I got to spend a few weeks in June around my sister‘s awesome kids. I thought y’all might enjoy some of the theological conversations we had. And before you ask why they’re so awesome, here’s the best I can tell: the adults they know talk frequently and very enthusiastically about holy things–to them and to each other–and they’ve picked up on it.
Playing the Annunciation. Because what else would you do?
Cecilia (3 1/2): How can you be a saint and a nun?
Me: Oh, lots of Saints were nuns. St. Therese, St. Teresa, St. Catherine Laboure, St. Claire…. To be a saint, you just have to love God and try your best to do what he wants you to do.
John Paul (almost 5): And I like St. Cecilia.
Cecilia: Saint Cecilia? Am I a saint already?!?
Me: Not yet, honey.
Cecilia: Why not?
Me: Well, because you’re not dead yet.
Cecilia: And why not?
Me: I guess because God has work he still wants you to do.
Cecilia: And if I die when I’m a child, I can still be a saint.
John Paul: Like Blessed Imelda!
How to get your kids excited about Saints: read them lots of Saint books, get them Saint costumes to play dress-up in, and suggest with wild excitement that we pretend to be Saints. You should see how excited they are when I ask if they want to play the martyrdom of St. Ignatius of Antioch.
Cecilia (rather upset that Jesus has ascended): Why doesn’t Jesus come back down from heaven?
Me: I don’t know, Cecilia. Do you wish he would?
Cecilia: YES!
Me: Well there’s a great prayer for that. Maranatha. It means, “Come, Lord Jesus!”
Cecilia and John Paul: MARANATHA!!
I’m with them. Come back, dear Jesus, and heal our broken world!
All dressed up for the ordination.
John Paul, an hour in to a 3 hour ordination: It’s the prayer of ordination! (a few minutes later) AND NOW THEY ARE PRIESTS!! My turn!
(tries to push past me toward the aisle)
Me: No, buddy, you can’t be a priest yet.
John Paul, beginning to cry: Why not?
Me: Because you’re not old enough.
John Paul: I AM old enough!
Me: How about when we get home I’ll show you in the Code of Canon Law? Would that make you feel better? In Latin and English?
John Paul, sniffling: Yeah.
It runs in the family. I was once so upset after a football game that the only thing that could cheer me up was stopping at the library to read through a commentary on the Code.
Look at how excited he is for his blessing!
Me, during the same ordination: John Paul, the bishop is getting Fr. Chris’s blessing. And after Mass, you will be able to get Fr. Chris’s blessing! And then you will hold out your hands and he will put his hands in them and you will kiss them.
John Paul: Why?
Me: Because they aren’t his hands anymore. They’re Jesus’ hands.
John Paul: Jesus’ hands!! Why are they Jesus’ hands?
Me: Because they were consecrated to celebrate the Sacraments. To say Mass and give absolution and anoint people.
John Paul: And to consecrate the Eucharist.
(later, holding Fr. Chris’ hands) *Gasp* These are Jesus’ hands! (Kisses them reverently)
Many new priests don’t expect you to kiss their hands, but I think it’s one of the most beautiful traditions in our Church. In any other circumstances, it would be wildly inappropriate for me to kiss a priest, but here I’m humbling myself in reverence to the God who works through his priests.
John Paul (reading the back of my shirt): I’m a Catholic. Ask me a question!
Me (playing along and asking him one of the most common): Okay, why do you have to go to Mass every Sunday?
John Paul (clearly distraught): Oh! Because I love Jesus!
It really is that simple. Maybe I should stop with commandments and canon law and go with this: we go to Mass because we love him and we’re trying to love him better.
Lady Victory standing on a corpse saying: “Thus always to tyrants!” Virginia is so BA.
Me, explaining the intense Virginia flag and, thus, what a tyrant is: A tyrant is someone who takes away your freedom. And the greatest tyrant is Satan because he tricks you into becoming a slave to sin.
Cecilia (disdainfully): Um, Satan has no power now.
Me: Why not?
Cecilia (a little condescendingly): Because Jesus died to save us from our sins!
I had to think about this one. I think she’s wrong that he has no power, but the nature of the power he has is different. Before the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of Christ, he had power by the very nature of things. Now he only has the power that we give him by our sin. I think. Is it ridiculous that her theological conclusions have given me so much to think about?
I do a lot of Googling. Sometimes it’s just because I randomly and passionately want to know everything about rumspringa. Other times, it’s because somebody asked a question that I didn’t know the answer to and my know-it-all heart couldn’t handle it. So I search and search and search and send an email and then nobody else gets to reap the fruit of all my hard work.
But I have a blog. Which means I can share my research with the whole world!
Elizabeth Anna on the Left and Mary Claire on the right.
So I know this is super random, but if you’ve talked to me in the last year and a half, you are abundantly aware that my sister has twins. And when she found out she was having twins, I had to find all the possible Saint pairings to name the babies after. My nephew, 3 at the time, was adamant that they would be named Ezra and Nehemiah.1 When he finally accepted that they were girls, he suggested Mary Salome and Mary The Mother of God. His parents weren’t too keen on “The Mother of God” as a middle name, so we turned to the internet.
Turns out not a lot of people have compiled lists of Catholic twin names (Although this post gave me some inspiration), so I figured I’d share my research for those among you who are having twins. First of all, congratulations! Twins are awesome! And eventually you’ll sleep again. Before you’re totally sleep-deprived, let’s get to know some Saint pairings so you can name your little ones after holy besties.
Two Boys.
Cosmas and Damian. Think they were identical?
Cosmas and Damian were actually twins, but I don’t know about naming a baby Cosmas.2 Cyril and Methodius might give you the same problem.
Ignatius and Francis Xavier were two of the first Jesuits and two of the most amazing men in the history of ever. Peter Faber was one of their companions, too, in case you’re having triplets.
David and Jonathan had one of the most selfless friendships of all time.3
For our Eastern friends, Gregory Nazianzen and Basil were such great friends–like two bodies with a single spirit, Gregory tells us–that they share a feast day despite having died fifteen years apart.
Ambrose was the teacher of the inimitable Augustine. It might be hard not to feel that you’re playing favorites when the student so far surpassed the teacher, but Ambrose himself was no slouch.
Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas might leave you in a similar bind, but Albert was an esteemed scholar in all disciplines, which might balance out Thomas being the greatest mind the world has ever known.4
Historians differ as to whether or not Francis and Dominic met in person, but Fra Angelico thinks they did and his testimony is good enough for me.
Francis of Assisi and Dominic5 founded the two great mendicant orders.
If you’ve got British ancestry, you might like the sound of Edmund and Henry. Henry Walpole was converted when Edmund Campion’s blood spattered on him and went on to be ordained and martyred in England, just like Edmund.
John Bosco was Dominic Savio’s teacher and the author of his biography. As with so many in this list, they clearly made each other saints.
Miguel Pro and Jose Luis were both killed during the Cristero Wars, both crying out “Viva Cristo Rey!” as their last words.
Thomas More and John Fisher were both martyred for clinging to their faith during the reign of Henry VIII.
If you’re a hardcore Chestertonian, Gilbert and Keith would be a great duo in anticipation of his canonization.6
Obviously, any pair of Apostles or Prophets will work here. James and John were sons of Zebedee and Simon Peter and Andrew were brothers as well. Thomas even means twin! Then you could do Moses and Aaron, Isaac and Jacob, or Samuel and Elijah. Timothy and Titus were both converted by St. Paul, who would himself be a great brother to a little Peter.
A Boy and a Girl
John and Teresa–something to aspire to.
Benedict and Scholastica are the obvious ones here–our other set of canonized twins.
Francis and Claire of Assisi worked together to found the women’s branch of the Franciscans, now called the Poor Clares.
Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross reformed the Carmelites together and inspired one another as only mystics can. A power couple if ever there was one.
Jordan and Diana (both Blessed) were early Dominicans whose correspondence is a true example of holy friendship.
Francis de Sales founded the Visitation Sisters with Jane de Chantal and served as her spiritual director, a role Vincent de Paul later took over.
Vincent de Paul founded the Daughters of Charity with Louise de Marillac, whose previous spiritual director was also Francis de Sales. So if you somehow end up with quadruplets, how about Vincent, Francis, Louise, and Jane?
Mother Marianne beside the corpse of Fr. Damien.
Damien of Molokai and Mother Marianne worked together to serve the lepers of Hawaii.
St. Dominic’s mother, Bl. Jane of Aza, played an enormous role in his sanctity.
Then there’s Monica who is said to have (metaphorically) baptized her son Augustine with her tears.
Louis and Zelie Martin were married (And the parents of St. Therese.) Luigi and Maria Quattrocchi were also married. Is it too creepy to name siblings after Saints who were married to each other? Other than Mary and Joseph, of course.7
Rose of Lima and Martin de Porres were Peruvian Dominicans and close friends.
Raymond of Capua was Catherine of Siena’s spiritual director and biographer.
John Bosco and Maria Mazzarello founded the Salesians together.
Francisco and Jacinta of Fatima were siblings and visionaries at one of the world’s greatest apparitions.
I published this post at 3 and saw this window at 5. Perfect.
Maximilian Kolbe and Teresa Benedicta of the Cross (Edith Stein) were both killed by the Nazis.
John Paul and Mother Teresa fought for the Gospel of Life.
Our Lady of Guadalupe appeared to Juan Diego–great names if you’ve got some Hispanic blood (or just wish you did).
St. Patrick reportedly baptized St. Brigid’s parents and became her good friend. Between the two of them, they seem to have converted most of Ireland.
Then of course there’s John and Mary (at the foot of the Cross), Elizabeth and John (the Baptist), and various Old Testament couples.
Two Girls
Perpetua and Felicity were martyred together at the very beginning of the third century. The account of their martyrdom is profoundly inspiring.
Claire and Agnes of Assisi were biological sisters as well as sisters in religion.
Bridget of Sweden was the mother of Catherine of Sweden, who also entered the order her mother founded (the Brigittines).
Nunilo and Alodia were daughters of a Muslim father and a Christian mother who were martyred for following Christ. Maybe for middle names?
Mary and Martha, but be prepared for Mary to taunt Martha with having chosen the better part. I certainly would have.
Mary and Elizabeth, like my nieces! And then their feast day can be the Visitation. Or Mary and Anne after the Blessed mother and her mom. Mary and Madeleine after Mary Magdalene–basically pair anyone in the New Testament with Mary and you’re good.
Teresa of Avila and Catherine of Siena were for years the only two female doctors of the Church.8 (Therese and Hildegard have since joined them, but Therese and Teresa might be a bit much and Hildegard….)
Joan of Arc had locutions from Catherine of Alexandria and Margaret. Mary appeared to Bernadette–and Catherine and Jacinta.
Judith, Ruth, and Esther all have books of the Bible written about them. Ruth was the daughter-in-law of Naomi.
Any of them virgin martyrs–Cecilia, Agnes, Agatha, Lucy, Anastasia, Catherine (of Alexandria), Philomena….
Or you could nae them both after Mary in some way–Maria and Sophia, ((Our Lady Seat of Wisdom–Sophia) or Stella and Marissa. More on Marian names later.
Of course, you could just pick two who weren’t contemporaries but belonged to the same religious order. Or two doctors of the Church or perhaps two people who had the same mission or similar martyrdoms. Then there’s the meaning of the names to consider–what about Cora (meaning heart) and her sister Arianna (which apparently means sacred)? I’ll leave you to research all that on your own.
If you still aren’t satisfied, check out this book on Saints who were connected to each other. I haven’t read it, but it certainly sounds promising!
What other combinations would you add? What did you name your twins? Share in the comments!
And a more recent picture with big brother John Paul.
I became Catholic quite against my will. Well, to be fair, when I actually became Catholic I was 3 months old and had very little will to speak of. But when I came to believe–when I left my adolescent atheism behind and embarked on the great adventure that’s brought me anguish and ecstasy, guilt and mercy, uncertainty and risk and sacrifice and so very much joy–it was not something I sought. The Lord looked past my rolling eyes, dragged me into a confessional, and didn’t let me go till I was washed clean and convicted.
And there I was, a wide-eyed 13-year-old knowing nothing but that Jesus was God and he loved me. So, like any other 13-year-old, I grabbed a Catechism and a Bible and set out to know all the things there were to know.
As it turns out, there’s quite a lot. And some of it is hard. And some of it seems illogical, especially when you know nothing about logic because you’re 13 and getting your answers from AskJeeves. But I’d read John 6 and I’d read Matthew 16 and I knew I was stuck. Like it or not, I was Catholic. But the Church still struck me as an ideology, not a home. Until I got to know my papa.
JPII was not a popular figure in my house. We were too liberal for his conservative nonsense. I distinctly remember my father remarking with disgust on “the latest papal bull” in such a way that I didn’t realize “bull” was a technical term, not a profane one. We didn’t pray for him, we didn’t have pictures of him, and we certainly didn’t admire him.
So I don’t know when I first got to know him. I don’t know if I realized at once how amazing he was. I just know this: by the time I was 16, I was absolutely convinced that my papa loved me. It didn’t matter that he’d never met me. He adored me. And he became the Church for me. When being Catholic seemed too hard or illogical, I knew it would break his heart if I left. Oh, he wouldn’t know, exactly, but this mystic pope of ours would feel the poorer for having lost me. I couldn’t do that to him.
There was something in his eyes that told me I mattered, something that spoke the love of Christ in a more powerful way than anyone I’d ever seen. I saw Christ move so powerfully in him that I fell in love. I used to creep my students out by telling them how handsome he was, how he was my number 2 crush of all time.1 Sure, he was handsome. But it wasn’t just his face that drew me.
JPII was a baller. He was a brilliant philosopher, poet, actor, athlete, and polyglot. He was charming and charismatic, a Catholic rock star if ever there was one. He was handsome enough to swoon over, a man of prayer, and the Rock that Christ rebuilt our Church on during a tumultuous quarter century. He revolutionized the way we think about sex and the human person. He transformed our attitude towards youth. He destroyed communism in the West. But that’s not why I love him. I love him because he loved me.
I love him because he taught me what it meant to be loved by Christ. He longed for me and suffered for me and spoke truth to me. He put a human face on this institutional Church of ours and showed me that the Church was more than my teacher, she was my mother and my home. It wasn’t just that every explanation he gave satisfied my intellectual curiosity, it was that he spoke truth with the love of Christ. In writing about him now, I almost believe that he and I used to sit together and discuss these issues. That’s how much I could feel his love, even before he died and finally learned my name.
That was why I went to World Youth Day in Rome in 2000–to be near him. It was why I studied in Rome. I minored in Italian so that I could hang around the Vatican. I used to go to St. Peter’s and check the language signs on the confessionals to see if any had Polish, Italian, English, German, Russian, Spanish, Portuguese, Latin, etc. on the outside. Popes hear confessions too, right? It was why I started crying when a student told me he had kissed her when she was a little girl: because this Vicar of Christ had Jesus eyes and I felt the love of the Lord every time I was near him.
I remember being in class once with a professor who didn’t strike me as a huge JPII fan. I would have guessed that he was too far left to much admire my papa. He was big into peace and justice, running Pax Christi and the Catholic Worker House, and at the time I wasn’t aware that people could be all about social justice and all about personal morality at the same time.2 So when a girl in class started lamenting the popes’ teaching on contraception, I wasn’t excited to hear his response.
“I don’t understand why some old man living in his golden palace in Rome gets to tell me what I can do with my body!”
“Old man in Rome?” he asked quietly. “He also lived in Nazi- and Communist-occupied Poland, Miss White Suburban America.” I’m pretty sure I applauded.
This was the thing about John Paul–sure, some people hated him,3 but far more loved him because he loved truth and he loved liars. He hated communism but loved communists. He hated sin but loved sinners. He endured loneliness and oppression and near starvation and came out the other side so filled with the love of Christ that you were almost compelled to look away. It was almost too beautiful to endure.
To this day, when I see a picture of him, I feel a pang. Not because I miss him but because I miss Christ. The face of Pope John Paul makes me long for heaven because he loved me–loves me–the way that Christ loves me. He pointed me to Christ. He still does. He made me love Christ and his Church more. He taught me what it meant to be human, to be a woman, to be a Catholic and a lover of humanity. Tomorrow’s canonization is a formality. I’ve known he was a Saint since long before he died.
My 4-year-old nephew was recently filling out the Sacramental record in his Bible. After listing his baptismal date (which I’m sure he has memorized) and his anticipated dates of First Communion and Confirmation, he had to put his confirmation sponsor’s name. “What’s a confirmation sponsor?” he asked his mom. “It’s someone who helps you stay Catholic,” she answered.
Without hesitation, he carefully wrote, “Pope JPII.”
Me, too, buddy. Me, too.
So I bought him this. Because I’m the best godmother ever.
Linking up with Jenny and everybody else who loves my papa–find their stories over here!
Number 1: St. John the Beloved, because a guy with the courage and the faithfulness to stand at the foot of the Cross is more attractive than any Ryan Gosling meme. [↩]
Somehow I hadn’t noticed that they’re inseparable…. [↩]
I’m not unaware of his flaws, most especially his colossal failure to act in the face of the clergy sex abuse. Knowing him as I do, I can’t help but believe that he did the best he could with the information he was given and the understanding of pedophilia that was prevalent during his formative years. I am terribly, terribly sorry for those victims who felt that his silence was compliance and whose pain is raw this weekend. Please know that I weep for you and that your Father in heaven aches for you and rages against those who hurt you. Your Church longs for you and will never stop loving you. This canonization is not a declaration that all his actions were impeccable–none of us are without fault, not even the saints among us–but a celebration of the many, many ways he did act to make Christ’s love more tangible to the many empty hearts in this world. [↩]
The very first talk I gave to a large group was when I was in high school. I stood up in front of our Fellowship of Christian Athletes huddle1 during Advent and talked about how Christmas hit me harder than Easter because Easter told me Jesus died for me but Christmas told me he lived for me. “I’d die for Jesus,” I said confidently. “Honestly, I want to be a martyr. But it’s not because I’m brave. It’s because I’m lazy. I figure I can be holy for 5 minutes; it’s the prospect of another 70 years of holiness that terrifies me.” I’ve been giving some variation of that talk for the past 15 years and it’s never more powerful to me than when I’m meditating on the Annunciation.
The Annunciation by Carl Bloch. It’s an odd way to begin such an ordinary life.
Our feast today celebrates a God who became ordinary, born to an ordinary mother in an ordinary town. Oh, of course we know there wasn’t anything ordinary about them–and yet for thirty years, their holiness consisted in the dull monotony of everyday life. Jesus’ Passion, Death, and Resurrection were the culmination of a life of quiet sacrifice, of dirty feet and skinned knees, of sweat and stomachaches and boredom and rejection and chores and loneliness. Mary, the Queen of Heaven and Earth, spent 30 years sweeping floors, fetching water, consoling neighbors, and getting sassed by her many (spiritual) children. St. Joseph sawed and sanded and carried out the trash and all three gave glory to God by the very ordinariness of their lives.
How many of us are content to be ordinary? We want to be marvelous and impressive, to have the world look on in awe at our holiness–or we want to be mediocre and comfortable. We see our options as daring, terrifying lives of holiness or everyday, ordinary adequacy. But the Annunciation tells us that holiness lies in the ordinary and that the ordinary is supremely sanctifying.
Cicely Mary Barker: Madonna and Child
The great saints weren’t hobos or martyrs or visionaries–or at least not above all else. Above all else, they were mothers and brothers and lovers and friends. They were made saints by changing diapers, listening to complaints, shoveling snow, forgiving, begging forgiveness, chopping vegetables, wiping away tears, grading papers, and loving. Always loving. It wasn’t St. Gianna’s death that made her a saint; thousands of mothers have made the same heroic choice. It was loving her husband and washing dishes and sympathizing with her patients. Thomas Aquinas didn’t become a saint by being the greatest mind the West had ever known but by recognizing how small he truly was. Mother Teresa wasn’t a saint because she won the Nobel Prize or founded a successful religious order but because she loved one child of God. And the next. And the next.
The Annunciation by John William Waterhouse
This morning I was blessed to attend Mass at a beautiful Dominican parish where I received Jesus kneeling at the altar rail. Like Mary, I did nothing to deserve this gift. Like Mary, all I could do was say amen, let it be done unto me, not even reaching out my hands but just opening myself to receive. And now, like Mary, I am sent out to bear Christ to the world, not to kings offering gifts or to angels crying Gloria but to shepherds and widows and pagans and friends and enemies. I am theotokos to the cashier and the fussy baby and the man without hope. It’s everyday, ordinary, change-the-world holiness. It’s day-in, day-out, dull, radical holiness. It’s my cross and my crown, it’s tedious and glorious. It’s time I stopped looking for holy wars to fight and started looking for a holy life in what I’ve been given. I am an ordinary woman following an ordinary God, a great saint-in-the-making following a great saint-maker.
Fiat mihi. Let’s go be saints.
No, I was not an athlete. It seems to be rather a misnomer. [↩]
I’ve loved St. Damien for as long as I can remember. A Belgian priest, he was a missionary to the people of Hawaii when he volunteered to go to Molokai and minister to the lepers who had been left there to await death. When he arrived, the colony was in chaos. The patients were ripped from their families on the other islands and taken by boat to the peninsula of Kalaupapa, a small area of land bordered on three sides by the Pacific Ocean and on the fourth by sheer cliffs, including the tallest sea cliff in the world. As their ship approached the island, they were thrown into the water to swim to shore where hunger, lawlessness, and despair awaited them.
Father Damien instilled order, erected dormitories, and cared for the sick; more than that, he offered hope and salvation. Ordered to keep the lepers at arm’s length to protect himself, he chose instead to live among them as a brother and eventually found himself their brother leper. He was rejected and slandered, forced to live without benefit of confession except when he shouted it to a priest on a passing ship. He died slowly and painfully, rejoicing to die like Christ as he had lived like Christ.
You’re even allowed to make phone calls from the plane–assuming you have decent coverage, which I never do. Down with Virgin Wireless!
Because I lead a charmed life, this week I got to go to Kalaupapa. I boarded the tiniest plane I’ve ever seen (9 passengers) and headed to the island where St. Damien and St. Marianne Cope gave their lives to love the poorest of the poor.
Coming from the mainland, when you land in Kalaupapa, it’s hard (for a minute) to feel sorry for the lepers. This is paradise, after all. How can you complain when you’re surrounded by such beauty? Sure, you’re imprisoned, but it’s not exactly Siberia.
A perfect image of what Molokai is: a graveyard in paradise.
After I got over rejoicing in how far I am from the polar vortex I escaped, though, I began to think. It’s beautiful, yes. Stunningly so. But all there was to do was wait for death. These exiles knew they would never see their families again; palm trees and bright blue waves don’t make up for the anguish of separation. On clear days, they could see their home island of Oahu in the distance: close enough to see but impossibly far. In all the good things they experienced, there was a poverty, even after St. Damien brought order and hope. No matter how good things got, there was an unfulfilled ache underlying every moment. They wanted to go home.
I’ve been feeling this exile more strongly lately. I’ve been longing for home. As beautiful as these islands are, as delicious as the fresh pineapple and kalua pork are, as kind and loving as the people I’ve met are, I want to go home. Not to my legal address, but Home. This life of ours is an exile, a season far from the one we love with only hints of the land we were made for. This world may be magnificent, but the foretaste of joy often strikes me as insipid, the glimpses of beauty washed out. We were made for so much more and when I stand on the shores of Molokai, I feel the yearning of the mothers, the children, the friends who would have traded paradise in an instant for a lifetime at home.
Impossibly far, and yet close enough to hope.
A sweet priest who is kinder to me than I deserve recently introduced me to his congregation as a hobo, but specified that “hobo” really stands for “homeward bound.” I guess that means we’re all hobos, all of us pilgrims working our way through a beautiful land of exile. It’s easy to mistake the way stations for the destination, easy to fill our hearts with promise and lose our hunger for the Promised. When our prison is paradise, we sometimes stop yearning to be free. We settle for what this world has to offer and forget that this world is not our home.
Don’t let satisfaction lull you into complacency, nor difficulty drag you into despair. When all is well, remember that you were made for so much more than the small pleasures and even the deep joys of this life. When life is hard, remember that this is your exile; your homeland awaits. Memento mori, my friends, and rejoice.
They had a stamp you could put in your passport! So now my passport certifies that I’ve been to Israel and Kalaupapa. Apparently, that’s it.St. Damien, pray for us!
P.S. If you want to boost my ego (not that I need it), you can head over to Bonnie’s and vote for me for the Sheenazing Blogger Awards! And when you’re not voting for me, be sure to vote for my sister: A Blog for My Mom. If you don’t read her blog yet, start. It is literally my favorite thing on the internet.
I’ve spent the past 16 months traveling this country. I’ve been to Mass in 36 states in the past year and a half and in half a dozen other countries in recent years. So let me tell you something, in case you haven’t noticed: this Church of ours is badly in need of reform. I know you feel it too. You read the headlines and sit in the pews and watch the youth fall away and you know that something’s gotta give. With clergy abusing minors while bishops look the other way, with vapid “catechesis” and liturgy that reminds one more of a carnival or a dreary deposition than the wedding feast of the Lamb, with Catholics who dehumanize the unborn and Catholics who victimize the poor, it’s no wonder that many of us resting in the arms of Mother Church feel compelled to do something.
The list of particular faults would be different, but the sentiment has been the same since Jesus ascended. The Church is already but not yet, divine and human, “holy and always in need of purification.”1 Whether it’s casting out heretics or letting sinners in, faithful sons and daughters of Mother Church have been drawing her along the path of purification (by God’s grace) since before anyone else knew there was a Church.
St. Robert Bellarmine, pray for us.
You and I are descendants of this noble tradition, this tradition of reform that made yesterday’s Saint a Saint and not the founder of a Protestant denomination.2 If you’re looking critically at the state of the Church, there ought to be elements that make you weep, not because of bitterness but because of a deep love for the Body of Christ, the Church. She’s preserved free of error but not free of sin. Made exclusively of sinners (in the Church militant, anyway), it’s no wonder that she’s so beset by scandal and failure. But we who love her will not despair. We will follow in the footsteps of Robert Bellarmine and Francis de Sales, of Nicholas and Augustine, of John XXIII and Mother Teresa. We will live in such a way that the Church and the world will never be the same.
So what can we do, we who have so much hope for this magnificent Church made up of flawed individuals? How can we love our Church as the beacon of truth instituted by Christ while working to make her more true, good, and beautiful? How can we reform without starting a reformation?
1. Know what the Church is supposed to be. If you’re concerned with the state of things, do your research first. Read the Catechism3 so you know what can and can’t change in the Church. Here’s a hint: doctrine can’t change. And won’t. Ever. If you’re big on the “spirit of Vatican II,” read the documents before you make a vague reference to the feelings you have about the council. If you want to question Church teaching, read the whole Bible. If you’re still unsure about transubstantiation or Mary or social justice, read everything written by the Church Fathers–it’s all been there from the beginning.
This is the difference between reform and dissent: a reformer fights to make the Church more herself; a dissenter tries to remake the Church in his own image. Teresa and Ignatius and Pius and Robert are reformers because they saw the glory latent in a broken Church and sought to draw it out. Luther and Calvin and Cranmer were dissenters because they tried to impose their ideas on the Church–and lost her in the battle. If you’re trying to turn the Church into a charitable organization or a social club or a rock concert, find another group to subvert. But if you know what Jesus and Cyprian and Gregory and Catherine and John Henry and John Paul meant by Church–an instrument of truth and goodness and beauty in a sin-ravaged world–then let’s get to work.
2. Don’t complain. The temptation when you’re in a spiritually dead parish or a liturgically heterodox parish or a parish led by a great sinner is to gossip. We get with like-minded people and whine about how bad things are which makes us more ill-tempered and more likely to see the bad. We miss the holiness and reverence and joy because we’re looking for the topic of our next tirade. Make this commitment: don’t say anything negative about the Church to people who can’t do anything about it. The less you complain, the less frustrated you’ll be.
Reform often looks more like this than anything else.
The flip side is this: have the guts to say something. If you’re concerned that the religious ed program is too fluffy, don’t complain to the other parents, go talk to the D.R.E.! If you can’t take the liturgical abuses, talk it over with Father. If that doesn’t work and it’s serious enough, meet with the bishop. Or, if it’s appropriate, talk to a friend who’s closer to your pastor and would be willing to raise your concerns. If it’s important enough to “vent” about, it’s important enough to discuss with someone who can make changes. Reform doesn’t come from sniping in hushed undertones. If it matters, take a risk and say something. You might be crucified for it–but at least you’ll be in good company.
3. Be the change. Sometimes talking to someone isn’t going to help. But even if it would, you have to be willing to do something. If you think kids these days don’t know their faith, volunteer to teach them. Or if you have more money than charisma, make a donation specifically earmarked for sending kids to a Steubenville conference or a LifeTeen camp. If you think parishes need to be stronger communities, talk to your pastor about forming a welcoming committee. Be a mentor couple for young people in marriage prep. Host a mom’s group or a teen movie night or a young adult dinner. If you’re concerned that your parish isn’t doing enough to evangelize, offer to go door-to-door in the neighborhood inviting people back to Church. Stop saying “Somebody should really do something” and DO IT!
“I want a mess! …I want trouble in the dioceses!” Source.
This covers little things, too. If you’re frustrated at what people wear to Mass, don a three-piece suit or a fancy (modest) dress with a matching hat. Get to Mass early and kneel quietly if noise in the sanctuary bothers you; it might just show people what the sanctuary is for. Receive the Eucharist like it’s actually the God of the universe. Because it is. Iron the altar linens. Teach your children to be reverent. But make sure you’re not taking it too far: you might want to kneel when the GIRM says to kneel, but if the bishop has issued different norms, you always defer to the bishop. Be the change by being obedient, by getting your hands dirty, by wasting your time and driving people nuts. Make a mess, my friends. Pope Francis will be so proud.
4. Live in the heart of the Church. The great Catholic reformers loved their Church, warts and all. If you’re serious about wanting to change the Church, it has to be at the service of the Church, not at the service of some ideology. If you don’t love the Church with everything you are, fight until you do. Get to confession at least monthly. Go to daily Mass as often as possible. Pray the Liturgy of the Hours, the “prayer of the Church.” Invite your priest over for dinner. Pray for the pope.
Because if you don’t love the Church–deeply, desperately love her as the body of Christ on earth–then your good impulses will be twisted. You’ll find yourself attacking the Church instead of supporting her. Before you know it, your reform will be a reformation.
You cannot change the Church from outside. If you truly believe that the Catholic Church is the Church founded by Christ against whom the gates of hell will not prevail, cling to her. Don’t be a Catholic in name only–submit your intellect and your will, your entire life to the Church. Consent to be a failure and watch the Lord emerge victorious.
5. Be a saint. It all comes down to this. You can write brilliant blog posts or start great programs or argue with a thousand priests and win and nothing will matter if you’re not holy. Be so freaking holy that people around you are drawn to Christ. Look at the history of our Church: you never find solitary Saints. St. Clare was holy and dragged her mother (Blessed) and two sisters (one Saint, one Blessed) along with her. Bernard of Clairvaux was so holy that his parents, six brothers, and one sister are all canonized or on their way there. John Bosco and Dominic Savio, Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross, Ignatius Loyola and Francis Xavier, Vincent de Paul and Louise de Marillac, and all their less famous companions–they spurred each other on, called one another to greatness. This, my friends, is how you reform the Church: you love so hard and you pray so well and you learn and you teach and you value humility second only to charity.
The great reformers of our Church were all Saints–not because we canonize people who do impressive things but because you can’t do great works unless you abandon your own desires and live only for Christ’s. Our Church and our world don’t need revolutionaries, they need saints. So before you do anything else, get your butt to confession and get praying. Real, serious prayer time, even when you’re “too busy.” Ask the Lord to use you, to work in you, to set you on fire with love for him. Then get out of the way.
I have great hope for our Church. I have to–I trust the Holy Spirit. But I’ve also met many of his chosen instruments. And you all have what it takes to be the great saints this Church needs. Let us begin.
When I decided I wanted to be a Saint,1 I knew exactly what to do. Saints, after all, are sweet, quiet, pink-cheeked girls who spend hours on their knees and never, ever yell, right? So I set about becoming a holy card.
I was pretty sure I had to be skinnier, too. Unless I was a nun. Nun saints get to be a little curvier.
I even made sure to fold my hands when I prayed and to gaze at heaven.2 I knew what it took to be a Saint, as I knew everything, and I was willing to mortify everything about myself. I knew I had to quit being loud and sarcastic. I could smile beatifically, but never guffaw. I should pray about everything–everything, even which sidewalk to take on my way to class. It was insane, and it lasted about five minutes.
But the idea that I had to change dramatically if I wanted to be holy stayed with me. It wasn’t just a desire to be purified of my sinfulness–obviously, holiness requires radical change. But I was identifying core elements of my character as “wrong” because they didn’t fit with the plaster images I’d seen in Saint books.
So I tried to be quiet and sweet and inoffensive. I tried to smile more and yell less. But you know what? God made me loud and obnoxious. And really, he’s called me to be obnoxious for the kingdom. I’d just as soon say nothing offensive and draw only positive attention. I’d gladly avoid calling anyone out, even people who are knowingly embracing serious sin. But I’ve realized, after years of hating myself when my best efforts were met with raised eyebrows or narrowed eyes, that that’s not who God made me to be.
And when I started to really get to know the Saints, I realized that most of them weren’t like that, either. In fact, there’s no one model for holiness that we all have to squeeze ourselves into. All Saints are like Christ, sure, but Christ was by turns gentle and wrathful, sarcastic and sweet. And just like holy people aren’t all priests and nuns, holy people don’t all fit that hands-folded, heavenward-gaze model so many of us are used to. People who are seeking Christ are messy and awkward. They’re all kinds of people living all kinds of lives in all kinds of ways. Don’t believe me? Check it out:3
All for the glory of God, all for the kingdom, all for love of souls. It’s not better to be a missionary than it is to be a fry cook, just like it’s not better to be a choleric than it is to be a phlegmatic. What’s better is to be just who you should be–whoever that is.
My friends, God did not make you to be anyone else. He doesn’t need another Dominic or another Elizabeth Ann. He made you quite deliberately to be you. Your truest self–your holiest self, your saintliest self–is most fully you. Which means that if you’re shy, you can let yourself be shy–within reason. Same thing if you’re loud. I’m not giving you permission to indulge your personality quirks to the point of sin, just pointing out that grace builds on nature. God gave you the particular personality and circumstances and work and vocation and body and home that you have in order to serve the Church and the world. He wants to use what is natural to you to do the supernatural through you.
This song by Danielle Rose expresses what I’m trying to say. Ironically, it was Danielle Rose’s beatific smile that inspired my college obsession with being quiet and sweet.5 I wanted to be holy like her. But just like me, she was trying to be holy like someone else.
If they do make a holy card of me, it should probably look more like this. My mouth should definitely be open. My mouth is always open.6
Your homework this week: spend some time asking the Lord what parts of you need to be converted and what parts are exactly as he wants them. You might wish your holiness looked quieter or louder or more radical or more ordinary or less painful or less easy, but knowing who you ought to be requires that you know who you are. If I had succeeded in becoming the Saint I thought I needed to be, I’d be repressed and tense and miserable and totally ineffective. To be free and holy and do God’s work, I sometimes have to dance like a fool, fall on the ground at a dropped pass, or scream “heresy” around people who don’t quite understand the nuances. I have to cry more than is reasonable and laugh harder than anyone in the room. I have to stick my foot in my mouth and give people nicknames and (try to) look cute and make fun of myself and all kinds of nonsense. It’s not normal, but it’s good. And it’s me.
I’ve had people listen to me talk about my life with Christ and tell me that they don’t think they can be like me. Good! God knows the world doesn’t need more of me. It’s got about all it can handle with one. And, quite frankly, you’d be terrible at being me. Just like I’d be terrible at being you. But if you can figure out how to be you and I can figure out how to be me, we can change this world.
If you are what you should be, you will set the world ablaze. -St. Catherine of Siena
I know I should just want to be a saint–a person who’s in heaven–but I admit that I really want to be a Saint. I want statues and holy cards and a feast day. We’ve talked about my pride issues before, haven’t we? [↩]
This would be cute if I hadn’t been in college. [↩]
Hover over any of the names to see who I’m talking about without clicking away. [↩]
