Thealogical Lady: A Blog

Living Lent: Divorce

3/31/2014

Now that the second half of Lent has arrived, I've tacked on a new morning practice of before-the-kids-wake-up running. As I was running this morning, tumbles of thoughts bounced through my consciousness, and one of the things that stuck and lingered afterward had to do with divorce and religious identity.

I find myself grateful for my husband, who has no personal stake in my religious identity except inasmuch as it gives my life meaning and joy. If he had been religious like me when I met him, I'm not sure there would have been enough spaciousness in my own religious identity, once wedded with his, for me to move out of my former religious tradition and into my current one. I'm not even sure I would have been able to voice my concerns about my former tradition as boldly as I have in these last few years. My husband's non-religiosity opened my eyes in a profound way, inviting me--gently--to examine what it was that I found compelling about life as a religious person. As I heard him ask me again and again why I stayed in my tradition when I spent more and more time bitterly murmuring about it, I had to ask myself the same.

Leaving the Roman Catholic Church was a bit like getting a divorce, and you just don't get a divorce when you're Roman Catholic--not unless you want to be ostracized by a whole lot of people. If you've loved it once, you're expected to love it always, no matter what it might cost you. Further, in an abusive marriage (the kind where one partner's life and calling is deemed to be to less important or not important in comparison with that of the more powerful partner), if the one being abused has no promise of support from those she loves when she leaves that marriage, how can she draw from within herself the courage and strength to leave it anyway?

I am fortunate, in a way. Because my marriage with my husband is so healthy and loving and strong, it was able to illuminate the increasingly toxic character of my relationship with my former religious tradition. Because my husband had no personal stake in my religious identity, I was able to give myself permission to transform it.

Divorce is a rending of identity, and it is, from every story I hear, profoundly painful. And yet, in cases of abuse, there may be redemption in it. I am grateful not to have daily cause for murmuring anymore. I'm grateful to be in a tradition that, though imperfect, fuels rather than diminishes my hope, diminishes rather than fuels my anger, and honors rather than silences my voice. And I am grateful for my hubby, whose greatest expectation for my life is that I daily pursue my deepest joy. I find myself steeped in blessing, having let go of that which diminished my life and embraced that which resurrects it.

Living Lent: Dwelling - Laetare Sunday

3/30/2014

My Benedictine brother, Philip, made his solemn profession as a member of the Community of St. Mary of the Annunciation yesterday.

In the card I gave him, I wrote this:

My dear Brother Philip-Martín,

I wish you every blessing on this day of your solemn profession. The pall has been placed over you that you may be raised into new identity as a Benedictine Canon. May you always strive faithfully to uphold the Rule and the Gospel, and may you remember that in both your successes and your failures, God abides with you always.

Love and blessing,
Sister Kate

The temptation of Benedictine life as I experience it is to believe that divine favor is greater when one does more--prays more, works more, gives more. But the remedy for that temptation abides within the Benedictine tradition as well. Even in death, when our will and power to act passes away, we are God's beloved. Br. Philip-Martín allowed the funeral pall to be placed over him as a sign that he had relinquished every power of his life, that God might accept his lowliness. Benedictines approach God by emptying themselves, that God might fill them. A Benedictine's success in praying, working, or giving isn't her own--it is God's.

When my novitiate comes to an end, will I be ready to give my life over, to release my every power, to lay myself bare before God in a death of all that I can do and accomplish and be on my own? Will I trust, in that moment of utter powerlessness to please God, that I will be called forth to rise up again as God's Beloved?

Living Lent: No

3/28/2014

The first question I asked my vicar during our meeting about priestly discernment yesterday was, "Do you see any obstacles that might stand between me and priestly ordination, based on what you know of me?"

His answer was an unadorned "No."

I can think of few greater affirmations I've experienced than that simple negation.

My cup overflows.

Living Lent: To Lead, Or Not To Lead?

3/27/2014

This evening I meet with my vicar about the discernment process for priestly ordination.

As my best friend and I were discussing this last night, she commented that I sounded grounded in my understanding of who I'm called to be.

This grounding, this rootedness, is what inspires me to pursue a call to pastoral leadership.

There's an important shade of difference between what I hear myself being called to be and what I feel naturally inclined to be. Leading for leading's sake doesn't feel comfortable to me. It feels awkward and threatening to my oh-so-precious ego. The only times in my life when I have felt comfortable leading have been those times when I bring some expertise, some gift, some knowledge that others lack or otherwise need me to exhibit.

Nearly all the occasions when I've been called to leadership have something in common: they've had to do with spiritual life, religious practice, and the deep-hearted, skillful care of others.

I walk into this conversation not with a sense of natural-born leadership, but cultivated leadership. I am prepared to speak the truth of who I am called to be, knowing what I have dared to embrace, despite (or perhaps because of) deep introversion, in the past thirty-one years.

What will my vicar hear as I speak openly, bravely, and truthfully about what I hear God calling me to? What will I hear as I let my God-given words pour out?

Living Lent: Shards

3/26/2014

After I wrote yesterday about Mary as the Reed of God, a dear person in my life sent me a reflection she had written about mothering and Advent. I thought I might have written an Advent reflection while I was pregnant (or just after I was pregnant), so I scoured my mommy blog and this blog to find one. Alas, I didn't find what I was looking for, but I did find something else.

The day before yesterday I posted my Sunday homily, the one I was invited to give at both of the 3rd Sunday of Lent liturgies at my parish. I shared with several people afterward that giving that homily meant breaking through the glass ceiling of my former Roman Catholic identity.

Isn't it odd, then, that I should come across an old blog post, over a year old, about breaking through that very same glass ceiling?

I invite you to read that post and ponder it with me. Some questions you might use to frame your pondering could include: What is the hermeneutical slant I bring to my religious framework? In what ways does my privilege shape my reading of my sacred texts? In what ways does my marginalization shape my reading of those texts?

The lesson I take from my old blog post is difficult: the glass ceiling is not something I have broken once and for all. As long as any woman is made to seem lesser when compared with a man, I will need to keep breaking through it, whether I'm the woman in the comparison or not. This, I realize, is part of my prophetic call.

How do I come to recognize the prophetic role I am called to play in the world? How do I develop that prophetic ability once I have recognized my responsibility?

Living Lent: The Reed of God

3/25/2014

Caryll Houselander wrote a little book over fifty years ago about the mother of Jesus called The Reed of God. Houselander's idea is that Mary became the reed through which God's Word was played into the world.

When I first read this a few months ago, my old religious context had me shaking my head. I didn't like the idea that Mary was merely a reed for God to play as God chose. Mary is always merely this or that--merely a woman, merely a vessel, merely an obedient human--and it touched a little too close to my own experience as a woman in the Roman Catholic Church, which was an experience of being lesser, lower, and either diminutive or diminished.

Today, however, is the Matronal Feastday of my community, the Community of St. Mary of the Annunciation, and I find myself regarding Houselander's metaphor with new appreciation. In my present context, where to be a woman is not "merely" anything, but rather a strength and a tremendous gift, I can see the reed metaphor with awe and wonder. If Mary was not merely obedient, but radically and willfully obedient, I can get on board. If she allowed God transform her into the most beautiful instrument of music the world has ever known, rather than simply accepting God was going to do what God wanted, then Mary may be the greatest heroine I've ever encountered. I behold myself in her, a woman lifted up and honored fully for who she is and what she brings to the table, and I, like Mary, am choosing to let go of less important schemes so God can act through me. I see myself becoming a reed of God because I trust the music God can breathe into and through me is awesome beyond what I might produce alone.

I see in this book, and in today's feast, a celebration of a strong woman who allowed herself to be made even stronger, a capable woman who allowed herself to become even more capable, a powerful woman who allowed the greatest power in all the universe to take root in her, to become her very flesh.

She could have said no. Her yes wasn't the obvious choice. Her yes, as I understand it, was a considered choice. She perceived that God was inviting her to allow God to be born into the world through her. What an invitation.

Mary is often seen to be extraordinary because she's a nothing who's turned into a something when God deigns to dwell in her. I don't buy this. Mary is no mere Sleeping Beauty, waiting for something to be done to her to give her life meaning. Mary is Merida, brave and bold and primed for adventure--and she is called to this adventure because she cultivated an adventurous life long ago. God rarely calls people out of the blue. God calls people to do in extraordinary ways what they already do well. Mary was already making her own beautiful music for those around her when she was asked if she would be the instrument for God's music. She was no arbitrary choice. She, a Jewish woman who would never have been chosen for anything important in her patriarchal world, was the best possible choice to bring forth God's Word in a world filled with lesser words. God was calling her to subvert the status quo, and she was ready. All she had to do was say "Yes" for the fate of the whole world to change.

May I give a well-considered, powerful yes when God invites me to allow divinity to make a dwelling-place deep within me, and may I bear God's marvelous, life-giving, death-destroying fruit wherever I go. For I am no mere woman. I am a woman: brave and strong and fit to do God's most important work.

When God asks me to be the key player in God's next adventure, I'll have my Benedictine running shoes laced up and ready to go.

Living Lent: Homily, Lent III

3/24/2014

Many weeks ago I was invited by the vicar of St. Augustine's Church to give a homily at both Sunday liturgies for the third Sunday of Lent. Yesterday was the third Sunday of Lent, and these are the words that I shared with my fellow parishioners.

Lent III Lessons: Genesis 44:1-17 , Psalm 95, Romans 8:1-10, John 5:25-29

"From the wilderness the whole congregation of the Israelites journeyed by stages, as God commanded. And they camped, but there was no water for the people to drink." This is what we hear from the book of Exodus. God's people had been journeying for a long time. They were hopeful and excited about their newfound freedom from slavery in Egypt. But in the midst of their journey, tired and weary from walking, they found themselves in a place that had no water to quench their thirst. When they got upset about it, Moses got upset at them for being upset. And then God finally relented and gave the people a spring of water. The scripture writer notes throughout the story that God's people persisted in doubt.

There's something strange about this. Why would God bring God's beloved people out of slavery and then leave them out to dry, literally? They're in the wilderness, a place unknown to them, and they're thirsting. Thirst is no insignificant thing. Thirst, if left unquenched long enough, could lead to death. Thirst is such a fearful experience that there are psalms dedicated to it: in Psalm 42 we pray, "As the deer that pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for God," and in Psalm 63 we pray "My soul is thirsting for you, O God, like a dry, weary land without water."

For the people of Israel, a dry land was an unfruitful land. A dry people was a dying people.

And here we are, on the third Sunday of Lent, not quite halfway through our journey in the Lenten wilderness, and we find ourselves parched. My guess is that you, like I, have given up something for Lent (in my case, being the overachiever that I am, I gave up four things). If you're like me, your Lenten fasting leaves you yearning, sometimes bitterly, sometimes desperately, for the familiar comforts you gave up on Ash Wednesday.

This Sunday's lessons are all about water and thirst, and they may be the most important ones we hear during Lent. We think of Lent as a time to honor Jesus' ultimate sacrifice on the cross by making sacrifices of our own, and Lent is that, but Lent also has something far more difficult to teach us.

The harder lesson of Lent is difficult to perceive when our fasting is overshadowed by our certainty that relief is coming. Unlike our voluntary Lenten fasting, for the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, there was no timeline or guarantee of reaching an oasis. Their journey out of slavery in Egypt meant leaving behind all their known sources of refreshment, period. It meant taking the extraordinary risk that they might involuntarily and without warning have to abstain from water--an abstinence that, if prolonged, even for a few days, would have the power to claim their lives.

By leaving Egypt, they weren't just taking their lives out of the hands of Pharaoh; by seeking freedom, they were submitting their lives to the mercy of their God, their sole protector from the dangers of the wilderness. As they found themselves stopping to camp in a place with no water, they were terrified. They were so sick with parched mouths and deep thirst that they were no longer sure that the God in whom they had put all their trust would be willing or able to save them from death. They had already journeyed too far from Egypt to go back. Their lives hung by a thread, and they could no longer save themselves. Only God could. And that scared them.

Centuries later, when Jesus offered living water to the Samaritan woman, he was offering her God's new covenant: the promise that as long as she sought this new living water, rather than seeking water from the source she had always turned to, she would never have to fear dying from thirst the way the Israelites had feared dying from thirst in the wilderness.

The lesson from John's gospel isn't merely a story about the Samaritan woman. It's a story about us. We have been offered this same living water by God in our baptism, and yet what do we do? We build up storehouses of comfort around ourselves in order to make sure that we never have to rely on anyone but ourselves. Our lives get so cluttered by the comforts we take for granted that when we tear away some of those comforts during Lent, we feel a deep, uncomfortable emptiness. We taste a morsel of the same bitter fear that haunted God's people in the wilderness, and we can't wait to get back to the way things were. In the end, we would rather drink from the well that we've always known than trust in some guy who doesn't even know to bring his own bucket. We might give up what we cling to for a few weeks, but who among us is willing to let our comforts go indefinitely? If I let my sources of comfort die, I risk dying, too.

I'd like to suggest that we ask ourselves what we left behind in order to enter this Lenten wilderness, and whether we're willing to leave behind all the rest. Do we dare to empty ourselves of everything we cling to until all we have left is our aching thirst for God and the trust that God won't let us die? Perhaps, as we enter the second half of Lent, we can risk losing it all--every thing we think we need to be happy, all our enslaving attachments, every shackle of our obsessions--and move forward to the unknown, unguaranteed future. And maybe then, as we go forward bearing nothing but our thirst and radical trust in the face of terrifying dryness, God will lift up for us a spring of living water, and we'll be able to rise from our knees to unfettered, quenching, resurrected freedom.

Living Lent: I don't feel like it

3/22/2014

I don't feel like it.

I don't feel like writing today.

I don't feel like going out this morning.

I don't feel like putting on my habit in order to go out.

No one will miss my effort, truly. Maybe I'll just skip it all.

Except--when my toddler rushes in, newly awake and crying for reasons that aren't apparent, and she clings to me for comfort, the acedia demon vanishes.

One of the most counter-cultural (and counter-egoistic) insights I'm learning to accept and embrace as a Benedictine is this: it's not about me and what I want to do or don't want to do in a given moment. I am called to act in certain ways at certain times. I have agreed, by making certain commitments rather than others (or rather than making none at all), to do so. As long as I am well and able, my role is to do what I've promised to do, regardless of how I feel about it in a particular moment, and regardless of whether I'll be noticed for it.

May my actions be free from the whims of my momentary desires so I can fulfill my call in the ever-present here and now.

Living Lent: Touches of Spring

3/21/2014

Although I am weary from my Lenten penances, my senses are sharper. When my daughter touches my arm in the early morning so she can crawl under the covers next to me, I notice and make way, helping her settle into the crook of my arm. When my hubby rolls closer to me in the stirrings before the morning alarm, I move my chilly feet closer to his feet, and he offers wordless warmth. When my 9-month old sits up in her crib next to my bed and begins to play with quiet joy, I'm grateful that no one will need to shush anyone this morning, and I slide out of bed, pick her up, and hold her close as we walk out to begin the rest of the day.

This Lenten emptiness has transformed into the spaciousness I crave so often. By letting go, I have embraced something unexpected: ample, uncluttered room in which to attend to the graces of my daily life. What further graces will I encounter this Lent from the effects of my Lenten penances?

Living Lent: Happy Spring!

3/20/2014

Four years ago, my husband and I got married in the presence of my best friend, Hubby's best friend, and a few of our family members.

That day marked my ritual transition from a dark winter of my life to a fragrant, vivid spring. I have been happier these last four years than in any other four years of my life, and I trust that we will continue to be happy all the rest of our days.

Here is the scripture lesson from our wedding:

Solomon 2:10-13

My lover spoke and said to me,
"Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, and come with me.

See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.

The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me."

Yet again, Easter bursts forth in the midst of Lent. Thanks be to Goddess. ♥

Living Lent: Feast of St. Joseph

3/19/2014

Today is the feast of St. Joseph, husband of Mary (mother of Jesus). He is widely regarded by Christians as the father who adopted, cared for, and protected the son of God.

This is also the day my mother's father was born. I don't mean my biological grandfather, but the grandfather who chose--with my grandmother--to adopt my mother when she had just been born. They were childless and middle-aged, and they took a leap. Without their leap, which one might regard as an act of exceptional obedience to God's call in their lives, you wouldn't be reading this.

My grandfather honored his birthday patron well, and I can't help thinking of him when March 19 comes around. Below I offer a tribute to my memories of his generosity and love, written in the form of a letter, dated several days after his death. I was a senior in high school when he died.

December 8, 1999

Dear Poppidor,

I never got to tell you all this stuff...because after a while, I stopped coming to your house. I began riding the bus to school, and rarely got the chance to go to the 5 & 10 with your complimentary $2. I stopped sleeping over at your house, and began having my own sleepovers. Every place you took me, every memory we shared, grew obsolete as I grew up. The memories were gems, but I didn't know what to do, with you so sick.

I was frightened.

There was so much I didn't know about you. Even though you fixed my knees when I scraped them on the gravel, gave me Squirt from the basement when I was thirsty, let me play on the ivy, gave me rides in the car with the blue interior, and gave me lots of bread for the ducks at the park, all I knew of you was the grandpa side. When you took me and Jasmine to the monument and got us hamburgers to quiet our stomachs, you were the wonderful grandpa, but did I know you? When you were there for my Confirmation, standing as my sponsor, you were kind and patient, but did I know you?

And when you read that article in the newspaper about me, talking about what I'd done for Hoops for Heart in ninth grade, you were so impressed that you gave me my wish, a second thought I'd thrown in during the reporter's interview. You bought the computer that I type on now, that I've cherished so much....

You only bought the computer--you didn't help in its selection. You were afraid with all of us that you would buy the wrong thing--that we wouldn't be happy. There was only one exception--the exception you made for me. Was it my fourth or fifth birthday? when I received the stuffed clown, the one I named Pepper, the one who rules among all my Barbie dolls and stuffed animals. Pepper was the best gift I'd ever received, because it was the only one you dared to give. And it was perfect.

Those butter cookies are getting stale. The oyster crackers are drying out. The V8 might last a little longer, but not forever. Your offerings of food and drink will never sate me again. The davenport will grow dusty, as all the rooms did. I won't sprawl my sleeping bag on the dented green carpet in the living room, with my red-print nightgown and Care-bears. I won't touch the nightlight. I won't play with the lovely dancer on the shelf. I won't climb on tiptoe to see the mirror.

All these things, even the ones unmentioned, will become dimmer in my mind as time continues its path. Tears will trickle down my cheeks as I struggle to remember all those things....

But in the meantime, I will watch, listen, and learn. There were many things about you I didn't know. You were more than a wonderful grandpa--you were a wonderful person! I want to know that person. Maybe, if I learn more about that person, I will learn more about myself--or at least have something to aspire to.

I hope you have listened, and filled in the blanks where I forgot.

I love you.

Your granddaughter,

Michelle

Living Lent: Demons

3/18/2014

For weeks, I've let it get under my skin.

Several weeks ago I was invited to give a homily (i.e. a sermon/reflection) for Lent III, which is next Sunday. As of yesterday I hadn't yet been able to write one word of it.

Think of it as a bad case of writer's block, except it only applied in this one case. I've written a dozen blog posts since Ash Wednesday alone, so it's not as though I didn't have a command of words elsewhere. The lessons for Lent III are richly evocative, so that wasn't it, either.

When I'm about to do a new thing, especially a thing that's bound to make a tremendous impression on people, anything short of excellence and complete satisfaction on my part will send me fleeing in the other direction. And even though I've written and given a number of homilies in the past, I've never stood up as "The Preacher" for Sunday liturgy. It's a new thing, and it scares me.

The other day I talked about how I spend one or two hours writing per day--and that's on the ample side. Yesterday I gave this homily no fewer than five hours of feverish attention. Why?

A lot hangs on this, in my mind. It's a classic case of first-impression-making. If I do well, the parish as a whole gains not only a thoughtful homily, but a set of implicit expectations about who I might be and what I might do at the service of the parish in the future. If I don't do well, the parish will wish they had heard the vicar instead, and--more importantly--the leadership might see my future and vocational path in a different light.

Giving this homily is about so much more than giving a homily. It's a moment in which I'll have an opportunity to prove wrong every single person who ever told/taught me that women in general--and I in particular--weren't meant (or designed!) to be pastoral leaders (and Jesus said so, forever and ever, and let the church say "Amen").

That's a lot of disvaluing to overcome in ten minutes. For the record, neither the vicar nor anyone else has said to me that my vocation is at stake in this homily--they have been generous in trusting that I will do well (I wouldn't have been asked otherwise). I trust that they trust me. Nevertheless, I can't help feeling that my vocation and the integrity and valuing of women on the whole are wrapped up in this small opportunity I have to stand up before a hundred people and speak with authority.

Patriarchy and Hegemony are powerful demons in the Christian tradition, and every battle waged against them matters. My homily is ready. May I speak this Sunday with the authority of the one I call Lord, that they may be powerfully silenced in my presence.

Living Lent: Turn of phrase

3/17/2014

It took me about fifteen seconds of typing about another topic before I noticed that something appearing on my computer screen was out of place. Then I found it: I typed "Lenten Living" instead of "Living Lent." I am reminded yet again of how a familiar phrase turned in a new way can be the first strike of a plow in the hard soil of my heart.

While reading through over six weeks of entries in my prayer journal last night, a few words, phrases, and scripture passages appeared over and over again. I didn't notice their pattern (much less their critical importance for my vocational discernment) till yesterday, in light of a fruitful conversation I had just had.

What does it take before the pattern of my past illumines the pattern of my future? Does it take as little as a tropal accident? Does it take years of dogged spiritual work? Does it take a kind word to free me from fear, or perhaps a harsh word to free me from complacency?

My experience teaches me that graced illuminations of my life can happen in any situation when I attend to what is taking place. Presence is the sacred key to Lent.

Living Lent: 2nd Sunday of Lent

3/16/2014

Perhaps I'm doing something right with my Lenten penances, because I'm looking at this date and thinking, we still have another month of this?

A new activity is easier to keep up than an activity that's lost its novel luster. I keep looking back at my mistakes and ahead at the gap that lies between me and Easter feasting, wondering what I can grasp at for comfort. The uneasiness of long-term sacrifice settles over me.

What did Jesus do for comfort as he spent forty days in the wilderness, alone and uncomfortable, I wonder?

When will my fear of not having all I need transform into a radical reliance upon God? What will I be freed to do when that radical reliance on God manifests?

Living Lent: On Habit-Making

3/15/2014

My mother arrived in town Thursday night to help out my sister for ten days. I visited with her yesterday, and as we were driving together she asked me how much time I devote to my writing each day.

"An hour or two," I said.

"Well, I need to buckle down," she said back. She explained that she has five writing projects in the works, and none of them is close to being finished.

The thing is, it doesn't take much to be a writer. A writer is one who habitually writes.

Habits are a matter of choosing to do something in such a way that not doing that thing is the exception, rather than the rule. I am a writer because the days on which I don't write are rare and unexpected.

I dedicate a good portion of each day to writing. I may only write for a total of ten uninterrupted minutes on some days, but those ten minutes are given over to what I consider vitally important in my life.

What do I do frequently enough that it could be called my habit, for better or worse? Are the habits I cultivate the habits I want shaping my life?

Living Lent: Withdrawing

3/14/2014

In the rare moments when I come across an important realization about myself, particularly if it is brought to my attention by someone else, my gut instinct is to withdraw.

I want to hide in my secret corner and examine this new thing, reviewing my memories and experiences for evidence that this realization is actually true of me.

Sometimes it's exciting to behold a new facet of myself, and I take delight in gazing in my new mirror. Sometimes it's humiliating, and I want to squeeze my eyes shut till the pain gets buried away.

When a realization hurts, time slows--time doesn't want me to miss out on feeling every excruciating part of it. Time is generous like that.

Do I choose to bury the hurt, where it might take root and flourish in me? Or do I pluck it out, hold it up, and expose it to the light long enough that it dries up and becomes dust?

Living Lent: Cleaning House

3/13/2014

I love cleaning my house.

Wiping away flecks and spots of dirt, sweeping up dust, putting every last toy and piece of laundry and utensil in its place--the thoroughness and the ritual of it soothe my spirit. This is why Lent is my favorite liturgical season. It's the time for taking what's messy in my life and putting it right again.

One thing I'm learning this year, though, is that Lent is more than just a season for cleaning up. Cleaning can become a seductive and deeply deceptive mode of self-hiding. When a diamond sparkles radiantly, one hardly notices the imperfections beneath its surface.

One of my personal challenges is to let the messiness remain when I'd rather not, so I can look upon myself with less contentment and greater scrutiny. Otherwise my superficial sparkle might distract me--and those who support me--from what needs more care than a dust-rag can offer.

Living Lent: Containing Joy

3/11/2014

Yesterday I found myself with too much joy to bear alone.

When I saw the UPS truck drive by the back of my house, I knew the driver was coming for me. I went out to greet him, and I chirped, "This is my first book!"

He eyed the thirteen pound box incredulously and said, "This is a book?"

"Well, it's about twenty copies of it." I grinned.

He grinned back and wished me a good day. I skipped back in the house and set the box on my dining room table so I could take a picture to send my hubby.

I don't know how to describe what it's like. The disbelief and excitement I feel are akin to the feelings I had when I gave birth to each of my daughters. It isn't just that I've written something I'm deeply proud of, and it isn't just that this represents the accomplishment of a dream I've dreamed since I was thirteen. Holding this book in my hand represents a breaking free from the bonds of self-doubt and the grip of those who have ceaselessly tried to silence me. My voice is free. A burst of Easter arrives in the midst of Lent.

And I feel just like this:

Living Lent: A Parable

3/10/2014

Months ago I promised to write a short story for one of the top writers in my online writing contest, and I finally managed to write it last month. I offer this story as a taste of my favorite sort of writing.

The Banquet
An original tale by M. Kate Allen
Written especially for Othella ‘Bean’ Morris

Once upon a time there was a town where no one lived. Shops, homes, and paved streets lined the seaside town, but there was no one to shop, dwell, or wander there.

One day, a boat appeared on the town’s seaside horizon for no one to see. The boat, a speck in the foggy distance, grew larger, and eventually bumped town’s sandy shore. A woman in canvas pants and a white, button-down shirt emerged from the boat, pulled it onto dry land, collected her large rucksack, and wandered up to the road. After exploring the beautiful, silent, empty town, she chose a house to dwell in and set her things there.

With no one else in town, her first task was to figure out what to do for food, as her own supply on the boat had diminished to nearly nothing. She went beyond the town’s borders on the landside and found a meadow of wheat. She gathered it, plucked out the chaff, and took it home. She plucked thirty grains of wheat and set them aside; then she plucked the remaining grains from their sheaves and set about grinding them into a coarse flour. Next, she ventured out to the forest beyond the meadow for dry scraps of timber with which she could make a fire. With her squares of flint, she struck a spark and lit a fire with the wood she’d found. Next, she lit a spare branch and headed out to a tree in the meadow she had seen abuzz with bees. She quieted the bees with the smoke of her torch and put her hand into the tree hollow, reaching inside the hive hidden within that hollow, for a honeycomb. She withdrew a small dish from a large pocket in her canvas shirt and placed the honeycomb there, blowing out the torch and licking her fingers on her way back.

After she had deposited the honeycomb on her kitchen windowsill, she ventured forth one more time, this time with a bucket. There was a stream she had seen in the woods, and she needed water, as there was no faucet in her new home. While she was gathering water, a trio of small fish were caught in her bucket. She took the bucket, fish and all, back through the woods and across the meadow into the town where she now lived.

The woman had all she needed, and she rejoiced, offering a blessing to the earth. Then she cut off the heads of the fish and roasted them on her fire. She boiled the remaining water and added some of it to the crushed wheat grains, drizzling the mush with honey and folding it into a dough. Then she baked the honey-wheat-water dough in a tiny Dutch oven, allowing the bread to bake next to the fish.

When the food was prepared, she heard a knock at her door. She looked up, surprised. When she opened the door, a great multitude stood before her, their eyes cast down, their hands held up as human bowls to receive whatever she might place there.

She looked back at her dinner. Swiftly, she gathered it in a large towel, tied the ends of the towel around her neck, and left her new home. She said another blessing, this time in thanks for the people, and began to place pieces of baked fish and torn fragments of almost-too-hot-to-touch bread in their hands. She moved quickly through the crowd, and by nightfall, all had been fed except herself.

She closed her eyes, offered a third blessing, and did not break her fast.

The next morning, as the sun began to creep into the sky, the woman awoke to find her new neighbors bustling out of town and into the meadow and forest, armed with buckets. She smiled and blessed all the earth once more, knowing that she would be present for a great feast that day.

Living Lent: 1st Sunday of Lent

3/9/2014

The first reading of the first Sunday of Lent (Year II) as prescribed in the Book of Common Prayer is Daniel 9:3-10:

Then I turned to the Lord God, to seek an answer by prayer and supplication with fasting and sackcloth and ashes. I prayed to the Lord my God and made confession, saying,

‘Ah, Lord, great and awesome God, keeping covenant and steadfast love with those who love you and keep your commandments, we have sinned and done wrong, acted wickedly and rebelled, turning aside from your commandments and ordinances. We have not listened to your servants the prophets, who spoke in your name to our kings, our princes, and our ancestors, and to all the people of the land.

‘Righteousness is on your side, O Lord, but open shame, as at this day, falls on us, the people of Judah, the inhabitants of Jerusalem, and all Israel, those who are near and those who are far away, in all the lands to which you have driven them, because of the treachery that they have committed against you. Open shame, O Lord, falls on us, our kings, our officials, and our ancestors, because we have sinned against you. To the Lord our God belong mercy and forgiveness, for we have rebelled against him, and have not obeyed the voice of the Lord our God by following his laws, which he set before us by his servants the prophets.

At St. Augustine's, our weekly Eucharistic prayer tells of humankind rebelling against God. God's response, over and over, is to offer a hand of healing from our self-made brokenness. The continual pattern of human rebellion and divine redemption strikes me. I'm taken back to my very first Sunday at Historic St. Peter Church (now the Community of St. Peter) in which the pastor, Rev. Bob Marrone, preached on hope. That was the day I first dared to believe that God chose mercy over judgment, even when judgment was the only thing deserved. I learned in my years in that community that because this is true of God, we are called to make it true of ourselves: to render mercy rather than judgment, even when judgment is deserved.

On whom will I deliver judgment this Lent? To whom will I have the courage and humility to offer mercy instead?