Thealogical Lady: A Blog

How does it feel?

6/10/2017

I shared the ordo of my Strawberry Moon Thean Eucharist at a friend's request, and he asked me afterward how it felt during and after that liturgy.

For a bit of background, allow me to say that my Thean Eucharist has evolved a great deal over the last two and a half years, so much so that we stopped doing Eucharist for a while because my thealogy had changed so much from its Christian roots.

But this was the response I offered my friend, and I believe it sums up what I value most about Theanism:

Our only light was what remained outside (which wasn't much) and the lone candle that we lit. The lighting of the candle hushed them. Nearly everything I did from that point forward brought forth a torrent of questions, mostly from A. M couldn't participate as well as A could with the parts involving reading. Both of those things left me with a little frustration. That being said, I felt this extraordinary calm and joy as we moved through the liturgy. It was so familiar and yet so fresh. It felt a bit like being at a wedding, or a funeral, or a baptism--it was rich with meaning and charged with the shaping of identity. It felt important and weighty, and I felt alive and at home right where I was, doing what I was doing, sharing and helping shape the story of me and my girls with them. It was as poignant as any liturgy at my old parish back home, and even more poignant than Thean Evening Prayer has been. Perhaps that was the case because my daughters were at the center of it and I could see them, or at least A, making connections and sorting out what it means to be of Thea and to regard all the rest of the world, including those we find difficult to love, as part of Thea.

Making connections between the narrative one hears and one's role in it, and to tell a narrative that empowers a person to shine in ways she never realized she could, is what it's all about for me. To be able to do this with others--particularly my own daughters--to observe them making those connections, and to watch them practice their unique power by being agents in the liturgy we share, is about as near to ecstasy as I've come.

The practice of engaging in liturgy with my girls feels like one of the most important tasks I could ever undertake, because this liturgy as I've shaped it encompasses what I value (and want to pass on to them) most. I want them to break bread with others. I want them to pray, whether that prayer centers them or gives them something to argue with, or both. I want them to be confident storytellers, and I want them to know they have the right to shape the stories they tell. I want them to know the extraordinary relationship between light and shadow without glorifying one over the other. I want them to know that they are, as much as any other part or person of the world, of Thea, of the stars, of the glory of this beautiful universe.

I loved it. ♥

Psalm 139

7/29/2016

Psalm 139

Thea, you search me out and you know me;
   you know my sitting down and my rising up;
   you discern the pattern of my thoughts.

You trace my journeys and my resting-places
   and are acquainted with all my ways.

Indeed, there is not a word on my lips
   that you, O Thea, do not know.

You journey behind, before, and beside me,
   and you lay your hand upon me in blessing.

Where can I go then from your Ruach?
    where can I flee from your presence?

If I climb to the heavens, you are there;
   if I make the grave my bed, you are there also.

If I take the wings of the morning
   and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

Even there your hand will lead me
   and your hands hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will cover me,
   and the light around me turn to night,”

Darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day;
   darkness and light to you are both alike.

For you yourself created my inmost parts;
   you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I will thank you because I am marvelously made;
   all your works are wonders to behold.

My body was not hidden from you,
   while I was being made in secret
   and woven in the depths.

Your eyes beheld my limbs, yet unfinished in the womb;
all of them were already written in your book;
   they were fashioned day by day,
   when as yet there was none of them.

How deep I find your thoughts, O Thea!
   how great is the sum of them!

If I were to count them, they would be more in number than the sand;
   to count them all, my life span would need to be like yours.

Search me, O Thea, and know my heart;
   lead me in your wisdom’s way.

Lake Pleasant

5/5/2015

This past weekend, my family and I drove north of Phoenix to Lake Pleasant. My daughters watched as their dad and I set up the family-sized tent. The temperature when we got there Friday afternoon hovered in the upper 90's Fahrenheit. The heat crawled up our legs and arms and down our backs. Before long we were settling down at our shaded picnic table to drink cold water and eat trail mix. There was nothing we had to do, nowhere we had to be. We just were.

The next morning, I rose with the sun and stepped down the hill to the lake. This is what I saw.

And I couldn't help thanking Thea for creation's wonders and the tiny role I get to play in them.

96

4/6/2015

Thea,
unveil the vein of gold
that yearns to gleam in your light.
Amen.

94

4/4/2015

Thea,
my older daughter was alarmed
when every light went out.
Darkness cloaked her,
heavy and scratchy.
I kindled a fire then,
and the gale of light blew off her cloak.
New light gave birth to new light
and soon both of my daughters were twittering
and dancing, delighted.
Light of Christ.
Light of Christ.
Light of Christ.
Thanks be to you, Thea.
Amen.

81

3/22/2015

Thea,
walk faithfully with travelers on long journeys:
be a lamp on dim footpaths,
and be shade on the sun-washed road.
Amen.

74

3/15/2015

Thea,
thunder in my waking hours;
blaze your jagged light through my dreams.
Amen.

54

2/23/2015

Thea,
you are a thousand shards of glass,
all sparkle and point.
As I make my way,
may my eyes catch your light,
seeing where to tread
and where not to.
Amen.

49

2/18/2015

Thea,
let this ash remind me that I am dust
of the stars, and that to starlight I will return.
Amen.

47

2/16/2015

Thea,
you drape the act of living
in folds of light and shadow.
Teach me how to wear your cloth well.
Amen.

44

2/13/2015

Thea,
when the desire for affirmation
grows more potent than the desire
to be my self,
mirror me:
show me my divine spark.
Amen.

43

2/12/2015

Thea,
when I behold the sky
it is your silky darkness
that undims the stars.
Envelop me in your dark night,
that I might be brightened.
Amen.

28

1/28/2015

Thea,
when the path of dreams seems lost,
light hope's brave flame
that I might find my way again.
Amen.

21

1/21/2015

Thea,
show yourself in the pale dark
of the midnight lake,
sparkling presence
before me.
Amen.

Advent Journeying: Sweeping out the Hearth

12/2/2014

An old Advent hymn invites us to sweep the hearth to prepare for the arrival of light who is to be born.

As I sweep the ashes from my inner hearth, I wince in pain--there are still embers burning, traces of old and new anger that haven't burned out.

What is one to do with old, stubborn fire? I could throw water on the embers, but then I'd have to wait for the hearth to dry out again, and I'd also have a considerable mess to deal with.

Alternatively, I could fan the embers with fresh air--encourage them to burn hotter. Bursting into flame, they will burn hotter and faster, and soon will turn to cool ash, allowing me to clear the way for a new flame to alight there.

It seems counter-intuitive to nurse embers of anger into full flame, and yet it is a singularly efficient way to make the vital task of hearth-sweeping possible.

So I fan the flame, nursing my anger that it might burn away at long last.

Easter: Day 44

6/2/2014

Dear Miri,

A year ago today, you changed the fate of the world by emerging from the darkness of my womb into the bright, bright world.

You've joined your daddy and sister and me on the wildest year of our family's life yet. So many things have changed! Let that lesson always be in your heart: things change, and if you keep moving, you'll find yourself in the most extraordinary places with the most extraordinary people doing the most extraordinary things.

Your eyes have always sparkled brilliantly--may your spirit always do the same.

Your legs and arms have been strong since you were growing inside me--may you always be brave and bold enough to show others what it means to be a graced, living body.

Your older sister is bodacious, but you remain engaged and interested in her presence--may you always cultivate curiosity rather than fear, and may you always turn to your sister when there is no one else your size to turn to.

Your parents love you with a great, big, bursting love--may you learn to love others the way we love you.

Your godmother will always be a gentle listener and confidant for you, just as she has always been your mother's--talk to her often so you can discover what it means to be a person wholly in love with the world.

Your daddy would throw himself in danger's path to save the life of another--learn to care as skillfully, boldly, and wholeheartedly as he does.

The ladies in your life are readers and writers--befriend words so you can stretch the limits of your world.

You have an enormous family circle, one that soars even beyond blood-ties--remember your family and call on them whenever need arises, because we will be there for you, whatever you need.

Sacred presence can be found anywhere for those with eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to love--may your eyes and ears and heart always remain open to the presence of Shekhinah.

And if you forget everything else, remember this: you have value just because you are, and no power in the heavens or on earth can ever take that from you.

I love you, Miriam-bub.

Mama Kate

Easter: Day 33

5/22/2014

After a difficult day, all I want to do is collapse.

It's been a difficult month, and collapsing hasn't been an option--not with my well-being at stake. The only thing that could get me out of my month-long difficult was standing up to face God.

So I faced God yesterday. I shed the last of my inhibitions and yelled at her. I demanded that she listen and respond.

And she did.

I realized two things last night: 1) my relationship with God is vivacious, and 2) my heart is made of stronger stuff than I've imagined (which is what she was waiting for me to see, of course).

What wondrous love is this, that I would dare to trust her enough to get raging mad at her when she wasn't holding up her end of our relationship. What wondrous love is this, that she would wait in my shadow, enduring my rage, till I could see the light in me that she's seen all along.

Living Lent: Accepting New Light

4/2/2014

Suppose someone shines a light in your face. Do you turn from it, or do you let it illumine you for the other to see? What if the light is so bright it hurts your eyes? What if there is no light anywhere around you except that which is shining on you?

My toddler does this. She'll find our emergency LED flashlights tucked away, pull them out, turn them on, and shine them in our eyes till her daddy and I remind her not to do it, since doing that can give people ow-ies.

During spiritual direction yesterday, my spiritual director held up a lone flame to illumine part of my past that was buried deep within me--old, strong grief with old, strong power. She invited me to consider seeking therapy to work through it. My inability to withhold tears as I considered my grief confirmed that she was right.

Lent is a time for digging through one's deepest darkness--not to find new ways to bury it, but to hold it up to light and embrace it with the fierce grip of love.

Will I be able to bear the tears that come as I face this old darkness? Will I trust others to gather me up when I release both my tears and my strength to stand?

Living Lent: Ash Wednesday and Prayer

3/5/2014

After indulging in Shrove Tuesday pancakes and Mardis Gras beads, we enter the first day of Lent: Ash Wednesday. Millions will travel to churches today to be marked with the ash of last Palm Sunday's palm fronds, marking a stark entrance into the liturgical season of abstinence, repentance, and alms-giving.

During this season of Lent, I would like to offer you my prayers. If you feel so moved, please leave a comment here asking for a particular kind of prayer. I will light a candle at the St. James Chapel of St. Augustine Church in honor of each prayer request I receive. I invite you, in return, to offer a prayer for someone else, lighting a candle of your own. Perhaps, by the Easter Vigil, our candle-lit prayers will have illumined the whole world.

An Open Letter to Those against Whom I Have Sinned: Advent, Week 4, Monday

12/23/2013

December 23

O Emmanuel, Rex et Legifer noster, expectatio gentium and salvator earum: veni ad salvandum nos, Domine Deus Noster!

O Emmanuel, our King and Lawgiver, expectation of the nations and their savior: come to save us, Lord our God!

To those against whom I have sinned,

There's no easy way for me to say this, so let me start with the most important part:

I am sorry.

I have done you wrong, and I am sorry.

I have hurt you, and I am sorry.

For every time I had an advantage over you and used it to your disadvantage, I'm sorry.

For every time I threw you into a crisis of self-doubt and self-hatred, I'm sorry.

For every time I shouted at you, called you names, slandered you behind your back, excluded you, ridiculed you, and broke your heart, I'm sorry.

For every time I chose my own interest at your expense and obfuscated the truth, I'm sorry.

For every time I physically, mentally, verbally, and spiritually harmed you, I'm sorry.

For every time I tried to come between you and the ones you loved, I'm sorry.

For every time I chose the lazy way at your expense, I'm sorry.

For every time my words or actions invited you to act or speak in ways you regret, I'm sorry.

For every time I spoke or acted in any unkind, uncharitable, unloving way, I'm sorry.

For these words that will probably never reach you, I'm sorry.

For these words that you probably wouldn't believe anyway, I'm sorry.

For every wrong that I have forgotten, I'm sorry.

For everything I do in the future to convince you that I'm still as stony-hearted as ever, I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry.

All I have left to offer you is my open hands, waiting in emptiness to receive your undeserved forgiveness.

With broken love,
Kate

O Oriens: Advent, Week 3, Saturday

12/21/2013

December 21

O Oriens, splendor lucis aeternae, et sol iustitiae: veni, et illumina sedentes in tenebris et umbra mortis.

O dawn of the east, brightness of light eternal, and sun of justice: come, and enlighten those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.

A few years ago, I wanted to name my first child Aurora--not after the Disney princess, but after the rosy-fingered dawn.

Christ is sometimes imagined as Apollo, the bringer of bright sun-fire, but I imagine Christ as those fuchsia streaks anointing the darkness with chrismic light.

Today was also the winter solstice in the northern hemisphere, the darkest day of the year. On this day I think of John the Baptist, whose feast day is six months prior to this day, on the longest day of the year (in the northern hemisphere). It's the day when earthly light prepares to diminish, the same way John prepares: "He must increase, but I must decrease" (John 3:30).

Advent 2, Monday

12/9/2013

Photo by M. Kate Allen

This past Saturday, my family hosted an Advent housewarming, and I found the wreath and berries you see to the left from Trader Joe's. A tiny wreath and a few tea candles make the passage of Advent time more pronounced, and the faint scent of pine reminds me of home.

When I was growing up in northeast Ohio, I was surrounded by evergreens. On Earth Day each year it was customary to receive an evergreen sapling from school to plant at home, and my family planted them. One of the most beautiful places in Ohio to see evergreens is Quail Hollow State Park in Hartville; another is the Jesuit Retreat House in Parma. Evergreens like those don't grow in the desert. Instead, the thriving flora of the Sonoran desert include Mediterranean olive trees, which would have been familiar to the eyes and hands and mouth of Jesus of Nazareth.

I miss my childhood home enough to buy an evergreen wreath that isn't native to where I live. Maybe next year I'll fashion my own wreath with olive branches and olives. Olive branches have always been a sign of goodwill, and olive oil is a sign of majesty, healing, and nourishment. Appropriate for the season that awaits the arrival of the majestic, healing nourisher, yes?

Advent 1, Tuesday

12/3/2013

Photo by M. Kate Allen

Tonight I began my evening prayer by lighting the candles of my family's menorah while chanting

O God,
come to my assistance.
Lady,
make haste to help me.
Glory to the Mother,
and to the Daughter,
and to the Holy Spirit,
as it was in the beginning,
is now,
and will be forever.
Amen.

I read the reflection of the day from St. Augustine's Advent devotional booklet, and then I turned to the light of the Chanukah candles. The rest of my prayer took the form of awe in that gentle light.