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Eastertide: Day 10

4/29/2014

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PictureSt. Catherine of Siena
I am struck by this image of St. Catherine of Siena, whose feast Christians celebrate today. She is enormous. She is standing, looking eye to eye with the beholder from slightly above the beholder. She is bold and magnificent and holy all at once.

Women just aren't portrayed this way often in the Christian tradition.

St. Catherine is considered a doctor of the church. On prayer.forwardmovement.org, she is described this way, "
One tends to think of medieval women as silent and passive dwellers in homes and convents. This was far from the case with Catherine of Siena. She exercised great influence in matters of church and state, and hers was one of the keenest minds of her day."

St. Catherine was a Dominican, and Dominicans have a special charism to preach. She took her charism so seriously that she dared to confront Pope Gregory XI--and she left having persuaded him to see things from her view.

I see in this extraordinary woman a model of bold, faithful, wise, and total devotion to God and God's work. She did not cower away behind medieval expectations of what her role was to be in the world. She stood taller and brighter than all her counterparts, female and male alike, not with self-preoccupation but with a keen vision of the vital part she had to play in the bringing about of God's reign--and God's holy work was done through her. She had the humility to say yes to being extraordinary.

In what ways am I called to say yes to being extraordinary? In what ways do I allow my fear to inhibit me from playing my part in bringing about God's reign?

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Eastertide: Day 9

4/28/2014

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The season of Lent (Sundays excluded) is forty days long, but Easter is fifty days long. Committing to a change of heart is a long process, but allowing oneself to bask in the joy of new life takes even longer.

Lent is the season in which I feel most at home. I get my radical need for metanoia, for turning from my sin. I'm not as comfortable allowing myself to soak in joy. It can feel like cheating, especially when I'm not feeling particularly joyous.

In what ways am I called to allow joy to be planted in me, right in the midst of my brokenness? In what ways does the flourishing of joy in me bring about the very metanoia I'm convinced I need?

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Easter Saturday

4/26/2014

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Today my family is hosting a gathering of people we love, so yesterday I got to work.

When my hubby walked in the house after returning from work, he thanked me for my efforts and attempted to apologize for my having to do all the house-cleaning. I said, "No, I like it! It appeals to my sense of order!"

He proceeded to say I was sick and gave me a kiss as I grinned.

The thing is, when my house is clean, it is spacious. We don't own very much stuff (spring cleaning + preparation for potential move somewhere at some point + pregnancy took care of that this time last year), so when the clutter is organized and the dust is wiped away, what's left is ample room. This is a space that can be breathed in by a harried mom or run in by an exuberant toddler or crashed in by a learning-to-walk baby. I gaze around the room and am grateful for the simplicity I behold.

How does my heart reflect my hearth? What within me could use the loving touch of Eastertide refreshing?
How may I live into the simplicity within me that I cherish so much outside of me?

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Easter Friday

4/25/2014

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PicturePhoto by M. Kate Allen
Sometimes a friendship abides only in the knowledge of what was--and sometimes that gossamer thread of what was is the only connection two people need to meet again as if not a thing had changed between them.

I had a deep, soulful conversation with one of my my longest-time friends last night (on Facebook chat, of all things). This friend is someone I've scarcely talked to over the last fifteen years, but when our fingers began flying across the keyboard, it was as though all those years of growing in wildly different directions had changed nothing.

I realized something surprising as I listened to my friend reminisce: part of me--one of the best, worth-keeping-around, worth-fighting-for parts of me--has been part of me for all these fifteen years, and probably more.

Sometimes my inclination is to tell myself that the best parts of myself have only emerged recently (i.e. since I've fully and intentionally embraced who I'm called by God to be), but that story isn't true. I've just had trouble naming or owning some of them before now.

In what ways do I allow the resurrected aspects of myself overshadow or swallow up the life-giving aspects of the life I lived before? In what ways do my life now match (or perhaps pale in comparison to) my past? What might I learn about my old-time self from the words of the people I love if I listened to them talk about me, and what about my old life do I still need to invite forward as I live my Easter life?

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Easter Thursday

4/24/2014

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PicturePhoto by M. Kate Allen
Yesterday I engaged in radical transparency as I told a story of my life that's been hidden for many years. 

Sharing this story of brokenness had the unexpected effect of rendering me more, not less, whole.

This has me wondering whether the gospel writers couldn't make due with the original ending of the gospel of Mark because it wasn't enough for the scandal of Jesus' rising from the dead to go untold. Perhaps the resurrection event became redemptive as it was whispered with others.

A grain of wheat alone is small, lonesome, and dry--but if she dares to expose herself to the enveloping, all-penetrating company of rich, moist, nourishing soil, she gives herself over to the possibility of growing up to new life, and eventually fulfilling her life's call to feed others from her new life.

What still remains hidden, isolated, and untold within me? What lonesome seed from my life needs to be plucked from its isolation and planted within the soft soil of my heart so it may rise up?

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Easter Wednesday

4/23/2014

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As I was reading John O'Donohue's Anam Cara yesterday, I found "A Blessing for Old Age" nestled toward the back of the book.

May the light of your soul mind you,
May all of your worry and anxiousness
about becoming old be transfigured,
May you be given a wisdom with the eye
of your soul,
to see this beautiful time of harvesting.
May you have the commitment
to harvest your life,
to heal what has hurt you,
to allow it to come closer to you
and become one with you.
May you have great dignity,
may you have a sense of how free you are,
and above all
may you be given the wonderful gift
of meeting the eternal light

and beauty that is within you.
May you be blessed, and may you find a
wonderful love in yourself for yourself.


What worries and anxiety do I bury within me, shrouded in shame? What parts of my life seek--from me--the resurrecting transformation of a loving, knowing, ever-gentle, enveloping, intentional embrace?

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Easter Tuesday

4/22/2014

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PictureCourtesy of biblicalarcheology.org
During evening prayer yesterday, I read the lection from the gospel according to Mark of the three women going to the tomb to anoint Jesus' body:

When the sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb. They had been saying to one another, ‘Who will roll away the stone for us from the entrance to the tomb?’ When they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had already been rolled back. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, ‘Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you.’ So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

I wonder what the three women experienced as they walked toward the tomb of the one they so deeply loved. Heartache? Shock? Disbelief? Unrelenting grief? Were they stoic, determined to make the best of it, to do the tasks prescribed and move on?

And when they discovered that the tomb was empty, and that this young man in white was sitting next to the tomb, telling them their beloved had been raised from death, I wonder what they feared most. Would they be blamed? What could this mean? If he wasn't in the tomb, then where was he?

This morning, a friend of mine from theology school quoted Henri Nouwen, one of the gentlest voices of Christian spirituality from the twentieth century: "The resurrection is God’s way of revealing to us that nothing that belongs to God will ever go to waste. What belongs to God will never get lost."

In moments when my faith is strained to its limits, how strong is my belief that what belongs to God will never get lost?

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Easter Monday

4/21/2014

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PictureCyril of Jerusalem
I don't know how Cyril, the late-4th century bishop of Jerusalem, did it. After all the liturgical hoopla he went through in each Holy Week and Easter, he spent each Easter Week guiding neophytes of faith through mystagogy, the breaking open of the mysteries they had just experienced.

I'm no bishop. I'm not guiding anyone through the meaning of their confirmation/baptism/communion. All I did for Holy Week and Easter was sing, and I'm totally zonked.

Perhaps Bishop Cyril was able to move energetically from Easter action into Easter mystagogy because he was an artist, the kind of artist who's so passionate that he'll forsake all else for the beauty and importance of his work (work, in his case, which was done for God's sake).

Perhaps Cyril believed, like I do, that liturgy (and the belief to which it gives rise) matters. Maybe, since he was the head of the church--in the city where Jesus died and rose--he felt that his responsibility was just a little bit weightier than that of others whom God had ordained to serve. And maybe his desire to bring about illumination of hearts was his manna in a wilderness of leadership.

As I went through Holy Wednesday's shadows, Holy Thursday's footwashing, Good Friday's darkness, Holy Saturday's silence, and then the Vigil that beckoned forth the new light of Easter, I was struck over and over by how different Holy Week and Easter felt at St. Augustine's than it had for me elsewhere. I don't perceive the difference in terms of "better" or "worse." I perceive the difference in the degree of leadership I was granted, and in the way my leadership helped shape the prayer of others. In small ways--as a musician--I spent this Holy Week and Easter living into Bishop Cyril's holy presence as a liturgical leader. I find myself in awe (and maybe the more appropriate word here is "fear") of my God-given ability to make a difference to others, for better or worse.

As I continue to be called forth to lead, how will I maintain my zeal like Bishop Cyril did? How will I engage in self-care without losing sight of the care of others?

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Easter

4/20/2014

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Picture
Resurrection Icon (Courtesy of oca.org)

This is the day the Lord has made!
Let us rejoice and be glad!

Christ is risen from the dead,
trampling down death by death,
and upon those in the tombs
bestowing life!

Christ is risen indeed!
Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

Furthermore,

My toddler Easters when she wakes up crying and seeks my early-morning arms.
My infant daughter Easters when she utters "Ma-Ma" as her greeting for the first time.
I Easter when I behold my sleeping beloved and smile.

The world Easters every time it loves without fetter.

Easter!

Alleluia!
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Living Lent: Holy Saturday

4/19/2014

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Picture
Jesus--crucified--dead.
The whole world fills the new tomb.
In stillness hope stirs.


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Living Lent: Maundy Thursday Mystagogy

4/18/2014

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Picture
"Maundy" comes from "Mandatum," which refers to Jesus' mandate to his friends to wash the feet of others just as he washed theirs at the last supper before his death. The act of washing a dinner-guest's feet was normally reserved for a slave, and it meant coming into contact with whatever a first-century Jewish person in Jerusalem might have stepped in or on--dirt, feces, bugs, waste-water, nettles, anything. The host of a dinner wouldn't make his own hands impure by touching the unclean feet of his guests.

And yet.

Nowadays, folks who are planning to have their feet washed during the ritual enactment of Jesus' foot-washing take pity on those who wash feet. They wash their own feet in advance, maybe even manicure them, making sure every last trace of "ewww" is gone.

I might have done this, too, but in the midst of preparing to sing many new-to-me hymns for liturgy, I forgot.

At my parish, anyone can have her feet washed. As the foot-washing ritual got underway, it looked as though everyone was choosing to do this. So despite my dirty feet, I went forward.

Exposing my feet, allowing the clean hands of another to wash them, was humiliating.
And in my humiliation, a new gateway for grace manifested.

What a gift to receive the blessing of the holy other who beheld my uncleanness and loved me anyway.

Isn't this receiving and giving the entirety of the Christian call?

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Living Lent: Tenebrae

4/17/2014

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Long psalms draw me into shadow.

A clatter rattles me.
Death!

But a lone flame alights,
scattering harbored dark
and my dry face is watered with hope.

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Living Lent: Disappointment

4/16/2014

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Easter draws near, and I find myself disappointed. I'm excited for the resurrection day, but I don't feel prepared for it. Like all Pelagian Christians, I have this sense that I should have done more (or at least done better) this Lent.

Pelagius was deemed a heretic, though. He implied that the human person had all the resources at her disposal (okay, his disposal--I doubt he would have been concerned with women) to achieve salvation.

And Christianity doesn't work like that. I don't save myself. Salvation--healing--relies on the outpouring of the sacred other. I can't do it or accomplish it on my own.

I'm the sort of person who would rather do it myself. When I'm in charge, things happen more efficiently (and more to my liking). 

But my faith calls me (over and over and over, sometimes to my great annoyance) out of my egoism.
Like right now.

What do these last days of Lent have to offer me that I cannot offer myself?


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Living Lent: Reading

4/15/2014

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I've spent much of this Lent steeping my heart in words: words from my prayer books, words from scripture, words from novels, and words from those I love.

I recently read Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose, a medieval story that follows the rhythm of the monastic daily office. Now I'm reading D.L. Smith's The Miracles of Santa Fico, a story that my friend, Denise, promises will illuminate Holy Week. Soon I will reread Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, one of the most influential books of my life (whose contents are summed up in the title).

In what ways do the stories I read and hear shape the story of my life? As I approach the liminal liturgy of Triduum that serves as the gateway between Lent and Easter, what stories should I embrace as truth-bearers, and what stories should I relinquish as deceivers?

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Living Lent: Going Home

4/14/2014

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Last Tuesday my baby daughter and I traveled to Ohio to visit family and friends. Many wonderful, loving, fruitful meetings took place, and my daughter and I hardly stopped moving except to sleep. My heart is full with marvelous memories of the trip.

I have much from the trip to reflect on over the coming days, but one insight stands out for me: the home of my childhood, whose land and people I love, is no longer my home. My home is in the desert, a place that I would never have imagined myself living in even a year ago.

What other surprises await my life as I open myself to the possibility of the unexpected?

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Living Lent: Truest Singing

4/8/2014

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Picture
As I awoke this morning from a night of grief-laced sleep, the first three verses of this hymn, whose words were written by Jean Janzen, spilled from me:

I sing to you from summers of my heart
My voice a field of surge and greening
My roots established in the long-lit hours
Your presence in the throbbing

I sing when fullness burnishes my day
The mellow spices of completion
The harvest of my life in you which yields
A juice of joy and feasting

But when in silence nothing rises up
Into my soul, and I am frozen
When iron days refuse to split and thaw
The clutch of ice to flowing

I struggled to remember the final verse all morning, till it came to me just now:


Then give me faith that warmth will swell the bud
to song, which like a leaf will open
For from the urgings of your steadfast love
There flows my truest singing

Easter's Aurora draws near.

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Living Lent: Grieving death

4/7/2014

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I have grieved the deaths of many people I love. Grieving death, when love for the one who has died is great, hurts. The hurt can be so searing that the griever seeks to shut out her grief: she buries it, hiding it so she doesn't have to face it.

What isn't obvious to the griever is that hiding grief isn't the same as letting it go. Hiding allows the grief to blossom deep within me. It becomes a weed, claiming good soil for itself and choking to death the good that has been cultivated within me.

In my personal effort to grieve a death I've never grieved,
I have had to dig deep within myself to grasp at my grief's roots. That grasping has taken the form of many words--as I give voice to the grief, its shape becomes distinct from the now-hardened soil in which it dwells, and I can grasp it with gradually increasing ease.

In what ways will I have to embrace my grief before it releases its hidden grip on me?

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Living Lent: Grief - 5th Sunday of Lent

4/6/2014

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Stony heart walls break
Spilling rush of long-dammed grief
Soft love whispers, balm.


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Living Lent: Powers of Mercy

4/5/2014

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As my Benedictine Canon community prepares to engage in a formal discernment process about its future ministries this afternoon, my mind is on spiritual and corporal works of mercy.

"Works" is a loaded word that most folks of Protestant inclinations dislike. "Works" sounds like that dangerous idea of trying to make ourselves look better to God so we can get more grace (which is the notion so unhelpfully espoused in practice, if not in teaching, by the Roman Catholic Church in the Middle Ages). Martin Luther was no fan of this. He, an Augustinian monk, was excommunicated for speaking out prophetically against the notion that we could manipulate God to get God to gives us more grace (mainly in the form of indulgences sold by the church).

There is a long-standing patristic tradition of two kinds of works of mercy: spiritual works of mercy and corporal works of mercy, both of which are worth listing here.

Spiritual Works of Mercy

  • To instruct the ignorant;
  • To counsel the doubtful;
  • To admonish sinners;
  • To bear wrongs patiently;
  • To forgive offences willingly;
  • To comfort the afflicted;
  • To pray for the living and the dead.

Corporal Works of Mercy

  • To feed the hungry;
  • To give drink to the thirsty;
  • To clothe the naked;
  • To harbor the harborless;
  • To visit the sick;
  • To ransom the captive;
  • To bury the dead.

Rather than referring to these fourteen acts as works of mercy, I would prefer to refer to them as powers of mercy. Christians are empowered by baptism to do all these as acts of discipleship to Christ. Our purpose, our mission, is to go out to the world to use our power to act in these ways, because this is this sort of power that Christ bestowed (and bestows) on his followers. The power we are given is radically counter-cultural, noted only rarely by wider society (and then only in people like Mother Teresa of Calcutta) because these powers are embraced in such a lukewarm way by so many Christians (myself included).

Imagine with me a Christianity in which Christians devoted themselves not to the preservation of their own religious status quo, but rather to embracing and exhibiting the powers of mercy bestowed
on them in baptism. Imagine Christian communities taking the lead of Martin Luther in upsetting their own lukewarm faith, emptying themselves of their own chaff that they might make way for the grains of wheat that God seeks to plant in them. What if we Christians allowed ourselves to become living bread, the risen, powerful Body of Christ in and for the world?

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Living Lent: Aurora Chapel

4/4/2014

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Picture
I wrote recently about discovering long-buried grief while sharing sacred conversation with my spiritual director.

It is amazing to me what can dwell in darkness for years without being uncovered, and then emerge--just a little--through the act of trusting another.

Aurora, Homer described, is the rosy-fingered dawn whose light precedes the blazing dayfire of Apollo. She is the first bearer of light, strong and gentle at once. Her light is enough to disperse the darkness, but her light is not so bright that it blinds.

I would like to offer sacred space in which trust may dwell and rosy-fingered light may emerge. I invite you to make prayer requests in the Aurora Chapel for whatever dwells hidden in the depths of your heart. Early each morning, I will gather up the requests that have been made in the past day and offer intentions for them during the course of my Benedictine Canon community's prayer. All requests will be held in confidence.

What abides so deeply in your heart that you scarcely notice it?

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    Rev. M. Kate Allen

    Thean. House church priest. Published author. Mother and wife. Vocal feminist. Faith-filled dissenter in the face of the status quo.

    I address G-d as Thea more often than not.


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