I find in my life, and particularly in my ministry, that God is very careful to preserve a balance of praise and correction. Because my heart is rather more tender than I would wish, this balance is often very heavy on the consolation with detractors sprinkled in only when I can handle it. But even without outside admonition, I find myself regularly overwhelmed by my own failings. As proud as I am—and I am shockingly proud—one angry face in a crowd of fifty can convince me that I’m really rather useless and I ought to stop preaching because I’m never going to be good enough.
But then, because our good God is particularly fond of me, I’m surrounded again by praise and gratitude and I try again to remind myself that only God matters. And over the years, the mercurial swings between pride and self-loathing have evened out a bit. I rarely think I’m the best thing that ever happened and only slightly more often think I’m worthless. God just keeps working on my heart to teach me humility.
It’s gotten me thinking lately. To borrow a phrase from Genesis—and a central idea from the Theology of the Body—I think humility is being naked without shame. It’s standing naked, completely aware of all your faults and failings, and feeling no self-loathing, only gratitude to a God who uses even your weakness for his glory. It seems to me, looking at this virtue from a great distance, that the truly humble soul has no illusions about his poverty but rejoices in it. Even our sinfulness, I think, might prompt guilt and sorrow and a desire to repent, but not despair.
In the same way, the humble soul sees herself naked before the eyes of God and marvels at her glory. She sees not just her flaws but her beauty, the way she images God in his wisdom or humor or simplicity. But just as Adam and Eve did, she knows herself to be a creature and any joy in her goodness becomes praise of her Creator.
The more I’m conformed to Christ,1 the more I’m able to look at myself and see myself as I truly am without misery. My acceptance of my whole self has mirrored my acceptance of my body. I’m sure there’s less to be pleased with now than there was back when I used to be “fat” and “ugly” but more and more I look in the mirror and see beauty. In the same way, my sins stand in starker relief now than when I first came to know the Lord, but I’m less often driven to despair. I’m more myself than I used to be, which often means louder and more intense, but somehow he’s made me more gentle, both with the souls I serve and with myself.
I’m beginning to see myself as he sees me, naked but without shame. I’ve got a long way to go, emotional perfectionist that I am, but I think now I at least know what I’m aiming for. Rather than ignoring or belittling my gifts, I spend time with the Lord letting him tell me how he loves those things about me, praising him for his mercy in letting me be of use to him. Rather than replaying moments of failure over and over, I try to offer them to the Lord and thank him for humbling me.
It’ll take a whole lot of purgatory to make me a truly humble person, but I’m beginning to be okay with that. All I can do is show up, offer myself into the hands of our merciful Lord, and ask for his grace. If the person I am is what he’s chosen to make of my efforts, I’ll praise him and keep fighting, naked without shame.
My (excessively long) name. Out of airplane pretzels. Now that’s a labor of love.
Several years ago, I took a group of high school juniors to New York City. Or, rather, Mike Verlander took them and I went along as a putative adult. It was a remarkable group of kids, the kind who thought nothing of asking me, “Do you know your vocation?” as we were walking down some Manhattan street. When you combine that kind of kids with the majesty of a well-planned trip to the Big Apple, magical things happen.
One of the highlights of the trip for me came when we met up at the Met. I had just extricated myself from a very edifying subway conversation about purgatory1 and was feeling rather glum about not having been able to finish my catechesis when Saeedah came up to me and said, “I’m going around with you. I want you to tell me everything.”
Domenico Tintoretto: The Penitent Magdalene. I could give a whole retreat conference on this one.
Now, I’m no art expert. But put me in a gallery of Renaissance paintings, and I’m amazing. The majority are scenes from the Bible or paintings of Saints and I’m a beast at that stuff. It’s actually one of my favorite ways to evangelize: take someone to a museum and then just tell them all the stories of the paintings. So I was in. We looked at Medieval reliquaries and liturgical vessels (a special exhibit) before we got to the Renaissance. I talked and talked and talked. I stared in wonder at the beauty of these pieces, took notes about which to look up later, and marveled at the emotion still brimming in eyes painted centuries before. After two hours, I was tired. There was only one thing I wanted.
“Do you mind if we find impressionism?”
Off we went in search of Monet and Degas and Renoir. When we found them, I collapsed on a bench and just breathed.
Very text-heavy and rather technical, but I was an odd 7-year-old.
Impressionism is home to me. I grew up surrounded by impressionist paintings. My favorite coloring book was an impressionist coloring book. My favorite book was about a little girl going to Giverny. I’ve been there myself–twice. I don’t much like the Louvre because it has no impressionists. I honestly think my healthy (ish) body image is partly due to Christ and partly due to the paintings of healthy, curved nudes that were all around me when I was a child. Put me in front of water lilies or pink-cheeked ballerinas and the tension will drain right out of me. So yes, I am partial.
My point, though, is not that impressionism gives rest to the soul but that beauty does. Truth inspires passion in us, fills us with zeal, and sends us joyful back to fight the good fight. Goodness reminds us of our better nature, encourages us to be made new, and sends us out to be the change. But beauty? Beauty wraps her arms around us and says, “Do not go. Just be. It is good that we are here. Just be.”
That’s how it feels to me. Perhaps because I can’t create physical beauty. I can speak truth and I can do good2 but I can only love beauty.
I’m in Arizona right now and I am surrounded by beauty. There aren’t many impressionist paintings3 but I can’t stop looking at the sky and the mountains and the flowers and just slowing down for a moment to revel. I’ve learned that I have to allot time to stop and take pictures when I’m out this way because the beauty of it all is too much for me. And thank God for that.
I’ve caught myself too many times this summer thinking “What an ugly world this is.” With ISIS and Gaza and the border and Ferguson and suicide and poverty, I’m just overwhelmed. And life is uncertain and loneliness rampant and failure a constant and maybe it’s just all too much.
And God says, “Breathe, love.”
Don’t you see what I’ve done for you?
I’ve painted the fields.
And the rocks.
And the skies.
I’ve put beauty on the side of the road.
On the city streets.
Above you.
Behind you.
Yes, my love, there is ugliness in this world. There is falsehood and evil and you must fight. But not today. Today, be still. Rest in my love. Rest in knowing that I have made this world and made it good. Rest and trust that you are good and beautiful and loved. I have painted you a picture. Your job is not to fix it or share it or analyze it. Your job is to love it. And to love me. Breathe. Just be.
This is why our Church has always sought beauty: because beauty draws our heart towards Beauty. This is why the asymmetrical brown brick monstrosities that dominated liturgical architecture for decades are worse than just ugly. This is why our music has to be more than catchy. Beauty doesn’t just remind us of God. God is Beauty. And beauty is a sharing in divinity.
So pray and preach and serve. Sacrifice for persecuted minorities in Iraq and all over the world. Evangelize. Love well. But sometime this week, take half an hour to love beauty. Find your favorite section at an art museum or climb a mountain or read some Hopkins or bring up a Rachmaninov station on Pandora or Youtube Swan Lake or find a lovely board on Pinterest if you must. Let yourself steep in beauty. Breathe. And remember the goodness of God.
The Grand Canyon’s a good place to start.
(All the above pictures are mine. You’re welcome to use them and anything on my flickr page. And I just got into Instagram, so I’ll be sharing beauty there as well.)
People near me on the subway were talking about what Catholics think about purgatory. It was clear that they both knew that they didn’t know much, so I introduced myself. “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m a Catholic theology teacher. Could I help?” They were very appreciative and it was one of the most satisfying moments of my life. Until two stops later when I had to get off and go be responsible. [↩]
Stacking his awesome Saint blocks is a quiet activity, but it’s not quite the same thing as praying.
Praying with kids is not easy. No matter how often you threaten them, they still slouch and make funny faces and take off their pants during your family rosary. And somehow they don’t look forward to half an hour of being glared and hissed at: “God is LOVE! Now pray, dammit, or I’ll smack you in the face!” They’re distracted and distracting and most of us give up on our dreams of family prayer time early in our family life because they just won’t sit down and shut up. So we settle for a rushed Hail Mary as we tuck them in and hope that somehow they miraculously learn to talk to God–something many of us seem to have missed in our catechesis as well.
Now, I’m all for family rosaries and memorized prayers, but we run into trouble when that’s the extent of how we pray with our kids. They also need to learn how to talk to God and whether you’re comfortable praying out loud or not, you’re going to have to model extemporaneous prayer for them. Let me give you a window into what it looks like when I pray with little ones, using the ACTS pattern, a model that I’ve found helpful for kids as young as 2. It’s different every night, of course, but if you’re at a loss as to how to lead your kids in anything other than “Now I lay me down to sleep,” this might be something to try.1
Jenna‘s kid. Jenna’s picture. Jenna’s generosity in letting me use it.
Adoration: Start off by telling God how great he is. Sure, he already knows, but when we love someone, we want to praise him. And when we teach children to praise, we teach them to appreciate as well.
Me: Can you tell God how great he is?
Kid: God, you’re so great.
Me: What’s so great about God? (pause) What did God do that was so great?
Kid: God, you’re so great because you made all the children.
Me: Nice work. What else?
Kid: Um…God, you’re so great because you were born in Bethlehem and you turned water into wine. God, you’re so great because you died to save me! God, you’re so great because you made me beautiful.3
Me: Good.4 My turn. God, you are so good to us. You love us even when we don’t deserve it. You forgive us no matter what. Please help us to love and forgive each other.
You’ll notice that I take what they’re doing and elevate it a little while keeping the language simple. It’s hard for kids to think about God’s more abstract qualities, for example, so I try to focus my prayer on mercy and wisdom. I also don’t force myself to stick with adoration but let it slide a little bit into petition. I think this helps kids learn that prayer doesn’t have to be so scripted.
Contrition: This part of your prayer time can serve as a little examination of conscience for you and your kids. It’s an incredibly important exercise in the Christian life and getting them started early with the idea of a daily examination is a great gift. It also teaches us to humble ourselves before the Lord and recognize our weakness in the presence of his greatness.
Me: Now can you tell God you’re sorry for something bad you did today?
Kid: God, I’m sorry I did something bad.
Me: What did you do that was bad?
Kid: I told a lie.
Me: Okay, tell God you’re sorry for that.
Kid: God, I’m sorry for telling a lie. And I’m sorry for roaring at my brother and not eating my dinner and throwing my truck and not listening to mommy.5
Me: God, I’m sorry that I lost my temper when we were at the playground today. I want to be gentle and patient. Please help me to be more like you.
I don’t know that there’s anything more powerful to a child than watching her parents submitting in contrition and humility. It shows them that you’re human and also that messing up doesn’t make you bad. And it reminds them that God is mercy. That might be a memory that they badly need down the road.
Thanksgiving: Kids are great at this. They’ll thank God for things for days if you let them. This is one type of prayer where I think adults have less to teach and more to learn. Let them roll with it and see where it goes.
Me: What’s something wonderful that happened to you today that you want to thank God for?
Kid: Thank you God that I didn’t eat spicy cheese and that Elizabeth took the diaper off the baby doll.
Me:…okay. What else are you thankful for?
Kid: What else?
Me: Just thank God for anything you like. People or things that happened or your favorite things. God gave you all those things!
Kid: Thank you God for we wish we had a kitty cat.
Me: Okay. What are some things you already have or have done that you can thank God for?
Kid: Thank you God for hot dogs and my friends at school and my Mom and Aslan and bug spray! And thank you God that I didn’t fall off the jungle gym. And thank you for my sister and my other sister and for Peg plus Cat because I love that show.
Me: And thank you God for giving us a family that loves us and for teaching us to love you. Thank you for my prayer time earlier and please forgive me for getting so distracted. Thank you for all the ways you show us your love, especially good weather and delicious food.
Listen to the little things they’re thankful for and try to be as grateful as your kids.
Supplication:6 Here’s where they get to ask God for things. I usually start with specific things, working toward the abstract and ending with “God blesses.” It’s good for them to know that God blesses us in many ways and that it’s okay to ask him for silly little things but it’s also important to ask for big things.
Me: And now what do you want to ask God for?
Kid: What?
Me: Well, what’s something you’d like to do tomorrow?
Kid: God, may I please have some grapes tomorrow?
Me: Good. Is there anything you want God to help you be?
Kid: God, please help me be…a seminarian, a deacon, and a priest!7
Me: That’s a great thing to pray for. Would you like to ask God to help you be kind and patient, too?
Kid: Yes, kind and patient and really good at soccer.
Me: And do you want to pray for anyone else?
Kid: Dear God, please bless all unborn babies with diligence.8 And please bless Mom and Dad and my brothers and sisters and all my cousins and Father Sullivan and….
Me: Father, please help me to be obedient to you, to open my heart to you and let you lead me. Please help everybody who is suffering because they love you and bless everyone who is lonely tonight.
This can also be a time to tell your kids about people who are suffering and pray together for them. I can be pretty bad at intercessory prayer, but when I ask little kids to pray for someone, they remember for months and just keep on praying. You may forget to pray for persecuted minorities in Iraq, but you’d better believe your little boy is going to want to pray for the children on the mountain who are surrounded by bad guys. It’s just another way that family makes us holy: keeping us in prayer for things we’d let our cushy lives push out of our consciousness.
Formal prayer: At this point, I ask kids to pick a favorite memorized prayer and we recite that together. Then we go into a litany of Saints where they call out all their favorites and we chorus, “Pray for us.” Finally we end with the Sign of the Cross.
It’s not quick, this approach, nor is it always the most reverent way to pray. There are lots of interruptions and reminders to stay on track. I often have to stop to define words or correct kids who see prayer time as an opportunity to be silly. But it’s simple and honest, a genuine conversation with God that’s open to the Spirit but guided by parameters. I think it teaches kids to talk to God like he’s a person–which he is.9 I think it also gives them a sense that prayer is more than just asking for things. It might not fit into your bedtime routine every night, especially if you have several kids. But at least on Sundays, make the time to be vulnerable and pray extemporaneously with your kids. If you’re anything like me, it’ll be good for your prayer life, too.
Every weird thing in here has actually come out of the mouth of a child I was praying with. If nothing else, try this for the great stories you’ll end up with. [↩]
Probably 75% of kids I pray with are most excited that God made children. [↩]
This last one was my niece the other night. I’m so excited that she still thinks she’s beautiful, I won’t even call her on pride masquerading as prayer. [↩]
Clearly I’m not of the school of thought that objects to praising kids. [↩]
Some kids really get into this. It’s awesome. But no fair punishing a kid for a minor infraction that you found out about during prayer. [↩]
If you’re teaching them the acronym ACTS, supplication might throw them for a loop. Try Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Someone or Something. Really, though, the acronym is more for you. [↩]
I remember, some ten years ago, falling on my knees at Notre Dame’s grotto, disconsolate. I had plenty of friends, I thought, but I was so alone. Nobody really knew me, nobody understood. I turned my heart to heaven and begged the Lord for one friend.
“I just need one person who really loves me!” I cried out, and I got the distinct feeling that he answered: It’s me.
“No, I know. But I just need someone who’s going to be on my side.” Yup. Me.
“Right, but I’m just so alone. I don’t even need someone who’ll give me advice, just someone who’ll listen.” I’m listening.
“No, but somebody who really knows me, who gets me.” Yes.
“And who loves me anyway.” Right.
“Jesus, I get that you love me, but I just need a friend!” Yes. You need me. And that’s all you need.
I quit my temper tantrum eventually and started to listen. I started to see how he had been loving me so well for so long but how he had recently started to wean me off the friendships that I’d turned into idols. He’d broken down the walls of popularity I’d built around my heart, forced me to take my troubles to him instead of to half a dozen people who’d agree with whatever conclusions I’d already come to. I’d just finished one of the hardest years of my life and I’d come out more alone than I’d felt in years. Because all the love in my life had been separating me from him.
I spent the next year learning what it meant to be loved by God. I learned to process my wild emotions in prayer instead of on Instant Messenger. I wept in prayer instead of in Starbucks and let him define me. After years of following the Lord, I began to love him with an intimacy I’d never imagined. And I found that I wasn’t lonely anymore.
The kind of friends who are always up for a little prayer time. Even on the way to a wedding.
And then he gave me friends. Incredible friends, the kind who ruin you for relationships with less amazing people. And I was mostly happy, but not always. Those friends married and started families while I was still alone. And the loneliness returned, causing me to question whether I was worthy of love. But I ran to the Lord and he reminded me who I am in him.
I moved into the real world and tried to find friends outside the beautiful community of Notre Dame. Turns out, it’s not that easy. While I loved my kids more than I could have imagined, I didn’t have much of a community. But God shook the complacency of my heart and I began to fall in love with him.
I entered a convent and left to find myself surrounded by people who couldn’t understand the heartbreak of giving your life away and then having it given back. I was shaken and confused and nobody sensed that, nobody got it. So I turned again to the God who listens and understands and loves me the more for my brokenness.
Not all of them. Some of them look at me like this. And it’s all worth it.
I moved again, built relationships again, and found that as much as I loved my kids they were always going to ignore and betray and reject me. So I turned to the Lord again, handed him my bleeding heart again, and asked him how I could keep doing this, how I could keep standing alone and loving people who would spit in my face for my troubles. And he showed me his bloody, bruised, thorn-pierced image and reminded me that this is exactly what love is.
Again and again, the Lord leads me into loneliness—or perhaps I run there on my own—so that I’ll turn to him again, find myself in him again, let him be my rock again. And I’m so grateful.
Since I started hoboing, I’ve been asked again and again, “Aren’t you lonely?”
“No.” I’ve glibly responded. “I spend time with the Lord every day, and he’s the most important person in my life. Besides, I get to see all kinds of wonderful people in my travels.” It’s true, of course. I see my best friends more than I ever did when I had to live in one place all the time, 600 or 1000 or 3000 miles away. And the only thing that keeps me sane is my time with Jesus, when I sit before the Blessed Sacrament and am known and loved.
But lately, I’ve been a little lonely. Not having a community will do that to you, I suppose. But I think it’s more than that. I think it’s a gift: God making me ache for something more so that I’ll draw deeper into him. And I hope you feel it too.
I hope you’re lonely. Regardless of how much your spouse loves you or how many friends you have who understand and encourage and challenge you, I hope you’re lonely. I hope that none of your relationships leave you satisfied. Because they aren’t made to satisfy. The only relationship that will ever satisfy you is your relationship with God. Any time you find yourself convinced that somebody else completes you, take a step back. It’s idolatry. And it’s a lie. People will sin. They’ll misunderstand. They’ll expect less of you than what you’re capable of. Your husband, your daughter, your spiritual director, your best friend: they’re not enough. And while it’s a grace that we may feel satisfied for a time, the loneliness will always return to remind us that the only one who will complete us is the Lover of our souls.
Remember this when you’re lonely: you will find what you long for only in the one who created you, the one who died for you, the one who knows you through and through and loves you just the same. Let that loneliness drive you to the foot of the Cross, where Love was poured out for you. You are not alone. You are loved beyond imagining. And the loneliness that reminds you of your need for that love is a gift.
Not a guilt trip, just an invitation to reconsider your priorities. If the purpose of your life is to be a saint, what’s stopping you? Maybe daily Mass is impossible for you. But if it’s just that you’re lazy or busy or easily bored…think about that.
There’s one piece of advice that I probably give more than any other. In fact, I usually give it as homework when I speak to a group:
Spend fifteen minutes in silence with the Lord every day. No music, no rosary, no Bible, just you and Jesus and the awkwardness of silence.
In my experience, Catholics aren’t often encouraged just to have quiet time with the Lord, although I can’t imagine there are any Saints who didn’t do that on a daily basis. But silence means vulnerability and dealing with our issues and letting God into our mess and listening to him and isn’t it easier just to dash off a half-hearted rosary and call yourself good?
Now the rosary is a beautiful prayer and y’all know I love the Bible and the Mass and every other Catholic devotion. But there is no substitute for silent time with the Lord. It’s easy to use the beautiful prayers of our tradition to keep God at arm’s length. Not so easy when it’s just you and him and a whole lot of nothing else.
So I tell people to make a commitment to silent prayer, which is all well and good but most of us don’t know how to pray. The response I hear most often is, “I don’t know what to say.”
“I was there. I took pictures. Shut up about the playground already!” #parentingfail #youneedanapMax
Here’s how you start: just talk. God just wants to hear your voice. Tell him about your day. “But he already knows all that!” Yes, but he wants to hear you say it. Just like you enjoy hearing your three-year-old tell you about story time even though you were there with him, God likes listening to you talk. And when you start talking, he starts showing you what was really going on.
One of the most important elements of my prayer life is my nightly chat with the Lord. I start off talking to him about the big things that are weighing on my heart and then go through my day from the very beginning. I don’t take it minute by minute, but I hit the highlights. It gives me a chance to deal with some of my unresolved thoughts about the day. And the more I talk to him (and, especially, the more I’m steeped in Scripture and the liturgy) the more my reflections on the day turn to praise or contrition or thanksgiving or supplication. I start off shallow, but the Spirit starts to move and my lame rundown of the day’s events becomes so much more. Then I end by choosing the best and worst moments of the day and praying over those and then asking a particular grace for the next day.
To give you an idea of what I’m talking about, here’s what my prayer looked like tonight. I took out some of the more personal parts and condensed some of the stuff that got long, but this is pretty much what I’m talking about. Enjoy your visit inside my head.
Ooh, it was hard to wake up this morning. Which is probably because I was an idiot last night and stayed up way too late reading. Lord, will you make me more prudent and help me to get some sleep? But I made it through the whole day without coffee, so that was kind of great. Save the good stuff for when I really need it.
Then I went to Mass, which was…I don’t really remember much about it. I know I wasn’t falling asleep. I just wasn’t really paying attention. Because I mostly don’t pay attention at Mass. I guess I forget Mass is prayer and just think of it as something I have to do. I’m not sure really how to fix that. Get there earlier? Just be more present? In any event, help me to pray the Mass instead of just showing up.
I came back and helped get the kids ready. God, I love those kids! Thank you so much that I get to be their aunt and that I get to spend time with them this summer. Help me love them well. And you know what? The car ride wasn’t bad! I mean, Mary Claire was kind of a disaster. But Elizabeth slept, so thanks for that. And Mary Claire mostly wailed quietly. Plus we prayed a Rosary. Well, we said a Rosary. I was pretty wildly distracted, but darling, it’s just the best I can do today. I love that you’re okay with even my feeble attempts. But do make me holy.
And we got to Grandmother’s house and John Paul wasn’t a disaster. I don’t think he broke a single thing! Well, the pool noodle, but all told, it was pretty impressive. Thanks for how he’s growing and figuring out how to interact with people and the world. I’d say he’s getting more normal, but that will never happen–and thank you for that! Just let him be a force for you, love.
Chick Fil-A was awesome. Man, I love that place. Thanks for the Solemnity so I could have chicken nuggets and a milkshake on Friday! Oh, I guess also thanks for the Solemnity because it’s a beautiful celebration. The Sacred Heart–Come to me, all you who labor and are heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.1 What a grace it is to rest in you, Lord. Thank you for holding me close, for just seeing the mess I am and loving me and wanting me and even using me. I just want to be all yours, love, to give myself for the salvation of sinners and the glory of your name. Yeah, that’s what today was about. But also, thanks for the milkshake.
And that thing Grandmother said–that was so kind of her! Help me to be the person she thinks I am, to deserve such a compliment. Ugh, and help me not to judge people so much. I’m just such a jerk. But you’re teaching me, aren’t you? I’m sorry. Oh, heal me!
She is something else, Grandmother. 94 years old and she suggests that we take a walk down to the river! I mean, I want to die young because I’m lazy, but if I have to live a long life (and I’m sure I do), could I age like that? Healthy and active and lucid? Your will, though. If I need to suffer, let it be done unto me. Just…help me endure it.
But I love watching her with the kids. And they really did such a great job! Even on the car ride home–well, until the end, but that wasn’t so bad, all things considered. And dinner was crazy but not too bad. Thank you that Elizabeth wanted to go to bed early so she wasn’t in the mix when Mary Claire had her disaster. You sure know what we can handle. And thank you that I was here at all! Poor Rosie might have been overcome with all that tonight, and pregnant to boot. Thank you that they’re so open to life and to letting me love their little ones.
And then I went to the library and it was closed, which is really frustrating. But, in retrospect, probably a good thing. Maybe this way I’ll get to bed at a reasonable hour, since I won’t have a book to read. I’ll just have to pretend the internet doesn’t exist. Oh, Buzzfeed. If I were a Saint, I probably wouldn’t care so much about which P.G. Wodehouse character I am or why Fred and George are the best characters in Harry Potter. (28 reasons!) Maybe it’s legitimate leisure. After all, when do I really get to chill during the day? But I should probably balance leisure with sleep….
Man it’s cold in here. But it’s June so maybe I should stop whining and ask you to bless people who can’t afford air conditioning instead. God, help the poor. And show me how you want me to help them. I feel like my heart is so drawn to evangelization that there isn’t anything left for serving the poor, but Pope Francis might not be on board with that.
Oh, and then finally I got my chapel time. And I don’t know what you’re doing, Lord, but I’m in. I’m going to try to keep my heart more open and just be more aware of where you’re leading and we’ll just see where we end up. Thank you that I was totally conscious for the whole meditation. And I think getting back to On the Incarnation after so many years is going to be really good. The Sheed book is starting to drag a little.
Okay, so I need to start sending emails about July and August and tomorrow I’m just going to need you to teach me to be selfless. When I’m on baby duty, time for us doesn’t always happen when I want it to. It’s a grace that I usually get to live on your time, but help me not to be resentful tomorrow.
Best part of today? Honestly, probably sitting with you tonight. But I also just love being with those kids. Oh, no–when Elizabeth saw me this morning and I asked for a kiss and she lit up and ran to me. Help me to love better.
Worst part? Definitely when Mary Claire pooped on Cecilia and then we were cleaning that up and Rosie knocked over my coffee and then when we were cleaning that up Mary Claire peed on the rug. Oy, what a mess! But we were both pretty chill, which was an absolute grace. She’s such a good mom. Make her a saint. And thanks for letting me watch her grow. It’s pretty amazing to see.
Jesus, I love you. Teach me, draw me, forgive me, heal me. Make me holy. Amen.
Shallow in parts, intense in parts. Yours doesn’t have to use any fancy language or Bible verses. It’s often better if you don’t. God doesn’t want poetry, he wants reality. And if your reality is ugly or simple or dull, offer him that. Give him yourself.
I’m going to challenge anyone reading this who doesn’t spend time in silent prayer every day to do this for the next month. Set a timer for 15 minutes if you want.2 Pray in the morning or at lunchtime if bedtime isn’t good for you. But don’t feel like the fact that you don’t know what to say is any excuse. We don’t any of us know what to say, not even St. Paul!3 Just start talking. Every day. It’ll get easier and you’ll get holier and God will start doing marvelous things. Start shallow–with your boring life that the God of the universe somehow finds enthralling–and see where God takes you.
I just set the time before my phone screen shuts off and then if it’s dark when I feel like I’m done, I’m good. If it’s not, I circle back to something important. [↩]
There’s something about the word “home” that’s always sparked a feeling of longing in me. Simon and Garfunkel’s “Homeward Bound” was my favorite song for much of high school,1 promising a place all my own where someone was waiting for me. In college, I found myself praying the chorus of “Feels Like Home” more times than I can count, aching for a place where I belonged. Lately I’ve felt “Let Me Go Home” running through my soul when I’m sitting with Jesus, my heart desperate to finish my exile. And today, I find tears in my eyes every time I watch the end of “The Wizard of Ahhhs.” (The whole thing is incredible, but I start getting wistful at 4:30.)
I guess home’s always felt like more than just the place you get your mail. It’s a place where you belong, where people miss you and love you flaws-and-all but challenge you to be better. It’s a place where you can sit and let the stress melt off, where you can be real. It’s a place where no one judges you for sleeping in and you don’t have to ask where the spatula goes. It’s a place where you don’t have to make small talk, where you can sit in companionable silence or pour out the mundane agonies of the day. It’s a place where you’re totally comfortable and pushed out of your comfort zone. It’s a place where you fit.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home.
Not just the two years I’ve been officially homeless, either. For years before that I was in other people’s space, never truly settled. The house I had in Georgia–five years ago–was kind of home. It was my place, anyway, where I could be real. But even there something was missing. There wasn’t a community that loved and challenged and supported and stretched me. Maybe for most people there isn’t. But that’s what my heart’s been longing for lately.
These past few days–after a week with a community of young people who are truly seeking Christ–I’ve realized just how much I want a home. And it’s not just the little things about feeling comfortable raiding the fridge or knowing where things go. I visit any number of homey places and lots of families who are incredibly hospitable. No, it’s the knowing and being known that I long for. It’s friends I can cry with who I see more than once every six months. It’s being able to turn off, to quit the small talk and the answering of the same questions I’ve answered a million times while still being drawn into deep reflection.
The view from my second-favorite spot.
I was praying on this tonight, asking the Lord if this longing for a home is his way of leading me to settle down or if it’s just more of my restless heart longing for heaven. I started thinking about how the chapel I was in, my “home” chapel, didn’t even feel like home despite the fact that I’ve been going there (on occasion, anyway) for almost 15 years. Despite the fact that I’ve spent more time there than almost any other chapel in the world. And then it struck me.
This chapel is home.
This chapel is home and the cathedral is home and the random airport chapel with a tabernacle tucked in the corner is home, too. The side room on an Army post with an office chair facing the makeshift altar is home. The Cathedral of Notre Dame and the Basilica at Notre Dame2 and the roadside chapel are home.
Home is where he is.
Home is where I belong. It’s where he misses me and loves me and challenges me to be better. Home is where I look at him and let out a deep breath, all the forced cheerfulness sliding away to show how very tired or confused or hopeful I am. Home is where I have to wrestle with the issues I try to avoid. Home is the Eucharist.
On Corpus Christi3 Sunday, I could meditate on the Eucharist as the consummation of our marriage with Christ. I could explain the Eucharist or defend it using Scripture or the Fathers. I could muse on why God gave us the Eucharist. But all I can think today is that the Eucharist means that no Christian is homeless. It’s the reason I’m alone but I’m not lonely.
Everything Jesus promises in John’s Last Supper is fulfilled in the Eucharist. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he begs. “Where I am, you also may be.”4 “I will not leave you orphans,” he promises. “I will come to you.”5 “Remain in my love,”6 he commands, knowing that it will be possible only because he comes to us. “Your joy will be complete…and no one will take your joy from you,”7 says Christ our joy, and draws us deeper into his embrace. And to hearts weighed down by the sorrows of this life, our God made weak whispers, “Take courage. I have conquered the world.”8
St. Augustine
I know my solitary hobo life isn’t natural.9 And maybe one day my longing for home will find some fulfillment in a place I belong and a community that calls me to holiness. But I don’t think I’ll ever really feel at home. This restless heart of mine will never find rest in this world because this world is not my home. The closest I’ll get this side of heaven is the taste of heaven I receive each day, the God who’s the same wherever I am, whether I’m lost and alone or surrounded by people who love me. The Eucharist is home.
Happy Feast of Corpus Christi. May we find fulfillment only in Christ, our hope, our joy, our home.
And the inspiration for “Derivative Bound,” a pre-calculus project for the ages. [↩]
One question I often hear as I travel about the country is generally posed by a member of the older crowd, often prefaced by disparaging remarks about my generation.
“Do you see any hope for the Church?” they ask disconsolately.
Hope for the Church? Hope for the Church?? By definition there is hope for the Church. Jesus told us when he founded it that the gates of hell would not prevail against it. There is always hope for the Church because the hope of the Church is Christ, victor over death.
Still, I know what they mean, these faithful grandparents who feel as though they haven’t seen a twenty-something at Mass in twenty years. They see babies having babies and pews standing empty. They watch divorce rates rise even as sacramental marriage rates plummet. There sometimes seems little hope in a Church that’s accused of being irrelevant.
4 million followers isn’t that much, apparently, but if you add together all the languages he tweets in he’s in the top 50 in the world.
But ah, there is hope. There is hope in youth programs filled with kids who love Christ. There is hope in the flourishing campus ministry centers, hope in the young families with four and five and six kids and enough John Pauls and Thereses to stock a Catholic gift shop. There is hope in long confession lines and in the wild popularity of @Pontifex.
There is hope in every tabernacle and every Sunday School classroom, but nowhere have I seen more hope than in the home where I ate dinner last night.
Gathered around kitchen table and dining table and card tables were a dozen deacons, all of whom will be ordained in the next few weeks, a handful of seminarians, a bishop, half a dozen priests, and assorted non-clerical types. I’d accidentally shared a holy hour with five of the deacons earlier in the day, startled from my silent distraction by the sight of these strong young men dropping to their knees before a God made weak. Over a marvelous dinner, I saw the fruit of many such holy hours in the kind eyes and passionate conversation of these godly men, each one eager not for the honor due to a priest but for the sacrifice required of a victim.
This morning, a dear friend, Father Joe Kirkconnell, was ordained down here on Grand Cayman and his seminary classmates are here to celebrate with him. Father Joe is a quietly holy man, a man more humbled and overjoyed and astonished at the grace of ordination than any I’ve seen. He is intelligent and pious and kind and somehow he is shocked that God would give him this gift. After the election of the candidate (when the bishop declared that he would be ordained), he let out a joyful sigh of relief, as if even during his ordination Mass he had been afraid they might change their minds. It’s enough to make a person weep,1 seeing how grateful he is for what so many would consider a cross.
But this is priesthood. These men don’t feel they’re doing the Church a favor. They’re awestruck by the magnitude of what is being given them. “These hands,” one said to me. “These hands with their long fingers and their odd wrinkles–these hand will consecrate, will bring God to earth.” They are longing to serve, longing to sacrifice, longing to lay down their lives for their sheep.
Now, I’m notorious for going all catholic fangirl on seminarians, but this time you would have done the same. Watching these men, these brothers in Christ and soon to be brother priests, tease each other over their reactions to stingrays, spend an evening filling glasses and taking plates in service to the others in attendance, and roar with laughter at stories that ended with the punchline, “I never should have asked a liturgist,”2 I was overwhelmed by their joy, their goodness, their servants’ hearts and love for truth.
The first time I asked Fr. Joe if he thought he might become a priest, years ago after we prayed our usual rosary in his dorm chapel, he looked wistfully at me and said, “I hope so.” There was no pride, no indecision, just a longing to belong to Christ and serve his Church. Today, he lay on his face on the floor of the church and offered his life irrevocably to you, whoever you are. Others did the same all over the world. And next week there will be more, and the week after. On and on throughout the summer and beyond.
This year and next year and every year until the end of time, there will be men who throw away perfectly good lives to live for the people of God. And these young men who taunt each other and encourage each other and challenge each other and pray for each other give me hope. Oh, there are bad priests out there. But there are so very many men who are laying down their lives, holding nothing back, pouring themselves out for people who see nothing beyond the collar. Pray for them. Invite them to dinner. Thank them for their service. Go to Mass. Go to confession. (There’s no greater gift you can give a good priest than your sins.) These men who absolve and instruct and consecrate and suffer for you are, along with so many other God-lovers, hope for the Church. May God grant us holy priests.
My dear Fathers, thank you. Thank you for the gift of your life.
Which I did. I probably cried 25 times today. Oh, how I love the priesthood and holy priests! [↩]
Today would have been my father‘s 56th birthday, but he died suddenly in November so it’s not.
With me on my baptism day, December 18, 1983. This is a very exciting picture because we’re both wearing shirts. I have discovered in recent months that this was unusual (for both of us) during the early years of my life.
And maybe I’m heartless and self-obsessed, but I’m mostly okay. Oh, when total strangers push for gruesome details of his death1 I sometimes lose it, but most of the time remembering him is more sweet than bitter, and I think I have theology to thank for it. More specifically, the doctrine of purgatory.
Every time I miss him, I pray for him. It’s not a discipline I’ve imposed on myself, it’s the natural reaction of a heart far from the one she loves. And suddenly I’m not so helpless in the face of death. If he needs anything, I can do something. I can pray for him. Purgatory helps me keep loving him–not just a feeling, but true love: sacrifice for the good of the other.
My father was a very broken man and reminiscing about him often shines a light on his flaws. One almost feels compelled to ignore his faults, but purgatory gives you permission to be real about them, to acknowledge them without despair. As far as I can tell, he died in a state of grace. But he had a tendency to revel in resentment and self-pity, among other imperfections. “Nothing unclean can enter heaven,”2 the Lord tells me, but not to worry. I don’t have to whitewash his memory to be confident in his salvation, because God’s bleaching his soul in preparation for his marriage feast. He’s stretching him and healing him and turning his weeping into joy. In purgatory, the Lord makes all things new. My father wasn’t perfect, but he’s being made perfect by the blood of Christ.
In so many ways, he was a wonderful father. But there were years when it seemed as though he couldn’t be my daddy because he was so caught up in himself. I have no desire for revenge, but with real relationships–especially when death is sudden–there’s a feeling that it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he didn’t have to make up for his failings, not fair that he never knew how he hurt me and now he just gets to be done and go be happy with Jesus. But in purgatory he knows. God help him, he sees every least way he hurt those he loved (and those he should have loved) and he’s praying and suffering to make up for it now, by God’s grace. It’s just the way he would want it, this opportunity to atone, and it brings healing and closure to our relationship because I know that he’s still working at it just as much as I am. His death doesn’t make our relationship any less human, and as I continue to heal and forgive and ask forgiveness, I know he’s walking beside me along the same path of healing.
There’s joy, of course, in our communion with the Church Triumphant. Whether he’s in purgatory or heaven, he’s praying for me. He’s praying hard for my unbelieving brothers.3 Whether he’s a saint or a suffering soul, I can speak to him. I can ask his forgiveness or laugh at something with him or just tell him I still love him when I see the little bald guy on the Tonight Show, the guy he and I always cheered for and I never knew why. There are no “if onlys,” not really, because there is no true separation among those who love the Lord, even if a veil divides us for a time.
The communion of saints is a joy indeed, the logical result of a God who is love. But purgatory is such a gift, a gratuitous outpouring of God’s mercy on the deceased and those who mourn. I need this–I need to know that I can do something for him, that he’s growing, that the Lord won’t leave him as he was. I need to hear my Church stand with me in praying for him day in and day out. I need to rejoice in mercy while rejoicing also in justice.
For some people, purgatory is a stumbling block. For others, it’s a temptation to aim for mediocrity. For me, purgatory is a consolation, a spiritual necessity, and a grace. I don’t expect everyone to be cool with tragedy because of this doctrine of purgatory, but it sure has given me peace. Before, it was always something I’d argued for, never something I’d rejoiced in. Now, I’m so thankful to belong to a Church that recognizes that not even death can separate us because not even death can stop the merciful love of Jesus.
Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer, happy birthday! Rest in peace.
This weekend, I had the honor of singing at the wedding of a former student and his lovely bride. It was a profoundly moving ceremony and the most beautiful wedding reception I’ve ever been to, but what made the day so marvelous was knowing the happy couple. Andy and Suzy love each other deeply (though they love God more). They are kind and joyful and loving towards everyone they meet and watching the way they love each other–Andy so filled with joy as he watched Suzy walk towards him that he actually laughed out loud and Suzy even more radiant than usual when she gazed on her beloved–has reminded me once again what it means to be in love with Love himself.
Remember when you first fell in love?1 How thoughts of the beloved would push their way into your mind unsolicited? How every decision was made with him in mind–what you’d wear, what you’d read, how you’d walk to class? Remember spending the day filing things away to tell him about? Longing to be with him? Aching over the distance that still had to separate you?
Remember when you were first engaged? How all you could think about was becoming a woman who deserved him? How you could hardly bear to keep your distance? How you were almost consumed by a desire to be his, to bring more of his life into the world?
Remember when you were first married? How you couldn’t wait to get home to him? How the world more beautiful because he was in it, more beautiful because you were his? Remember looking in the mirror and rejoicing at the gift your body was to him? Knowing you were beautiful because you saw yourself through his eyes?
My friends, that is the love God desires from you. When he speaks of his love in Scripture, he calls himself our bridegroom2 and our lover.3 He describes our relationship with him not as a contract but as a covenant, a marriage, a love affair.
This isn’t the unique realm of consecrated women–or even of women, as St. John of the Cross would be quick to point out. Every person is called to a wild, passionate, being-in-love with the Lord. What if your relationship with Christ were less a series of obligations and more an enthrallment? Oh, you can’t manufacture feelings like that. But you can do your best to view Jesus as your beloved and not just some God-man who wants you to be good. What if you made every decision with him in mind? Stopped to talk to him about the things that excite or upset you? What if you asked him to make you long for him? If you looked at him in the Eucharist and tried to imagine what it would mean to be in love with him?
What if your purpose in life was to try to deserve him? What if you asked him to let a desire for him consume you? If you saw yourself through his eyes and knew that your life was a gift to him? If you made every decision because you are his, holding nothing back?
This mosaic from the St. Louis Cathedral shows the Cross as a marriage bed. I got so excited! But then the picture was dim and so I tried to fix it and kind of failed. But you get the picture.
The only reason romantic love exists at all is to teach us the way God loves us and the way he wants us to love him. Scripture is saturated with this imagery of God as lover.4 Jesus tells us again and again that he is the bridegroom.5 When he handed himself over for us on the marriage bed of the Cross, his body cried out in the language of marital love, “I give myself completely to you forever.” At each Mass, he speaks again through the priest, “This is my body which will be given up for you.” “I give myself completely to you forever,” he says, and we walk down the aisle to receive our groom.
What if we just tried to view the Eucharist like it was the supreme act of love, the consummation of our union with Christ? What if we approached the Mass like it was our wedding–or at least a date? Like it was more than just a box to check but an opportunity for communion with the Lord? Like it was the most important moment of our week?
Of course, love isn’t always pleasant and it isn’t always easy. Remember when it all started to fade, when you lost the love you had at first?6 When it was hard to find things to talk about? When he began to seem too demanding? Remember how you stopped thrilling at the sight of him? That’s part of love, too. It’s the part, I think, when love becomes real. It’s no longer about us. It’s not about feelings or fun. It’s a choice made for the beloved. We choose to love, choose to spend time together. We work at love not because of what our lover can give us but because of who he is.
Maybe this is where you are. Maybe you’ve had the butterflies and the longing for heaven and now you’re just trudging through. Maybe prayer is boring and living for Christ just seems too hard. That’s when it’s time to double down. Just like you wouldn’t quit on your marriage,7 don’t quit on this love. Don’t settle for mediocrity. Fight for this love. Read up on some strategies for prayer or just commit to doing it without any strategies. Start talking to God, even if you have nothing to say. Spend more time with him, not less. It’s okay that it’s not fun–it’s still good. And it’s worth fighting for.
I guess I’m just saying that if you’ve been settling for doctrines and pious practices and rules, know that there is more. All those things are designed by God to lead you to what really matters: being in love with him. So many of us are pushing through the day-to-day without any attention to God beyond the obligatory grace before meals–or going to daily Mass and praying the Office and the Rosary without a spirit of love. The Lord is offering you more than a membership card with the occasional obligation attached; he’s offering you a love affair of the most passionate sort, a relationship that shakes your world, that defines you, that fills your heart and still leaves you longing. You may never thrill to the thought of a holy hour, but your life can be so much more than just the things of this world with a side of Jesus. It can be beautiful, intense, amazing, terrifying, and real. But he’s a gentleman. He won’t force you. He’ll keep chasing you, but eventually you have to stop running and draw near to the God who is closer to you than you are to yourself.
It’s a choice, just like love is a choice. It’s a choice to spend time with him every day, a choice to pay attention when you’re there. It’s a choice to see the world through his eyes, a choice to make him more than just an obligation. It’s a choice to live like a woman in love and I’ve found that the more you make that choice, the more you find that’s exactly what you are: a woman in love with Love himself. What a gift.
Guys, I’m going to direct this at the women since I have no idea what it’s like for a man to fall in love and I don’t know how to talk about men being in love with a God who primarily reveals himself as masculine. Do what you will with it. [↩]
In the same way, the humble soul sees herself naked before the eyes of God and marvels at her glory. She sees not just her flaws but her beauty, the way she images God in his wisdom or humor or simplicity. But just as Adam and Eve did, she knows herself to be a creature and any joy in her goodness becomes praise of her Creator.
