This Christmas, a lot of us are struggling. You may be grieving or lonely or overwhelmed. You may have too many people to buy for or not enough, your hands full or far too empty. But there’s one thing that unites us all: the aggravation and drama of spending time with family.
Okay, maybe there are some who honestly never have any trouble at all with their friends and relatives and relatives’ friends. But most of us who have anyone to spend Christmas with are going to find our last nerve fraying sooner rather than later. Whether it’s your uncle’s morose muttering about whatever he’s currently lamenting, your spouse’s inability to pass plates clockwise, or your Grandmother’s incessant comments about what a good woman priest you’d make,1 there’s probably some button of yours that’s going to be pushed again and again and again this weekend.
Don’t add it to the list.
The reason these things infuriate us is that we view them as part of a pattern, as the defining characteristic of this person, as yet another instance of selfishness or sullenness or unreasonable anger. And they may be, but it doesn’t help us to love well when every transgression gets added to a heap of previous transgressions. “This is just like that time in 1986 when he didn’t let me borrow his trike. How typical.”
But love never says “how typical.”
Think about it. People crazy in love, even those who aren’t blind to their partners’ faults, don’t define the beloved by her flaws. That’s where the breakdown of love begins. “It’s so like her,” we mutter when she’s late again, and begin to view her tardiness as a deliberate offense. Should she be late? Probably not. But when we choose to see people as a catalog of faults we cease to be lovers.
I read this years ago in an anthology of C.S. Lewis’ favorite authors. The way to love difficult people is to refuse to see their annoying or hurtful or offensive behaviors as typical of them. Now, obviously if a relationship is abusive we need to leave or somehow distance ourselves. And in some relationships we’re able and even obligated to help the other to see his hurtful behavior and try to change. But often the flaw is too ingrained, the relationship too tenuous, or the issue more a matter of your sensitivity than anything else. Your cousin’s eye rolling, for example, or your grandfather’s sudden fits of temper. When we’re not being called to speak out in fraternal correction, it’s easy just to build a list of grievances with no Festivus celebration at which to air them. But that’s not love and it’s not Christian.
So instead, do this: when your sister-in-law doesn’t say thank you–again–and you find yourself internally seething–“How typical!”–stop. Choose to think instead, “Huh,” as though this were entirely unlike her. Instead of remembering every single other time ever and cementing your image of your sister-in-law as ingrate, imagine this was the first time she’d ever acted this way. Would it bother you then? Certainly not as much.
The Year of Mercy is over, but this is still a Church of mercy seeking to build a culture of mercy. When it comes to family, we need that mercy all the more. This Christmas we celebrate the mercy of God who refuses to define us by our sin. Let’s extend that same mercy by throwing out our decades-old heap of baggage and seeing people instead as the sum of their good qualities, “the sum of the Father’s love for us,” as JPII said. When you find yourself tempted to mutter, “How typical,” remind yourself: love never says “how typical.” Love chooses to see what is beautiful and look past the flaws. This Christmas, let’s choose love.
I’m sorry if you clicked through because you wanted my reaction on yesterday’s ruling.1 I’m not here to talk about the news. Or rather, I am.
Last week, a terrorist walked into a church and continued a long line of crimes against Black Americans. This week, emboldened arsonists continued the attack on Black churches while almost a thousand people died from the heatwave in Pakistan. Yesterday, ISIS seems to have carried out coordinated attacks in 3 countries.
#Lovewins
It’s been all over social media, being shouted from the rooftops by people radiant with joy for their futures and wild with excitement for their friends and just proud of their country. “Love wins!” they shout, as they dance and cheer and celebrate love.
And we whose reaction is less celebratory nod and smile, perhaps in spite of ourselves. There is much we may disagree on, but in this we can rejoice together: Love wins.
It has nothing to do with the news today. Or rather, it does, but it’s old News.
Love won two thousand years ago when he became flesh to cry out his Love for us. Each time he consoled adulteresses or welcomed Pharisees, Love won. He healed and corrected and challenged and gave life because Love wins.
Love won that black day when he took our sin upon him and destroyed our death. He shattered the hold sin had over us, ransoming our souls and winning us for the Father who is Love.
Love won when he broke the bonds of death and emerged victorious from the grave. He won when he came back for us, reminding us that not our denial or our doubt or our outright betrayal of him could stop his Love.
Love wins every time we see a person and not a label. Love wins when we refuse to define people by their sin or their closed-mindedness or their bank statement or their dress size or their age or their ability. Love wins when we too console adulteresses and welcome Pharisees. In each moment of reconciliation, of generosity, of compassion, of witness to the truth, of mercy, Love wins.
Despite evil and hatred and war and disease, Love wins. Because not even death can end his merciful Love. In the face of a world gone crazy with rage, we stand before the void and cry out this truth: Love wins. Because Satan has been defeated and the victory is ours. Because the victory of Love is not a victory of feelings but the promise that Love will never leave us or forsake us, that in spite of our feelings Love has triumphed and will fight for us until our last moment and perhaps beyond.
Love won last week in Charleston when victims stood up and forgave the one who murdered their loved ones. In a moment of mercy that will become a lifetime of trying again to forgive, they showed us just what it means when we say that Love wins: it means that Love is always more powerful than hatred, even when it seems hatred is triumphant. Evil has forgotten about the eternal epilogue.
And Love will win on the last day, when he drags every sorry soul he can get his pierced hands on into the kingdom. Despite our pettiness and our ugliness, despite our constant rejection of his Love and our desperation for cheap imitations of it, he will win.
Perhaps it’s more a cry of hope than a jeer of triumph, this declaration that Love wins. It’s the promise that the gates of hell will not prevail, not that they won’t seem to. It’s a challenge to us never to speak (or tweet) from bitterness or judgment or despair but to let God be God and trust in a love that makes us new.
Whether you found yesterday glorious or discouraging,2 in the end Love wins. Our task is to live for that Love. Whatever side you’re on, drop your weapons. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. You want Love to win? Live like it.
But let’s be real. If you agree with me, you already know everything I’m going to say. And if you disagree, today’s not the day you’re going to listen. [↩]
And either way, I love you. But forget me–Jesus loves you like crazy! [↩]
She was seven years old that summer, the second summer she and her sisters came to live with me. Seven years old and still throwing the tantrums she’d thrown when she was three, tantrums so long and so violent I worried for her safety. I was at my wits’ end with that little one. I’ve known some tough kids, but this one took the cake. And I prayed for her and I prayed about her and it occurred to me that maybe she was lashing out because she needed attention. She’s a physical touch girl through and through, so I sat her down and talked with her about how maybe if we snuggled more it would help her to calm down. And I made her a promise:
“No matter how much trouble you’re in, if you can ask me for a snuggle, we’ll take a time out together and snuggle. Because I love you and I want you to know that.”
It’s a great idea. Trouble is, she really wanted me to prove that I loved her. So she’d push and push and push me until I was almost at my breaking point, then she’d look up with a glint of pure malice in her eyes and ask me to snuggle her.
And I would bite back every objection, every bit of justified rage, every shred of pride. I would take a deep breath and hold her and stroke her hair and murmur to her how I loved her.
I wanted to drop kick her.
As I sat there telling her how much I loved her, I wanted to scream and throw her out of the house. I wanted to be done with this child.1 I didn’t feel lovey. Not one bit.
And I don’t think I ever loved her more.
I didn’t like her much in the moment.2 I didn’t want to tell her I loved her or how sweet and good she was. I wanted to show her everything she was doing wrong. I wanted to fix her attitude and make her compliant so that all our lives could have a little peace in them. I wanted to change her. There was nothing there that the world would call love.
But that’s when I loved her the most. Not because I felt lovey feelings but because I chose to love her.
If you’ve been in any kind of relationship for more than 6 days–or seen Frozen–you know that love is sacrifice. It doesn’t just require sacrifice, it IS sacrifice. Love isn’t a feeling, it’s a choice. And as wonderful as romantic feelings or maternal feelings are, they aren’t love. Love isn’t really love, I think, until it’s hard. That’s when it finally stops being about us.
This is why marriage is indissoluble: because it’s hard and the hard is good. That’s what kills our selfishness and makes us more like Christ. This is why babies are awful. Because as wonderful as they are, we might love them only for our own sake. When they’re colicky or teething or doing stranger danger and a sleep regression at the same time, that’s when we die to ourselves to live for them. That’s real love.
And I think that kind of love means sometimes you do what you don’t feel because you wish you felt it. It means stopping for a real kiss goodbye in the chaos of the morning routine. It means compliments on a job poorly done but well meant. It means murmuring soft words to a screaming child who you’d rather leave by the side of the road than spend the next 16 years–the next lifetime–nurturing.
It’s not being fake. You’re not doing what you don’t mean, you’re doing what you don’t feel. You’re saying or touching or smiling exactly what you want to mean. You go through the motions and that going through the motions is a powerful act of love and a step back toward the feelings you wish you had.
But you knew that. You learned about the whole “fake it till you make it” thing when you were stressing out about looking cool at your first dance.
Do you know it’s true of prayer, too? Not just that it gets easier as you just suck it up and do it. It’s actually especially pleasing to God when you just suck it up and do it.
For weeks now, I’ve been struggling in prayer. I’m always good about praying, but I’m not good at it and lately it’s been dragging me down. I’ll give an impassioned talk about how amazing God is and then go stare at a tabernacle and feel nothing, think nothing, get nothing.
So I keep sitting there before the Lord. And I keep saying this same thing:
Jesus, I wish I loved you as much as I pretend to love you.
Over and over I’ve sat there thinking how amazing my prayer life would be if I really felt all the things I pretend to feel. They’re not lies, just vestiges of things I’ve felt before. Things I really feel when I’m talking about them, maybe, but not things I feel when it’s just me and him. And I wonder what it would be like to feel those things all the time.
Jesus, I wish I loved you as much as I pretend to love you.
For weeks I prayed that prayer, not petitioning so much as stewing, until he told me:
You do.3 You act like you would act if you felt it. Not perfectly, of course, but you show up. Every day you show up, just the same as you would if you really enjoyed it. You go through the motions not because you’re getting something out of it but because you’re giving me something. You’re giving me yourself even when it feels I’m giving nothing back. You aren’t pretending you love me. You really love me.
You don’t have to get butterflies every time you receive. You don’t have to be totally focused in prayer. You don’t have to be zealous like Francis Xavier or humble like Thomas Aquinas4 or brave like Catherine of Alexandria. There were probably days when Francis wasn’t zealous like Francis and Catherine quaked with fear. Sanctity isn’t a measure of how you feel but of what you choose to do.
I’ve never been more proud of my little sister than on the countless occasions I’ve seen her speak sweetly to a wild, raging toddler. I know she doesn’t feel lovey in that moment but she chooses to act like she loves them. When she does that, she loves more truly than if she were rapturous at the thought of another moment with her cherubs because she is choosing love rather than being driven by her feelings.
I think the Lord feels the same about us. I think that when prayer is boring or faith is hard or NFP seems like it will be the death of you that’s the moment when heaven rejoices at your small victories in finishing the rosary or speaking truth or whatever seems so hollow and fake right now.
"It's more honorable to have doubts and defeat them than never to have doubts." -Louis de Wohl
— Meg Hunter-Kilmer (@MegHunterKilmer) June 18, 2015
I guess all I’m saying is if you’re trying, even a little bit, the Lord is pleased with you. He sees your brokenness and sin and complete inability to love him well. But he sees that you try and the desire to please him does please him.
The best thing Thomas Merton ever wrote.
That little girl–now a big tough high schooler who still likes to cuddle–didn’t need me to feel good about her. She needed me to love her even when I didn’t feel good. In the end, that’s what she was looking for: someone who would love her when she was unlovable. Maybe God withholds the feelings we so long for to teach us to love him when he doesn’t seem lovable.
Keep on going through the motions. Do what you wish you wanted to do as though you wanted to do it–with God and with friends and with in-laws and with spouses and kids–and trust that you are enough. All he wants is your effort–he’ll bring it to perfection. Don’t let your inadequacies stop you. You are enough.
There’s a reason parents come in twos. It is HARD to raise kids–especially defiant ones–without backup or relief or someone to talk things over with. If God calls me to have kids, I sure hope he gives me a husband to go along with them. [↩]
Though oxytocin’s a powerful thing, and I’m a physical touch person myself, so it did help a little. [↩]
I don’t hear voices in prayer. Some people do and that’s awesome. But I’m just going to paraphrase the sense I got in prayer. Don’t get all excited and think I’m a mystic or something. [↩]
Have you read The Quiet Light by Louis de Wohl? I love all his books but this one was incredible. [↩]
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.
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. [↩]
I got a Facebook message a few years back from a guy I kind of knew, a good Catholic man who was friends with a lot of my friends. “We should hang out and get to know each other better,” he said. “Want to go get coffee or a beer some time?”
Now, when a man comes out of nowhere to ask a woman he barely knows out for drinks, it’s generally assumed that it’s a date. But at this point in my life, I’d just determined that I was going to enter the convent (though I hadn’t yet told anybody). So I knew I couldn’t go on a date with this guy.
The trouble was he didn’t actually say date. And while I could have said no to a date, I couldn’t really say no to hanging out with a guy I was kind of friends with. I couldn’t respond to his message with, “Sorry, I’m not dating right now,” since he hadn’t asked me on a date. And I couldn’t say, “No, I don’t hang out with men,” because that’s strange.
Poor Bad Luck Brian. If only he had used the word date.
So I said yes. I got there early and bought my own coffee. There was no chemistry. When I mentioned that I’d like to see a hockey game and he suggested that we go together, I changed the subject. When he said he had fun and would like to do it again, I changed the subject. I was sending as many signals as I could without rejecting an offer that hadn’t technically been made.
He called a few days later and asked if I wanted to hang out again. I emailed and told him I was pretty busy until the new year (it was mid-November). I hoped that was obvious enough,1 but in January he casually emailed to say he was going to the ballet and would I like to tag along. I’d had enough of subtlety, so I just bit the bullet and was straight with him:
“I’m sorry if I’m misreading things,” I said awkwardly, “but I’m not dating right now. If you’re doing something in a group, I’d love to join y’all, but I’m not interested in a relationship.”
My awkward email was met with an awkward response in which the poor man apologized if he had made me uncomfortable. As far as I can remember, we never really spoke after that.
I found the whole experience so frustrating. If he had asked me on a date, I could have told him I wasn’t interested and it all would have been done. No awkwardness, no games, no confusion. I was convinced long before this, but the experience cemented my position: guys need to man up and use the word date.2
Stop texting for weeks on end without making any kind of commitment. Stop hanging out solo without clarifying your intentions. Save her (and her girlfriends) from the hours of analysis of your every text and casual comment and tell her where you stand:
“I think you’re lovely.3 Could I take you on a date? Maybe this Saturday?”
The cards are on the table and your head is on the chopping block. I understand that. I get that in being clear about your heart you’re offering it to her to break. But consider this: your purpose as a man isn’t to get women, much though society might disagree. Your purpose as a man is to honor the women in your life. To love God and neighbor, of course, but particularly to guard the hearts of women. JPII put it this way: “God has assigned as a duty to every man the dignity of every woman.” And I can tell you that every man who’s asked me on a date—even if I said no—made me feel more beautiful and more worthy of love.
Consider that for a minute. When you ask a woman out, you’re risking rejection, and that is a hard thing to risk. But even if she rejects you, she becomes more aware of her value. She finds herself holding men to a higher standard. I think that’s worth the pain.
In 21st century America, you don’t meet a lot of damsels in distress. Men don’t get the opportunity to put on armor and fight for women physically. But the women in your life are under attack every moment of every day and they need you to fight for them. In the way you talk to them and about them and the way you look at them—the way you look at women in real life and the way you look at women on the internet4—you can fight for the women you love so much. By standing up to the guys who give men a bad name, by refusing to join their ranks, you are a warrior for your wives and daughters and mothers and friends. One way you can do this is by risking rejection to treat them with honor, to avoid games and weakness and commit yourself. Use the word date.
And ladies, please, please if a man has the courage to ask you on a date, be kind. My rule when I was on the dating scene was that I would give any man who wasn’t wildly objectionable one date. One date, I figured, was an opportunity to see if we might be compatible; it was not a preamble to a proposal. You might not feel comfortable saying yes to a date, but say no kindly. Tell him you’re flattered but you’re not interested. Thank him for his courage. Don’t tell everyone you know. Don’t lead him on. Do not tell him you’re not looking for a relationship if you’re just not into him. Recognize the sacrifice he’s making in putting his heart out there and honor him for that.
Gentlemen, I really think it’s a win-win for you. You’re either going on a date with a beautiful lady or you’re a hero with a few battle scars. During my years and years of being “ugly” and “unloved,” there were a few guys who had the guts to ask me out instead of just dancing around the issue. Because the Lord was protecting me from myself, I wasn’t interested in most of the men who asked.5 But each time I said no, I felt like maybe I was lovable, like maybe I wasn’t too ugly and too loud and too abrasive and too worthless. I think about those guys sometimes. I’m so grateful to them, and even to the ones who couldn’t quite muster the courage to use the word date—they patched together some of the shreds of my self-esteem and handed it to me with their sacrificial love.
If there’s a woman you’re interested in, gentlemen, stop beating around the bush. Stop “talking” or making sure she’s invited when your friends go out. Stop conspiring to show up where you know she’ll be. Suck it up and take a risk. Ask her on a date. She deserves it. So do you.
Guys, if a girl says vaguely that she’s busy for the next month and a half, she’s probably not interested. [↩]
There’s no official Church teaching that men should be doing the asking. It’s just my opinion. Having asked quite a few guys out in my day (and seen it done), I’m convinced that it’s not good for a woman’s heart. A woman needs to know that she’s worth pursuing and a man needs to know that he has what it takes to win her. Not to mention the fact that women read meaning into every touch and pause and preposition and we just make ourselves crazy when we’re debating asking a guy out. Y’all are welcome to be far more liberated and modern than I’ve become in my old age and defy all gender roles. But whoever’s doing the asking, someone needs to take the risk and use the d-word. [↩]
great/cool/fascinating/whatever doesn’t sound awkward to you [↩]
Pause for men and women in the audience to be struck by horror at their use of pornography and go get help. [↩]
Seriously, when I fall, I fall hard. In retrospect, I think God was protecting me in making me perpetually single. I could easily have stumbled into marriage simply because a reasonable guy happened to be interested. [↩]
For all I’m willing to make fun of the way the modern world uses 1 Corinthians 13 as a glorification of romantic love, I’m the first to admit that it’s a powerful passage. It’s one of those where you don’t even mind that you get the same homily on it every time. You know the one: “Replace ‘love’ with ‘a Christian.’ ‘A Christian is patient, a Christian is kind.'” Much like the Prodigal Father homily on the Prodigal Son Gospel or the “What kind of soil are you?” homily on the Parable of the Sower, it bears repeating. Paul’s description of love is a template of our lives. So it stands to reason that it can function as a pretty good examination of conscience, too.
Sin is, after all, a failure to love. We love ourselves more than God or more than our neighbors. We use people or ignore the call of Christ. So I think 1 Corinthians 13 is the perfect mirror to hold up before our lives, especially those of us who are fairly decent people. When we turn from the list of grave sins that we generally manage to avoid to this chapter on love, we begin to see just how far we have to go.
1 Corinthians 13: An Examination of Conscience
If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.
Are you talking just to hear yourself speak or are you really listening? Because your “wisdom” means nothing when it’s not meeting people in their suffering. All the brilliant words you’ve so carefully cultivated are platitudes and arrogance in the face of the anonymous souls you inflict them on, not caring to hear their story.
And if I have the gift of prophesy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing.
It doesn’t matter how much you know about Jesus if you speak of him only to prove people wrong and not to draw their hearts closer to him. Faith is not a weapon, it’s a gift. Are you evangelizing to share your joy or to win? If you’re not preaching from a heart that overflows with love for Christ and his lost sheep, shut your mouth and pray for humility.
If I give away everything I own, and if I hand my body over so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing.
How often do you perform good deeds without advertising them? Tell yourself you’re just trying to encourage others to join in, if you must, but ask yourself: are you serving unique, unrepeatable children of God destined for eternal greatness? Or just congratulating yourself on the number of bodies you moved through the line? Selfish service is better than nothing, but not much.
Love is patient,
Not just waiting-for-you-to-be-less-awful patient but loving-you-just-as-you-are patient. It’s not a feeling. You can’t make yourself stop being impatient. But you can sure as heck throw your frustrations over your shoulder and carry them up to Calvary. Do you view people as problems to be solved (or avoided) or as children of God? Choose to live like the other is not an obstacle but the delight of Love himself.
love is kind.
Love isn’t nice, it’s kind. It corrects when necessary. It doesn’t value the love above the beloved. One who loves well takes risks to do what’s best for the other. How many times have you chosen cowardice rather than making things uncomfortable and possibly saving a life–or a soul?
It is not jealous,
Jealousy isn’t just a matter of wanting what the other person has but of resenting him for having it. When you get up to nurse the baby, do you want to smack your husband who gets to sleep on through? Are you bitter about your brother’s new job? Do you try to keep your friends apart for fear they’ll like each other more than they like you? Love seeks what’s best for the beloved–even when it is directly bad for you.
[love] is not pompous, it is not inflated,
Love just isn’t about you. Are you really interested in the girl you’re talking to before class or are you waiting for someone else to come along? Do you spend time with that guy because you’re trying to be a true friend or because you’re doing him a favor with your friendship? A Christian desire to be kind can easily be corrupted into a self-congratulatory kind of pity for losers. Don’t end the relationship–pray for your heart to be purified.
it is not rude,
Do you treat people not as they want to be treated but as they deserve to be treated? Just because a friend is cool with racist or sexual jokes doesn’t mean you have the right to act that way–love treats others with the dignity they deserve, even if they aren’t aware of it.
it does not seek its own interests,
You were made to give yourself to others. Human love means that we receive too, but never that we take. Where is the selfishness in the way you relate to your wife, your parents, your friends? How often do you treat cashiers and wait staff like they’re just there to serve you? That might be their job, but they’re people before they’re busboys and they deserve your respect and courtesy. You’ll be amazed at the graces that flow into your life when you start treating people–all people–like people.
it is not quick-tempered,
More than anything, my sin comes from my quick temper and my quick temper comes from a refusal to recognize other people’s perspectives. The more I love people–the more I see them as people and not as means to my end–the less likely I am to roll my eyes or get irrationally angry.
it does not brood over injury,
You don’t get to hold grudges. Jesus made that perfectly clear. “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” remember? And while you might not be able to feel all better, forgiveness is a choice. You choose not to resent someone. And you choose not to replay your suffering in your mind, filled with “righteous” anger. Do you let love win or anger, suffering, fear, and sin?
it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth.
I always found this rather odd until I realized how often I do it. I take a certain vindictive pleasure in the bad choices people make when if they had only listened to me, they’d be perfect just like I am! Do you weep for sinners and long for their joy and peace, or do you feel smug when you see how much better off you are without them? Love continues even if a relationship might need to end.
It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Think of all the abuse you’d tolerate from your baby–it’s infinite, isn’t it? There is nothing she can do to make you stop loving her, is there? We know how to love our little children this way, some of us: without limits. It fades once we start expecting things of them in return. Don’t. Love every person like they deserve it. Choose to believe that they’re good deep down.1 Trust that God will bring them the healing they need to be who they were made to be. Never let your obsession with yourself get in the way of loving without restraint. Even when you’re the one you’re trying to love.
Songs 8:7
Love never fails.
You will fail. You will be angry and selfish and judgmental and impatient. Our whole lives are an attempt to learn to love. But Love never fails. He never gives up on you and he will not allow you to give up on yourself. Take some time with this chapter and then take yourself to the foot of the cross, to the seat of mercy: the confessional. Ask Love to teach you to love. Pray that your love would be his love.
Love is not a feeling, my friends, it is a choice. It is willing the good of the other, choosing to treat him as Christ would. One of the most powerful statements I’ve ever heard was attributed to St. Ignatius Loyola:2 of every man we meet, we ought to say, “Jesus died for this man.” That’s what 1 Corinthians 13 is calling us to: a recognition when we encounter each person that Jesus Christ, God made man, like us in all things but sin, thought this person was worth dying for. Who are we to do less?
This doesn’t mean enduring an emotionally or physically abusive relationship. The call to love means loving and protecting ourselves as well. Don’t let the demands of the Cross convince you to allow others to mistreat you. [↩]
Googling it only really gets me my website where I’ve quoted it before, so who knows? [↩]
By most measures, my father was a failure. He married far too young and had too many children. He never made enough money to support his family. For much of his life, he didn’t work at all. He collected diseases and disorders (real and imagined) in almost as great numbers as his ubiquitous action figures. And then, without fanfare, he up and died. At 55. Not much to write home about.
With my brother, his firstborn. He wrote us in an email once, “I was unprepared for how very much I love you.”
But, oh, my Daddy loved me. He loved me and my mother and my siblings so well and so hard that in so many ways his love almost defines us. He didn’t just tell us we were wonderful–he honestly believed, with everything he was, that we were the five most incredible people ever to walk the face of the planet. He bought my mother skimpy outfits in the hopes she’d wear them around town because he knew she was super hot and–apparently–wanted everyone else to know, too. He told my awkward preteen older brother that every girl he ever saw had the hots for him. He wrote me email after email just telling me (for no particular reason) that he loved me and was so proud of me. He thought my sister was the most talented singer, the most talented soccer player, the most amusing young woman there had ever been–with the exception of me and my mother, with whom she was tied. And just try to convince him that my little brother wasn’t the best-looking kid at his confirmation (to which he wore my father’s brown tweed bell-bottom wedding suit). He would have none of it.
With my older brother and me.
He saw what was good in us and, whatever his flaws, he loved us so desperately that we began to believe him. Any time I talk to women about beauty, I tell them how deeply my father loved me. Any time I talk to men about being protectors, I tell them to be like my daddy. Because even at my worst, even when I was absolutely convinced that I was fat and ugly and completely unlovable, I knew that my daddy loved me. And I knew that if he loved me, maybe somebody else could. Even when everything in me and everything around me was telling me that I was worthless, I couldn’t quite believe it. My daddy, after all, was completely enamored of me. Here’s part of a poem he wrote me for my 24th birthday:
you have always
made
the sun
seem boring
floating about
in the radiant
beauty
that is you
The first picture with all six of us.
It took years for me to begin to believe that maybe he was right–that maybe there was something special about me. It took Christ, really. But when I began to read how deeply Christ loved me, I accepted it, because I’d felt that love before. When I fell at my knees at the foot of the cross, confessing my sins against one who’d loved me so deeply, his forgiveness felt familiar. My daddy forgave me the same way–completely and gladly, as though my sin had been entirely washed away.
He must have been remarkable if I was prompted (out of nowhere) to send him this a few years back.
When I heard about a Father who loved me, I accepted it without question. Of course my Father loved me–that’s what fathers do. It was years before I realized what a gift that was, years before I understood that so many people struggle their whole lives to accept the love of the Father because of the wounds they hold from their earthly fathers. My father wasn’t perfect, but he never failed in the one thing that mattered most: love.
A family picture with all of us…up till now, anyway. You can see from his face that he wasn’t well.
Eighteen years ago, my father got sick. Mentally, emotionally, physically. He withdrew from almost everything. He stopped doing anything around the house. He stopped even leaving the house. He missed almost every concert and play I had in high school. He made life really hard for us and I was so angry at him. But even then, even when he couldn’t always act like he loved me, I never once questioned his love. Because it was so obvious in everything he did. Because the only thing that pulled him out of himself was us. Because when I search for “Figglety” (his inscrutable nickname for me) in my email, I find dozens of random emails in which he just tells me–unprompted by any discernible cause–that he loves me and is proud of me. Whatever his flaws, he loved me.
My daddy taught me that I was worthy of love. He taught me how to accept love. And he gave me a model of how to love. If I love one person half as well as he loved us, I’ll count it a life well lived.
What kind of man inspires a look like that on the face of his wife of 26 (now 34) years?
The last thing my mother said about my father on Facebook was this: “You [kids] think your daddy and I are boring. You are completely uninspired by our proposal that wasn’t, not really. You used to think we were dumb because “our song” is Mozart’s 41st. But how can a man be boring when he promises his life to you? No, Jonathan, you’re never boring—except when you are, and we’re both happy about that!” After 34 years of marriage–a hard marriage that many would have said she had every right to get out of–he was still completely hers, as madly in love with her as on the day they married.
I haven’t mentioned how silly he was. I’m sure this ridiculous picture was his idea.
He was a difficult man to live with but until the day I die I will be grateful for the daddy he was. By many accounts, he was a failure. But if we forget the “accomplishments” of his life and look at the meaning of his life–a wife and four children who walked every day of their lives in the knowledge that they were deeply and unconditionally loved–it’s hard not to stand in wonder at a broken man who never wanted to be anything more than Daddy.
Of course, I’m a little heartbroken. Death hurts. But it hurts because it’s wrong, not because it’s bad. We weren’t made to die. We weren’t made to be separated. And I miss my Daddy. But I’d been missing him, in a sense, for 18 years. And now–finally–he’s the man he used to be again, free from everything that hurt and twisted him. He’s whole and healed and joyful. And really, I’m just so thankful for God’s timing in this. He’d just recently returned to the Sacraments and I keep finding myself on my knees before the Blessed Sacrament saying over and over again, “I’m so grateful, I’m so grateful.” I’m so, so thankful that he went now and not six months ago. To die in a state of grace: what more could you ask?
Timmy had just thrown a ball which bounced off my mother’s head and into our dog’s mouth. It was epic. Notice how we’re all looking at the camera. My daddy is looking at us.
My father loved the Lord so much. He was hungry for heaven and had been for years. He was living a Sacramental life–and oh, thank God for that–and I’m not afraid for him. Really, I’m so glad for him. He had been in so much pain for so long and now he’s free and home or heading there. The last email I sent him was terse and rather patronizing and I tried to feel guilty about it but then I remembered–in the communion of saints, we are still together. So I told him I was sorry and reminded him how much I love him and he heard and now all that’s left is joy in who he was and joy in who he’s becoming and hope for when we meet again.
Grandaddy with his youngest grandbaby. He’s absolutely captivated by her. She’s absolutely captivated by his beard.
Would y’all take a minute to pray for my father (Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer) and for my family? If you want to get to know him a little better, my sister wrote a beautiful tribute here and his sister (one of many) tells some great stories about his childhood here. The funeral will be Saturday, December 7, at 2pm at St. Mark Catholic Church in Vienna, VA.
O Lord, support us all the day long of this troublous life,
until the shadows lengthen,
and the evening comes,
and the busy world is hushed,
the fever of life is over,
and our work done.
Then, Lord, in your mercy,
grant us safe lodging,
a holy rest,
and peace at the last;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
-Bl. John Henry Newman
I know there are people out there–lots of them–who show up Sunday morning and call it good for the week. I know there are people who check Catholic on forms but don’t have any kind of a relationship with Christ. I guess I just figured there was a solid core of believers who were in love with Christ–or at least trying to be.
But I’m reading Sherry Weddell’s Forming Intentional Disciples and it’s breaking my heart. Almost half of Catholics, she says, don’t believe God is a personal God. They don’t even believe it’s possible to have a relationship with him. Most of us don’t pray beyond what’s required and when we do it’s not about love so much as a sense of duty. We might be committed to the Church, but we’re not really committed to Christ.
I hope this shocks you as much as it shocked me. I hope you’re living for Christ and seeking him every day in prayer. But if you’re one of those people checking off the boxes, one of those people doing the bare minimum and longing for more, I’m calling you out. Please go deeper. Christ is so much more than you think he is and you can be so much more, too. It’s great that you’re going to Mass, but I know he wants more from you. He wants more for you. He wants you to know him, to love him, to follow him and be fulfilled by him. He wants your prayer to be more than just lip service. He wants you to want him.
Maybe that’s too abstract, so I’m not staying up in my ivory tower on this one. I’m getting practical. You want to know where to start? Here are 50 ways to approach prayer like it’s more than just something to get through so you can get on with your week. Try one, try them all, but try something. You have nothing to lose. You have everything to gain.
Close your eyes and just repeat the name of Jesus.
Write a letter to God every night for a month. Promise yourself you won’t let anyone read them so you can forget the fancy language and get real.
Read the Song of Songs like Christ is the bridegroom and you’re the bride. Because you are.
When things get crazy, go to adoration at night.1 Don’t try to stay on topic–just talk through all the mess in your life. Talk in circles and get frustrated and pull out your shopping list and process until your mind finally slows down. Work through it all and then just let yourself be. It’s a very loud silence, that.
Pray the news. Beg mercy for sinners, healing for the infirm, justice and peace and God’s will in all things.
Go somewhere beautiful (I recommend Montana) and revel in the majesty of God.
Hold a crucifix while you pray.
Pick a small but regular sacrifice (no sugar in your coffee, no condiments, no added salt). Thank Jesus for his sacrifice every time you make yours.
Pray the Our Father slowly. Take ten minutes to pray it once.
Ask the Blessed Mother to hold your hand and walk you to Jesus.
Tithe your free time–if you work eight hours a day and sleep eight hours a day, spend 48 minutes in prayer over the course of the day.
Think of how your small children tell you they love you–over and over, at any opportunity, with deep feeling and deep beauty even when it’s deeply awkward. Talk to God like you’re a little child.
Sit in a circle with your closest friends and take turns talking out loud to God.
Pray the Mass like it’s the Last Supper–because it is. Listen to Jesus like it’s your last night with him.
Pray the Mass like it’s Calvary–because it is. Look at his body stretched out, lifeless for you on the Cross. Receive his body broken for you in the Eucharist. Ask for the grace to live a life that’s worthy of that love.
Pray the Mass like it’s the heavenly banquet–because it is. Look for what’s true and good and beautiful. Thank God for the gift of the liturgy.
Go to a church and sit in silence until you just can’t stand it any more. Then sit for another five minutes.
“For everything that has been, thanks. To everything that will be, yes.” -Dag Hammarskjold
When you kneel before the priest in confession, be mindful of the fact that you’re kneeling at the foot of the Cross accusing yourself before the God who hangs dying to save you. Hate your sin but let him love you just the same.
Memorize a Bible verse first thing in the morning. Make it your theme for the day.
Every night, write down every sin you committed that day. Do it until you just can’t take the weight of all those sins, then go experience the sweet release of absolution. After your confession, burn the list.
Read Psalm 136, which describes everything God has ever done as being done because of his love. Go through your life from the very beginning and list everything that’s happened to you. Follow each event–good or bad– with “for his love endures forever.” Let him show you how he used every single thing for your good.
Jules Bastien-Lepage’s Joan of Arc. Look at her. She’s attentive and determined but somehow already exhausted. Do you listen for God? Do you act when he says to even if you don’t think you have the strength?
Meditate on sacred art.
Talk to a friend about your relationship with Jesus. Sometimes talking about God becomes talking to God.
Remember: “[God] will give us feelings of love [toward Him] if He pleases. We cannot create them for ourselves, and we must not demand them as a right. But the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not. It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and, therefore, it is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him.” -C.S. Lewis2
Read the day’s readings each day. Write down five things you learn.
Some time when you’re not tired, lie down in the sun and try to be still with the Lord. You may drift in and out of sleep but you may also surrender your mind and actually manage silence.
Pray over pictures of starving children. Ache for them as Christ aches for you.
Do something mindlessly physical while you pray–run or crochet or paint a wall. Engaging your body can make it easier to surrender your mind.
Meditate on the Stations of the Cross. Don’t just read the prayers in some book–ponder the prayers, look at the pictures, put yourself in the scene. Walk the Via Dolorosa with your Lord.
Make a list of everything you love about the Lord–who he is, what he’s done, how he loves you.
Pray for an image of your relationship with Christ–lovers, knight and squire, father and child, king and slave, comrades at arms–and learn through that.
When you can’t take it any more, drive to the middle of nowhere and let God have it. It’s not the nicest prayer, but it’s some of the most real.
Hit your knees first thing in the morning and thank God for everything that’s coming at you that day. Think through everything you’re expecting to deal with and thank him for the good, the bad and the ugly.
Offer each day–all prayers and sacrifices and blessings–for a specific person.
Do 15 minutes of spiritual reading. Spend 15 minutes talking to God about it.
If you speak another language, try praying in it. It’s harder to daydream in a foreign language.
Rock out to some passionate praise music–“Lord I Need You,” “How He Loves,” “Amazed.”
Pray some intense hymns–“Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent,” “It Is Well,” “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” “Come Thou Fount.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3T5WWy-uk0U
Pray some intense poems–John Donne’s “Sonnet XIV,” Francis Thompson’s “Hound of Heaven,” Bl. John Henry Newman’s “The Pillar of the Cloud.”
Treat the Mass like the sacrifice it is. The whole thing is about Jesus giving himself completely for you, so listen to the readings like a challenge to surrender. Then offer your joys to him when the priest offers the bread. Offer your sorrows when he offers the wine. Offer your whole self when Jesus gives himself to you in the Eucharist. Come out changed.
At the end of the day, talk to Jesus about everything that happened that day. Thank him, beg his forgiveness, ask for strength for tomorrow.
Go through the motions if it’s the best you can do. It’s better than nothing.
Maybe none of these will fit you. I’m writing as an uber-emotional, academically-oriented woman. If you try these–multiple times–and you’re still not feeling it, try something else. Ask your priest, your best friend, the random lady at Mass who seems so pious. Share your suggestions and struggles below. Part of the problem is that we so often don’t talk about any of this so nobody realizes that nobody has it together. Then we decide that we’re just not one of the lucky few chosen to be saints and we settle for the bare minimum–a handful of obligations with no heart.
Christianity is so much more than a list of rules and pious practices, friends. It’s a relationship, a love like none you’ve ever known before. It’s the meaning of life, the God of the universe made man for you. Please don’t be content with empty prayer and an unabandoned heart. Ask for more. He always answers that prayer.
I don’t know what it is about the dark but it makes adoration so much more powerful. [↩]
After last week’s post on how every Christian is called to be a missionary, my friend Jenna asked me to get specific. What does it mean to be a missionary in everyday life? So I started brainstorming and here’s what I came up with: 100 ways to evangelize right where you are. While missionaries aren’t just evangelists, I feel like I pretty well covered the service and justice aspect of Christianity in the pro-life post. So I’m sticking primarily with things that are more directly about preaching the Gospel, but all those pro-life practices are ways to be a missionary too.
Not all of these tips will work for all of you. Some types of evangelization take a certain personality. Some will be helpful only with particular individuals (37, 45, 74) while others are more universally applicable (12, 68, 72). Remember: nobody is a project. Treat every person as a child of God, never as the object of a strategy, and you’ll be off to a good start.
Fall in love with Jesus.
Take your children to daily Mass.
Offer to help someone with small children at Mass.
Invite someone to go to confession with you–offer to take him to dinner afterwards to sweeten the deal.
Read the Catechism. The whole thing.
Take your baby to visit the residents at a nursing home.
Sign up for a holy hour in the middle of your prime social time. Then when you leave the bar or the football game to head off to pray, invite people to join you. You’ll be amazed what happens.
Call someone who’s hurting.
Take a picnic lunch to an area with a large homeless population.
Do your daily Bible reading on your commute. It gives your neighbor an opportunity to ask.
When catching up with a friend, ask “How can I pray for you?”
Step outside your comfort zone.
Dress as a Saint for Halloween, but don’t be lame about it. Kendra will show you how.3
Listen to your children.
Smile more.
Cross yourself when you pass a church.
If you know someone who’s sitting on the fence, be frank. Ask them if you can have 15 minutes to present a case for the Church.
Don’t be afraid to say you don’t know.
Bake cookies for prisoners.
Pay the toll for the person behind you. Ask the toll booth attendant to tell him you said, “Have a blessed day.”
Offer to go door to door inviting people to church.
Wear a beautiful piece of religious jewelry. When people compliment you on it, take it as an invitation to give a quick testimony.
Tell people about the Saint of the day.
Weep with those who weep.
Take a friend to an art museum. Hit up the Renaissance section and explain what’s going on with all the Saints and Bible scenes. Think of all the catechesis!
Call a friend out on unchristian behavior.
Go to confession.
Introduce yourself to people you see at church.
Learn to pray extemporaneously.
Invite a fellow parishioner to dinner.
When a friend is suffering, have a Mass said for him.
Change your language–say “God bless you” instead of “Bless you,” “Praise God” instead of “Thank God.” See if it doesn’t start some interesting conversations.
“Never let evil talk pass your lips; say only the good things men need to hear, things that will really help them.”5
Dress modestly but look awesome.
Have friends who aren’t Christian. Don’t try to convert them. Just love them.
Make beautiful Christian art–poetry, photography, music, sculpture. Give glory to God and draw hearts to him.
Never use apologetics as a weapon. If you get angry, take a step back.
Ask someone to pray for you–even if she’s not the type who would offer.
When you receive communion, act like you really believe, like you’re really in love. Your attitude will touch people around you and you’ll find your faith strengthened. It’s more about living what you believe even when you don’t feel it than it is about faking it, and the more you live it, the more you’ll feel it.
Take a friend out for a beer. Hang out. Just be friends.
Bear wrongs patiently.
Ask people’s forgiveness.
When you find yourself judging someone for not being Christian/Catholic or not being a “good” Christian/Catholic, make a list of five things about that person that make her a better person than you.
Remember that you can’t know the state of anyone’s soul.6
Fun fact: I was about to write pretty much that exact blog post with ways to dress as a Saint but be awesome about it–you know, St. Peter Martyr with a hatchet in his head, a Holy Soul with flames licking at your feet, mummy/Lazarus, a princess, a knight, St. Lucy with your eyes gouged out. But then I googled to see if there was a picture online of anybody ever dressed as St. Denis (carrying your mitred head under your arm–awesome!!) and I found that Kendra had done it dramatically better than I was going to. [↩]
Believers can have more than a little to do with the rise of atheism. To the extent that they are careless about their instruction in the faith, or present its teaching falsely, or even fail in their religious, moral, or social life, they must be said to conceal rather than to reveal the true nature of God and of religion. [↩]
CCC 847: This affirmation is not aimed at those who, through no fault of their own, do not know Christ and his Church: Those who, through no fault of their own, do not know the Gospel of Christ or his Church, but who nevertheless seek God with a sincere heart, and, moved by grace, try in their actions to do his will as they know it through the dictates of their conscience—those too may achieve eternal salvation. [↩]
