Change

I suppose I am a reverse reactionary when it comes to institutional Church changes in protocols, prayers and procedures. Anything that feels pre-Vatican II immediately gets my sneer and rejection, pretty much out of hand. Two recent changes really made me anxious. The first was the introduction of the new English translation of the Roman Missal – new words for Mass, that were to be more faithful to the original Latin text – yikes! Next we’ll be back to celebrating the Mass in Latin. My parish began using the new text a few weeks ago, and it was sensitively introduced by our terrific priest – he was aware people would be uncomfortable with the new words, if for no other reason than that most of us can pray the Mass by rote. And that was my first thought that maybe it wasn’t all bad – having to think about prayer rather than just reflexively go through the motions could really add meaning to the liturgy. We went through the translation before Mass (and were given no homily, just to keep us all on side). Upon reflection and a few weeks of getting used to it, there’s still a lot that troubles me – the penitential rite goes back to the old mea culpa of “my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault” – ah yes, the drumbeat of Catholic guilt. But some parts are truly beautiful – the reply of “And with your spirit” rather than “And also with you” for one. I think switching to “I” rather than “we” in the Creed is good – definitely makes me think about what I do believe rather than hiding behind shared declaration. In all, thinking about the words we pray and learning about the why rather than just arriving at an opinion reminds me why participating in this blog is so important for me, too – I am woefully under-informed when it comes to Scripture and tend to duck around the passages that make me uncomfortable – having to confront the text of the faith I purport to believe in is essential if I am ever to move anywhere in my faith journey.

The second change is social rather than doctrinal, and still leaves me unsure. Starting in mid-September, the practice of abstaining from eating meat on Fridays was reinstated for the Catholic Church in England and Wales. I find it uncomfortable even writing this, largely because one of the reasons behind this was to solidify a more Catholic identity – for example, if you were with friends on a Friday, you’d have to mention you couldn’t eat meat. Even during Lent, not eating meat and getting ashes often feels like a showy substitute for real action – it’s not much of a sacrifice, and I’m not sure it has meaning in modern society. But perhaps it does – certainly a large part of the reason I find this uncomfortable is the public identification of Catholicism. But there are aspects of making a more regular sacrifice that feel very important – I live such a privileged and easy life while so many suffer. I’m not sure what the answer for me is, but I am incredibly impressed by the movements in some segments of the Church to live sustainably and in solidarity with the poor (for example, http://www.cafod.org.uk/livesimply). Maybe I need to think about my Friday penance more in that direction, and maybe for a change, try to turn that thinking into doing …

This Old House

Now thus says the LORD of hosts:
Consider your ways!
You have sown much, but have brought in little;
you have eaten, but have not been satisfied;
You have drunk, but have not been exhilarated;
have clothed yourselves, but not been warmed;
And whoever earned wages
earned them for a bag with holes in it.

Thus says the LORD of hosts:
Consider your ways!
Go up into the hill country;
bring timber, and build the house
That I may take pleasure in it
and receive my glory, says the LORD.

What an apt passage for me tonight. Lately I've been consumed by consumption. No, not the old-school name for tuberculosis. Consumption—consuming too much. Food, drink, TV, social media. Taking in more than I put out. Not living the way that makes me feel most alive and content.

What's the answer? Another blog post? Hmm ... more social media, introspection and sitting on my butt. That doesn't seem like much of a solution.

The passage instructs as follows: Consider your ways, and go build a house that glorifies God.

I need to move past the consideration phase and into the building phase.

Whose Vengeance?

Jesus Christ, whose way of life I try to follow, refused to meet hate with hate and violence with violence. I pray for the strength to be like him.

I cannot believe in a God who metes out hurt for hurt, pain for pain, torture for torture. Nor do I believe that God invests human representatives with such power to torture and kill. The paths of history are stained with the blood of those who have fallen victim to "God's Avengers." Kings, popes, military generals, and heads of state have killed, claiming God's authority and God's blessing. I do not believe in such a God.
– Sister Helen Prejean

About 15 years ago, when I was living in Chicago as a volunteer teacher, I was befriended by another teacher who was active in prison ministry. She encouraged me to join her for a death penalty protest that would take place at an execution. I'm not sure why I went—I had never been much of an activist, and though I opposed the death penalty it was not an issue that I'd been particularly passionate about. I'm ashamed to say that I don't even remember the name of the person who was executed, nor do I remember the nature of the crime. To me, the latter doesn't really matter, but the former certainly does.

The protest began at a church, with solemn prayers, recitation of the Rosary, and singing. "Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom." The voices joined in spontaneous, four-part harmony were both beautiful and haunting.

More chilling than haunting was the song I heard later at the site of the protest (the prison where the execution was to be held), from a rowdy group assembled there: "Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye." One man wore a rainbow clown wig. Signs and chants didn't just support the execution; they celebrated it. The accused's conviction justified their enthusiasm. An eye for an eye, one life for another. A similar spirit was in the air at a recent Republican Presidential debate, when the crowd cheered a question directed at Texas Gov. Rick Perry, concerning his state's status as the nation's leader in state-sponsored execution.

I will never understand this bloodlust. Lives are not interchangeable. The loss of one doesn't rectify the loss of another. This enthusiasm for state-sponsored execution sheds light on an ugly side of humanity. I would hope that even those who support capital punishment would find an execution to be the culmination of a series of tragedies, not an event to be celebrated. To me, that attitude is an insult to the victim's memory.

Tonight, Troy Davis, a man convicted of murdering off-duty police officer Mark MacPhail more than two decades ago, was executed in Georgia. Many factors came to light, including recanted testimony, that suggested Troy Davis's conviction could be overturned. It was not. He was executed at 11:08 p.m.

Killing is wrong. Killing a cop jeopardizes public safety in an especially frightening way. But I believe that violence begets violence. When the state becomes the killer, I believe it loses moral authority and reinforces a climate where vengeance is the law of the land. That won't prevent further loss of life.

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord." If that's true, then taking a life is not for any of us to enact—not cop killers and not the state. And when there is the chance that an innocent person might be executed, and the state has not done all it can to prevent such an injustice, it diminishes justice; it does not heighten it.

Come Together

Beloved:
I ask that supplications, prayers,
petitions, and thanksgivings be offered for everyone,
for kings and for all in authority,
that we may lead a quiet and tranquil life ... .
It is my wish, then, that in every place the men should pray,
lifting up holy hands, without anger or argument.

I've long held a belief (it's probably heretical or—at least—highly flawed, theologically speaking) that prayer is God's version of a popularity contest. Think of it as American Idol for the suffering: those who get the most votes (prayers) get the reward of God's healing touch. So if God finds that a particularly large volume of prayers is being directed toward a sick person, he will direct his healing presence toward that person.

It's a ridiculous notion, but at various times in my life when I joined others in prayer toward a common cause, I couldn't help but feel we were actually getting God's attention. One moment comes to mind—when I was a senior in college, a terrible crime was inflicted on a friend and classmate. A day or two later, the university held a special Mass in honor of this person. I've never seen a church so packed. I saw people at that Mass I never expected to see, people of other faiths and no faith, even an avowed atheist who'd made no secret of his distaste for the church.

I was blown away. It was powerful and moving to be part of this tremendous demonstration of support and community. Personally, I felt a sense of healing in the moment. More significantly, after the Mass concluded, we learned that the perpetrator of the crime had been arrested. If I'm not mistaken, I believe he turned himself in. It was a long road of healing for my classmate, but I've always had this sense that the prayers of that community had something to do with the crime being solved and, later, the survival and recovery of our friend.

This is hardly proof that my prayer-popularity contest theory is a sound one. But disregarding its theological merits (or lack thereof), I find it a comforting thought. When prayer brings people together, whether or not it provides an actual solution to the problem, it usually provides an emotional healing or a psychological boost. Though it may not bring "a quiet and tranquil life," as the reading says, it brings the strength that comes from solidarity. Something tells me God looks pretty favorably on that.

I'm thinking now of some friends who are struggling with personal challenges that are really bringing them down. I've been offering up prayers on their behalf, because I believe that helps. I have told them so, because I think that helps too.

Working Through It

“Be diligent in these matters, be absorbed in them, so that your progress may be evident to everyone. Attend to yourself and to your teaching; persevere in both tasks …”

This exhortation from 1 Timothy in today’s reading was of course Paul’s message to the missionary, encouraging him to use his gift in preaching with focus and zeal. But it strikes me in terms of whatever work one is engaged in. Sometimes when there’s so much going on in daily life, my attention being pulled in what seems like a thousand different directions and not really feeling like I’m accomplishing anything, it’s very hard to see the validity or opportunity to do good in a job which doesn’t immediately benefit anyone. However, it’s in the daily act of living, so much of which occurs in our work world, that we exist in community and have the chance to look after one another. I’m very fortunate to work in a collaborative environment with people who really care for each other – that is a rare commodity, I think, and one to remember when things are tough. I’m in the process of finishing my current job over the next few months, and it’s easy to get lost in the minutiae of what needs to be accomplished, and also to get down about that which is never going to get done. I’m preoccupied by checking off a never-ending to do list, and not really thinking about what will benefit the group at large. However, I have been given so much encouragement from my colleagues, and the benefit of their time and expertise. It reminds me that when I occasionally have to work a little longer than I might like, or spend a little more time figuring out someone else’s project, doing so graciously and with enthusiasm helps to perpetuate a good environment, one that ultimately helps each person and one that I have already benefitted from massively. And that giving actual attention to the work I’m doing in the moment – rather than thinking ahead to the next thing or where I’d rather be – is part of a mindful approach to life, one that fosters the best in what I have to give.

Let It Be Me

Today, 10 years since the September 11th attacks on the United States, I went to Mass as my way of marking this solemn anniversary. I was looking for something special today—solidarity, community, comfort, and maybe even some closure.

I regret to say that as Mass progressed, I was disappointed. It didn't feel any different. Though the readings did resonate, they felt inadequate. From Sirach:

Wrath and anger are hateful things,
yet the sinner hugs them tight.
The vengeful will suffer the LORD's vengeance,
for he remembers their sins in detail.
Forgive your neighbor's injustice;
then when you pray, your own sins will be forgiven.
Could anyone nourish anger against another
and expect healing from the LORD?

Intellectually, I agree with these words. But the sins that were perpetrated 10 years ago, and the crimes done to the many victims and their families, feel unique. I can imagine the anger that might blow back from a parent (or a child, or a spouse, or a dear friend) who lost a loved one in the attacks. Should they be expected to forgive?

The priest's homily was comprehensive lesson on forgiveness. His manner offered no particular passion or power. I came to Mass wanting to feel something, but nothing special was stirring my heart or mind, except to feel a little lost. I knew that I had friends who were mourning this day in a very deep way, and I think I wanted to share their grief—as if that might somehow ease it.

I am lucky to not have been more deeply touched by the attack or by this anniversary. Like many New Yorkers, I was acquainted with a few of the victims, and I have friends and family who ran for safety that morning in Lower Manhattan. I will never feel what they feel, but I wanted to try.

Finally, I stood on line for Communion, singing along with the congregation: "We remember, we celebrate, we believe ... Here, a million wounded souls are yearning just to touch you and be healed. Gather all your people, and hold them to your heart." These are the words of my faith: remembrance and communion bring healing. I believe that. But on this anniversary, it didn't feel like enough. Are some wounds too deep, I wondered?

I don't know. I don't want that to be true. But as trite as it may sound, the answer I got on a morning I was seeking some kind of answer is that I wasn't getting an answer today. We may not ever get an answer for the painful questions that were born 10 years ago.

Mass concluded with an old hymn that was a staple of my childhood. The tears came, and I could barely get the words out. "Let there be peace on Earth and let it begin with me."

That's all I can do. I can't heal the wounds of those who are mourning today. What I can do is to bring peace and healing to my little corner of the world. It is a much taller order than those few words might imply. But today is a day that I'm resolved to try.

Like a Prayer

My father, who loved to create in the kitchen, used to quote an Italian colleague of his to convey his thoughts on cooking: "A pot of sauce," he'd say, "can be a prayer." And when you think of little old Italian lady hovered over the stove, stirring and tasting and spicing, it's easy to see the truth in it.

A former colleague of my own shared a somewhat related thought. Referring to old friends and family she doesn't see often, she said, "I like to think that any time they cross my mind, it's a kind of prayer."

I don't take as much time in prayer as I should. I often promise to pray for friends and family, and though I do, I often feel I'm not doing all that I can, not spending enough time or using the right words.

Today I spent a good part of the day in the kitchen, and it brought back happy thoughts of my dad and his sister, who truly was the chef in the family. I made chicken salad, which reminded me of my aunt, as she was the first person to serve me a chicken salad that I liked. I added grapes to the recipe, as she did, and I thought of meals my family shared with hers, and summer days spent with her and my Nana and cousins. I imagined that she and my dad, now both gone, were sharing a meal together at that moment, discussing recipes and politics and books.

I don't often feel as close to my deceased loved ones as I want to. Even my dad, who was and is such an important, cherished person my life, usually feels incredibly distant. But today in my kitchen, I got to feel him right up close, and it did indeed feel like an answered prayer.