Author: Meg

I'm a Catholic, madly in love with the Lord, His Word, His Bride the Church, and especially His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity in the Eucharist. I'm committed to the Church not because I was raised this way but because the Lord has drawn my heart and convicted my reason. After 2 degrees in theology and 5 years in the classroom, I quit my 9-5 to follow Christ more literally. Since May of 2012, I've been a hobo for Christ; I live out of my car and travel the country speaking to youth and adults, giving retreats, blogging, and trying to rock the world for Jesus.

Holy Just Like You

When I decided I wanted to be a Saint,1 I knew exactly what to do. Saints, after all, are sweet, quiet, pink-cheeked girls who spend hours on their knees and never, ever yell, right? So I set about becoming a holy card.

I was pretty sure I had to be skinnier, too. Unless I was a nun. Nun saints get to be a little curvier.

I even made sure to fold my hands when I prayed and to gaze at heaven.2 I knew what it took to be a Saint, as I knew everything, and I was willing to mortify everything about myself. I knew I had to quit being loud and sarcastic. I could smile beatifically, but never guffaw. I should pray about everything–everything, even which sidewalk to take on my way to class. It was insane, and it lasted about five minutes.

But the idea that I had to change dramatically if I wanted to be holy stayed with me. It wasn’t just a desire to be purified of my sinfulness–obviously, holiness requires radical change. But I was identifying core elements of my character as “wrong” because they didn’t fit with the plaster images I’d seen in Saint books.

So I tried to be quiet and sweet and inoffensive. I tried to smile more and yell less. But you know what? God made me loud and obnoxious. And really, he’s called me to be obnoxious for the kingdom. I’d just as soon say nothing offensive and draw only positive attention. I’d gladly avoid calling anyone out, even people who are knowingly embracing serious sin. But I’ve realized, after years of hating myself when my best efforts were met with raised eyebrows or narrowed eyes, that that’s not who God made me to be.

And when I started to really get to know the Saints, I realized that most of them weren’t like that, either. In fact, there’s no one model for holiness that we all have to squeeze ourselves into. All Saints are like Christ, sure, but Christ was by turns gentle and wrathful, sarcastic and sweet. And just like holy people aren’t all priests and nuns, holy people don’t all fit that hands-folded, heavenward-gaze model so many of us are used to. People who are seeking Christ are messy and awkward. They’re all kinds of people living all kinds of lives in all kinds of ways. Don’t believe me? Check it out:3

All for the glory of God, all for the kingdom, all for love of souls. It’s not better to be a missionary than it is to be a fry cook, just like it’s not better to be a choleric than it is to be a phlegmatic. What’s better is to be just who you should be–whoever that is.

My friends, God did not make you to be anyone else. He doesn’t need another Dominic or another Elizabeth Ann. He made you quite deliberately to be you. Your truest self–your holiest self, your saintliest self–is most fully you. Which means that if you’re shy, you can let yourself be shy–within reason. Same thing if you’re loud. I’m not giving you permission to indulge your personality quirks to the point of sin, just pointing out that grace builds on nature. God gave you the particular personality and circumstances and work and vocation and body and home that you have in order to serve the Church and the world. He wants to use what is natural to you to do the supernatural through you.

This song by Danielle Rose expresses what I’m trying to say. Ironically, it was Danielle Rose’s beatific smile that inspired my college obsession with being quiet and sweet.5 I wanted to be holy like her. But just like me, she was trying to be holy like someone else.

If they do make a holy card of me, it should probably look more like this. My mouth should definitely be open. My mouth is always open.6

Your homework this week: spend some time asking the Lord what parts of you need to be converted and what parts are exactly as he wants them. You might wish your holiness looked quieter or louder or more radical or more ordinary or less painful or less easy, but knowing who you ought to be requires that you know who you are. If I had succeeded in becoming the Saint I thought I needed to be, I’d be repressed and tense and miserable and totally ineffective. To be free and holy and do God’s work, I sometimes have to dance like a fool, fall on the ground at a dropped pass, or scream “heresy” around people who don’t quite understand the nuances. I have to cry more than is reasonable and laugh harder than anyone in the room. I have to stick my foot in my mouth and give people nicknames and (try to) look cute and make fun of myself and all kinds of nonsense. It’s not normal, but it’s good. And it’s me.

I’ve had people listen to me talk about my life with Christ and tell me that they don’t think they can be like me. Good! God knows the world doesn’t need more of me. It’s got about all it can handle with one. And, quite frankly, you’d be terrible at being me. Just like I’d be terrible at being you. But if you can figure out how to be you and I can figure out how to be me, we can change this world.

If you are what you should be, you will set the world ablaze. -St. Catherine of Siena

  1. I know I should just want to be a saint–a person who’s in heaven–but I admit that I really want to be a Saint. I want statues and holy cards and a feast day. We’ve talked about my pride issues before, haven’t we? [↩]
  2. This would be cute if I hadn’t been in college. [↩]
  3. Hover over any of the names to see who I’m talking about without clicking away. [↩]
  4. Of course, he could fly…. [↩]
  5. Yeah, I went to college with her. I’m pretty much a huge deal. [↩]
  6. Photo credit: my lovely aunt, Miriam A. Kilmer [↩]

Lectio Divina

I tend to babble about how much I love the Bible. Then I take out my Bible and introduce people to it like it’s a friend. Once we get past the weird looks I get for introducing them to an inanimate object, I often have to deal with this question:

“Don’t you think the Bible’s kind of boring?”

That’s me dressed as Captain of Team Catholic. I even have a gold cape with Bible verses puffy painted on it! You totally wish you were my friend.1

To which I’m obviously supposed to respond, “Ohmigosh no it’s like so interesting and fun and beautiful all the time!!” like the Jesus cheerleader that I am. But I’m too honest for that.

“Absolutely,” I say. I wait for them to look scandalized, then I go on. “It’s hard and it’s weird and parts of it are quite dull. But when I can’t find the beauty in Scripture, it’s not because it’s not there. It’s because I’m not looking hard enough. I’m not open and I’m not ready. So I don’t move on to another book; I sit with this one and immerse myself in it until I do find the beauty.”

Scripture can be very daunting and if you just fly through it trying to find something to stitch on a sampler, you’ll come out the other side with a whole lot of clichés and an unchanged heart. But if you really take time with a passage, trying to enter in, you may find that those platitudes you’ve heard your whole life are rather revolutionary.

One approach to Scripture that calls us to work through the text in a very intentional way is lectio divina (divine reading), an ancient form of prayer in which we ruminate on the text in order to encounter God. Cows are ruminant animals–they chew the cud, working through it again and again to get every ounce of nourishment out of it. When we ruminate on a text, we work through it over and over again in order to get everything the Lord has for us out of his Word. Rather than churning through a passage so we can move on with our day, a fast food approach, we treat it like the feast that it is. We soak in the Word, reading, meditating, praying, and contemplating.

Sometimes you’ll sit down with a passage in mind to meditate on; other times you’ll want to do lectio and you’ll flip through your Bible for a highlighted passage (another reason to get a beat-up Bible); my favorite experiences of lectio come when I’m just reading and the Spirit calls my attention to a particular passage, when I was just trying to get through my daily reading and God stopped me in my tracks to speak to me.

The more you pray through lectio divina, the more you’ll find that the steps don’t necessarily have to come in order. You’ll read a passage and suddenly find yourself speaking to the Lord in response or be transported to a wordless prayer, an encounter with Christ.

To begin with, though, it’s good to work through the steps in order, to start experiencing Scripture in an intimate way. I thought I’d take a few minutes to walk you through lectio divina, especially as it can be done in a group or with a journal. This form of prayer works really well in a group, with reflections being spoken aloud. That way, you hear different translations of Scripture and are exposed to the many different meanings God’s Word can have in people’s lives. If you don’t have a group to do this with, try journaling instead. Write the passage you’re using, then write your reflection on each step.

To give you a feel for it, I’ll explain the steps and then give examples. We’ll use Ephesians 3:19-21 (part of Thursday’s first reading):

Know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to accomplish far more than all we ask or imagine, by the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.

 

Before each step, you’ll take turns reading the passage slowly, then pausing for a bit to digest. I find that reading 3 or 4 times with 20 to 30 seconds in between is thoughtful but not painfully slow.

Lectio–Reading

The first step of Lectio Divina involves prayerful reading. You’ll chew through a few verses over and over, allowing the text to speak to you. You may find that certain phrases jump out at you, that you want to sit with those phrases and repeat them. That’s the idea of this first step–to allow yourself to be drawn to a particular line.

If you’re doing this in a group, each person will go around (after the group has read the text aloud a few times) and say a phrase from the text that strikes him. For example:

“Know the love of Christ.”
“Far more than all we ask or imagine.”
“The fullness of God.”
“Know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge.”
“Who is able.”

These can be two words or a whole sentence, and you’re not committing to focusing on this phrase for your whole meditation. I find that I often meditate on one section during the first step, then hear someone point out a part I hadn’t noticed and switch to that portion for the rest of my meditation.

Meditatio–Meditation

During this second step, you’re interpreting the text. You’re looking for the meaning in the passage or the phrase you’ve been drawn to. This isn’t always going to be the meaning that’s obvious and universal; instead, it’s often connected more immediately to your life.

Your reflection here will be one or two sentences in the first or third person–talking about God and yourself, not yet to God. For example:

I keep trying to prove Christ and to be certain of my love for him, but there’s something beyond the intellectual when it comes to my relationship with him. I have to be at peace with that element of faith.

I don’t know how to trust God.

God’s miracles don’t just come in calmed storms and corpses raised. Sometimes his power works through our weakness to do greater things than we could ever have expected.

I’m empty without God.

Don’t worry if you’re not poetic. The idea here is not to sound impressive but to be real.

Oratio–Prayer

This third step is our response to God’s Word. We speak to him in prayer (now using the second person as well) and respond to what we’ve learned from the text.

If you’re praying with a group, this will be a sentence or two addressed to God. Something like:

Lord, help me to see that all the good I do is a gift of your grace. May I always praise you and live in humble acceptance of your gifts.

Father, I want to know your love.

Jesus, empty me of myself and work in me, through me, for the sake of the kingdom. Free me from everything that is not of you so that I can be a vessel of your grace, bringing your light into the world.

God, you are so good.

Some people are really uncomfortable praying out loud. Remember that beautiful prayer can be really simple. Besides, anyone who’s judging you for not being clever when you’re praying isn’t someone whose good opinion should matter. So pray away and don’t worry about other people–if they’re doing this with you, I’m pretty sure they weren’t judging you anyway.

Contemplatio–Contemplation

This final step is contemplation, often described as wordless prayer. The idea is that you reach a depth of reflection on God’s Word that surpasses anything you can really put into words. it’s more of a feeling or a conviction than it is a thought. Ironically, for the purpose of this exercise, we now have to put it into words.

So in this final step, you’ll use just one word to describe what your lectio has left you with, This isn’t necessarily a word from the text and it can be any part of speech.2 Here are some possibilities:

Humbled.
Glory.
Full.
Challenge.

Your word doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. You’re doing this in a group because it can help keep you accountable or give you different insights, not because you’re trying to look awesome.

After you’ve gone through the four steps, close in prayer. If you’re in a group, discuss your experience of the text and how it changed as you meditated on it, If you’re alone, try journaling about your prayer time.

As you work through a passage, you’ll notice that it has layers and layers of meaning. What seemed to be a straightforward commentary on wealth can become a passage on discernment or devotion or pornography or trust, depending on what the Spirit has in mind for you. This is particularly clear when you pray with a group and hear two people with opposite interpretations who are really both right. This is why Scripture has been enough to satisfy the Church for two thousand years, why I still read with a highlighter on my eleventh time through. The more you plumb the depths of Scripture, the more you begin to realize how right Pope Gregory the Great was:

“Scripture is like a river, broad and deep, shallow enough here for the lamb to go wading, but deep enough there for the elephant to swim.”

 

Your challenge this week is to try this form of prayer and report back. I’d love to hear about it!

  1. I think I’m standing between Superman and…a Jonas brother? It was a spirit day at school, but in retrospect, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. [↩]
  2. Is my grammar nerdiness coming out enough here? All this talk of first person verbs and parts of speech. Sorry. [↩]

Year of Faith Boot Camp

I’ve been an apologist almost since I’ve been a Christian.1 I remember arguing theology in high school, uncatechised as I was, and coming up with answers that surprised me. I guess I was vocal enough that the Holy Spirit decided to give me the gift of understanding in order to preserve the Church from my heavy-handed ignorance.

The minute I realized that I wanted to spend my life teaching others about God,2 I started coming up with arguments for every single thing. Since the moment I started teaching, I was an apologist, always giving explanations rather than just definitions.

My second year of teaching, I inadvertently taught a year-long apologetics class. I say inadvertently because I thought it was supposed to be an apologetics class; I found out second semester that it wasn’t really but it was going so well that my department chair didn’t say anything. Oops? We’ll call that a little more Holy Spirit action.

The class I began that year (HSP class of 2010!) is the best thing I’ve ever done. My notes for the class are 125 pages of hardcore apologetics, answers to pretty much everything. We start the year as atheists and build to a solid orthodox Catholicism, using Scripture, Tradition, and reason to defend everything along the way. At the end of the year, I always ask if there are any more questions:

Any questions on priestly celibacy? *pause* Any questions on holy orders? *pause* Any questions on the sacraments of vocation? *pause* Any questions on any of the Sacraments? *smugly* Any questions on anything the Roman Catholic Church believes, teaches, and professes to be true?

Some student: Nope. I think you pretty much covered it.

God willing, this document will one day be a book. But soon, it’ll be a workshop! It’ll be a whirlwind version, of course, cramming something like 150 hours into 1-3 days, but you can move a lot more quickly when people are there voluntarily and aren’t going to be tested.

Here’s my plan: your parish or diocese or campus ministry or whatever sets aside a chunk of time–ideally Friday evening through Sunday evening, although we can do a short version in one day or a few evenings. We’ll have prayer and fellowship (Mass every day, maybe the Liturgy of the Hours, meals in common, even set it up as a retreat if you like) and tons of fascinating, energetic presentations building a case for the faith from the ground up.

The short version of the apologetics “boot camp” will cover the very basics:

  • Session One: Is there a God?
  • Session Two: Is Jesus God?
  • Session Three: Catholicism and Protestantism
  • Session Four: Revelation and the Church

If you’re up for a longer experience, we’ll add in some of the particulars (your choice):

  • Session A: Salvation by Faith Alone
  • Session B: The Papacy
  • Session C: The Eucharist
  • Session D: The Sacrament of Reconciliation
  • Session E: Mary and the Saints
  • Session F: Purgatory and Indulgences
  • Session G: The Church’s Moral Teachings

Doesn’t this sound awesome? Oh my gosh, you guys, I’m so excited! And it’s so perfect for the Year of Faith!

I’m thinking this will be good for people college-aged and up, although younger folks should certainly be welcomed. I’ve just never met a large group of high-schoolers who’d really be into something this hardcore. Maybe on a diocesan level….

So if you’re with me in thinking that this sounds awesome (or you just like me and want to help me serve the Lord), will you please, please help me out? Print out this page with all the basic info and take it to your pastor/campus minister/DRE/whoever. Tell them I’m practically free3 and that I’m awesome. Lie if you have to.4 If they’re not convinced, point them to any of my posts tagged apologetics or anything in the Truth category. Send them to watch this video, similar to what you’d see in Session Two, although more disjointed since my notes were in my car and my car was at a Firestone in Alabama and I was in Florida. I can do everything but 3 or 4 quotations from memory, though. Or take a look at this video, an excerpt from Session Four.

If you want to convince them that I’m entertaining, show them this picture:

Point out that I was sober. And that the clothing was a costume. But that even dressed like a fool, I’m still sporting a prominent crucifix. In the world but not of it, baby.

If you want to convince them that I’m holy, try this one instead:

That’s a breviary. Yeah, I’m totally into prayer.

Basically, I”m so excited about this that I’m just babbling now and my babbling is manifesting itself in the form of random pictures I found on facebook. So I’ll shut up and leave it in your hands–don’t you really, really want to go to all these sessions? Let’s make it happen!!

Apologetics Bootcamp

  1. By conviction, that is, not just by baptism. [↩]
  2. Which, incidentally, was the minute I found out one could do such a thing and get paid for it. You know, back when I used to want to get paid. [↩]
  3. Okay, I’m literally free. But “the worker deserves his wage” and all that (Mt 10:10), so, you know. Do what you can. [↩]
  4. That was a joke. [↩]

AMDG

Anything for attention, right?

I was born a performer. By the time I was five years old, I was organizing my cousins into a theater troupe at family gatherings. I would write, direct, and star in the show we put on, while the rest of them (all older) would roll their eyes and go where I directed them. I have a vivid memory of striking a deal with them; they wanted to color, I wanted a play. The compromise? I let them color on stage. So we had two minutes of me hamming it up as a teacher in a one room schoolhouse followed by ten minutes of all the actors sitting on stage coloring while I glared at any adult who should happen to whisper. Not my finest moment as an artist, but I am rather proud of my precocious ability to manage people.1

I suppose it comes as no surprise that after learning that I couldn’t be a priest, I found the most visible liturgical roles that I could. I lectored and I cantored whenever I had the chance. I was used to performing, after all, so I might as well do it for God.2

But I found that I got a lot more nervous before I sang at Mass than I did before I sang at an a cappella concert. If I messed up a solo, I looked like an idiot. If I messed up a psalm, I could distract people from God; the stakes were a lot higher.

Can you tell by the look on my face that I’m trying to read the organist’s music from four feet away?

So before each Mass, I made an offering to God. I asked him to guide my voice and told him that I trusted him to do what was best for the salvation of souls. Then if I did well, I knew it was by his grace. And if my voice cracked or I messed up the words, I trusted that he would use that for his glory. Maybe my failure convinced somebody that she could praise God even if she was flawed; maybe awkwardly singing the wrong verse snapped someone out of his daze and got him paying attention again; maybe I was just such a hot mess that it made somebody angry and forced her to confront her temper issues. I didn’t need to know how my screw-ups became blessings, but I trusted God that they did.

This new approach gradually began to transform the way I approached my ministry. I became less self-obsessed and better able to trust in God. But until recently, it stopped there: at liturgical ministry.

This summer, it hit me like a bolt of lightning–that offering, that trust, that surrender–I could do that every day, with everything! I could offer my whole life that way, not just singing at Mass. Instead of being consumed by pride when I do well or self-loathing when I screw up, I could trust God in all matters.

You see, when we say God is sovereign, we mean that he rules over all things. He could very easily intervene in daily matters (and I think he does more often than we give him credit for). When he doesn’t, though, we have to recognize that he chose not to. He is so desperate for our salvation and our holiness that I have to believe that he’s bringing all things together for our good even when he seems absent. Really, I have to believe it because Scripture declares it to be true:

We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose…. If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own son but handed him over for us all, how will he not also give us everything else along with him? (Rom 8:28, 31-32)

Now, this clearly doesn’t mean that if you’re a good person God will give you rainbows and bunnies. I ellipsized3 the part where Paul says we have to be conformed to the image of Christ. You remember Christ, right–the guy on the cross? Clearly there’s going to be suffering on the way to this good that is promised.

What the passage tells us isn’t that “every little thing is gonna be all right” but that God is able to make all things work for good. Which means that the nonsense that I usually get all stupid about (“Oh, dear God, I was sarcastic to that kid who I thought would find it funny and he didn’t and now he’s going to hate you and your Church forever and be so unhappy all his life and just because I’m a jerk who can’t be bothered to think beyond a punchline and I’m not even funny and I’m just mean and insensitive and why, God, why am I so awful??”)4 isn’t actually the end of the world. Because God can use my idiocy for his purposes just as much as my brilliance. Probably more–there’s far more of the former.

So I’ve been trying recently to start my day with this prayer: Dear God, I offer you every moment of my life for the glory of your name and the salvation of souls.

There’s a joke in here somewhere about being a bank robber. Mostly, I couldn’t think of pictures to use so I found all the strange old pictures of me on facebook. Now the weirdest ones are saved in a folder for just this sort of occasion. You will not be surprised to hear that I’m doing ridiculous things in almost every picture ever taken of me.

Then when I’m an idiot or a jerk (notice I said “when,” not “if”), I can offer my failure again to God and trust that he can work it for good. Maybe it doesn’t make me act any better, but it helps me to be less self-centered.5 The more I can let go of my mistakes, the more I can be present to him and allow him to bless me, undeserving as I am.

I don’t know why not obsessing over the past seems like such an epiphany to me–maybe it’s more the idea of rejoicing in what’s gone before and even accepting all my weakness and poverty as gifts of God and instruments of his grace. In the end, God can work through my failings as easily as he can through my greatest victories.

A life consecrated to God will be used, through success or through failure. When I’ve given myself over to him, he’s going to let his will be done in me. I just need to trust him that my failure will not be to no purpose. In Christ, even my brokenness is in his will and is for his glory. So I will try to rejoice in failure because I know that my only success is that of the Cross. Failure is just a veil for the greatness of God working, somehow, through my brokenness.

A large part of the cross I carry is an ongoing battle with shame over such minor things. In this offering, I try to remind myself that a life of discernment, reflection, and recollection means I’m at least trying to do God’s will–there’s nothing to be ashamed of when I fail.

So I’m offering my life–and every awkward moment in it–Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam (AMDG): for the greater glory of God. As Christians, we’ve got a pretty sweet deal. We offer God our shame and suffering and sin and in return, he gives us glory and joy and holiness. I’ve been pretty good at trying to make my whole life an offering to God; now I’m aiming at trusting that every awkward sneeze during the consecration, every ill-timed joke, and every overstayed welcome can be used for the greater glory of God and the salvation of souls.

I’ve been toying with writing this for a few months. Then the other day, I found this prayer on a prayer card. You’re going to love this one:

Lord, I offer you all of me, all that I am and all that I am not. I offer you every good decision and every regrettable mistake, every great accomplishment and every missed opportunity, every divinely inspired gift and every unapplied talent, every success and every miserable failure. I offer you all joy and all heartache, every kindness and every bitterness to be forgotten, every twinkle in my eye and every tear flowing down my cheek, every great love and each lost or irrecoverable act of charity. I offer you every quiet reflective moment and all of the unneeded chaos around me, all things holy and good in me and all things in need of greater purification. I give you every joyful memory and every bitter foul pain, each future moment and every missed opportunity to love, every kind act and each regrettable harsh word, all meekness and humility within me and every misplaced prideful thought, every virtue and every weak vice, every laugh and all misery mixed with weeping. I give you every healthy breath and every weakness of mind and body, every attempt at chastity and every unworthy lustful thought, every restful repose and every anxious sleepless night. O Lord, you can have all of me, the beauty that you’ve deposited deep within me and the emptiness of my sinful faults. I love you and am yours completely. Amen. -Pedro de la Cruz

So let’s thank God for every aspect of our lives, the good, the bad, and the purple6 and trust that whatever situation or vice or awkwardness we can’t triumph over is a gift for our sanctification and the salvation of the world. Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam!

 

Sorry I’ve been MIA–lots of speaking engagements last week. I’ve got a few new Gospel meditations up if you want to check them out. New videos will be posted…soon.

If you’re in the Mid-Atlantic/Southeast region of the country and you’ve got something you’d like me to speak at, hit me up. I’ll be trekking down to Georgia soon before camping out in DC for a while. I’d love to support you in your ministry!

  1. We’re saying “manage people” because if I say I’m proud of how bossy I was–and how good I was at it–then I sound like a jerk. [↩]
  2. Ministry is not performance, I know. I didn’t then. [↩]
  3. Is that a word? It should be. [↩]
  4. You think I am exaggerating. Oh, how I wish I were exaggerating. [↩]
  5. Funny how scrupulosity makes you more sinful, isn’t it? [↩]
  6. As we used to say in my family, although I have no idea why. These things are usually cultural references that I didn’t catch as a child, but googling it only turns up Dragon Ball Z. [↩]

“Do you really live out of your car?”

I remember a conversation with an eighth-grade girl just after I left the convent. I explained to her that I expected to be consecrated–that I would never be married–and that I was living rather a simple life. No car, no cell phone, that sort of thing.1 When I have conversations like this, I generally expect people to get hung up on the whole celibacy thing. But not this girl:

“You don’t have a cell phone? Like, really? No cell phone at all? I couldn’t live without my cell phone!”

I tried to draw her attention back to consecrated life, but to her the lack of cell phone was dramatically more significant than the lack of husband.

It’s been much the same in recent months. When I meet people and discuss my vocation (God willing) or my ministry, they’re interested. But then they ask where I live and all hell breaks loose.

“Right now, I’m living out of my car.”

Jaws drop, eyes bug out, and any number of questions follow:

“But really, where do you live?”
“Where’s all your stuff?”
“You sleep in your car?”
“Where do you shower?”
“Do you really live out of your car or is that some kind of speaking gimmick?”
“How did you learn to read if you don’t have a home?” (Okay, that was from a five-year-old.)

Again, I would have thought that being celibate or willingly unemployed would draw more attention. But these questions keep coming up, so I thought I’d take a minute to explain.2

Check it out: all my worldly possessions.

When I left Kansas in May, I felt as though I was being led to pack everything into the trunk of my car and give away whatever didn’t fit. (There wasn’t much–I haven’t owned a stick of furniture for three and a half years now.) At that point, I had three things planned for the rest of my life: babysitting, a wedding, and speaking at a retreat. There’s something very freeing about having a schedule that wide open.

My expectation was that I’d visit friends for a month or two and then settle down someplace in August. I wasn’t anticipating having anything much in the way of income, so I figured that God would just give me a place to live. He does tend to provide for me in rather surprising ways, so I figured that someone would ask me if I wanted to house-sit for a year. You know, pay me to live in their house. Something like that.

I was planning to settle down, though. See, I’m crazy extraverted. I mean, after working for an hour, I used to leave my classroom and wander the halls till I found someone to talk to. Ten minutes of small talk later, I was ready for another hour’s work. I’m so energized by socializing that living in other people’s space is something I often enjoy.

But I have this terrible disorder called FOMO–fear of missing out.3 So when there is fun to be had, you’d better believe that I’m out there having it. I survived my senior year of college on four hours of sleep a night rather than miss out on any of the 4am fun. Seriously, it’s a problem.

My FOMO means that when people are around, I’m not so good at taking time for anything other than socializing. Oh, I’ll get my prayer time–that’s non-negotiable. But there’s only so much work I can get done when there’s somebody around to chat with. So I figured if I’m going to write this book,4 I’ll need my own space. I’ll set a schedule, I thought, with all kinds of time for reading and prayer and naps and writing.

And so, having been called out of my well-planned life into this bizarre new endeavor of trust, I began to plan my horarium. And once again, God laughed.

I left Kansas and started my new nomad life. I stayed with my sister and my old roommate and the little girls I’ve helped raise and my best friend from high school. And it was really good.

Being a nomad felt right for the time being, so I pushed back the date I expected to settle. Instead of August, I’d travel till October. Then October approached, and I began to think I could do this until January. Now I’m not so sure that I’ll settle down at all in the next year–or even longer.

Throughout this whole thing, the Gospel passage that I’ve been given has been, “Take only a walking stick.” I like plans and stability and safety nets, but God prefers that I trust.

Beneath the image (wedged above my gear shift) are the words “Saint Clare, bless our house.”

When I’m homeless like this, I join with the disciples who went out, not knowing what welcome they would get. I learn to trust that God will take care of me, sometimes in dramatic ways. I learn to trust that friends and family and even strangers will open their homes to me. I learn to trust that I’m not a burden. I learn to trust that God will give me direction as to where to go next, that he’ll give me work to do and money for gas, that I’ll have time to blog, that my car won’t break down unless I’m taken care of.

It’s strange and it’s totally unlike me—and yet it fits me so well. I’m a missionary, an itinerant evangelist, a nomad for Christ, a crazy girl living rest stop to rest stop.

So for those of you who want the nitty gritty, here’s what it means that I “live out of my car”:

I don’t sleep in my car. Well, occasionally I take a half hour nap, but only during daylight and only in crowded parking lots where nobody would try anything. There’s trusting God and then there’s blatant imprudence–I’m not doing anything dangerous.

Everything I own is in the trunk of my car. Okay, my mattress pad and my comforter are at my sister’s house. But everything else: the dress I wear to weddings, my high school diploma, my bottle of Jordan River holy water, my Code of Canon Law–everything. This is very convenient, but it does get a little crowded. Fortunately, I have little enough stuff that I can literally fit everything into the car and have room for 3 passengers besides me.

I mostly stay with friends. I occasionally stay with friends-of-friends. So far, 25 different families have opened their homes to me. I haven’t yet stayed with strangers, but I’m sure it’ll happen. Don’t worry, it’ll be a host family arranged through a parish I’m speaking at or someone who reads my blog or the nice people I met on the plane to New Orleans. I’ll be safe.

I don’t have a permanent address. I have stuff sent to my sister’s place or to my previous address to be forwarded. But sometimes it’s time-sensitive and misses me and has to be forwarded around the country. That’s always funny.

My passenger seat is reserved for snacks.

I’ve been to (or through) 28 states in the past 4 months. And I’ve put 12,000 miles on my car. I listen to young adult fiction to stay awake (princess books!) and eat a lot of dried fruit and nuts. I try not to eat much fast food. I don’t really get bored if I’ve got books to listen to, plus I do my rosary and chaplet and meditation in the car if I’ve got a big chunk of driving to do. I’m pretty comfortable driving up to 12 hours in one shot; anything shorter than 6 is a breeze. If I get too tired, I call someone; talking on the phone re-energizes me (see above).

I guess home base is my sister’s place. I’m there more often than I’m anywhere else (three weeks over the past four and a half months, I think), and I’ll be there even more come the end of November when she adds TWINS to her already busy two-toddler house. It looks like I’m taking December off to help out, so for a month or two I’ll have a little more stability. I’ll still be living out of a suitcase, though–don’t think I’m selling out.

I’m not worried about money. People think it’s awfully irresponsible of me to quit my job and then turn down job offers. What kind of person is intentionally unemployed? But there’s nothing to worry about when you’re in God’s will. I’m trusting in God’s providence, people’s generosity, and a savings account to fall back on.

I’m not yet speaking enough to warrant being homeless. I don’t have events in every state I stop in, but maybe eventually I will. I find that there’s plenty of ministry going on even when I don’t have anything scheduled, and I’m trying to make it more intentional. I want to get a shirt that says “I’m a Catholic. Ask me a question.”5 Then I’ll wear it when I’m in public places with time to kill and voila! Instant evangelization. If anybody knows someplace awesome to get a shirt made (or wants to make it themselves), let me know.

My front bumper is basically an entomologist’s dream come true.

I only ever have a vague plan. I usually know where I’m going for the next few weeks. Then there’s some fuzzy space to be filled in before my next event. For example, I know that I’ll be driving from DC to Georgia in early November. I have one scheduled stop, but once October rolls to a close, I’ll probably have added a few other visits. Other than that, all I’ve got on the docket is Georgia in January, DC in March, and Kansas after that. I’m sure God will fill in the hazy in-between weeks.

I’m open to whatever! In September, I drove from Iowa to Texas just for a fried avocado and some football with friends–don’t think I won’t come to you. If you’ve got a youth group or RCIA or confirmation class or Bible study that you want me to come speak at, I’d love to! You don’t even really have to pay me if you can’t. Or maybe you just want me to come hang out at your house and be your new best friend or talk to your teenage daughter or homeschool your kids. I just never know what God’s going to set before me. All I know is that he’s asked me to speak—street corners or stadiums, it’s all the same to me.

Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life as a nomad and maybe I’ll have a home next week. Maybe I’ll never be gainfully employed again and maybe I’ll settle back into a classroom in January. I’ve learned to stop making plans–well, beyond the next few weeks–and consent to follow.

As I was driving away from my most recent home back in May, I noticed a strange optical illusion that I’d never noticed before. The hot asphalt ahead of me shimmered in the sunlight and seemed to disappear. I couldn’t tell exactly where the road was; I just had to trust that it was there ahead of me. I couldn’t see exactly where it was going until I was right on top of it; but while I didn’t know what twists and turns it would take, I knew the ultimate destination.

I’m sure I’ve seen this a hundred times before, but I never once noticed it until that day, the day that I was setting out on a road I didn’t know, not knowing where it would go or how it would get there, but trusting that it would lead me to my ultimate Destination. Jesus and I had quite the little chat over that one, let me tell you!

So I mostly eat granola bars and dried fruit and crackers, I listen to a ton of audiobooks, and I’m more grateful for cruise control than I ever thought I could be. And all for the kingdom–isn’t God funny?

 

P.S. I’ll be speaking at the Omaha Theology on Tap this evening at 7:30. If you’re in the area, be sure to come by!

  1. How different from today, where all I really have are a car and a cell phone! [↩]
  2. Maybe I’ll get a QR code that links to this post. Then when people ask me, I can show them the code and stand there checking facebook while they read it. It would certainly be more efficient…. [↩]
  3. Katherine, Chenele, Hannah, I’m looking at you. [↩]
  4. Did you know I’m going to write a book? On apologetics–think every apologetics post I’ve ever written but in some systematic order. It’s going to be awesome. No, I haven’t written a single page. [↩]
  5. Props to the St. Lawrence Center at KU for the inspiration [↩]

Our Lady of the Rosary

In 1571, the Christian world was under attack. The Reformation had divided Christians, causing them to war with one another rather than uniting to turn their attention against the advancing Turks. On October 7, the Muslim Ottoman Empire sent ships from the port of Lepanto in a battle that would decide the fate of Europe; if the Ottomans won, the Mediterranean would be theirs. It would be just a matter of time before they took (and converted) much of Europe.1

The Battle of Lepanto by Paolo Veronese–check out that heavenly intercession!

It was a terrible threat, and some few nations sent troops under the great Don Juan. But others were too busy quibbling over “minor” matters of doctrine to come to the aid of Christendom. And so Christian forces were far outnumbered.

Pope St. Pius V called on all Christians to pray the Rosary for victory. On the afternoon of the battle, he is said to have had a heavenly vision of a victory for the Europeans, holding off the Turks and preserving the Christian identity of Europe (until they gave it away of their own accord in recent years). The Holy Father declared a feast in honor of Our Lady of Victory, today called the Feast of the Holy Rosary.

I’ll go into the Rosary more later–for today, I just want to give you one of my favorite poems of all time: Lepanto by G.K. Chesterton. It’s long but brilliant. If you’ve got an audience–or even if you don’t–read it aloud. (Fair warning: Chesterton is not the most culturally sensitive fellow. His epithets are not my own.)

White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain–hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri’s knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,–
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, “Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces–four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not ‘Kismet’; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth.”
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still–hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,–
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John’s hunting, and his hounds have bayed–
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man’s house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings’ horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign–
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade….
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

  1. There’s nothing anti-Islamic about this. Christians wanted Europe to stay Christian; Muslims, naturally, wanted it to be Muslim. Hence the battle. [↩]

Back in the Classroom

Last week I got in my car and drove 16 hours to the kids I left in May. Hours and hours I drove to make it in time for Homecoming, to watch the game and see the dresses and hug the queen and let the new alums curse in front of me because they finally can. I pulled up Thursday afternoon and walked up to the school where I quite literally lived for two years.

To girls who shout “You’re my favorite teacher ever” and insist on taking a picture with me.

To girls who screamed and ran to hug me.

To a wide receiver who told the football team they had to win homecoming for me—not to break an eight-year losing streak at homecoming but to thank me for showing up.

To a team that played their guts out and shattered the streak—and thanked me afterwards for being there.

To “I haven’t told anyone else about this, but….”

To “Please come back. Please—we need you.”

To the quarterback who schedules confessions for the team because I convinced him that he plays better in a state of grace.

To dozens of kids who still know all the books of the Bible in order.

To classrooms full of eager eyes and quick smiles, full of kids who still remember what I taught them.

To a volleyball team that yells not “Team” or “Ravens” but “Ms. H-K” when they go for the win.

To girls who stare at me from the bench until I look across the soccer field and see them waving.

To “I miss your homework and your notes.”

To “I took your notebook to college. Everyone else borrows it to study for tests.”

To “Can we talk while you’re in town?”

To “I need your help,” “Please pray for me,” ”I’ve hit rock bottom,” “I don’t think I can try anymore,” “What should I do?”

To a heart that burns with pride and weeps with frustration and fears and loves and despairs and hopes and prays and prays and prays.

And I ache and I cry because I just love them so hard. And when they ask me to come back I want so badly to say yes. I want so badly to be here for them and to love them and yell at them and challenge and console and listen and teach and advise and suffer and just be theirs.

But they don’t need me. Because if they needed me, I’d still be here. So when they ask me to stay, I just tell them, “I can’t. I’m in God’s will. I have to be faithful to that. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t miss grading or discipline or long days or constant disrespect or any number of stupid issues that plague teachers. But I miss my kids so much. I’m so blessed to be so loved by these little ones—these big ones, these “adults” who are still my babies—but their love makes it hurt all the more.

And I wonder if there’s always a longing when you’re in God’s will. My restless heart wants this life he’s given me and wants my kids, too. But the ache reminds me that this world is not my home. It reminds me that I was made for more. I’m glad of the reminder in the midst of a life so full of grace. I’m glad to feel the poverty of earthly joy because it reminds me to long for heaven. I’m glad to suffer whatever he asks me to suffer for the glory of his name and the salvation of souls. I’m glad, I am.

And still I weep for missing them.

You Will Never Be an Angel.

I‘m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your childhood daydreams of wings and harps were sadly misguided. Hopefully most of you know this already, but you’d be amazed at the number of decently-educated Christians who are shocked when I tell them this:

Also, all dogs do not go to heaven. But that’s a post for another day.

You will never be an angel. All the angels there will ever be have already been made and they’re not taking applications for new members. You might just as well dream of dying and becoming a hippo. And you may have a little saint in heaven, but the only angel you’ve got in heaven is your guardian angel, the one who was given to you when you were conceived.1

A few years back, I mentioned this to a group of high school seniors and they were crushed. “Nobody ever told us that EVER!” they shouted. I’m not exaggerating; they actually shouted.

I felt certain that couldn’t be true. In twelve years of Catholic education, nobody ever mentioned what you become if you die and go to heaven? So I asked the next junior I saw:

“Jordan, if you die and go to heaven, what do you become?”

*pause* “Well, you don’t become an angel, I know that much.”

I suppose I was pleased by that (although still concerned that these kids didn’t know that a person in heaven is a saint, not an angel). But I just had to wonder: who told them they became angels?

Catholics certainly don’t believe this, but neither do Protestants. According to all the major world religions, when you die, you might become a saint or a god; you might cease to exist entirely or exist within the collective consciousness of the divine. You might live in a sensual paradise or be freed from the restrictions of the body. But one thing’s for sure: you do not become an angel.

Until Mormonism, that is, which apparently teaches2 that Adam is now Michael the Archangel and Noah is now Gabriel.3 And yet somehow I doubt that my Kansas kids, whose understanding of Mormonism comes entirely from South Park, have based their understanding of human nature on LDS doctrine.

When did Eeyore die? I bet that was a depressing movie.

So where did these kids get the idea that Grandma’s got wings? It seems that Dickens had a hand in it and Heart and Souls sure didn’t help. Cartoons show people dying and floating up to heaven where they get their angel duds. And then we read poems and gravestones and tattoos about “God’s littlest angel,” and we assume that all these grieving people must be right. The idea that someone we love taken too soon is an angel is consoling and only the worst kind of Scrooge would rob people of that little bit of light in the darkness of grief.

But truth always offers more consolation than platitudes. And there is deeper joy in the truth that those who are welcomed into the embrace of God are saints in heaven, watching over and interceding for us, than the Hallmark drivel that when you die you get wings.

Also, angels are not cute. Ever notice that any time an angel shows up in the Bible, the first thing it says is “Be not afraid?” Dudes must be pretty terrifying.

You see, an angel is an entirely different being from a human being. Angels are pure spirit; they’re not disembodied souls. They don’t have wings or halos because they don’t have bodies. Now, maybe they choose to manifest themselves with wings (Is 6) or halos when they appear to humans, but at other times they look like people (Gen 18) or robots (Dn 10) or glow sticks (Mt 28). Often, they don’t bother taking on the appearance of a body at all, because it’s not natural to them. They aren’t human; they never had bodies to begin with.4

Human beings, on the other hand, were created body and soul, a sort of natural-supernatural hybrid. There’s a famous Lewis quotation floating around the internet (and a women’s bathroom stall in Missouri):

Respectfully, Jack, I disagree.

Some googling tells me there’s no evidence Lewis ever said this, and it’s a good thing because this is some seriously bad theology. Real Christian theology has been clear on this for almost two millennia. You are not a soul trapped in a body.5 You are not a body with a spiritual component.6 You are a soul and you are a body. That’s what it means to be a human being.

You have an angel. You will never be an angel. (Guardian Angel by Pietro da Cortona, 1656)

Because we’re body and soul, valuing either the physical or the spiritual at the expense of the other is always going to mess us up. This is the reason that when we use our bodies without regard to our souls, we kill ourselves spiritually, emotionally, relationally. After all, the separation of body and soul is called death.

We know about this connection instinctively. A body without a soul isn’t called a person anymore but a corpse. And a soul without a body is incomplete as well–there’s something missing there. If you die and go to heaven, you’ll be a saint; you’ll be a soul without a body and more perfectly happy than you’ve ever been before, and yet you’ll be imperfect. Because, unlike the angels, you were not made to be pure spirit. You were made to be body and soul. Which is what we’re talking about every Sunday when we say, “I look forward to the resurrection of the dead.” This isn’t some metaphorical resurrection we’re talking about here–you’re actually going to get a body.

And here’s another moment where people usually start yelling–“We’re getting our bodies back? Nobody EVER TOLD US THAT EVER!!!”

Well, whether they told you that or not, you’ve been professing to believe it for years. We don’t know what the glorified body you’ll get at the end of the world will be like, exactly. Healthy and glorious for sure, maybe able to fly and walk through walls–I mean, who really knows?

What matters is that you’ll have a body because your body is integral to who you are. You’re not a spirit, you’re a person. You’ll never be an angel (just like you’ll never be a hippo) but, God willing, you’ll be a great saint. So why don’t we all toss the cartoon angel nonsense out the window and start living for reality–and for heaven–instead?

  1. Happy feast of the Guardian Angels! [↩]
  2. I say apparently because it’s very hard to get a handle on the teachings of Mormonism. I’ve never found a definitive resource online. This is, of course, complicated by the fact that the leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormonism) is able to completely reverse Church doctrine. As in, “Polygamy used to be required; now it’s absolutely forbidden.” So if I’m wrong, I apologize. I’m going with what I found on the all-knowing internet. [↩]
  3. Happy belated Feast of the Archangels! [↩]
  4. Props to Christian Answers for the Scripture references. [↩]
  5. That’s Gnosticism. [↩]
  6. Shall we call that Modernism? [↩]

How to Go to Confession

Sometimes my Ordinary Time toes even match my clothes! Okay, rarely.

Back before I gave everything away to enter the convent (one day I’ll tell y’all more about that), I used to have enough clothes that I could wear purple for all of Advent and Lent–pink during the pink weeks, of course. These days, I stick with nail polish to match the liturgical season. It’s fun in the winter, when I go from purple to pink to gold to green. But my toenails have been green for months and I’m getting pretty sick of it.

Does anybody else feel like Ordinary Time just drags on and on? The first half of the year is all exciting, and then it’s just ordinary for six months. If you’re anything like me, your spiritual life matches the excitement of my nail polish. When the vestments are changing, I’m focused and intentional, adding spiritual practices and going to penance services and whatnot. But during these green months, that intentional living fades.

For most people, I think, the biggest casualty is confession. We go in Advent, we go in Lent (when it’s every Wednesday evening in every parish if your diocese is as awesome as mine), and that’s about it. So if it’s been a couple of months (or years), here’s a refresher course on how to go to confession.1

1. Examination of conscience. Do not just waltz into the confessional unprepared. Keep in mind that this is an encounter with the God of the universe who was beaten and crucified exactly so that you can have these three minutes in the confessional. Not something to be taken lightly.

Spend some time with a good examination of conscience. Ask the Holy Spirit to enlighten you and then reflect on everything that’s happened since your last good confession. Bear in mind that you must confess all mortal sins in kind and number–that means be as specific as possible. For something to be a mortal sin, all three of the following conditions must be met:

  1. Grave matter–it’s really wrong.
  2. Knowledge–you know it’s really wrong.
  3. Full consent of the will–you choose to do it anyway.

Venial sins (sins that don’t meet all three conditions) should be confessed, but don’t have to be. You can also be broader in your enumeration of venial sins: “I have been selfish” as opposed to “I drop-kicked three babies.”

The distinction is that mortal sin breaks your relationship with God, while venial sin “just” damages it. Think of it this way: if we’re best friends and I walk up to you and you’re busy and walk away without saying anything, that’s not cool.  But you don’t have to beg forgiveness, just send a quick text message or go old school and actually say something.  If you jump me from behind and beat the tar out of me, though, you really have to beg. We’re talking on your knees, tears pouring down your face, handing me presents. In the same way, when we damage our relationship with God, we can ask forgiveness without going to confession; when we destroy it, we need to get down on our knees and beg–in the confessional.

As you go through your examination of conscience, you may want to write out your sins and destroy the paper afterwards. Or not. As long as you’re thorough, the method doesn’t much matter.

2. Contrition. In order for your confession to be valid, you actually have to be sorry for your sins. In fact, your confession’s invalid if you’re not sorry at some level.

Fortunately, our God is merciful beyond belief, and he’ll take whatever he can get. Ideally, you’ll have perfect contrition–sorrow for your sins out of love of God. But God will accept imperfect contrition, too–sorrow for your sins out of fear of hell. Contrition just means that at some level you regret having sinned, even if your regret itself is self-interested.

3. Resolution. The oft-overlooked third step in the process, resolution means that you resolve to try not to sin again. This doesn’t mean you won’t sin again or even that you expect to make it ten minutes without sinning again; it means that you really want to stop sinning and you’re going to try. You don’t have to succeed. God knows you’re weak—he’s not going to withhold forgiveness because you’re fallen.

Of course, this also tells us that you can’t validly confess something you have no intention of changing. Let’s say you never go to Mass on Sunday–that’s definitely grave matter, and assuming that you know it and are choosing to do it anyway, it would be a mortal sin.2 If you go to confession with the intention of skipping Sunday Mass the next day, then confessing that you skip Mass wouldn’t do you any good–the sin wouldn’t be forgiven.

If you’re stuck in some sin that you know the Church condemns but that you’re not willing to give up, don’t just avoid confession! Go to confession and explain to the priest that you’re addicted to pornography (or whatever) and don’t intend to stop. Let’s hope that the Holy Spirit takes over and you get some good counsel there.

4. Confession. The moment we’ve all been waiting for…the Sacrament itself. In order to be absolved (barring extreme circumstances), you have to take your sins before a priest. You must confess all mortal sins—if you leave one out on purpose, your whole confession is invalid and you’ve added another mortal sin. If you forget one, on the other hand, it’s okay—even the one you forget is forgiven. God’s good like that.

Your confession should (God willing) look something like this:

Priest: In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
Penitent: Bless me Father for I have sinned. It’s been _____ weeks/months/years since my last confession. These are my sins:
      List sins
Penitent: For these and all my sins, may God forgive me.

It’s a good idea to end your laundry list with some closing line to let the priest know that you’re done. For years I went with “And, uh, I think that’s it,” which was kind of a lie, since I knew that was it. I think some closer makes it less awkward for everybody.

Who’s seen Hitchcock’s I Confess? A psychological thriller about the seal of the confessional? Yes, please!

Father may interrupt you to ask for clarification or motivations. Hopefully, he won’t interrupt you to start chatting. I once mentioned in confession that I had just been to the Holy Land and the priest started asking me about the political situation there. After a few minutes, I realized that he wasn’t ever going to get back to the confession part of things, so I started awkwardly inserting my sins into the conversation: “Well, I never felt unsafe, even though I’m really impatient and judgmental. But that might just be because of my pride.”

After you list your sins, you will hopefully get some advice from the priest. Even if he’s way off the mark, keep listening because he may slip your penance in there and you really need to know that. Sometimes they get sneaky, so pay attention.

Father should ask you to say an act of contrition after that. It’s good to have one memorized, but don’t worry if you don’t. Most confessionals have one on the wall inside. If all else fails, you can make something up. I once found myself going to confession in Italian. I’m pretty good at Italian, but it turns out that I don’t know works like “judgmental” or “selfish,” so the whole process of confessing was kind of like Taboo:

Me: I said…things…that were not…good…about others?
Father: Uncharitable!
Me: Yes! Uncharitable!3

When he asked me to make my act of contrition, I thought I was going to die. I mean, I know how to say “I’m sorry I bumped into you,” but I was afraid it wasn’t quite the same as “I’m sorry I nailed you to the cross.” And I didn’t want to say the Italian equivalent of “my bad,” so it came out like this:

Oh, God…I sinned…I don’t want to sin any more…help me!4

Very awkward. But good enough (although Father did laugh at me). In any event, go ahead and memorize one.

Then you get absolution and BAM! you’re good as new.

“Nepomuk Takes the Confession of the Queen of Bohemia” by Giuseppe Maria Crespi

5. Absolution. When you hear the words “I absolve you of your sins,” you’re forgiven. In that moment, your sins are taken away, if you’re intending to do your penance. If you forget to do your penance and can’t make it up, you’re okay, but if you’re not intending to do it, it’s an invalid confession. Basically, pay attention and do it, but know that you’re forgiven right then, not when you’ve finished your ten rosaries (or the one Our Father you slid out of there with).

As a reminder, it is God who absolves you through the priest. By the merits of Christ’s Passion, God forgives your sins; the priest is just the vessel.5

6. Satisfaction. While your sins are forgiven by Christ’s mercy alone, independent of any works of penance you might do, God asks us to cooperate with his grace. So when you say your penance, you’re not earning your absolution, but putting forth a token of your good will and your desire to serve God. Plus, while confession takes away your eternal punishment (saving you from hell), it doesn’t remove all temporal punishment (making things right with the world your sin damaged). Your penance helps you to make reparations to the world for the evil you’ve done; whatever you haven’t made up for will be taken care of in purgatory, which I’m sure I’ll talk about in November.

Gone are the days when your penance involved a pilgrimage to the Holy Land or fasting in sackcloth and ashes. I’m lucky if I get more than my standard three Hail Marys. Since your penance is probably pretty easy, try to do it intensely, really focusing on every word. Consider that in the moment of your absolution, God snatched your soul from the jaws of hell; in return, he asked for, what, a decade of the rosary? By God’s mercy and the power of the Cross, your soul does not depend on those words. But it can’t hurt to pray them like it does.

 

If you haven’t been to confession in a long time, might I suggest a good soul cleansing? I promise you won’t regret it. If you’re a frequent confessor, maybe trying to be more intentional will help you to recognize the beauty of this Sacrament. And whether you go weekly or haven’t been in decades, take a moment to thank God for the incredible gift of Sacramental absolution and for our Church that is anything but ordinary.


  1. If you still need to be convinced that you should go to confession at all, see if this post helps you. [↩]
  2. I’m not judging you–this is theoretical. [↩]
  3. Incaritatevole, in case you were wondering. [↩]
  4. O Dio…ho peccato…non voglio peccare piu…aiutame! [↩]
  5. Jn 20:21-23 [↩]

Birthday Blessings

September birthdays are awkward. They’re at the beginning of the school year, so you don’t know quite who your friends are this year. Or you’re at a new school and nobody knows it’s your birthday. Or maybe you’re (I’m) just an awkward person. For whatever reason, my birthdays are often anticlimactic: the day in high school when not one person remembered; the party I threw for myself while I was teaching that almost nobody could come to; the cafeteria chow mein I celebrated with my last year in Kansas. Much like New Year’s Eve, my birthday just doesn’t live up to the hype.

For some people, birthdays are about cotton candy. I want to be friends with those people.

So a few years back, I started to look at my birthday a different way. Instead of spending the day getting other people to celebrate me (which I’m not averse to), I try to take a good chunk of time with the Lord to look at what he’s done in my life over the past year.

For some people, birthdays are about presents or parties or long phone calls with faraway friends. For me, they’re examens, days of gratitude and contrition and petition. The day I turned 20, I learned to be grateful for the suffering I’d endured that year. The day I turned 23, I was so overwhelmed by the blessings of the previous year, I asked God for fewer consolations. The day I turned 25, the Lord asked me to be his bride. These are days that stand out in stark relief against the confused background of my busy life.

Today I am 29—which seems much older than I could possibly be—and I am just so grateful. I wanted to take a moment to share the things I am most grateful for:

1. My vocation. More than anything else, I am so grateful that the Lord has called me to belong completely to him, to give him my undivided heart. The greatest joy of my life is the promise that I will be his bride. He has given me such a deep love for him—despite the nonsense that I try to fill my heart with—that I’m really beginning to hunger for him, to delight in him and to rest in him.

The day he called me—4 years ago today—I sobbed. I told him I would be his, but I “knew” I’d never be happy about it. But God is so much bigger than my shriveled little heart, and gradually it’s been swelling with love for him and his Church and his people until there’s so little room left for envy or anxiety. I almost don’t long for marriage any more. I almost don’t ache for children. I almost don’t worry about being alone. I almost don’t feel bitter. And each time I forget how enraptured I am by the gift of my vocation, he lifts my chin and gazes on me and I know—I know—that I am radiant with his beauty and captivating. I am so beautiful and so worthy–by his grace–and oh just so blessed to be his.

The more I love him, the more beautiful I am because he begins to shine through me. Most of the time I’m just little fallen me, but more and more I’m reminded of who I am in Him. More and more he draws my attention back to him and I fall in love again.

Marriage is so beautiful and so holy and such a blessing, but this? This is so me! This fits the joys and the struggles of my heart so perfectly—there’s nothing I would trade for this. Nothing.

2. My faith. I so very nearly wasn’t the person I’ve become. Everything good in my life is so clearly a product of grace. I am so grateful for having been chosen and claimed. It’s not just loving Christ that brings joy to my heart but knowing him, especially in the Eucharist. I’m so blessed to have been drawn into the Church and led to seek truth in his Word.

I was too cynical and too arrogant and too enamored of my own intelligence to  accept the truth of the Gospel. I’m still a self-important mess but–wonder of wonders–he’s given me the gift of faith. Every once in a while, I get a glimpse of the life I could have been living if not for his grace. I am so blessed.

3. My ministry. I haven’t written anything that wasn’t assigned since I was in grade school and I never would have started had it not been for the Lord—but I love this! I love expressing myself in this way and I love that my work is touching hearts.

But more than blogging, I’m so grateful to be able to travel and speak to such different groups of people. This week, I got to talk to a group of holy young women about discernment and my particular vocation and answer their questions. The next day, I was off to a youth group to talk about God’s desperate love for us. Yesterday, I presented on defending Christianity and the divinity of Christ. Then this morning, I met a young woman for coffee and an incredible conversation about discernment and prayer and mortifications and consecrated virginity.

I feel outrageously blessed that the Lord continues to use me with large groups and in one-on-one settings to speak his truth to souls. I’ve wanted to be a missionary since I was in high school and I’m so grateful that he knows how to use me best and that he’s entrusted some part of the mission of his Kingdom to my weak hands.

I am especially grateful that these kids put up with me.

4. My loved ones. I’ve mentioned before that I hate to be needy or burdensome. All this living out of my car and off the generosity of others? It’s really hard for me. But I’m surrounded by beautiful people who are so gracious, people who don’t think they’re doing me a favor by letting me stay with them—people who even ask me to stay longer and longer still. They offer prayers and spare rooms and graphic design and introductions—and they’re happy to do it! It’s so humbling to be so well loved by so many amazing people.

5. You! I can’t believe I have so many subscribers (almost 500)! I’m so grateful to you for reading my posts and sharing or liking or commenting. Thank you for praying for me, for offering a place to stay, and for helping out financially. Thank you especially to those who’ve invited me to come speak! God is continuing to surround me with generous people who are so willing to help me even if we’ve never met and I’m so blessed by all of you.

 

This year, I got the rug pulled out from underneath me—again. After 15 years of wanting to be in the classroom until the day I died, the Lord asked me to teach in a new way. After a lifetime of wanting roots and stability, he called me to drop everything and follow with nothing but a walking stick. He is providing, as he always does. He is blessing me, as he always does. And he is holding me close and drawing my heart gradually, gently, with such tender love. I just—I can’t—friends, there aren’t even words. I am so blessed. Praise God with me.