Beauty Archives - Page 9 of 14 Held By His Pierced Hands

Your Body Is a Temple–a Stunning, Gorgeous, Incredible Temple

I’m a huge fan of the Bible. I’ve read it almost a dozen times (Want to join me?) and there are parts that hit me every time. I buy purses only if they’ll fit my Bible, shake with anxiety when I hand it over to be rebound, and still read with a pencil in hand. Because the Word of God is ever ancient, ever new. I just love it.

But some parts are terribly boring. I know in theory that they’re good somehow and every once in a while I’ll meditate on how God loved each person in the interminable Genesis begats, loved each one so much that he recorded their names for all the world to read forever. But mostly Jesus and I have come to an agreement: I skim. When it’s repetitive lists of numbers or names or dimensions, I just skim. And I’m okay with that.

Yesterday I hit 1 Kings 6: Building of the Temple. I sighed and began to skim. But I was about to give a talk on the Theology of the Body and I guess I had beauty on the brain, because all of a sudden I got it.

God spends a lot of time describing his dwelling place in the Old Testament. Exodus 25, 26, 27, 30, 36, 37, 38, and 40 describe in mind-numbingly minute detail how the ark and the tent and the lamps and the altar are to be made. There’s even a tally of materials to be used–he was very specific. 1 Kings 5 and 1 Chronicles 28-29 describe the materials dedicated for the temple while 1 Kings 6 and 2 Chronicles 3-4 describe Solomon’s temple exactly–to the point that we believe we can make accurate models today. After Solomon’s temple is destroyed, we have two entire books (Haggai and Zechariah) encouraging Israel to rebuild the temple, as described in Ezra 5. Then, of course, there’s the interminable description of a new temple in Ezekiel 40-48 and the (different) new temple in Revelation. It’s enough to drive a person to distraction!

Especially if you, like me, can't picture it at all, no matter how often you read the description. Source. — Especially if you, like me, can’t picture it at all, no matter how often you read the description. Source.

But what if all this temple nonsense isn’t a waste of time? What if it’s in the Bible because it’s of infinite importance? What if God mapped out every cubit of space, every pomegranate and cherub, every tent pole and gate, down to even naming the pillars…to teach us something?

Obviously, there’s plenty we can do with this: Jesus is the perfectly made temple of God, God incarnate; the temple was pure and undefiled, so Mary (the temple that held Christ) must be as well; if beauty and liturgy mattered then, they matter now. But what grabbed ahold of me yesterday was this key to the meaning of all this temple business:

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God, and that you are not your own? For you have been purchased at a price. Therefore, glorify God in your body.¹

Christians have used this passage at every chastity rally since chastity rallies began. Before that, little Regency-era ladies whispered it to their daughters before they took a turn about the garden with a suitor. I’m pretty sure that had the early virgin martyrs had tattoos, they would have been of this passage. We know this passage. “You are a temple of God” means “keep your clothes on.”

Or maybe it means don’t smoke or eat right or exercise or something. Whatever it means, it’s definitely a threat.

But what if it’s not? What if it’s a love letter? What if God calls you his temple in the hope that you’ve struggled through the endless descriptions of his temple of stone and will realize what he’s saying about you? What if he’s saying that you are fearfully and wonderfully made?

Dear heart, you are not an accident. There is no part of you that is not willed–deeply, desperately desired–by the God of the universe. This God of yours–the God who made oceans and volcanoes and lilacs and hummingbirds–he was just warming up. The greatest beauty in this world is nothing compared to you. From the beginning of time, he was preparing for you. And when he made you–your body, not just your soul–he made you right.

He planned every bit of you. Every atom in your being was accounted for. You think he spent a lot of time thinking about the temple? That house of stone has nothing on you, his living home, his beloved. Your proportions are just what he wanted. Your coloring, your shape, your hair texture have purpose and meaning just as much as any horns or wheels or basins.

And the result, my friend, is ineffable beauty. You are his temple, stunning and lovely. Every bit of you is covered in glory, as the inside of the temple was covered in gold. You are so much more than the sum of your various parts. Listed out on a page, taken piece by piece, it may be easy to overlook you, easy to skim over you. But all together, you are marvelous, a wonder, a sight to behold.

Now wait a minute. You–rolling your eyes. Shut up. I’m not making this up. This isn’t sappy nonsense about how you’re so pretty just because you’re you. This is truth. Written in the word of God. The God who tells you that you are all beautiful and there is no blemish in you.² Did you hear that? No blemish. This God who made your creepy long second toe and your moles and your love handles, this God who can see every bit of your body and soul says there is nothing wrong with you. Nothing.

You might struggle to accept the fact that you’re lovely, but if you refuse to believe it your self-loathing might just become heresy: the heresy that God screwed up. That even though he tells you in Scripture that every bit of the temple is perfect and planned and that you are his temple, he’s wrong. Got that? Hating yourself is saying that God is wrong.

I know this is hard. I spend my life trying to convince beautiful women that they’re not worthless. I’ve asked young women across this country–hundreds of them–if at some level they hate themselves. One girl one time said no. So I know that many of you are absolutely certain that no matter what you do you will never be enough. Believe me, I know. I’ve been there. Many days, I’m still there. But every once in a while I get a glimpse of this fundamental truth: God doesn’t make junk. He didn’t plan out every square cubit of the temple down to the last talent of bronze and then lament that it wasn’t decorated well. He didn’t form you in your mother’s womb to sigh over your frizzy hair and your acne-ridden skin. He made you–just as you are–on purpose. He thinks you’re stunning.

Stop telling him he’s wrong.

1 Corinthians 6:19-20 [↩]
Song of Songs 4:7 [↩]

Faith Like a Toddler

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s taking literally anything–any story, joke, momentary distraction–and relating it to Jesus. So I know you’re wondering what I managed to make of this:

Well, I’m guest-posting over at Jenna’s today, so you’ll have to click over there to find out.

Also, Dwija is awesome and funny and pretty much great at life and I wish I were her friend–not least because of this post. But she’s struggling right now. She’s pregnant with baby number 6 and it’s not going well and–as if she needed more drama in her life–her laundry room is a disaster. Think you could stop over to Cari’s to make a quick donation? Think of it as the donation you’d make to my ministry if you ever met me.¹

Please?

Although really, if you haven’t, it’s your own fault. I’ve been to 42 states and I’m hitting New England in September to bring it up to 48. If you want to hang out, you just have to ask. [↩]

What to Do When Mass Is Awful

One downside to being a hobo is that there’s no vetting parishes before deciding to go to Mass there. Whether it’s stopping at a parish in Kentucky because its noon Mass fit my 12-hour drive or going to the only church in Abilene, KS, I don’t always have a lot of choice in the matter. And when I do, I don’t tend to have enough information that I can avoid sketchy parishes. The result, of course, is that I go to a lot of…trying Masses.

One particularly frustrating Mass got me thinking, some time after the rain stick and before I noticed half a dozen adults chewing gum. As I tried to ignore the murmured conversations all around me (because, really, why listen to the Mass?), the Lord reminded me that there’s very little that can ruin the Mass. Oh, there’s plenty that can ruin my focus or my prayer or even the state of my soul if I let it, but almost nothing actually has the power to ruin the goodness that is the Mass.

Things that can’t ruin Mass (although not for lack of trying):¹

Not even seafoam carpeting and cinder block walls can ruin Mass. I promise.

Ugly sanctuaries. And not just the brown brick monstrosities of my youth. I’m talking a picture of MLK Jr. hanging to the right of the altar. However much you respect the work he did, the man is not a Saint.
People chewing gum. Never okay in a house of worship, but I’m sure you knew that.
People dressed immodestly. Leggings are not pants and if you’re convinced that shorts are Sunday-Mass-appropriate, please do make sure that they cover your butt. Also, what’s with all the cleavage at Mass? Or anywhere, for that matter? I tell you, friends, I just don’t get it.
Cell phones going off. Even when people answer them and talk about how they’re leaving church as they walk out on their phone. Yup, been there.
Screaming kids. By which I usually mean fussing kids whose parents scoop them up and out of the sanctuary but still get dirty looks. But even the ones who are totally indulged, driving their matchbox cars up and down the pews making screeching noises can’t ruin Mass.
Illicit liturgy. I’m talking pita bread Jesus, the congregation sitting through the whole Mass, lay people proclaiming the Gospel, the priest receiving communion after everybody else–I begin to think I really have seen it all.
Bad music. I’m rather a musical snob, so when I hear a cantor who’s a quarter step flat for a whole psalm, a pianist who doesn’t understand rests, or a guitarist playing in the wrong time signature, it’s a challenge to me. And Catholics aren’t exactly known for their music….
Heretical music. “I myself am the bread of life…” Okay, fine, John 6. “…You and I are the bread of life!” What? No. We aren’t. That doesn’t even make sense! Seriously?
If I hear that one again, I’ll text this to the deacon.

Heretical preaching. I actually heard an Easter homily once where the deacon preached that Jesus didn’t rise from the dead. It doesn’t get much worse than that.
Obnoxious neighbors. You know–the ones who say all the responses reallysuperfast or the ones who seem to be boycotting the new translation or the ones who spend the whole offertory chatting about Kendra’s new boyfriend. I’m of the opinion that the only reason you talk during Mass is if, say, one of your limbs falls off and you have to whisper to your neighbor to please hand it back to you. Otherwise, not a word.

Plenty of these things, of course, might ruin your experience of Mass, but ultimately Mass is not about your experience. It’s about the objective truth of God made man made food for us. And if it’s a valid Mass,² it is quite literally the most incredible thing ever to happen in the history of the world. When we’re dealing with a glory so stunning as the Eucharist, even the most heinous of liturgical practices can’t ruin it.

Now don’t get me wrong–good liturgy is at the heart of our faith and reverence is tremendously important.³ But when I let these relatively inconsequential things frustrate me, I’m worshiping music or rubrics or proper attire at the expense of God. And really, I’m letting the devil win. When you go to Mass, you strike a blow at Satan; when you spend your Mass frustrated or judgmental, he deflects it. And then some.

So when is Mass awful? When it isn’t Mass.

If the priest uses any words other than “this is my body” and “this is the chalice of my blood” for the “consecration.”⁴
If the priest “consecrates” anything other than wheat bread or grape wine.⁵
If the “priest” isn’t a priest.

That’s it. No matter how bad the music, how dull the preaching, or how rude the congregation, if the form,⁶ the matter,⁷ and the minister⁸ are correct, God shows up. And if the God of the universe becomes an inanimate object for you, stopping at nothing to be with you, then no amount of human failure ought to rob you of of your Eucharistic joy. A valid Mass, my friends, can never be awful.⁹ The congregation or the preaching or the music or you can be awful, but the Mass isn’t about you. It’s about God. And he is faithful, even when we’re pathetic.

So what should you do? Well, I’m a big fan of making imaginary excuses for people.¹⁰ Or finding ways not to be distracted. Or, if it’s possible, shopping around for a licit Mass with a reverent congregation.

But it really comes down to your attitude. If you approach the Mass like it’s an opportunity for you to be entertained or enlightened or pacified, you’re doing it wrong. If you’re making a mental list of liturgical abuses, I sympathize, but I remind you: unless you’re a bishop,¹¹ you are not the liturgy police. You are the faithful. And while it would be wonderful if everything was done right and everybody really did what they ought, making that your standard for a “good” Mass is pharisaism at best and idolatry at worst.

Crucifix in shadows — I totally took this picture. Be impressed.

If you approach the Mass like you’re approaching the throne of God, though, everything that’s “wrong” with a particular liturgy fades into the background. If you offer God your frustrations in atonement for your sins, if you close your eyes and beg for the grace to focus on him and not on them, if you remember that God loves us in our brokenness and wants everything we have to offer even if it’s awful, if you remind yourself over and over that however Father might embellish the Mass you’re still truly present at the Last Supper, the Crucifixion, and the Wedding Feast of the Lamb–well, just think of the grace!

Now if you’re in a position to do anything about any of the above, please do. Make announcements about gum, preach about proper attire, ban liturgical abuses. But if you’re like most of us, with no power to change anyone but yourself and–maybe–your family, don’t let propriety trump worship. Recognize what’s wrong if you must and then look back to Christ crucified for you. In the face of that, what else really matters?

*************

Last week I mentioned that I wanted to go to Wyoming and now I am! So I’ll try it again: I really want to go to New Mexico and South Dakota but I have nobody to visit and they’re not on my way. Anybody want me to come speak? (Or anywhere else out West, really, but I’ve got every other state covered as far as excuses to go there.)

Every single one of these examples has really truly happened to me. [↩]
Meaning Jesus actually shows up. You’ve probably never been to an invalid Mass. I think I went to one once but I’m not positive that it wasn’t just hugely illicit. [↩]
Half the reason I wrote this post was to point out what isn’t appropriate at Mass. And please, before you get upset that I’m saying it’s not a big deal when things are illicit, I know that it’s a huge deal because the Mass is so important and it needs to be done right. I’m just saying that relative to the Eucharist, who is God himself, liceity is nothing. Because relative to the Eucharist, everything is nothing. I’m advocating perspective, not anarchy. [↩]
My friend once went to a “Mass” where the priest said “this is the cup of my life.” No transubstantiation, no Mass. Lame. [↩]
Leavened bread in the Roman Rite is illicit–against the rules–but not invalid. If a priest tries to consecrate cornbread, though, it’s not Jesus. [↩]
Words. “This is my body,” “this is the cup of my blood.” [↩]
Stuff: wheat bread, grape wine. [↩]
A validly ordained priest–by necessity, a Catholic man. [↩]
Except in the archaic sense of inspiring awe, in which case every Mass is awful, most especially when it’s glorious. [↩]
“He must have gotten stuck in traffic and not had time to change and that’s why he’s wearing sweatpants and a cutoff tee to Sunday Mass.” “They’re probably chewing gum because they’ve never been in a church before and they don’t know proper etiquette.” “Maybe Father’s never read the rubrics.” “That 10-year-old playing her handheld game must have special needs.” [↩]
In which case oh my gosh hi and you’re amazing and thanks for reading my blog wanna be my best friend?!?!? [↩]

I Didn’t Choose the Hobo Life

I get a lot of ridiculous questions, ranging from the confusing to the totally strange. For example:

Q: “Did you know I was born in California?” (from a 4th-grader I’d never met.)

Q: “Do you do birthday parties?” (from a middle school boy following a chastity talk.)
A: “If you have a chastity-themed birthday party, I will be your best friend.”

Q: “Has anyone ever told you that you sound like you’re from Alabama?”
A: “No…. Thank you?”

Q: “Are you really a hobo cause you don’t look like a hippie and you don’t have hair down to your butt.”
A: ….

Most of these questions merit an eye roll at best. There’s one, though, that I often hear and try to answer thoughtfully: How did you know God was calling you to this?

I don't have any pictures where I look like a hobo. But what's a blog post without a picture? So.... — I don’t have any pictures where I look like a hobo. But what’s a blog post without a picture? So….

I suppose I ought to establish first that I don’t know that God is calling me to this funny hobo life—not in the way that I know that he exists or that the Eucharist is truly him or that he wants me for his own. There are different kinds of knowing, of course, and some decisions require that sort of certainty. But what I’m doing is a good thing, so feeling confident that this is his will is good enough for me. If I never did anything until I knew God was calling me to, I’d accomplish very little in life. That being said….

I loved teaching. Loved it. For four and a half years, I would get excited Sunday nights because I got to go to school Monday mornings. I loved sleeping in but hated summers—I missed my kids! And while I’m naturally a very irritable person, I got angry in the classroom only twice in four and a half years.

Unfortunately, I taught for five.

My last semester should have been my easiest. For the first time in my teaching career, I was teaching only classes I’d taught before. Everything I was doing was recycled from past classes. I had no extracurriculars, no responsibilities aside from teaching…and I was miserable. I felt ill on Sunday nights because I knew I had to go in to school the next day. I was exhausted all the time even though I was getting plenty of sleep. And at least three times a week, I had to stop talking, turn around, and pray that I wouldn’t freak the heck out all over my kids.

This is my ANGRY FACE. In a stocking. Trying to be a robber and still looking entirely like myself.

I had always known that my patience in the classroom wasn’t natural–it was a supernatural gift. And clearly that gift had been withdrawn. When my circumstances are unchanged but my peace of mind is lost, I know it’s time to ask the Lord what’s up.

But I didn’t want to jump to the conclusion that I was dealing with spiritual desolation, so I took a look at anything in the natural world that might be messing with me. Work was good, friends were good, my prayer life was good but I was all anxiety and anger and irrational drama.

So I began to ask the Lord if I should leave my school in Kansas. Praying about leaving gave me great peace while the idea of staying made me tense and miserable. I’m not saying that we ought to discern based entirely on emotions, but I’ve found that it’s important to listen to our emotions, especially when they’re not what we’d expect. I sure didn’t want to leave Atchison, so when that idea gave me such peace, I listened.

My next step, of course, was to make up an Excel spreadsheet with all the schools I might want to teach at. You know, columns for size, uniform, curriculum, apparent fidelity.¹ But the thought occurred to me, “What if I’m supposed to stop teaching?”

Now, I had discerned leaving the classroom once before. I had a panic attack and almost crashed my car. More than anything, I thought at the time, I know that I’m a teacher. But this time it was different. The idea of not teaching wasn’t so bad. In fact, and contrary to all reason, I found it rather attractive.

But friends, I’ve been planning on being a teacher, in one form or another, my whole life. Since I was 15 and I found out that you could get paid to talk about Jesus, being a religion teacher was all I really dreamed of. I chose my college and my major and my grad degree all with the purpose of being a high school religion teacher. “What else can I do?” I thought. “This is all I’ve ever done, all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Well,” my friend Fr. Jeremy suggested, “You’re good at public speaking. And you’ve been wanting to do more of it.”

“Father, you can’t just quit life and be a public speaker!” I objected. And then I took it to prayer.

“Tell me why not,” the Lord seemed to say. And I thought about it. I had no debt, no dependents, no debilitating diseases. I had enough savings to cover me for a while and not a lot of bills I’d have to pay. Why not?

And this type-A, plan-the-next-30-years, put-down-roots-and-stay-till-you-die girl got excited about the strangest thing: being a hobo. This life that is so contrary to everything I’d ever wanted was suddenly appealing—more than appealing: it felt right.

Now, don’t quote me as saying “if it feels good, do it.” But when something that we wouldn’t normally consider draws us, we need to pay attention.

Thomas Aquinas had it right when he told us that grace builds on nature. But we don’t know our nature as well as the Lord does. I would never have thought that this kind of life would work for me. After all, I’m all about relational ministry and assigning homework and knowing everybody around me. But I also love meeting new people and socializing. I’m flexible and fairly easy to please and not particular about beds or food or how I take my water.² I’m extraverted enough that the constant conversation with my hosts energizes me and committed enough to prayer that I still get plenty of “alone” time. As it turns out, this life makes a lot of sense for me. I can work with more people, be as intense as I want, and spend some occasional time writing, which I didn’t even realize I enjoyed. It seems that, once again, the Lord knows better than I.

Which is why I'm in frigid Kansas in April when I could be somewhere glorious and exotic. To be fair, this picture is from South Bend in February, but it's not because the weather wasn't this gross. — Which is why I’m in frigid Kansas in April when I could be somewhere glorious and exotic. To be fair, this picture is from South Bend in February, but it’s not because the weather this week wasn’t this gross.

So I quit my job and didn’t look for another. I wasn’t planning on living out of my car for long, but the Lord seems to have had other plans. I thought I’d find a place to live over the summer. But everything was working out, so I figured I’d travel till October. Then January. Then it began to look like this might be a long-term thing.

I can’t tell you exactly why I’m doing what I’m doing but I can tell you that I’ve seen how the Lord is touching hearts through the testimony of this scatter-brained nomad. I don’t know that people would listen to me the way they do if I weren’t such a fanatic. I do know that the minute I say I’m a hobo, people snap to attention. I know that I’m able to connect with people who wouldn’t otherwise talk with me because they want to ask all the awkward questions about my life. And I know that the Lord is showing me over and over again how he will always provide for me.

How long am I going to be living out of my car? I have no idea. I’m a planner, but God seems to prefer that I trust and follow. So for now, I’m headed out west. Beyond that, who knows?

************

Speaking of heading out west, I have literally nothing scheduled between Wednesday and mid-July. And while I’m sure I’ll find places to stay, I’m going to be really bored! So if you’re in any state west of the Mississippi and you want me to come talk to any group about pretty much anything, let me know. I don’t even want your money, just an opportunity to serve. I’m trying to get to every state out west in the next 3 months and I need some help. Because really, does anybody live in Wyoming?

If you’re east of the Mississippi, don’t feel left out—I’ll be out your way in the fall.

What, this isn’t how you make all decisions? Yeah, well, I didn’t choose the nerd life either. [↩]
This varies more than I thought possible. Options include: bottled water, tepid; bottled water, chilled; tap water, tepid; tap water in a pitcher in the fridge; tap water through a filter, tepid; filtered tap water sitting on the counter; filtered tap water, in the fridge; filtered water from the fridge door, ice from the fridge door; filtered water from the fridge door, ice from the freezer; tap water, ice from the basement; tap water, ice from the freezer; jugs of water in the fridge. That may be it. [↩]

Welcome Home!

Dear Tiber Swim Club 2013,

I went to your homecoming party a couple of weeks ago but I haven’t had a chance yet to tell you personally–welcome home!¹ All these years we’ve been missing you and now that you’re home, I hope you know how terribly glad we are to have you.

Welcome to the Church of Chesterton and Pascal and Galileo and Aquinas, to the Church of Michelangelo and Fra Angelico, Beethoven and Palestrina. Welcome, more’s the pity, to the Church of Borgias and Medicis, of terrible sinners and run-of-the-mill sinners and all sinners who want in. As you might have noticed, we’re not terribly picky. Geniuses, fools, Saints, and sinners–we’ve got an open door policy.

Welcome to the Church of the Apostles, to truth unchanged for millennia. Welcome to faith and works, Scripture and Tradition, philosophy and theology. This Church of yours is nothing if not logical–if you don’t see the logic, push and question and read until you do. Whatever the issue, I promise this Church makes sense.

Welcome to the intimacy of receiving him who made you into your very flesh. Welcome to the humility of being given power over the all-powerful. Welcome to a world where receiving God is so commonplace that you manage to be distracted. Right now, I hope that each time you receive communion, it’s powerful beyond belief. But there will come a time when you get used to it, when you somehow miss the consecration and walk up to receive without once addressing God. Praise the Lord for that, too, for a relationship so comfortable that you forget how incredible it is. And then remind yourself what your first time felt like and praise God for that passion as well.

Welcome to liturgy that truly is “the work of the people.” Welcome to Masses that thrill and move you. Welcome to Masses that bore and infuriate you. Welcome to bad music and bad preaching and some seriously weird stuff where all should be worship. For many of you, it won’t be long before you miss the Charismatic prayer or melodious praise or majestic liturgy of your Protestant past. But…the Eucharist. And that is enough.

I imagine you’re no stranger to falling and getting back up again and again. But welcome to that famous Catholic guilt that drives you to your knees at the foot of the Cross. Welcome to demanding rules that seem impossible, illogical, even arbitrary. Welcome to the terror of waiting in line to kneel before a stranger–or, worse, a friend–and tell him all your most shameful deeds. Welcome to the exultant joy of hearing the words “I absolve you” and knowing–knowing–that your sins are gone. Welcome to a peaceful life governed by those rules that suddenly seem to make so much sense.

It takes all kinds: regular (religious) priest, secular priest, wife, cloistered nun, and a brother (L.A. Cathedral's communion of Saints) — It takes all kinds: regular (religious) priest, secular priest, wife, cloistered nun, and a brother (L.A. Cathedral’s communion of Saints)

Welcome to the arms of your Blessed Mother. Welcome to a family of Saints. Welcome to the greatest charitable organization in this world, to a Church that requires that we serve and puts her money where her mouth is. Your Fathers are glad to work beside you. Your Sisters are leading the way. Your Brothers are bathing lepers and building houses and nursing orphans and hoping that you’ll join them. Amid scandals and accusations and seeming futility, hold your head up, friend–your Church is a force for good throughout this world, physically as well as spiritually.

Welcome to the awkwardness of swimming against the tide. Whether news of your conversion prompted fury or just raised eyebrows, you’ve probably dealt with some of this already. It’s that subtle persecution mostly, that assumption that you’re a little stupid or a lot closed-minded. Welcome to being the face of the Church in any gathering, to being expected to have all the answers even when your audience assumes there aren’t any. You won’t get much credit for being a good person–it’s expected, after all–but you will get a lot of flack every time you fall. So try not to fall, but know that in a Church like this, your sins won’t be terribly impressive nor will your failure weaken the truth you’re trying to live for.

Whether you’ve been wandering this way for decades or got knocked off your horse six months ago, welcome home! Whether you were a PK or an addict (or both), an atheist or a Buddhist or disinterested, whether you hated the Church or ignored it or always loved it somewhere down deep, welcome! Whether you’ve suffered serious persecution on your way to Rome or you’ve been encouraged by everyone you meet, you have a family here.

We’re not exactly on top of things in this Church of yours–we’re a lot dysfunctional and sometimes hypocritical and we don’t seem to be on the same page about much of anything. But we’re trying. And when you find yourself at Mass between a little old lady who says the old responses loudly and a teenager who says nothing at all with a fussy baby behind you, remember that our God isn’t particular about who he lets in to this hodgepodge Church of his. And praise him once again that he wasn’t too picky to call you.

Welcome home, my brother, my sister. We are so, so glad to have you.

But I know you forgive me because while we’re out of the liturgical time warp and it’s not Easter Sunday any more, it is still the Easter season, which has to count for something. [↩]

Easter Passion

October 15, 2005 was one of the worst days of my life.¹ If you’re a Notre Dame fan, you know exactly what I mean. Three years in a row we’d lost to USC² by 31 points. 31 points each time–how humiliating. But in 2005, after three pathetic years, it was over. We came out in green³ and played our guts out and as time expired, we were in the lead!

My friends, I was literally in the process of rushing the field when the announcers shouted that if we didn’t return to the stands, Notre Dame would be penalized. “Penalized?” I crowed. “How are you going to penalize us? WE WON!!”

No, as it turns out. We hadn’t. Matt “Ballroom Dancing” Leinart had fumbled the ball out of bounds, stopping the clock with seven seconds left.⁴ USC would get one more play. And with that play, the game. Reggie Bush shoved Leinart into the endzone⁵ for the win. And there we were, having climbed back into the stands, shocked and miserable.

My roommate was so upset that she just went to bed. At 7pm on a Saturday night. She said she didn’t want to be conscious any more.

It was the only time in my life I’ve ever wanted to drown my sorrows.⁶

For weeks, every person I met who heard I went to Notre Dame responded, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I’m not even kidding.

I know it’s pathetic and that football shouldn’t affect me that much, but Bush Push 2005 drove me to despair. And so I think I know a little bit what the Apostles were feeling.

They thought they had this one. On Palm Sunday, Jesus walked into the city amid shouts of Hosanna and they thought that after years of eating leftover loaves and fish and sleeping in a leaky boat they had finally arrived. They were so ready for their victory, so ready for Jesus to take control.

And then suddenly the Hosannas were replaced by angry cries of “Crucify him!” and he was snatched from their midst and stripped and beaten and before they knew it, he was lying in a tomb and what was left for them? That Holy Saturday, there was a feeling that nothing would ever be good again. That no matter what happened, nothing would ever fill the ache of emptiness that Friday had left in their hearts. Maybe they lost themselves in wine or sleep or anything to dull the pain.

But then…

It’s like we were standing in that stadium, stunned and defeated and empty, and the refs called out “Please reset the game clock” one more time. It’s like we looked out onto the field and it wasn’t just Brady and Samardzija and Zbikowski. It was all 7 ND Heisman winners. It was all 11 National Championship teams. It was Rudy and the Gipper and the 4 Horsemen and every man ever to put on blue and gold. It’s like they lined up on one side of the line of scrimmage and looked across at Reggie Bush and Matt Leinart, alone and shaking in mesh shorts and flip flops. And then the whistle blew and they pounded it in over and over again. It’s not just like we won that game but ran up the score on every game, erased every embarrassing loss. It’s like eternal victory was snatched from the jaws of crushing defeat and nothing would ever hurt that way again.

Call me strange, but that’s how I see Easter. It’s not just glowing Jesus walking out of a tomb, it’s Rambo Jesus ripping the gates off of hell. It’s demons cowering in the corner as Adam bows before his son and savior. It’s earthquakes and the dead walking out of their tombs and all creation turned on its head.

Easter isn’t bunnies and lilies and butterflies–it’s a wild victory where there was no hope. It’s absolute power in the hands of a God who went to hell and back for you. It’s unending joy wrested from the bitter grasp of him who came to kill, steal and destroy.

That’s what we celebrate today, friends, and for the next 50 days: a love story that puts all romance to shame, the story of a man who gladly gave his life for his beloved and came back for her all the same. It’s an adventure so fantastic that you’d never believe it if it weren’t so clearly true. It’s drama that rips your heart out and somehow restores it new and whole like never before. It’s passion so great it takes your breath away.

When I meditate on the emptiness of Holy Saturday, the pain feels familiar. It feels like October 15, 2005 and it feels like every day of my life before I knew the Lord. But now I know what happens on the other side. Now I know that the darkness serves to amplify the light. Now I know the the emptiness and the futility are an illusion, that the only battle that matters has already been won and all I have to do is share in the spoils.

There is nothing sweet about this story, nothing nice, nothing dull. This Easter, forget everything you know about the Resurrection and read the story with fresh eyes. Read the anguish of Friday and the desolation of Saturday but don’t stop there. Read the confusion of Sunday morning, the urgency of Mary’s sprint to the upper room, of Peter and John’s sprint back. Read the infinite tenderness of the word “Mary,” the shock of his appearance in the upper room, the shame elicited by, “Simon, do you love me?” But above all, keep reading. Read the power of Peter’s Pentecost message that brought 3,000 more into the fold. Read the confidence of “In the name of Jesus Christ, rise and walk” and the jubilation of the walking and leaping and praising God. Read the fearlessness of the cowardly apostles and the abandon of the community that held everything in common.

Then tell me: does your life shine with Easter joy? Do you radiate triumph like you’ve just witnessed a come-from-behind victory? Do you live in a hope that is stronger than your circumstances, a peace that passes understanding? Do you stare into the eyes of defeat and taunt with St. Paul, “Where, oh death, is your victory? Where, oh death, is your sting??” We are an Easter people, my friends, and alleluia is our song. How is your life going to witness to that truth this Easter season?

It seems the Lord doesn’t think much of me if this is the height of the suffering I’ve endured. [↩]
Some Notre Dame students call USC the University of Spoiled Children. I find this terribly ironic. [↩]
Never a good idea. [↩]
Bear with me, non-football fans. I’m going somewhere with this. [↩]
Which is illegal, but anyone would do the same thing. [↩]
I didn’t. I went to the library to read a commentary on the Code of Canon Law instead. Shut up. [↩]

Good Friday

His body lifeless,
Tabernacle door ajar.
Where is now my God?

I Surrender All

I was on retreat this weekend with 800 kids from Indiana.¹ I wasn’t giving any talks, just getting down in the trenches with some relational ministry and it was awesome.

Being in the audience, I got to participate in all the ridiculous games that MCs make you play. Turns out I’m not half bad at Simon Says. So we’re down to maybe 20 people in the whole gym and Simon Said “Don’t smile.” Y’all, I am incredible at not smiling. It’s probably my greatest skill of all time. I was the 1995 St. Mark’s Summer Youth Wave Darling-I-Love-You Champion, and if you’ve ever played that game, you know I’m for real. When told to keep a straight face, I have not once in my entire life cracked a smile.

So there I am, not-smiling, and assured of victory in this game² when Manny pipes up behind me, “Miss, if you smile I’ll go to confession.”

Done. I turned to him and grinned. He looked rather taken aback: “But now you lose, Miss!”

“Ah, but your soul is worth more to me than victory.”

It got me thinking about all the many deals I’ve made with kids. When it comes to objective grace, I’m not above a little encouragement (read: bribery). I think that if all it took to get you to go to confession was my promise to buy you an *NSYNC³ t-shirt, you were probably looking for an excuse to go anyway. So if I can make a deal with you to get you to make good choices, I’ll do it.

I once told a guy I liked I’d take him to dinner if he went to confession.⁴ I ate a wasabi peanut for a kid who promised he’d do his homework for the rest of the year.⁵ I even had a kid tell me she’d save sex for marriage if I’d smoke a cigarette with her after graduation. Abso-freaking-lutely, darling.⁶ Just before I entered the convent, I offered a friend 10 grand to stop sleeping with his girlfriend. Ten thousand dollars. He said no. I guess you can’t win them all.

So I was sitting in the bleachers after this game of Simon Says congratulating myself on all the sacrifices I make for the kingdom when I realized how paltry they are. “If you do this for me,” I say, “I will surrender control over a very small aspect of my life.” A wasabi peanut? Seriously? Here I am thinking I make a darn good junior Messiah when I’m offering so little–and then only on the contingency that I trust someone to follow through on his end of the bargain. The real Messiah offered everything.

I was rather overwhelmed by this thought, that Jesus offered himself completely to us even knowing that we wouldn’t follow through on our end of the bargain. It kept coming to mind over the weekend. And then Saturday night, all 800 youth knelt on the gym floor for 2 hours as Father came around to each person with the monstrance. When Jesus approached me, I was staring at him with Father’s face just behind him when Father began singing along with the worship team: I surrender all to you, all to you. Jesus sang to me, “I surrender all to you.” Helpless and ridiculed in the Eucharist, he reminded me once again what his presence here on earth has always meant.

Jesus didn’t offer only his hunger or humiliation or suffering or even his death. Jesus offered every moment of his life. And when he rose, he offered it again. And when he ascended into heaven, he still wasn’t done. He came back for us in the Blessed Sacrament. And today, he waits for us in the tabernacle. He waits for every one of us–not just the worthy or the holy or the immaculate. He offered himself for you and for me, even though he knew we would betray him. Even though he knew we would ignore and reject and forget him. He didn’t die only for those who are good soil–the rocky and thorny and hard-packed ground are his, too. He died for obedient sheep and wandering sheep and black sheep and goats and sparrows and anyone who’ll have him and even those who won’t.

Christ on the Cross by Francisco de Zurbaran

Each Lent, I’m reminded by my hunger that every moment is the Lord’s, that every sacrifice is for love of him. This year, I’m thinking especially of all that I hold on to, keeping it “safe” from a God who surrendered all for me. The pride and envy and security and control that I think I need, that I cling to even when the Lord tries to loosen my grip–how pathetic, compared with the glory he surrendered for me. I offer the Lord so much but I hold back. “Lord, I will pray a rosary every day for the rest of my life, but seriously don’t ask me to pray an extra one with those kids or I will freak out.” “God, I’ll give you an hour in adoration, but if the next person is 5 minutes late, you’d better have a good explanation for why I was stuck here.” “Lord, I can love everyone except that kid. Nobody could love that kid.”

It’s easy to congratulate ourselves on what we’ve given to the Lord. When we start to see what he’s given to us, our paltry sacrifices don’t seem quite so impressive. Praise the Lord that he doesn’t ask what we have to give before offering us his very self, body, blood, soul, and divinity. He surrendered all for us. He surrenders all for us. Forget all those little sacrifices–let’s meet him in the Eucharist and offer our lives to him.

South? Central? Wherever Carmel is–I never did look at a map. But I did figure out that I was on Eastern time, so that’s a plus. [↩]
Have I mentioned that I’m wildly competitive? [↩]
Definitely had to google that to see how to capitalize/punctuate it. [↩]
Score! Grace and a date. [↩]
He didn’t turn in a single thing, I’m still bitter. [↩]
A year and a half later, still a virgin. So maybe she breaks her promise–at least I got her to think twice about it. [↩]

10 Reasons We Fast

I love my kids, and I always loved teaching, hard as it was, but I am not sorry to be missing the whining today. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe we have to have pizza today! Why can’t I just have a hamburger? This is so stupid! The cafeteria should at least serve meat so people have the option to choose. Why does the Church get to tell me what I can and can’t eat? Am I really going to go to hell if I have a little bacon? That’s not fair!” You think I am exaggerating. I am not.

I’m always amazed at how we can sit before a God who was stripped, beaten, and nailed to a cross for us and say that anything is “too much” to ask. Oh, I do it, don’t get me wrong. But when you think about the size of our sacrifice compared to the size of his, it seems rather pathetic to deny him. And yet when it comes to food (and sex), we are decidedly ready to.

Now, I love food. But the Lord drew me to fasting from almost the beginning of my walk with him. I was 15 when I started making significant sacrifices outside of Lent and 17 when I first really fasted–not the unimpressive one-regular-meal-and-two-small-meals rule that most of the world just calls eating, but the kind where you don’t eat for more than 8 hours at a time.¹ At first, I was just being obedient to the promptings of the Spirit, but as the years have gone by and the Lord has led me to fast in many and various ways, I’ve begun to see just how much fasting can teach us.

In this world of food television, fast food, and gatherings that always and everywhere center around food, it can be hard to see the point of real fasting. Sure, I can give up chocolate so that I know I’m a good Christian, but what does it actually accomplish? If you’re just doing it because that’s what good Christians do, I would imagine it accomplishes very little. But if you’re submitting in obedience, uniting your sacrifice to Christ’s, or seeking the meaning of the practice, there is so much the Lord has to offer you through the gift of fasting.

When you fast, you tell the Lord that you love him more than food.
I think this is the most basic level, the first thing we understand about fasting as a child. Every piece of candy we don’t eat, every meal we skip is a love letter to the Lord. Early on, it’s very hard, but gradually we begin to put Christ first so that a snack or even (God help us) a piece of bacon seems nothing compared to Christ.
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Fasting helps to detach you from your psychological dependence on food. I think Americans especially are obsessed with food; we let it rule us. The idea of having enough self-control to skip a snack, let alone a meal, is astounding to us. But when you choose hunger for love of God, you begin to realize that hunger isn’t so bad. After years of fasting, I don’t have to plan my life around food.² Food is a gift or a detail, never the driving force in my life. There’s great freedom in that.
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Fasting makes eating worshipful. If you’ve ever been really hungry–I mean really hungry–you know that the first bite of stale bagel is rapturous. That whole first meal, really, is the best thing you’ve ever tasted. Far from running from food because the world is evil, fasting teaches us to find God in the good things of creation. And if you fast frequently, you get in the habit of worshiping when you eat.³ Every good food becomes a prayer and soon you see the whole world as sacramental–which, after all, is the point.
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Fasting gives you mastery over your body. More than just helping you to rule your appetite, fasting teaches you to rule your appetites. When you fast, you discipline your body and learn to be its master, not its slave. I don’t know how people can be chaste when they haven’t practiced self-mastery in the arena of food first. If you can learn to deny yourself in what is an actual need, your ability to deny yourself a great desire is strengthened dramatically.
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Fasting unites you to the suffering Christ. I’m not just being flippant when I say “Jesus suffocated to death for you; I think you can handle skipping snack time.” During Lent, we walk with our suffering God through the desert, up the hill, and onto the Cross. When our Lenten journey is more than inconvenient, when it’s actually painful, to a degree, we can offer our hearts to him and learn to love him better. We suffer for love of him, which consoles his bleeding heart and teaches us just how deeply he loves us.
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Fasting teaches you to accept every cross, not just the ones you choose. I once found myself furious because I had been looking forward to lemonade and my table was given tea instead. It took me a minute to realize that I would gladly have chosen to go the whole day without food but I just could not accept not getting a drink that I didn’t even particularly like. For many of us, the great difficulty of our particular cross is that it is chosen for us. The more we learn to take up the crosses of our choosing, the more we learn to embrace the one that is thrust upon us. True fasting makes me decrease and him increase. I learn to rely on his strength at work in me; if he can carry this little cross I made for myself, he can certainly carry the big one he picked out for me.
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Fasting changes your attitude to discomfort. Before I started fasting, hunger was misery, an occasion for whining and self-pity. After years of training, my automatic reaction to hunger is to pray. There are even times when I find myself praising God for the hunger before remembering that I’m not fasting, I just haven’t gotten around to eating. When hunger is prayer, it’s not hard to make pain and exhaustion and other physical discomfort prayer. We adjust our attitudes by surrendering our bodies to God and before long we find that virtue isn’t as hard as it once seemed.
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Fasting teaches you to live in solidarity with the poor. I hear people say “I’m starving” all the time. “No,” I want to shout, “You aren’t!” You know who’s starving? Orphans in Africa and lepers in Calcutta and even, God help us, some people on our streets here at home. But you? You’re barely even hungry. I know the difference, because I’ve tasted that “starving” you throw around. Not starving to death, no, and not by necessity but by choice. It’s not the same and I don’t want to pretend that the hunger I took on is as crippling as the tragedy of poverty and hunger in this world. Still, I’ve felt a hunger so deep that you stop being hungry. When you’ve experienced that type of hunger, it’s hard to be swayed by missing a meal. And it’s easy to ache with love for those who don’t choose starvation. Now I’m not recommending that you starve yourself by any means, but if you’ve been really hungry–even gone 24 hours without food–the word “starving” will come less easily to your lips and aid for the poor will come more readily out of your pocketbook.
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Fasting humbles you. When you’re awkwardly turning down food without telling people why,⁴ you’re humbled. When you realize how addicted you are to Pop Rocks, you’re humbled. When you’re so hungry you get light-headed and you have to break your fast to honor your body, when your hunger makes you cranky, when you realize just how little control you have over your body or your mind, when you realize how much you take for granted, you’re humbled and humbled and humbled again.
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Courtesy of Kelly.

Fasting strengthens your prayer. The testimony of Scripture is clear on this issue: “this kind comes out only by prayer and fasting.” Fasting purifies our intentions and puts force behind our prayers. When you’re fasting for an intention, you’re telling God how much you mean it. This Lent, will you consider adding one sacrifice (food or otherwise) to your list of resolutions specifically for the Holy Father and the conclave that will elect his successor? It doesn’t have to be anything much, but every time you’re tempted, throw up a prayer for our German Shepherd and the man who will step into his large, holy shoes.

Now, there are many people who can’t fast in an extreme way, for whatever reason. If you can’t skip a meal, there are favorite foods you can cut out. If you’ve struggled with an eating disorder, though, your penance will be to eat. For you, dear one, that is penance enough.

Lent Fasting — Go to Focus for the whole infographic

For the rest of you, I’d like to challenge you to pray about stepping up your game this Lent. If you’re psychologically dependent on snacks, give them up. If you “need” 3 square meals a day, try cutting back to two on Fridays. Go vegan for Lent or just cut out meat. If you’re being led to something more extreme, I’ll assume you’re working with a spiritual director and don’t need my ideas. I’m only beginning to learn the lessons that I’ve listed above–I’m certainly no expert on fasting or holiness or prayer or really anything at all. But I feel so blessed to have been led to fast and thought I ought to propose to you all that there is more to fasting than just skipping your snack and calling it a day. It’s not too late to up the ante this Lent.

If nothing else, though, you’re looking at one regular meal and two small meals today and Good Friday and abstinence today and every Friday in Lent. The Church in her wisdom has required these minor sacrifices of us; let’s offer them joyfully to the Lord and see what he has to teach us.

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This song by Jimmy Needham (love him!) is a beautiful meditation on today’s first reading. Enjoy–and happy Lent, friends! May the Father strengthen you to persevere in your penances; may the Son rejoice in your heart as it suffers with and for him; may the Spirit bring you wisdom and clarity through the sacrifices you make for love of him.

I’m not going to go into details. I usually don’t talk about fasting in a way that will give people any idea about how I fast, but I think I should today. Just know that I’m healthy and prayed up and that you should discuss anything ridiculous with a spiritual director. [↩]
If you’re diabetic or hypoglycemic or have struggled with eating disorders, this is not something to aspire to. Be where you are–God loves you just there. [↩]
Not what you eat, although breaking your fast with the Eucharist can be just incredible. [↩]
Do try not to tell people why. If you’re telling everybody how hard your fasting is, you might as well just start eating again. That’s the point of today’s Gospel: fasting is between you and God, not you and God and your friends and your frenemies and Facebook…. [↩]

Forgiven and Loved

There are so many things I’ve wanted to tell y’all about since I’ve been in Hawaii but God has been blessing me with such full days that there’s no time for anything. Tonight, though, I have to set aside everything I’ve wanted to say about the grandeur of God and the irony of giving a talk on humility and the inadequacy you feel when you’re working for the Lord. Because tonight, God showed up.

This visit has been incredible for so many reasons, but I think the greatest joy hasn’t been the beaches or the food but the opportunity for ministry. I’ve had at least one talk every day and I’ve seen so many of the same faces. These women, these incredible Army wives who stay behind as single mothers while their husbands are out serving their country—after only a few days, I’m so proud to call them my friends. They are strong and beautiful and holy and desperate to live in God’s will and I’m humbled by their service and their hospitality and their fellowship and honesty and brokenness. Again and again I’m amazed by them.

This morning, I had a room full of these incredible ladies for one of my very favorite talks on knowing that you are beautiful and loved and resting in God’s embrace. Friends, it was powerful. We ended with an Ignatian meditation on the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet and women were sharing what the Lord had shown them in prayer. I could really tell that the Holy Spirit had been working.

So I wasn’t totally looking forward to tonight’s meeting. It was all women again and I wanted to give the same talk but I knew it wouldn’t be the same. When it goes so well in the morning, it never feels right in the evening. Besides, some of the ladies had come for round 2 and I didn’t want to bore them. But the Lord is in control, so I started talking, knowing that he would lead.

The talk went pretty well—knowing that God loves you, trusting that he’s working through your pain, accepting that you don’t have to earn his love. I sang “If You Want Me To,” by Ginny Owens, and moved into a meditation on the woman caught in adultery.

Now, I’ve given this meditation plenty of times. Every time, I get the same reactions. The girls are usually the woman, the boys bystanders. Occasionally I find a Pharisee in there, but it’s pretty clearly a meditation on how God forgives people and that’s how people interpret it.

I knew something was up when I looked up after the meditation and almost everyone was crying. Then we started talking about our experiences.

“I was so angry at the Pharisees. I was so, so mad—I’m still mad. I don’t have any idea what it means, but I’m mad.”

“I stood with Jesus and just looked at the woman. I looked at her and I loved her.”

“At the end, Jesus left, but I didn’t go with him. I knelt down by the woman and just stayed with her.”

“When they brought her in, I went and stood in front of her. I was going to shield her from the stones with my body.”

Almost every woman there shared that her meditation was focused on loving the sinful woman. I thought it was strange until the last woman shared.

“I was her,” she said, in a broken voice. “I was her and I don’t feel any better.”

And she sobbed. And we sobbed. And I looked around the room and realized that these women had all along been sitting in a circle around their heartbroken sister. During this meditation, they were surrounding her. In their hearts, not knowing what her struggle was, they were fighting her enemies, defending her, loving her, consoling her. For these women, in this moment, fellowship looked a little less like coffee hour and a little more like prayer warriors going into battle for each other. The Lord put these reflections on their hearts so that she could hear that not only has God forgiven her, so have they. And as we talked and prayed, they prayed and cried and loved her.

Apparently when Army wives say fellowship, they don’t mean it quite the way civilians do.

This, my friends, is what it means to be a Christian. We fight for each other and bleed for each other and weep and live and die for each other. We’re not called the Church Militant for nothing, and these Army wives know it. It’s so easy for women’s groups to become middle school girls’ groups, to be filled with drama and judgment and competition. Today, the Lord worked a miracle to show his mercy. “Neither do I condemn you,” he said. “Neither does she condemn you. And she won’t abandon you. And that one’s ready to go nuclear on anyone who does. Because you deserve it.”

This woman is beautiful and funny and loving. She is an incredible mother and has a husband who loves her desperately. She’s been forgiven. But her heart can’t hear it. So tonight, the Lord raised up a community to speak truth to her heart.

As she drove me home, this song came on the radio, sending that message of forgiveness once again:

All my life I have been called unworthy
Named by the voice of my shame and regret
But when I hear You whisper, “Child lift up your head”
I remember, oh God, You’re not done with me yet

I am redeemed, You set me free
So I’ll shake off these heavy chains
Wipe away every stain, now I’m not who I used to be

If you’re where my dear friend is right now, hating yourself, feeling worthless, certain that God couldn’t really forgive you, please hear this: When God washed you clean, heaven rejoiced. In that moment, the record of your sins was obliterated. Our God is so consumed by his love of you that who you were never crosses his mind. “Though your sins be as scarlet, I will wash them whiter than snow,” he said to David. To David. Like, send-others-to-risk-their-lives-for-me, use-my-office-to-make-a-married-woman-sleep-with-me, send-her-husband-to-his-death-to-cover-it-up David. White as snow.

He could have redeemed you with one drop of his blood but he wanted you to know what you were worth. And so, stripped and beaten, the God of the universe stretched out his arms between heaven and earth to tell you that he loves you, he forgives you, and he longs for you. Not because he had to–because he wanted to. And he’d do it again.

I would stake my salvation on this fact: no matter what, you are loved. I only hope you have a community around you that shows you.

Today, please stand with me and this community, swords drawn, to surround our sister in prayer. Pray with me for comfort for her broken heart. And praise God with me that she is forgiven, redeemed, and made new in Christ. How great is our God.