)

I'm also finding this Lent that returning to Sunday Mass is important. To be honest, it's been a mixed experience. My first Sunday back was powerful, but this past week, not so much. Uninspiring homilist, and a cantor and choir that were impossible to understand. (Good music at Mass is so important!) And maybe I just wasn't present enough. But the one element that consistently inspires me is the communion. It's heartening to be among a community of believers who are seeking (and hopefully finding) comfort and peace and fulfillment—or whatever it is they're looking for.

I'm grateful for a God who accepts my prayers and attention whether they come with regularity or only in moments of extreme distress. But it would be so much better for me if I offered them consistently. When Lent is over, let me remember what keeps me most whole and what keeps God's grace with me.

Wash and Be Clean

Today's reading from Kings tells the story of an army commander named Naaman who seeks a cure for his leprosy. Elisha the prophet instructs that he should bathe himself seven times in the Jordan River, and he will be healed. Inexplicably, Naaman becomes angry:

I thought that he would surely come out and stand there
to invoke the LORD his God,
and would move his hand over the spot,
and thus cure the leprosy.

He's expecting a quicker fix, or he's expecting something more momentous than "Wash and be clean." Eventually he's convinced to do as he's told. He washes in the Jordan, seven times, and his skin becomes "like the flesh of a little child." He is healed.

Naaman's initial rejection of the prophet's instructions seems hard to fathom, but this is the kind of reaction many of us have to offers of help and wisdom. Sometimes the answers seem too easy; other times, too challenging. Sometimes we're offered a solution that's such common sense that we think: If it were that easy, I would have done it already. And sometimes, we want someone to solve our problems for us, rather than having to work out solutions for ourselves and do the actual work.

The good news is, there is wisdom out there for us. There is help. Like Naaman, we have to first seek it out. Also like Naaman, we have to accept it. And finally, we have to follow through and take the steps necessary to to heal ourselves.

Well, Well, Well

Today's gospel, the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well, is from John. I struggle with this gospel, where Jesus speaks in highly symbolic language and makes barely veiled references to his divine nature and his identity as the savior of the world. That's not how I envision Jesus of Nazareth conducting his ministry. I identify much more with the synoptic gospels, where Jesus is a man following God's call and slowly realizing the divine power that lies within him.

Regardless, the symbolic nature of this particular passage (along with the Old Testament reading about Moses and the Israelites in the desert) speaks directly to the Lenten experience of hungering and thirsting for God. Here's this Samaritan woman who just wants some water. She meets up with a mysterious teacher/prophet who pretty much blows her mind. She's astounded he's talking to her at all—it was unheard of for Jews and Samaritans at the time—and he tells her he can make it so that she never thirsts again.

She's persistent and quite literal: Sir, give me this water, so that I may not be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water. Jesus demonstrates his power by calling upon her history—she's had five husbands and the man she currently lives with is not one of them. Whether she's ashamed or not, the gospel doesn't say, but she recognizes that he is someone special, and their conversation immediately goes beyond the subject of water to the differences between Samaritan and Jewish worship. Eventually, she abandons her water jar and goes to tell her countrymen about this prophet, who she thinks just might be the long-awaited messiah.

The whole story is pretty remarkable, but I'm particularly struck that she left her water jar behind. Where originally, this woman had been all about getting her water, quenching her physical thirst and serving her household, she sets aside the practical stuff and goes to spread the word. It's a moment of conversion and a moment where spiritual matters trump practical ones.

That's a battle I fight every day. Life's daily demands often crowd out my pursuit of spiritual wholeness. But there's got to be room for both. I doubt that the Samaritan woman stopped drinking water altogether. I'm sure a trip to the well remained part of her daily routine. But it sounds like her encounter convinced her that there was an answer to her spiritual thirst, and it would seem she made it her business to find that answer, and share it with others.

What's Mine is Yours

Today's gospel, the parable of the prodigal son, might be one of the most famous passages from the New Testament. It's one of the bible stories that most captured my imagination as a kid. Images of the son tending swine (and longing, in vain, for their food!) and the feast of a fatted calf (or even just a small goat) were so vivid to me then and remain that way now.

Jesus tells the story of a young man who lost his way and finds himself starving. When he returns to his home to find all the food and drink he could possibly need. His brother, who remained faithful and constant, feels slighted and angry—who could blame him? But he has never known the hunger of the first brother, nor will he, says his father: You are here with me always; everything I have is yours.

The images of hunger and of food are powerful, as is the reminder of how much God wants us to return to him. Even just seeing his prodigal son in the distance, the father was filled with compassion; he was ready to embrace him on sight. The returning son didn't even need to ask for forgiveness. (Nevertheless, he did.)

There have been times in my life when I've been more like the loyal brother—I admit, sometimes I would wonder where my reward was. These days, though, I feel more like the prodigal. Hardly as wanton, but definitely a bit lost. During dark times in my life, I have felt that spiritual hunger, and when I have returned I have felt the grace of God's welcome. It really can feel like a feast.  But the hard thing for me is not to waste that welcome home reception.

That's why the loyal brother's lesson is just as important as the prodigal's. You are here with me always; everything I have is yours.

Jesus concludes the story without conveying the loyal brother's response. Did he stay and enjoy the party? Or did he stalk off, leaving his father's house behind? I hope he joined in the celebration, recognizing the bigger reward that was in store.

The Impossible Conception

Today is the feast of the Annunciation. In the spirit of trying to understand what this event may have been like from Mary's perspective, let's examine what took place. Specifically, if you were Mary, how freaked out would you be?!

1. An angel appears, an emissary from God, and he's talking to you. (Am I seeing things? Am I crazy?)
2. He tells you you're going to conceive a child, even though you're a virgin. (That's supposed to show God's favor?) 
3. You're engaged, and the baby is not your fiance's! (Grounds for dissolving the engagement, if not far worse punishment.)
4. The baby is destined for greatness, to be "Son of the Most High" and "Son of God," and he will inherit King David's throne. (I guess I won't be hiding this pregnancy.)
5. To add insult to injury, the child's name is picked out for you.

The gospel concludes simply with Mary's words:

Mary said, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord.
May it be done to me according to your word.”

You have to imagine that it wasn't that simple. I can't imagine Mary responded without missing a beat. Saying yes would have huge implications.

If she were your friend, what would you tell her? I'm pretty sure that, given this same set of circumstances, I'd tell her to say no. I'd tell her to think of herself first, think of her future, think of how her family and promised husband would feel, and what everyone else would say about her.

Saying yes was an act of faith. Mary had to turn off the rational voices and embrace the fantastic, terrifying notion that an impossible (not immaculate—that's a whole other miracle) conception was taking place, and that her child would change the course of history.

I'd be hard pressed to come up with a comparable analogy—how I've been asked to say yes to a similar challenge in my own life. Nothing could compare.

Then why does it sometimes feel so difficult to respond to God's call? I can think of big and little ways that I've ignored or rejected the call to be better, to give more, to bend to God's will rather than my own.

I pray for the strength to respond to God's call, and the faith to embrace what seems impossible.

The Perfect Day

Busted Halo offers this today on the Fast Pray Give calendar:

FAST from standing on your soapbox today.
PRAY that you continue to be open to learning.
GIVE by sharing a life lesson you have learned with someone today.

How can I fast from standing on my soapbox while sharing a life lesson? I have a blog to write!

I've actually been struggling with this notion as I work on the blog each day. The last thing in the world I want to do is to seem as if I'm preaching, teaching, offering advice, claiming authority or knowledge I don't have, or speaking for anyone other than myself. (I guess that's several last things that I want to do.) As I've said, this blog is a way of disciplining myself to reflect on the scripture each day, and reflect on what Lent should be about for me. It's been working for me, though I continue to battle my own doubts about the value of the endeavor to the outside world. (The thinking and the writing are great for me; it just feels unnatural and narcissistic to post it for public consumption. But if I weren't doing that, I doubt I'd keep it up. Such is my conundrum.)

But it just so happens that today was one of the best I've had in a while, so I'm happy to share a little about it. Not sure what the lesson is: perhaps it will come as I write. The school where I work is on spring break, so I took advantage of the down time to keep my son home from daycare and bring him for his 18-month checkup (a month late). I usually dread days like today, because I worry about keeping him occupied and happy while keeping my own energy level up and my frustration level down. This winter has been a bear, and its resurgence in the last few days has not been welcome! (Snow? HELLO!? The Groundhog has some 'splaining to do!) How to entertain an active toddler in an apartment that you don't want to leave because it snowed inexplicably during the first week of spring?

It ended up being something like the perfect day. We went to the Children's Museum of Manhattan, which I've been wanting to do, we had a great visit with his doctor, he had a beautiful (read: long) nap, I got some couch time (part of any great day), and I cooked a healthy dinner for my family. At the end of the meal, we sang along with my iPod and then I just listened and watched as my husband and son made each other laugh from their bellies up. I couldn't tell you now what they were laughing about; I just remember thinking how grateful I am to be part of my family and to have so much love and laughter in my life.

What's the lesson? No clue. Maybe the lesson is more an anchor. Life is not always like this. Sometimes the laughs don't come so easily. Sometimes we have moments of real pain and struggle, even in the happiest homes. But during these dark moments, these personal winters, I will hold on to my memory of those belly laughs, and my own feelings of personal satisfaction for a day well spent. Even during the coldest winter, you figure out a way to make the sun shine.

Master and Servant

Today's gospel shows a very human power struggle at play within Jesus' group of disciples. It was inevitable that one or more of them would want to be the favorite. This is the kind of dynamic that you'd see within any kind of group, office environment, team, or even clique of friends. Jesus challenges them:

“You do not know what you are asking.
Can you drink the chalice that I am going to drink?”

Essentially: Do you really want what I'm about to face? 

In the tradition of Jeremiah (from today's Old Testament reading), Jesus anticipates that his teaching won't be well received, and it will mean trouble for him. Perhaps he's already hearing murmurs of it; it's probably not a coincidence that in yesterday's gospel, he was calling out the Pharisees on their hypocrisy and pomposity. Today, he reminds his disciples that God will be the one calling them to their appropriate places and roles within whatever this movement is to become. To me it's an indication that Jesus is admitting that he isn't in charge any more than his disciples are; rather, he's following what he believes to be God's will for him, and for all of them.

Whoever wishes to be great among you shall be your servant;
whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave.
Just so, the Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve
and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

I hear a kind of admonishment that leadership isn't about being exalted but about making yourself the servant, making sacrifices for the good of all.

Of course, these words had far greater implications for Jesus and his disciples. But here and now, I take them as a reminder that the gifts I have been given aren't meant to raise me up, but for me to raise up those around me.

Sins Like Scarlet

The readings today call me back to the way I felt on the first day of Lent, when I was looking for a new beginning.

Come now, let us set things right,
says the LORD:
Though your sins be like scarlet,
they may become white as snow.

I love this. The reading offers opportunity to come clean, to make things right. It feels like a reset button, though it's not that simple. Making things right requires making a decision, every day, to reject the actions that cloud our souls, weigh us down, separate us from God.

We have to decide to do the next right thing, as my father used to say. It's not that making that daily decision (sometimes making hourly, or minute-to-minute decisions) is easy, but it's possible. Our faith affords us that opportunity; forgiveness and redemption are available to all of us. 

That's what Jesus' mission was all about—to bring people closer to God, to help people find God's forgiveness, to allow people the new life that comes from redemption. And I love reading the roots of that mission in the Old Testament, where Jesus would have read it too.

Measure for Measure

Today's readings focus a lot on sin. And though an important part of my Lenten journey is about examining my conscience and my actions and owning my faults and sins, it's also nice to look at the good—the good that others offer me and the world, and the good that I bring as well. From Luke:

Give and gifts will be given to you;
a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing,
will be poured into your lap.
For the measure with which you measure
will in return be measured out to you.”

In these last few weeks, I've focused a lot on the times that I've failed to give goodness to the world. "Doing bad," for lack of a better expression, is really poisonous and contagious; it breeds itself.

But you can say the same for goodness. Just last night, I got three different messages expressing truly kind thoughts—gratitude, admiration, and appreciation. It was all very unexpected, and it really turned my head around. I found that today I had a more generous attitude in general. I can think of at least three different moments today when I was able to be more patient, gracious, and positive than I typically would have been.

It's great to end the day reflecting on kindness that I've done. It's also pretty good to reflect on unkindness that I haven't done. That, in itself, is a gift.

Call Me Crazy

In today's Gospel, from Matthew, Jesus brings his new friends up to the top of a mountain, where he begins to glow. Two legends of the scriptures appear, conversing with him. And then a voice from above—God?—declares himself to be Jesus' father. No wonder the apostles "were very much afraid"!

This passage really stopped me: 

As they were coming down from the mountain,
Jesus charged them,
“Do not tell the vision to anyone
until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”

It's almost like: If you tell anyone about this, they'll think you're nuts. They'll think I'm nuts, or a con artist, or both.

I keep going back to what Jesus must have been thinking and feeling as these events were unfolding.  I bet he was as scared, confused, and awe-struck as Peter, James, and John were! This would be a moment that could drive Jesus to answer his call with the ultimate conviction, but it also could have sent him running for the hills.  And who could blame his disciples if they'd gone running?

This had to be a transformative experience for everyone present. I can't even imagine the kind of courage it took for each of them to embrace this wild unknown, to accept this improbable encounter.

I pray for the courage to accept challenges and invitations, however frightening and improbable they may seem. I pray that I can trust myself to recognize God's invitations, that I can trust in his wisdom and will for me, and that I will enjoy his mercy when I might falter.

Amber Alert

Jesus goes missing. Thinking he's in their caravan, Mary and Joseph lose track of him—FOR THREE DAYS.

As a parent, that passage takes on new meaning. I can't even imagine the anxiety Mary and Joseph were feeling. Though it was a different time, a different culture, he was still a 12-year-old boy.

But I can also imagine the strange pride they must have felt to know that their boy was so drawn to the temple, drawn to the words of the faith tradition they had shared with him. I wonder what it felt like to hear him greet them by saying:

“Why were you looking for me?
Did you not know that I must be in my Father’s house?”

Did they sense then that he shared a special relationship with the God of their people? Did they know he would be called to something greater? It certainly sounds like, even then, he felt a special call to listen, to hear, to study, and to question. People were amazed by him, the Gospel says.

But he went back home and was obedient. It would another two decades before he began to answer that call in earnest.

I hope I give my son the opportunity to hear God's call, and the support to take it on even if it's difficult.

And I pray to remember that God is calling me, too, and that it's never too late—or too soon—to answer.

Out of the Depths

From the psalm:

If you, O Lord, mark iniquities, who can stand?

Not a question I'm anxious to contemplate right now. Sometimes the things I do wrong seem to dominate the things I do right.

This line was in a song i heard a lot in church as a kid. The lines that preceded it: Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice, be attentive to my word. 

I'm not sure the problem for me is God not hearing my voice. I think my problem is me not hearing God's. Am I really listening? If I were, would I feel so dissatisfied with how I'm acting?

Today, Busted Halo tells us to fast from worry, and quotes Franklin Delano Roosevelt (who is, as my friends know, the man I consider "the" president):

Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.

I rarely have a desire to excuse myself when I think I haven't acted my best. But just as I pray for the ability to show more kindness and judge others less, I'll pray for the freedom to let go of my judgments against myself. Maybe if I could do that, I'd feel a little more accepting of others' weaknesses and transgressions.

Ask and Receive

Today's readings are all about asking for help—admitting weakness and fear, calling out for help and God answering your call. It sounds pretty clear. From the psalm:

Lord, on the day I called for help, you answered me.

And from Matthew's Gospel:

Everyone who asks, receives; and the one who seeks, finds.

I hate to be a drag, but when has it ever been that easy? 

It's not, and I tend to think it's not supposed to be. "Ask and receive" isn't just a simple cause and effect. Asking for help is a huge part of the battle. But calling out my need brings me clarity and strength, and it allows me to begin to answer my own prayers. Again, from the psalm:

When I called, you answered me; you built up strength within me.

God does give help when I ask; it just may not be the help I expect, nor will it be the easy road. I have to do the work with the strength and wisdom I'm given.

I realize that I've been neglecting prayer and reflection—in part to avoid feelings of helplessness and in part because I know how much work is involved in answering my own prayers. This Lent has been an exercise in thinking, praying and listening to the word of God. I'm finding some answers there.

Evil Generation

From today's Gospel, in Luke
 

Just as Jonah became a sign to the Ninevites,
so will the Son of Man be to this generation. ...
At the judgment the men of Nineveh will arise with this generation
and condemn it,
because at the preaching of Jonah they repented,
and there is something greater than Jonah here.”

Jesus calls out "an evil generation." He talks about other generations responding to the warnings of their prophets; his generation doesn't seem to be responding in kind, even though "there is something greater" in their midst.

It's eerie to read those words, considering where I believe Jesus was coming from at the time. No one knew, not even Jesus, what was about to happen. I don't think he was calling himself the Son of Man, or telling the crowd that HE was the something greater at hand. In my view, he felt called to minister to his countrymen who were lost, heading down a dangerous path. I believe he was challenging these people to join a movement with him, to change their hearts, to come closer to what God intended for them. Something great was happening, he knew, and the time to change was at hand.

The sense of foreboding feels very familiar. Two thousand years later, similar scenarios have played out generation after generation. It often feels like we're at the precipice of moral disaster, like it can't get any worse. We continue to search for answers, struggle in vain for personal and political peace and, more often than not, reject the truth that has been offered to us.

I don't like thinking of any generation as evil—especially my own. But I certainly have felt lost, and I certainly have failed to heed obvious messages and calls to be better.

Red Velvet Dilemma

At the end of a busy Tuesday, I stopped at Starbucks for a jolt of caffeine before picking my son up from daycare. To my delight and then Lenten dismay, I found that Starbucks had upgraded its selection of sweet treats. Cupcakes, caramel squares and other goodies looked too good to pass up, but remembering my no-chocolate rule, I was prepared to decline.

Then I saw them: Red Velvet Mini-Whoopie Pies. The perfect treat. I don't pass up whoopie pies—ever. And how lucky for me that they're not chocolate—or are they? Having considered this question before, I knew that the answer is ambiguous—from what I have read, recipes vary, but most do have cocoa.

But the real answer is, it doesn't matter. Having spent more time considering the value of Lenten sacrifices this year, I'm reminded that part of the purpose of giving something up is that the money you'd otherwise spend on such a treat should be given as charity. Additionally, we're encouraged to give up a particular kind of food in order to feel a sense of hunger and remind ourselves that the most important source of nourishment should be of a spiritual nature.

So whether or not red velvet is technically chocolate isn't really the issue. Paying $1.50 for that treat—or spending $5 the previous day on chipless chocolate chip cookies (yes, these exist, and even without chocolate, they are delicious) may not have violated the letter of my Lenten law, but it certainly didn't support the spirit of the law.

This is what I thought about as I savored my little red whoopie pie.

A Word to the Haters

From today's reading, from Leviticus:

You shall not curse the deaf,
or put a stumbling block in front of the blind

Of all the instructions in today's reading—on honesty and righteousness—this stands out, I think because it seems to be protective of the defenseless. Why on earth would you curse the deaf, anyway? Seems like a mockery, in addition to the sin that is the actual curse. And putting a stumbling block in front of the blind—that's just cruel. I like this sense of calling out sins against the defenseless, in particular.

But this one resonates for today, as much as I regret that it does:

“You shall not bear hatred for your brother in your heart.
Though you may have to reprove him,
do not incur sin because of him. 

There are times when anger is justified. But I've found that allowing my heart to "hate" (or allowing anger to take hold) usually hurts me worse than the person I'm hating on. (Reminds me of one of my favorite aphorisms: Not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and expecting the rat to die.) Today I struggled with frustration with someone, and I thought hard about how to address the problem constructively rather than either just complain behind the person's back or lash out. (I deleted three emails that were angrier than I wanted.) I can't say I was at my best (definitely spent a bit of time venting about it), but I have been reflecting on better ways of handling what did feel like righteous indignation. In general, I need to handle what I can handle and try to leave the rest behind. The "sins" of others shouldn't be my excuse to sin myself.

From Matthew: 

Whatever you did
for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.

That's a good one, too.

Behold, the Power of Facebook

Went to a wonderful Mass at the Cabrini Chapel—my first time there.* The priest was terrific (I didn't catch his name, unfortunately) and got to the heart of what I've been thinking about this week: the relationship between fasting and faith, what it means to do penance, and the relevance of this week's Isaiah readings to Jesus's ministry and message, not to mention social justice issues today.

But what really hit home for me was his mention of Facebook messages that he observed on Ash Wednesday. He described how, by 6:30 that morning, he read several posts from friends (mostly college-aged, he said) of how they were observing Lent. That resonated, because on Ash Wednesday it was my FB friends' mentions of getting "ashed" and of what they were giving up that inspired me to commit to Lent in a new way and, ultimately, to start the blog. Most of my friends' posts were lighthearted, but nevertheless, they inspired me and motivated me to join them—almost like I didn't want to be left out.

I've been feeling somewhat self-conscious about the blog; in general I'm opposed to blogs that seem to be just public journals. (Despite what may be the best intentions, stuff like this can seem very self-indulgent.) But the priest's homily reinforced for me the real value of social media in spreading good news and useful information. Writing these posts helps me commit to reading and reflecting on scripture, which is one of my Lenten goals, so that in itself is worth it for me. But in the interest of having something to give this Lent, maybe my own thoughts and questions will resonate with others who might be on a similar journey.

I have a tendency to assume that Sunday Mass isn't going to offer me much in terms of inspiration or words to live by. Today, the priest's words were relevant, practical, and inspiring. Worth the price of admission.

From today's psalm:

A clean heart create for me, O God,
and a steadfast spirit renew within me.

*Mother Cabrini's body is actually entombed in the altar at the shrine. This shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. Here's a photo. Have to confess—I found it kind of creepy.

What About Sunday?

In my house, we never gave up giving something up on Sundays. I'd never even heard of that until a few years ago. It seemed like a cop-out, but then I heard actual theological reasoning on it—that with Sundays included Lent is actually 46 days, and that Sundays are always "feast" days, therefore you shouldn't fast ... there's more. And then I've since heard that argument disputed in a variety of ways. (Busted Halo has a podcast on this, but be warned: it sounds like an annoying morning zoo radio show.)

In the end, I hate the whole argument, because it goes back to my take on most issues of dogma, doctrine or religious practice: these are rules created by humans. Reasonable humans can dispute them and, in good faith, still be following the word of God as they understand it.

I'll be abstaining from chocolate tomorrow, just like the rest of Lent. But for those who are giving up giving up for the day: I won't think any less of you.

From today's readings: Isaiah

If you hold back your foot on the sabbath
from following your own pursuits on my holy day;
If you call the sabbath a delight,
and the LORD’s holy day honorable;
If you honor it by not following your ways,
seeking your own interests, or speaking with malice
Then you shall delight in the LORD,
and I will make you ride on the heights of the earth

For tomorrow, I aim to fulfill that promise of making Sunday the Lord's day. Not sure I'll be riding the heights of the earth any time soon, but let's see what happens if I can hold back my own interests and spend some time with God.

You Call This a Fast?

This week felt long. Today, on the other hand, felt short. I didn't accomplish enough. It was 3 p.m. by the time I ate lunch, scarfing down half an egg salad sandwich and too many terra chips. So when the dinner hour rolled around, I wasn't hungry. With my son asleep, I knew I needed something, so I made myself a smoothie rather than eat a big meal. It is delicious, and it actually feels like real nourishment rather than just more crappy filler.

That's kind of what I want this Lent to be about for me: taking stock of how I'm nourishing myself spiritually—what's really feeding me as opposed to what is mere filler, putting off hunger till a later hour but not giving me anything healthy or substantial.

Today's Old Testament reading, from Isaiah:

Is this the manner of fasting I wish, of keeping a day of penance:
That a man bow his head like a reed and lie in sackcloth and ashes?
Do you call this a fast, a day acceptable to the LORD?
This, rather, is the fasting that I wish:
releasing those bound unjustly, untying the thongs of the yoke;
Setting free the oppressed, breaking every yoke;
Sharing your bread with the hungry, sheltering the oppressed and the homeless;
Clothing the naked when you see them, and not turning your back on your own.
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your wound shall quickly be healed;
Your vindication shall go before you,
and the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer,
you shall cry for help, and he will say: Here I am!

Well, there you go! Here's the scriptural tradition that inspired Jesus' ministry. Here are the roots of the Sermon on the Mount, here's where it's clear Jesus was as much a student of Hebrew scripture as he was a prophet and teacher—and the Son of God. Here's our exhortation to free ourselves—and our call to help free others—from that which brings us down, either spiritually or in a much more physical sense.

Sometimes scripture is so puzzling and mysterious; other times, like this, it's so explicit if I only give myself a chance to really listen.

From Busted Halo:

PRAY for the courage to be proud of your Catholic identity.

Being proud of my Catholic identity can require courage. Often, I don't declare it proudly. Often I disparage the institutional Church: for good reasons, in my opinion. But lately, my criticisms of the Church have felt hollow, because I know I'm not doing anything to make the Church better, to help make it the way I think it was intended. That is a difficult subject that could be discussed and debated, but ultimately, I'm beginning to feel that if I'm not practicing my faith, my complaints don't mean much. And I also know, that despite the Church's problems historically and in the present, there IS a lot to be proud of.

Choosing Life, and Hope

Today's Fast Pray Give calendar on Busted Halo asks you to fast from unnecessary video clip watching on the internet.

Must remember to check this calendar first thing in the morning! Without realizing it, I broke today's fast by 11 a.m. This is a good one, though. I have friends who fast from the internet altogether during Lent; I considered it, but it's just not realistic given my job. A focused fast like this is doable, and it helps me to be more conscious of the time I spend (read: waste) online.
 

From today's readings:

I have set before you life and death,
the blessing and the curse.
Choose life, then,
that you and your descendants may live, by loving the LORD, your God,
heeding his voice, and holding fast to him.
For that will mean life for you ...

It never seems that simple, a choice between the blessing and the curse. In daily life, choices aren't so cut and dried. Hearing God's voice, and living by God's word, can be tricky when you think of all of the conflicting messages we get on that score.

From the Psalm:

Blessed are they who hope in the Lord.

For some reason, the "hope" aspect of this resonates today. The readings give us guidelines, words to live by, choices to make. But when I'm not clear about what God wants for me in a given moment, or what's the right choice to make, the idea of "hoping" reminds me that living by God's word requires a leap, and to take a chance. I may not get it right, but I can keep trying.

So to make the right choice, to "choose life," I go back to the three things identified for us in Corinthians:

"These three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

Love is the guide; it helps us take the leap.

Ash Wednesday: Return with Your Whole Heart

Our school's chaplain administered ashes three different times today, and I missed each one. By the end of the day, though, after reading on Facebook about everyone's Lenten fasts and ash experiences, I realized that I really did want to get to church today. Some google searches to find where ashes were being administered in my neighborhood got me nowhere—frustrating! A missed opportunity for the Catholic church today!—but I was able to find a 5:30 Mass between work and my son's daycare.

Especially at that pre-dinner, near-bedtime hour, taking my toddler son to Mass was a daunting prospect—confession: I haven't done it much. A cold, windy walk uphill with his stroller didn't help matters. But for whatever reason, I felt very motivated to get there. With the opening words of the first reading, "Even now, says the Lord, return to me with your whole heart," I was glad I came. I felt like I'd been called to a renewal, and even a repentance. It reminded me that the obstacles I often foresee when it's time to get to Mass or to spend time in prayer really aren't so daunting after all. It reminded me that I have separated myself from God, and from the practice of a faith that has enriched my life tremendously—not intentionally, but willingly.

Ashes are an odd convention; I've always struggled with the concept when, at the same service where you receive them, you're admonished to "not look gloomy like the hypocrites. ... Anoint your head and wash your face, so that you may not appear to be fasting." I'll think more about this in prayer. But I do know that I'm comforted and inspired when I see other people "show their ash," to know that they're choosing to practice their faith, especially in a secular city like New York. Today I felt called to that practice, despite not having made a point to do so in the last several years. So the visible reminder means something to me.

Despite both of our best efforts (and a little help from some 'Nilla Wafers), my son and I didn't make it through the whole Mass; we left after the ash.  But even though I didn't receive the Eucharist, I felt communion. It was a good way to start Lent.