Today's first reading from Jeremiah describes the Israelites' response to God's commands: "They obeyed not, nor did they pay heed. They walked in the hardness of their evil hearts and turned their backs, not their faces, to me. From the day that your fathers left the land of Egypt even to this day, I have sent you untiringly all my servants the prophets. Yet they have not obeyed me nor paid heed; they have stiffened their necks and done worse than their fathers" (Jer. 7: 25-26). Over and over in the Pentateuch, the Lord uses this peculiar epithet, stiff-necked, for the children of Israel. It means something along the lines of stubborn or obstinate.
Today this passage struck me because I have a very stiff neck right now. (I'm not really sure why, but think it has something to do with jumping on a trampoline.) Anyway, it just occurred to me to ask: what is so bad about having a stiff neck? After all, we're also called to walk the straight and narrow, and to look neither to the left nor to the right.
Perhaps this psalm provides an answer: "To thee I lift up my eyes, O thou who art enthroned in the heavens! Behold, as the eyes of servants look to the hand of their master, as the eyes of a maid to the hand of her mistress, so our eyes look to the Lord our God, till he have mercy upon us" (Ps. 123:1-2). With a neck which is spiritually stiff, we're unable to raise our eyes to heaven and keep them fixed faithfully on the Lord.
Conversely, we're also called to bear the yoke of the Lord and to bend ourselves to his will. Perhaps this sounds like it would result in a stiff neck rather than being the cure for a stiff neck, but I think not. After all, the Lord is the one who fashioned our necks, and indeed our whole body and soul. Surely then He knows best how to keep our necks in good working order. They need to be pliable and supple enough to do His will as it is revealed to us in every moment, rather than stubbornly insisting on our own will.
And if I do my spiritual exercises every day and alternate raising my eyes to the Lord and bowing submissively before him, perhaps I won't be able to complain about my stiff neck anymore.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Catholic + single + Lent
I just entered the following in a contest on Catholic Match:
I used to feel an impulse at the beginning of every Lent to make close to a dozen Lenten resolutions. Of course, I would never end up keeping them all, but I am an ambitious perfectionist, and I would always think . . . maybe this Lent will be the time I finally succeed in getting everything right. And behind that desire there was sometimes this sneaking thought: Maybe once I correct all these faults, God will finally reward me with the man of my dreams.
The problem with that attitude is not just that it is impractical, but that it is self-centered. Lent is supposed to be about me turning toward God in a more radical way, not me making myself the holiest woman on Catholic Match.
An insightful priest once informed me that singles have a very hard life. I had gone to him for advice on how to handle the emptiness I was feeling. Well, yes, I thought, sometimes I am lonely and discouraged, but look at all the extra free time I have compared to those that are raising families. Shouldn’t I be doing more? Praying for three hours every day? Volunteering? No, he told me, the Lord was asking me, not to do more, but to let Him do everything with me.
This year, I’ll still be making a Lenten plan. To let the Lord in, I need to spend some solid time in prayer every day. I may still give up chocolate and try to be reminded of how my desire for the Lord should be even stronger than my sugar cravings. But the best mortification is surely to accept my singleness with trust and live my daily life in His company, embracing all the crosses that come my way unsought.
I used to feel an impulse at the beginning of every Lent to make close to a dozen Lenten resolutions. Of course, I would never end up keeping them all, but I am an ambitious perfectionist, and I would always think . . . maybe this Lent will be the time I finally succeed in getting everything right. And behind that desire there was sometimes this sneaking thought: Maybe once I correct all these faults, God will finally reward me with the man of my dreams.
The problem with that attitude is not just that it is impractical, but that it is self-centered. Lent is supposed to be about me turning toward God in a more radical way, not me making myself the holiest woman on Catholic Match.
An insightful priest once informed me that singles have a very hard life. I had gone to him for advice on how to handle the emptiness I was feeling. Well, yes, I thought, sometimes I am lonely and discouraged, but look at all the extra free time I have compared to those that are raising families. Shouldn’t I be doing more? Praying for three hours every day? Volunteering? No, he told me, the Lord was asking me, not to do more, but to let Him do everything with me.
This year, I’ll still be making a Lenten plan. To let the Lord in, I need to spend some solid time in prayer every day. I may still give up chocolate and try to be reminded of how my desire for the Lord should be even stronger than my sugar cravings. But the best mortification is surely to accept my singleness with trust and live my daily life in His company, embracing all the crosses that come my way unsought.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
to the heights
I had the opportunity to take an indoor rock climbing class recently. I had done it in high school at an adventure camp and loved the mental and physical challenge of climbing. Then, I had been belayed by a professional, but in this class, I had to learn how to belay before I could climb. I went with my sister, so after having everything explained and demonstrated, we paired up to take turns belaying and climbing. I climbed first, and had no problem trusting that my sister would do everything right. But I was much more trepidatious when it came time to take my turn belaying. Our instructor checked all our equipment and our knots, and my sister and I double checked each other, but when the moment came to give her permission to climb ("climb on"), I was really scared. What if I didn't take up the slack fast enough? What if I let something the rope slip through my fingers?
I think there is an analogy to the spiritual life here beyond the obvious one of trust. That evening, I was responsible in a concrete, physical way for my sister's life. But I bear responsibility for the lives of those around me at all times. We are all our brothers and sisters' keepers. It can be scary to think about our responsibility for the souls of others (especially when we think about Our Lord's words: to whom much is given, much will be expected). But I know that Our Lord is there to give me courage if I but turn to Him to ask for it.
I was on retreat recently, and found a beautiful holy card of Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati. Here is the prayer on the back, which I think relates to this discussion:
Heavenly Father,
Give me the courage to strive for the highest goals,
to flee everything temptation to be mediocre.
Enable me to aspire to greatness,
as Pier Giorgio did,
and to open my heart with joy to Your call to holiness.
Free me from the fear of failure.
I want to be, Lord, firmly and forever united to You.
Grant me the graces I ask You through Pier Giorgio's intercession,
by the merits of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
I think there is an analogy to the spiritual life here beyond the obvious one of trust. That evening, I was responsible in a concrete, physical way for my sister's life. But I bear responsibility for the lives of those around me at all times. We are all our brothers and sisters' keepers. It can be scary to think about our responsibility for the souls of others (especially when we think about Our Lord's words: to whom much is given, much will be expected). But I know that Our Lord is there to give me courage if I but turn to Him to ask for it.
I was on retreat recently, and found a beautiful holy card of Bl. Pier Giorgio Frassati. Here is the prayer on the back, which I think relates to this discussion:
Heavenly Father,
Give me the courage to strive for the highest goals,
to flee everything temptation to be mediocre.
Enable me to aspire to greatness,
as Pier Giorgio did,
and to open my heart with joy to Your call to holiness.
Free me from the fear of failure.
I want to be, Lord, firmly and forever united to You.
Grant me the graces I ask You through Pier Giorgio's intercession,
by the merits of Our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
responding to His invitation
This morning was just one of those mornings. I woke without enough time to eat or even shower before Mass, and rushed out of the house. I made it to the Shrine in time to go to confession before Mass, but my mind and heart didn't feel very reconciled to the Lord. Mass started, and while part of me was praying, my full attention definitely wasn't on the Word being proclaimed and the Sacrifice taking place before my eyes. On my mind were all the things I had committed to do today, various other things I felt I ought to do today, and a creeping anxiousness wondering how was I going to find time for all the things I wanted to do today.
"Come away by yourselves to a lonely place, and rest a while" (Mk. 6:31). The words from today's Gospel didn't really penetrate my heart until after Mass was over. I took myself off to the Blessed Sacrament Chapel, opened up my Magnificat and suddenly realized that Our Lord had spoken those words to me. I had gone to a quiet place to be with the Lord without even realizing that I was responding to His invitation.
There's a real temptation in "the spiritual life" to focus too much on oneself. Have I prayed enough today? Do I feel rejuvenated now? Do I do enough good works? Do I give enough of my money to the Church? At least, this is true for me. When things are going well in my spiritual life, I feel proud of myself and like I've finally got everything all figured out. When I don't spend enough time in prayer and my sins rise up before me, I become mightily discouraged.
Lord Jesus, I think that I should think of our relationship, rather than my spiritual life. Help me to keep my eyes fixed on You. Then, rather than being discouraged with myself when I fall, I will see only the burning love in Your eyes. Love strong enough to purify my faults and forgive my sins tender enough to invite me to be with You even when I'm tired and cranky.
"Lord Jesus I can rest on Thy Heart, for it belongs to me." -- St. Therese
"Come away by yourselves to a lonely place, and rest a while" (Mk. 6:31). The words from today's Gospel didn't really penetrate my heart until after Mass was over. I took myself off to the Blessed Sacrament Chapel, opened up my Magnificat and suddenly realized that Our Lord had spoken those words to me. I had gone to a quiet place to be with the Lord without even realizing that I was responding to His invitation.
There's a real temptation in "the spiritual life" to focus too much on oneself. Have I prayed enough today? Do I feel rejuvenated now? Do I do enough good works? Do I give enough of my money to the Church? At least, this is true for me. When things are going well in my spiritual life, I feel proud of myself and like I've finally got everything all figured out. When I don't spend enough time in prayer and my sins rise up before me, I become mightily discouraged.
Lord Jesus, I think that I should think of our relationship, rather than my spiritual life. Help me to keep my eyes fixed on You. Then, rather than being discouraged with myself when I fall, I will see only the burning love in Your eyes. Love strong enough to purify my faults and forgive my sins tender enough to invite me to be with You even when I'm tired and cranky.
"Lord Jesus I can rest on Thy Heart, for it belongs to me." -- St. Therese
Saturday, January 29, 2011
what is a child? part 1
In the last few weeks I have opened again and again to one of the three synoptic passages where Jesus speaks about children. This passage in particular struck me: "Calling to him a child, he put him in the midst of them, and said, 'Truly I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child, he is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven'" (Matt. 18:2-4).
Jesus seems to imply that becoming like a child is a bit of a difficult prospect, involving conscious effort ("unless you turn and become like little children"). This is strange. We've all been children, right? How hard can it be? Ultimately, of course, becoming like a child will make things easier for us; indeed, St. Therese's Little Way is ease and simplicity itself (make yourself as little as you can, admit your dependence on God, and He will do all the work that needs to be done in your soul). But the process of becoming like a child, making ourselves little can be difficult in practice.
Coincidentally, or perhaps not so coincidentally, in the last few weeks I have also started a new job, as an assistant in a Montessori classroom for six to nine-year-olds. I've spent a lot of time around my kids throughout my life (being the oldest of five myself), but it has been a while since I have had the opportunity for daily interaction with this age group. This definitely seems like the perfect time in my life to engage more fully the question: what are children like and how can I become more like a child? I thought I would focus on one attribute per post for the next few weeks. (As a side note, this question is one which Maria Montessori grappled with and her insights on the nature of children inform the philosophy behind her system of education. I am eager to learn more of what she has to say on the topic, but for now, I'm simply going on my own observations).
The first thing that strikes me is their boundless energy which is in evidence from the moment they enter the classroom at 8:30 in the morning. This energy level is particularly in evidence to me because it is my job to keep it at least partially in check. The children are taught to keep their bodies quiet and modulate their voices, to care for the materials that they use, to keep their conversation related to the work at hand. When they feel that they can't concentrate or can't keep their body still, they can ask permission to water the classroom plants, run an errand to the office, visit the school "sensory room", or even walk or kick a ball in the hallway. That's the goal, anyway. They forget or ignore the rules a lot, so it is my job to remind them. Though their energy level can sometimes get out of hand, it is a joy to see the enthusiasm that they put into their word.
At recess, the energy that is somewhat channeled and focused in the classroom is unbridled for all the world to see. The children are enthusiastic just to be able to move. None of the children stays in the same place for more than a few minutes. Even children who complain about having to go outside soon leave their moping and start chasing or being chased or simply spinning in circles for the sheer joy of moving.
I do not often have energy like that. I do not often want to get out of bed in the morning when my alarm goes off (especially this time of year). Perhaps if I had a consistent bed time like these children do, it would be a little easier. Montessori education works to make sure the children are offered work that corresponds to their level of development and can engage their whole attention. Perhaps if I set aside more time in my life to pursue things that engage my interests, I would be more like these children, energetic and full of life.
"I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly" (Jn. 10:10).
Jesus seems to imply that becoming like a child is a bit of a difficult prospect, involving conscious effort ("unless you turn and become like little children"). This is strange. We've all been children, right? How hard can it be? Ultimately, of course, becoming like a child will make things easier for us; indeed, St. Therese's Little Way is ease and simplicity itself (make yourself as little as you can, admit your dependence on God, and He will do all the work that needs to be done in your soul). But the process of becoming like a child, making ourselves little can be difficult in practice.
Coincidentally, or perhaps not so coincidentally, in the last few weeks I have also started a new job, as an assistant in a Montessori classroom for six to nine-year-olds. I've spent a lot of time around my kids throughout my life (being the oldest of five myself), but it has been a while since I have had the opportunity for daily interaction with this age group. This definitely seems like the perfect time in my life to engage more fully the question: what are children like and how can I become more like a child? I thought I would focus on one attribute per post for the next few weeks. (As a side note, this question is one which Maria Montessori grappled with and her insights on the nature of children inform the philosophy behind her system of education. I am eager to learn more of what she has to say on the topic, but for now, I'm simply going on my own observations).
The first thing that strikes me is their boundless energy which is in evidence from the moment they enter the classroom at 8:30 in the morning. This energy level is particularly in evidence to me because it is my job to keep it at least partially in check. The children are taught to keep their bodies quiet and modulate their voices, to care for the materials that they use, to keep their conversation related to the work at hand. When they feel that they can't concentrate or can't keep their body still, they can ask permission to water the classroom plants, run an errand to the office, visit the school "sensory room", or even walk or kick a ball in the hallway. That's the goal, anyway. They forget or ignore the rules a lot, so it is my job to remind them. Though their energy level can sometimes get out of hand, it is a joy to see the enthusiasm that they put into their word.
At recess, the energy that is somewhat channeled and focused in the classroom is unbridled for all the world to see. The children are enthusiastic just to be able to move. None of the children stays in the same place for more than a few minutes. Even children who complain about having to go outside soon leave their moping and start chasing or being chased or simply spinning in circles for the sheer joy of moving.
I do not often have energy like that. I do not often want to get out of bed in the morning when my alarm goes off (especially this time of year). Perhaps if I had a consistent bed time like these children do, it would be a little easier. Montessori education works to make sure the children are offered work that corresponds to their level of development and can engage their whole attention. Perhaps if I set aside more time in my life to pursue things that engage my interests, I would be more like these children, energetic and full of life.
"I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly" (Jn. 10:10).
Monday, January 24, 2011
Alleluia
I've always been partial to the word Alleluia. I love spelling it, I love saying it, and most of all, I love singing it and hearing it sung. (For the record, though, I'm not a fan of using it in conversation in place of "awesome" or "cool".) It is a real penance for me to go without saying it during the six weeks of Lent. I have observed that if a song contains the word alleluia, it is an almost sure bet that I will love it. From my childhood love of the Handel's Hallelujah Chorus and the nuns' Alleluia chorus in The Sound of Music, to Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" (my favorite piece in college), to a more recent discovery called "Glory Bound" by the Wailin Jennys, many of my favorite pieces of music contain the "A" word.
Yesterday, I was at a benefit concert for my school, and I heard a piece of music performed that takes the cake. It is one of the most moving and beautiful pieces of music I've ever heard, yet it consists of only a single word: Alleluia. Yet the composer makes this one word do so much. It conveys sorrow, hope in the midst of suffering, peace, acceptance, gratitude.
"Alleluia" was written by American composer Randall Thompson (1899-1984) in 1940. The group I heard perform it mentioned that I was written during World War II and that the composer wanted to convey the reality of the suffering throughout the world at that time. I found an except from an article in Harvard Magazine which gives a little more background on the piece: "The anthem’s tempo mark of lento was very important to the composer. France had just fallen to the Nazis, and Thompson later explained, "The music in my particular Alleluia cannot be made to sound joyous…here it is comparable to the Book of Job, where it is written, ‘The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’"
It is a subdued piece of music, not the kind of thing you'd expect to hear on Easter Sunday, for example. Yet I would argue that it conveys the fullness of the Paschal Mystery. Towards the end, joy and excitement enter in, the pace picks up, only to slow again in a beautiful, hushed close. The triumph of Christ's Resurrection doesn't mean that we forget the depths of suffering which He underwent for our salvation. We should no more forget what hundreds of thousands suffered during World War II and other great tragedies, our own suffering or that of our loved ones, than we should forget what Christ suffered for our sake. But I think this piece of music is a great reminder that with Christ, we never have to suffer alone. He will bring us through all the suffering this life entails to a place of peace if we only allow Him to lead us there.
Perhaps part of the reason I so love the word Alleluia is that it is at least partially untranslatable. I don't totally know what I am saying when I say alleluia. Often when I experience deep joy or deep sorrow, I am at a loss for words. Alleluia is a great word when there are no words. As Christians, we are called to sorrow and to joy in suffering. As Christians, we are called to say alleluia.
Here is a link to the best recording I could find on youtube. It is sung by the South Dakota State University Concert Choir. Enjoy!
Yesterday, I was at a benefit concert for my school, and I heard a piece of music performed that takes the cake. It is one of the most moving and beautiful pieces of music I've ever heard, yet it consists of only a single word: Alleluia. Yet the composer makes this one word do so much. It conveys sorrow, hope in the midst of suffering, peace, acceptance, gratitude.
"Alleluia" was written by American composer Randall Thompson (1899-1984) in 1940. The group I heard perform it mentioned that I was written during World War II and that the composer wanted to convey the reality of the suffering throughout the world at that time. I found an except from an article in Harvard Magazine which gives a little more background on the piece: "The anthem’s tempo mark of lento was very important to the composer. France had just fallen to the Nazis, and Thompson later explained, "The music in my particular Alleluia cannot be made to sound joyous…here it is comparable to the Book of Job, where it is written, ‘The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’"
It is a subdued piece of music, not the kind of thing you'd expect to hear on Easter Sunday, for example. Yet I would argue that it conveys the fullness of the Paschal Mystery. Towards the end, joy and excitement enter in, the pace picks up, only to slow again in a beautiful, hushed close. The triumph of Christ's Resurrection doesn't mean that we forget the depths of suffering which He underwent for our salvation. We should no more forget what hundreds of thousands suffered during World War II and other great tragedies, our own suffering or that of our loved ones, than we should forget what Christ suffered for our sake. But I think this piece of music is a great reminder that with Christ, we never have to suffer alone. He will bring us through all the suffering this life entails to a place of peace if we only allow Him to lead us there.
Perhaps part of the reason I so love the word Alleluia is that it is at least partially untranslatable. I don't totally know what I am saying when I say alleluia. Often when I experience deep joy or deep sorrow, I am at a loss for words. Alleluia is a great word when there are no words. As Christians, we are called to sorrow and to joy in suffering. As Christians, we are called to say alleluia.
Here is a link to the best recording I could find on youtube. It is sung by the South Dakota State University Concert Choir. Enjoy!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
hard sayings
I am sometimes one of those disciples who finds Jesus' sayings (and doings) hard to deal with (cf. Jn. 6:60). Tonight I was reading the passage in Mark (Mk. 5:1-13) about Jesus casting the legion of unclean spirits out of the possessed man. The question that vexed me was why Jesus agreed with the request of the unclean spirits not to send them out of the country, and then gave them leave to enter the herd of swine. I certainly would have been a little angry if I were one of the swineherds who lost two thousand animals at a single blow. I am sure that there is some great biblical commentary that would shed some light on this passage, but you have to admit, it seems a little strange. You hardly blame the surrounding villagers for asking Jesus please to leave their neighborhood.
The footnote to the story is a little hard to take, too. As Jesus is taking his leave of their neighborhood, the cleansed demoniac begs Jesus that he might get into the boat and accompany him. The burning desire of his heart is simply to be the one who has freed him from his enslavement. Surely that is a noble desire, one that Jesus' heart would long to grant? But, no. "He refused and said to him, 'Go home to your friends, and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you" (Mk. 5:19). Granted, I'm sure the change of seeing this man "clothed and in his right mind", instead of foaming at the mouth and being thrown around by demons, was a great witness to the man's friends and family. And I'm sure that he ultimately found great joy in proclaiming the Lord and his mercies in his own neighborhood. But in that moment, I'm sure it was very hard for him to understand why he was being refused.
I often wish feel that my way is unclear and wish that Jesus would speak to me, enlighten me, guide me, more directly. Interesting, then, to note that during the time He walked this earth, Jesus' words were not always clear, His guidance not always easy to take. Indeed, earlier in Mark's gospel, Our Lord explains that he teaches in parables to the people "so that they may indeed see but not perceive, and may indeed hear but not understand; lest they should turn again, and be forgiven" (Mk. 4:12). Hard words, indeed.
I do not have an explanation for all of these hard words tonight, but simply thought it worth noting that they are there. The Lord's ways are mysterious and He is sometimes confusing. His will for us may be different than we would have it, but there it is. He has always been a sign of contradiction, perhaps especially when He walked and talked on this earth. The disciples didn't like it when he predicted His passion and death, anymore than we like it when we are reminded to offering our sufferings up in union with His. Yet in this sign is our salvation. By his holy cross, He has redeemed the world.
The footnote to the story is a little hard to take, too. As Jesus is taking his leave of their neighborhood, the cleansed demoniac begs Jesus that he might get into the boat and accompany him. The burning desire of his heart is simply to be the one who has freed him from his enslavement. Surely that is a noble desire, one that Jesus' heart would long to grant? But, no. "He refused and said to him, 'Go home to your friends, and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you" (Mk. 5:19). Granted, I'm sure the change of seeing this man "clothed and in his right mind", instead of foaming at the mouth and being thrown around by demons, was a great witness to the man's friends and family. And I'm sure that he ultimately found great joy in proclaiming the Lord and his mercies in his own neighborhood. But in that moment, I'm sure it was very hard for him to understand why he was being refused.
I often wish feel that my way is unclear and wish that Jesus would speak to me, enlighten me, guide me, more directly. Interesting, then, to note that during the time He walked this earth, Jesus' words were not always clear, His guidance not always easy to take. Indeed, earlier in Mark's gospel, Our Lord explains that he teaches in parables to the people "so that they may indeed see but not perceive, and may indeed hear but not understand; lest they should turn again, and be forgiven" (Mk. 4:12). Hard words, indeed.
I do not have an explanation for all of these hard words tonight, but simply thought it worth noting that they are there. The Lord's ways are mysterious and He is sometimes confusing. His will for us may be different than we would have it, but there it is. He has always been a sign of contradiction, perhaps especially when He walked and talked on this earth. The disciples didn't like it when he predicted His passion and death, anymore than we like it when we are reminded to offering our sufferings up in union with His. Yet in this sign is our salvation. By his holy cross, He has redeemed the world.
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