Learning Theology on the ride home from church

It's Holy Week, and tonight is the first night of Passover.  Taking some vacation days and trying to get into the appropriate reflective mood before celebrating a Seder tonight with my in-laws and as I approach Holy Week.  Mike Hayes, of Busted Halo has posted a great comment on being Catholic in these troubling times. And the priest at the Oratory Church at St. Boniface in Brooklyn gave a passionate homily on the same topic.  The homily won't be posted for awhile, but you can always explore the website and past homilies.

When people ask me how I became a Catholic, or why I'm a Catholic, I blame my mother.  Perhaps "credit" is the better term.  My mother grew up in central Alabama in the 1950s and attended a Catholic school within walking distance of her house.  By 8th grade, she had been confirmed in the church and has been a devout practicing Catholic ever since.  She also attended the United Methodist Church to which her parents belonged, and she was a young black woman in the Jim Crow South.  Her teachers at St. Joseph's were all white.  I mention all this because my mother's Catholicism was formed by these influences.  She learned early on that questions were a part of her faith formation, and just because the priest or nun said it, didn't make it true.  One of the stories she told my sister and I growing up was her response to a priest who said during a homily that the only road to Heaven was through the Catholic Church.  Her response:  "my grandmother isn't a Catholic and she's the Godliest person I know.  If she can't get into Heaven, I'm not going."  My mother knew early on that there were many paths to God--she encountered them in her own home and family, and that's how she raised me and my sister.

I remember many times listening to the homily and starting to fidget about something the priest was saying.  My mother, whose habit it was to sit between me and my sister, would lean over to me and whisper "we'll talk about it in the car".  After a while I learned to save my questions and discomfort for the car ride.  I didn't realize it till much later, but we were learning theology, every Sunday, on the car ride.  I would ask my questions, and my mother would answer, not as an expert on Catholicism, but from her own experience.  I learned early on that I had a right to ask questions, that my relationship with God was mine, and being Catholic didn't have to mean blindly accepting everything I heard in church.  In college, a priest who has remained a friend reinforced this for me, and this is how I've stayed in the Church, and remained Catholic.

As a mother now, of a child who describes herself as "half-Jewish, half-Christian", I find myself looking back to my mother's theology lessons as I attempt to answer my own daughter's questions.  Recently at mass together, she started asking a lot of questions during the service.  After the third one, I looked at her, smiled, and said "we'll talk about in the car.  Now listen to the priest."  Glad I drove that morning.

It's Lent, time to fast...

This time of year fills me with all sorts of feelings.  I guess I'd say it's the time of year I feel most Catholic, from the ash on my forehead on Ash Wednesday, to the meatless Fridays, to the intense ceremony of the Triduum.  This has been a favorite time of year for me when I've been heavily involved with a choir, and a bittersweet time of year when I've been missing home and family.  This year, Lent snuck up on me, for a lot of reasons.  I could claim being a busy mom or my job, or my husband being on a business trip, but I know it has mostly to do with my estrangement from my "home" church (the details for another time, another post).  For the first time in years, I have absolutely no idea where I'll be spending Easter, other than somewhere in New York City, and there's a good chance I will not be singing Holy Thursday through Easter Sunday morning.  Music and worship have been intricately connected to me for most of my Catholic life, and this time of year more than any other.  Not having a clear idea of where, or if I'll be singing, strangely isn't as devastating as I might have thought this time last year.  I'm oddly calm, and actually looking at the uncertainty as an opportunity to reflect on my Lenten "fast" this year.

Now as a child, I often "gave up" gum, or sweets, but usually gum because it was harder.  As I grew to adulthood in the church, sometimes I fasted from a favorite food, but often it was from a behavior I wanted to reconsider:  my salty language, procrastination, my aversion to physical exertion.  As Lent caught me by surprise this year, I didn't even begin my reflection on my fasting plans this year until I was walking into church on Ash Wednesday.  And since I found myself back at the church I've called home for ten years, with still many feelings of loss and betrayal and anger swirling around me, I wondered if I hadn't been reflective and penitent enough already.

And of course, the voice of God comes to me so much clearer in moments like this, and I found myself really thinking about what I should and need to fast from this year:

• anger at a situation that I will not be able to change
• hurt over the loss of a community that has nourished me
• feeling overwhelmed and unable to move on

Oh, there will be other tangible demonstrations of Lent for me this year.  At least one credit card will be staying home for the duration (and may not return, even after Easter).  The gym bag that finally made it to my office will drag me down a few short blocks at least once a week.  And I am going to try that "listening twice as much as speaking" again for yet another year.  But the fast from my feelings of hurt and loss has already gotten me to a reflective place for the Lenten journey.  And I just might find myself singing on Easter Sunday with people I know and love and people I've just met.

Wherever I am, "the spirit of God will be upon me," and I shall "be not afraid."