Yes, it's that time of year again, when I remember that I have this blog, and I recommit myself to making it a regular part of my Lenten meditation, at the very least. Last year I wrote one entry, just one. So if I double that this year, I'm improving, nu?
I make no promises, but the writing is flowing a little better this year, and perhaps I can even get three or four posts during Lent, which might turn into something even more regular...
But I get ahead of myself.
This is an interesting time to be a Catholic, is it not? I hear so much about my faith, or rather what others think it to be, on the news these days. I guess when two major presidential candidates identify as Catholic, and the current president's administration decides a few rounds with American bishops might be fun, people are going to be talking about Catholics. And it is refreshing that not every thing I hear in the media makes me want to throw things, though I am tweeting a lot more than I used to. Note to those of us "digital immigrants" of a certain age: careful what you tweet, as you may get retweeted, and find yourself in conversations you never intended. Thanks, Morning Joe (actually, it was kind of fun, and I do love my daily dose of Morning Joe)!
So I approached Ash Wednesday thinking a lot about what other people are saying being Catholic means, and went to Mass across the street at Our Lady of Refuge (not my regular church, but a lovely community itself, and, did I mention it's right across the street from my home?). I was really moved by the service, one of the morning masses, full mass with ashes at the end. The presiding priest began Mass with this thought: Lent is the time for us to reflect on our sins, not the sins of others, but our sins. While that seems so simple, it was a great thought to focus on during Mass, and will definitely be part of my Lenten reflection these next forty days. It is the thought I prayed on during the rest of Mass--how often do I think about what others are doing to me, or when someone else is "wrong", and how often do I stop and think about my own behavior and its impact on others? How often do I think about how I'm living my faith, and my own accountability to God and myself? All good questions that I hope will carry me through Lent and beyond.
So, happy Lent, and hopefully this will not be the last post of 2012. In the meantime, check out someone who's an inspiration to me in his blogging, at Googling God.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
It's Lent again, must be blog time!
All good intentions...
How could it possibly be a year since I posted here? This was supposed to be a regular meditation on 21st century Catholicism, from a moderate feminist point of view, and yet, here it sits, waiting...
I went to St. Patrick's Cathedral today to get my ashes and find some quiet reflection time. It was the first time I'd ever really been inside the cathedral, which seems incredible to me, having lived in New York City for nearly twelve years. In the past, when I've been working all day, I've tried to squeeze in some time to run uptown to the Church of St. Paul the Apostle, but since it is truly no longer my church, and my work had me on 5th Avenue and 59th Street today, it seemed like as good a time as any to visit St. Patrick's. What an amazing space. The procedure for ashes was very organized, and seemed very New York: knowing that many NYC Catholics are away from their home churches during the work day, and as a major tourist attraction, St. Patrick's had separate lines designated for "ashes only". You could still come into the church and look around, or come in for one of the daily masses, but if you were just dashing in quickly during lunch or after work (as I was), there was a place for you.
I like that about St. Patrick's, and St. Paul is like that too. I understand other churches, including my own new home church, wanting parishioners to slow down and really have us reflect on the meaning of Ash Wednesday with a service, then your ashes, and perhaps even Eucharist. I'm respectful of that desire, even when some priests (who shall remain nameless, and not anyone at the aforementioned churches) berate the folks who do show up for services for being "once or twice a year Catholics" (It's NYC for goodness sakes, on a Wednesday, and you're a midtown church. You're lucky they chose your church out of the hundreds. Deep sigh. Yes, I feel better now). But I appreciate a pastor, and a church, who recognize that providing multiple opportunities for reflection and practice on a holy day of "opportunity!" invites more of us to worship, and perhaps keeps many of us in the church. Not a bad thing to consider in these times of increasing secularism, and scandals that distress and disappoint more and more Catholics daily.
I got my ashes, and I spent some time in reflection. I've nearly decided what my Lenten journey will entail this year (perhaps next year, I'll have it figured out by Shrove Tuesday). Of course it will look a lot like last year, and hopefully I can be even more faithful to my Lenten fast:
And writing, writing, writing. Here in this blog, on that story I keep returning to in my head but not on the computer, my family history. Perhaps Easter will find me a calmer, prolific person.
More to come, perhaps even weekly.
Happy Lent.
How could it possibly be a year since I posted here? This was supposed to be a regular meditation on 21st century Catholicism, from a moderate feminist point of view, and yet, here it sits, waiting...
I went to St. Patrick's Cathedral today to get my ashes and find some quiet reflection time. It was the first time I'd ever really been inside the cathedral, which seems incredible to me, having lived in New York City for nearly twelve years. In the past, when I've been working all day, I've tried to squeeze in some time to run uptown to the Church of St. Paul the Apostle, but since it is truly no longer my church, and my work had me on 5th Avenue and 59th Street today, it seemed like as good a time as any to visit St. Patrick's. What an amazing space. The procedure for ashes was very organized, and seemed very New York: knowing that many NYC Catholics are away from their home churches during the work day, and as a major tourist attraction, St. Patrick's had separate lines designated for "ashes only". You could still come into the church and look around, or come in for one of the daily masses, but if you were just dashing in quickly during lunch or after work (as I was), there was a place for you.
I like that about St. Patrick's, and St. Paul is like that too. I understand other churches, including my own new home church, wanting parishioners to slow down and really have us reflect on the meaning of Ash Wednesday with a service, then your ashes, and perhaps even Eucharist. I'm respectful of that desire, even when some priests (who shall remain nameless, and not anyone at the aforementioned churches) berate the folks who do show up for services for being "once or twice a year Catholics" (It's NYC for goodness sakes, on a Wednesday, and you're a midtown church. You're lucky they chose your church out of the hundreds. Deep sigh. Yes, I feel better now). But I appreciate a pastor, and a church, who recognize that providing multiple opportunities for reflection and practice on a holy day of "opportunity!" invites more of us to worship, and perhaps keeps many of us in the church. Not a bad thing to consider in these times of increasing secularism, and scandals that distress and disappoint more and more Catholics daily.
I got my ashes, and I spent some time in reflection. I've nearly decided what my Lenten journey will entail this year (perhaps next year, I'll have it figured out by Shrove Tuesday). Of course it will look a lot like last year, and hopefully I can be even more faithful to my Lenten fast:
- Fasting from anger, especially on the subway and in the car (count to ten, sing, just don't push or honk)
- Fasting from extravagance--goodbye, Visa card!
- Fasting from the desire to control too much, or as Sr. Margaret used to say, "let go and let God!"
- More reflection please--meditation, yoga, finding comfort in stillness
And writing, writing, writing. Here in this blog, on that story I keep returning to in my head but not on the computer, my family history. Perhaps Easter will find me a calmer, prolific person.
More to come, perhaps even weekly.
Happy Lent.
Monday, March 29, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
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:
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."
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."
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wait, I'm still a young Catholic woman! Aren't I?
A few years ago, a flyer in our church invited young Catholic women to contribute essays to a forthcoming book. I emailed my interest (as did a few of my other Catholic women friends) and learned I was too old to participate in their project. There have been a lot of signs, since I turned 40, that I'm not as young as I think I am, but this was a particularly jarring one. I had officially become one of those "church ladies", and I hadn't even seen it coming.
Fast forward to 2009, and the book is a reality: From the Pews in the Back. And I'm loving it, and seeing so much of myself in so many of the essays. And as I'm reading it, I'm thinking, "there are many post-Vatican II Catholic women, now in their 40s, whose voices would be important to this conversation as well." Lightbulb goes off: so write about it, Tracy.
Welcome to my blog.
Fast forward to 2009, and the book is a reality: From the Pews in the Back. And I'm loving it, and seeing so much of myself in so many of the essays. And as I'm reading it, I'm thinking, "there are many post-Vatican II Catholic women, now in their 40s, whose voices would be important to this conversation as well." Lightbulb goes off: so write about it, Tracy.
Welcome to my blog.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)