You Should Have Been Safe Here

Mini-hiatus from writing, and I'm not entirely sure why. Busyness, in part, but also distraction and resistance.

Last week, 50 people were killed in two New Zealand mosques. Muslims gathered at Friday prayers were gunned down by a white supremacist, who has been arrested in the attacks.

The image of people at prayer being massacred haunts me. That a hatemonger would capitalize on the devotion and vulnerability of faithful Muslims—gathered en masse, kneeling, shoeless, supplicant—sickens me. The descriptions I have read of worshippers throwing themselves over one another's bodies to shield their neighbors from the bullets, or frantically fleeing (in vain) are both chilling and heart-wrenching.

I have found it hard to contemplate my faith journey faced with the horrors that others endured pursuing their own. I feel at once unduly privileged and somehow complicit. My "thoughts and prayers" for the victims are not enough. Why am I safe in my church when so many others are not? I know that that safety is not guaranteed for me or any other church, temple, or mosque congregant. But because of where I worship, I do feel safer—safer, at least, from a white supremacist attack.

There are no answers here; I struggle to know what action I can take or what consolation I can offer. One thought I had yesterday was to send a note of sympathy and support to the local mosques in my area. While I can't presume to know how their members are feeling, I can imagine the fear and anger they must have. I will begin those notes today.

This is not even close to enough. How can the legions of us who have been so horrified by the New Zealand shootings counter the hatred and harm perpetrated in these attacks? It starts, perhaps, by rejecting the hatred and harm present on a smaller scale in our own lives. Our daily actions must reflect openness, humility, understanding, and love. In a world that can feel so dangerous and discordant, we need to provide—and to be—places of safety and peace, which our family, friends, and neighbors can recognize and rely on.

Talk Less ...

In praying, do not babble like the pagans,
who think that they will be heard because of their many words.
Do not be like them.
Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.

-Matthew 6:7-8 

I don't share that passage to disparage anyone who worships differently. It's the second line—about the many words—that appeals to me.

I sometimes find prayer to be challenging or uncomfortable. It can feel presumptuous—asking for a lot. I get distracted and find my mind wandering. Even when I'm absorbed in it, it can feel like a lot of talking with no response—and do I ever actually slow down my monologue long enough to receive a response if one were given?

"Your Father knows what you need before you ask him." To be known and cared for, even when you don't always love or understand your own self—this might be most alluring promise that faith offers. I can't say that I experience this security and connection with any permanence or regularity. But maybe if I spent more practicing, I might.

The reading from Matthew continues with Jesus teaching us how to pray—what we call the Our Father. He covers all the basics: acknowledge God's power and goodness; ask that he provide for our basic needs—both physical and spiritual; ask for forgiveness, and promise to grant it; ask for help to stay away from sin.

Can it be that simple? With those basics down, maybe then, rather than talking, talking, talking, I can pause to listen. Who knows what I will hear?

Baby, Give It Up?

The idea of "giving up" something for Lent has fallen out of fashion—at least in the Church Lady circles I run in. I've heard this practice dismissed as "dieting for Jesus," or an immature take on the season of Lent, and I don't necessarily disagree. 

Nevertheless, as someone with a compulsively sweet tooth, I decided to fast from chocolate as part of this year's Lenten sacrifice. 

I'm not deceived that giving up chocolate would automatically make me more virtuous, nor do I believe that indulging in treats is sinful. I know this six-week fast from candy can't be compared to a 40-day fast in the desert, or the greater sacrifice that Jesus made long ago. However, as with a lot of things, getting back to basics isn't a bad way to approach the season. From Matthew: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."

I have a lot of changes I need to make in my life. None of it is going to happen overnight or in 40 days, or because I haven't had a Reese's in a while. However, halting my urge to snack is waking me up a bit, making me think about my habits and reflexes. Feeling a bit of deprivation reminds me just how much I have, and how much others lack. I'm seeking out other ways of sweetening my life—reading, writing, playing with my kids, listening to music, calling my mom or reaching out to a friend. (In the spirit of full disclosure, I've rediscovered the simple satisfaction of a Lorna Doone with a cup of tea.)

Baby steps—a good place to start.

Say A Little Prayer

In the spirit of using this forum not as a hair shirt but rather as a kind of spiritual vitamin, tonight’s post will be simple so that I can get to sleep before my second wind kicks in!

This post from Busted Halo's Fast-Pray-Give calendar struck a chord this morning:

Lewis’s words ring true. “I'll pray for you” is a frequent refrain of mine. I believe that prayer makes a difference, as I have felt it work in my own life in powerful ways. I’m reminded of this statement by Kierkegaard: “Prayer does not change God; it changes the one who prays.”

Even with this strong belief, I’m not always sure of the best way to pray for those I’ve offered this promise. 

In my life, I’ve encountered lots of ways to pray. Prayer Classic: Kneeling beside the bed, reciting a litany of names. (It's been many years since I did that—time to try again?) 

Mealtime Mentions: Growing up, my mother introduced the practice of saying the “Our Father” after Grace to pray for special intentions. There was always a special intention—God bless my mom for managing to keep up this tradition daily for years in the face of a table set for five hungry kids. 

Prayer Over a Stove: On this subject, my father used to quote our parish’s legendary Mama Julia, an Italian immigrant who rolled hundreds of meatballs each year for the parish Feast. “Making a good sauce,” she would say, “is a prayer in itself.”

The Bare Minimum: A friend once told me that simply having someone’s name on your lips could be a prayer. That’s a practice I can handle.

For me, writing has always been the best prayer tool for me; it absorbs me in a way that little else can. So today I did write down a list of 10 loved ones and acquaintances whom I know need some extra support. The list will end up being much longer, I’m sure. I will keep these names in my mind and heart and on my lips. 

ACCOUNTABILITY PARTNERS!

This blog was born eight years ago. At the time, as a new, overwhelmed, working mom, I was divorced from the practice of the faith that was so formational to me as a child and young adult—divorced, as I wrote then, “not intentionally, but willingly.” 

I remember attending Mass with my young son that Ash Wednesday in 2011, feeling called to return to my faith with a closeness and sincerity I hadn’t experienced for many years. With this blog, the practice of reflecting and writing and sharing my thoughts was enriching and healing. I kept it up throughout Lent and for a while afterwards, sharing with friends via Facebook and even inviting others to blog with me. It didn’t turn me into a holy roller, and my attendance record at Mass still wasn’t anything to brag about, but I did find the moments of “communion” that can be so elusive.

Eight years later, I’m doing a much better job of practicing my faith—on paper at least. I attend Mass each week with my husband and children, we pray together before dinner each night, and I teach religious education in my new parish. The pieces are in place. But that doesn’t always mean that I’m answering the call, or achieving that communion.

Thinking about how I would observe Lent this year, I didn’t feel inspired. I’m giving up chocolate and Starbucks—no easy feat for me, but these small sacrifices still didn’t resonate. I thought about this blog and what a positive experience it was for me. I polled my friends: Should I blog my Lenten journey again? and received lots of affirming responses. Still, I thought about the message that we hear today: 

Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them; otherwise, you will have no recompense from your heavenly Father. When you give alms, do not blow a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets to win the praise of others.

Is that what a blog about Lent is? Performing righteous deeds to win the praise of others? 

I am blessed by the wisdom (and wit) of my friends. From a college classmate: “Discipline and community outweigh the being seen.” From another classmate (turned theologian): “ACCOUNTABILITY PARTNERS!” (all caps-hers). From a Jewish colleague: “If you feel your reflections will start a productive conversation about matters near to your heart, why not?”

So here I sit, after midnight, when I should be sleeping (or working). Instead, I’m thinking about what call I am answering today. What resonates most is one of the hymns we sang tonight at Mass—an old favorite I haven’t heard in years, from the book of Hosea: “Come back to me with all your heart; don’t let fear keep us apart. ... Long have I waited for your coming home to me and living deeply our new life.”