Thealogical Lady: A Blog

Spirit Whispers: Sister Thea

6/19/2014

Sister Thea Bowman (Photo by John Feister)

Sister Thea Bowman was a Franciscan Sister of Perpetual Adoration, and she changed the face of the African-American Roman Catholic Church.

Sister Thea was a woman who led with joy, story, music, and a sharp intellect. She was a woman who had the power to speak prophetically against injustice in ways that would soften the hearts of even old white bishops--again and again. Her power was the power to tell a story, to preach without a fourth wall, to engage others at the level of senses and emotion and experience.

She died from cancer a couple of weeks before I turned eight years old. It was another twenty years before I knew who she was.

When I make my solemn profession as a Benedictine Canon next spring, I plan to take Sister Thea's name as my religious name. I see in Sister Thea a bright, strong, gentle, humble, magnetic leader who could tear down any Jericho walls with the dulcimer sounds of her story-telling-and-transforming voice.

Do I have the courage to be more than I am? Do I have the humility to let go of my own weighty importance so I can fly with the wild, light Spirit in whom I put my trust and hopes?

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Spirit Whispers: Speak up

6/17/2014

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If you've never had the experience of participating in a spiritual discernment committee, I invite you to consider it.

After my fifth (and final) meeting with my discernment committee for priesthood yesterday evening, my committee confirmed that they heard my call to priesthood. And that's not even the extraordinary part.

The extraordinary part is that, as I prayed yesterday before my meeting, I prayed for total surrender to God's will, and for the faithfulness not to run if that will was something my ego didn't like. My total surrender granted me total, deep, quieting peace.

The extraordinary part is that, having let go of my attachment to the outcome of my discernment process, I happened to read (during evening prayer) the story in Matthew about the disciples who wanted to know why they couldn't heal the sick on their own when Jesus so easily could. Jesus told them it was because they lacked faith, and that if they had faith even the size of a mustard seed, mountains would move for them. And I realized at that moment that my mustard seed faith was what had moved the mountain of my ego in order to make a straight path for Spirit to enter and dwell deep within my heart.

The extraordinary part is that, despite having a clear sense of call when I walked into the process, my sense of call widened and deepened and became more rooted as the dialogue went on.

The extraordinary part is that, especially in the final two meetings, as I listened to the challenging questions of my committee members, I perceived Spirit doing the asking. And as I offered my vulnerable, open-hearted answers, I perceived Spirit speaking through me. (It's fair to say that I've never experienced God's voice speaking to me so powerfully as I have in my discernment committee meetings, and for a Benedictine who hears God speaking to her through liturgy and scripture and encounters with others all the time, that's saying a lot.)

The extraordinary part is that, despite my Enneagram-three-personality-type's desire to manage a situation in such a way that the outcome is "positive," I was required to relinquish my ability to do that in order to speak plainly and truthfully. I was painfully aware that my deep honesty could at any moment result in the humiliation of my ego, and I spoke anyway. In that total risk of my ego, I realized it was not my ego that spoke, but Spirit.

When I walked out of my meeting last night, I had no idea what my committee members had heard. I didn't know what they would say. My three-ish ability to anticipate the outcome of the process failed me spectacularly. And I perceived in my failure the possibility of God's success--success in finding a way to make use of the quirky instrument that I am.

My committee is passing me on to the next steps of the discernment process, steps that will be challenging in their own ways. What my committee heard may not be confirmed by the next folks I encounter in the discernment process. But what happens next is not my concern.

The most important piece to emerge for me from this discernment process is the profound recognition that my heart--my whole heart--belongs to the one I call God. Whatever comes, I know that I will be faithful to the path God has prepared for me. I won't turn away. This is God's gig, and I am God's beautiful, imperfect instrument.

What song(s) will God choose to play through me for the uplifting, healing, and reconciling of her creation?

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Spirit Whispers: Vulnerability

6/13/2014

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Photo by Monty Carson.

This morning I took one of those silly little online quizzes that a friend of mine posted on Facebook. This one was called, "What Emotion Are You Guided By?"I knew it would only be ten or twelve questions, and I knew that it would either tell me what I wanted to hear or be way off (and either outcome was equally likely), but I have discovered that asking a question--even in an online quiz--can only yield more to think about.

So I took the quiz. Its answer? Vulnerability.

You are a very emotional, sensitive person. You act upon your feelings, even if it's hurting you, and your strong and vivid emotions tend to get the best of you. Being vulnerable is not a negative thing - it makes you more aware of other people's emotions and when they might be hurt. Trying to grow a thicker skin might be a good idea, but don't hurry. Keep your tender soul alive for as long as you can, it's precious.

Two things strike me: 1) Vulnerability isn't precisely an emotion, so I wasn't expecting that as a possible answer; and 2) now that I think about it, a number of people who have journeyed with me in recent months have pointed to my increasing vulnerability and what a vital part of me that is.

Don't hurry, it says. Keep your tender soul alive for as long as possible, it says. Being vulnerable is not a negative thing.

The trouble with vulnerability is that a vulnerable person is always in a position to be hurt--this truth comes to me from too much experience. Nevertheless, throughout the last seven or so months, I have aimed to become as vulnerable as I have ever been. Vulnerability doesn't just make it possible to be hurt; vulnerability makes it possible to heal. Vulnerability makes it possible to be honest. Vulnerability makes it possible to let one's ego go. Vulnerability makes it possible for Spirit to make a rich dwelling for herself in one's midst.

As a person of faith, and particularly as a Benedictine Canon, I find that many of my former desires have fallen away to make room for this one great desire: to love and serve God and my neighbor (as Jesus did, and as Spirit inspires me to do).

I can't predict the future. I don't know exactly what that love and service will look like in advance. I can't control any of it. I can only listen with the ear of my heart and respond. Vulnerability keeps my own voice from overtaking God's. Vulnerability makes the impossible possible.

Total vulnerability means that, no matter how my ego may feel about it, my whole heart is in God's hands, for better or worse.

Will I keep faith when I am thrown into the pit and later sold into slavery like Joseph? Will I keep faith when my family and my life are destroyed like Job's? Will I keep faith when I'm asked to stand up to Pharaoh like Moses? Will I keep faith when I meet my dead Lord in the garden like Mary? Will I keep faith when I realize that my role is to decrease like John? In what difficult and extraordinary situations will I find myself saying to God, "Here I am, I have come to do your will"?

And when I find myself as Pharaoh's most trusted advisor like Joseph, and when I find myself radically trusting God despite all my loss like Job, and when I perform unforeseen wonders through God's power like Moses, and when I run off to proclaim that God lives like Mary, and when I proclaim the one I love to be greater than I am like John, will my life's purpose find its completion and unbridled joy in God saying to me, "Well done, good and faithful servant"?

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Spirit Whispers: A Pentecost-tide Theme

6/9/2014

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My fourth priestly discernment meeting, which happened yesterday morning in between Pentecost liturgies, gives me goosebumps as I reflect on it. I realize that the questions I received were the questions of Spirit herself, that God was speaking through the voices of my five committee members (right there in Heidi Chapel) and I was being beckoned to answer God's questions from the depths of my vulnerable heart.

The whole of the Pentecost season (which, thanks to the influence of Latin in the Roman Church, we call "Ordinary Time") is a time of just this kind of discernment, of radical listening. My Pentecost theme for Thealogical Lady will be "Spirit Whispers," and here I will invite myself and my readers to cultivate the ability to hear what Spirit says. To listen, ob audire, is to be obedient. Obedience is one of the vows that I have made as a Benedictine Canon, and obedience--radical listening--is something to which all Christians are called by baptism. Listening is a path of wisdom for any mindful person, that she might hear something greater and wiser than her own solitary voice.

In reflecting on the Spirit-ed questions that emerged during my discernment meeting yesterday, clarity about my identity rose up. I am not merely Kate, responding to a diocesan priestly call; I am Sr. Kate, a vowed member of the Community of St. Mary of the Annunciation, responding to a religious priestly call. I wonder what further clarity will emerge from my next discernment meeting. In what ways will Spirit speak through the curiosity and concerns of my committee members? What will I hear, if I have ears to listen?

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Easter: Day 49

6/7/2014

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The Rev. Br. Chad-Joseph Sundin

This morning my Benedictine brother, Chad-Joseph, is ordained as a transitional deacon in the Episcopal Diocese of Arizona at Trinity Cathedral in Phoenix.

As I reflect on my brother's call and ministry, I hear the music that God plays through his life, as God played the music of Jesus through Mary. He is a good and faithful servant; he empties his life so God's life might live in him, saying yes to the impossible as Mary did, protecting and up-lifting God's faithful servants without regard for his own image as Joseph did, becoming God's life-giving, light-imparting, nourishing presence in the world as Jesus did. I am one of many blessed witnesses to the working of God through Br. Chad-Joseph's life, because I am one of the many people who has looked at him and beheld God's gentle, undemanding, welcoming presence.

On this day when my brother receives the sacrament of Holy Orders, the Magnificat resonates in my heart.

John Michael Talbot, my favorite sacred singer from when I was a little girl, offers a Magnificat meditation that honors my brother's response to his call in a beautiful way:

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Easter: Day 43

6/1/2014

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For the last couple of days, I've written about my Benedictine Canon vows. Today I'll explore the vow of obedience.

Obedience was always the vow I resisted most when I was discerning the possibility of life as a Roman Catholic nun. The idea that I would ultimately have to submit to an authority outside of myself worried me. To use an example that actually came up in my discernment, if my heart's desire was to be a liturgist and my community/superior told me I had to do something other than prepare liturgy, what would I do? How would I be happy?

Obedience, as I understood it, was a stance of submission to the will (and whims) of the other. When I read about Joseph and his many brothers, and the trials Joseph endured while he waited for God to come around, I'm reminded of this stance of submission and I cringe. The psalmist's question, "How long?", is one that could be answered with "Forever." If one found oneself in the wrong community, a life of obedience could be one of misery.

What I discovered as I was discerning the possibility of becoming a nun was that I was being obedient to God--I was listening hard, and I was hearing God's voice through my worries. To be obedient to God is to pay attention to one's life. What is it in my life that brings deep, quenching joy? What brings me nerve-wracking restlessness? Paying attention to my life in all its particulars is a vital way in which I listen to God's call for my life.

In my novitiate as a Benedictine Canon, I dig through the hardened soil in my heart so I can make room for what God wishes to plant in me. In order to turn that hardened soil, I have to embody a stance not of blind submission, but profound openness--openness to be seen by myself, God, and others in all my facets, just as I am. Masks keep me from perceiving what God wishes for my life and keep the seeds already planted in me from budding; they keep my unique, God-given brilliance from shining in God's marvelous light.

To be obedient, in my case, is to notice what life as a Benedictine Canon life is like for me. If I were worried or doubtful or unhappy, obedience would mean paying attention to that worry, doubt, and unhappiness and being willing to seek their source. Being obedient as a Benedictine Canon means being willing to share my joys and fears with my Benedictine siblings, especially my superior. To take counsel with another is an act of utter trust, and it is a way of allowing God to speak through others what I may not yet be able to hear from God through myself.

What will I hear as I continue to listen to God in the presence of sacred others? What will spring forth from my heart as I loosen the soil that has been made tough and hard?

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Easter: Day 42

5/31/2014

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Yesterday I began a three-part series of reflections on my Benedictine Canon vows. Today I want to talk about my vow of conversion.

Conversion is often associated with joining a new church (which I have done), but that's not what this vow implies. Conversion (conversatio) has to do with a cultivated attitude of turning: turning the soil of one's heart so it remains fertile, and turning perpetually back toward the sacred other in order to engage in dialogue. Conversion implies on-going resistance to one's own closed, hardened heart. Conversion requires ongoing engagement.

Conversion can be really tough.

Suppose my heart has been hardened by the scars of old wounds. Why would I reopen them by making myself vulnerable to God or my neighbor? Why would I risk an even greater wound?

The Benedictine life demands the risk of possible wounding so that one can love God and one's neighbor with abandon. The Benedictine vow of conversion is a vow to risk the cross in order to invite resurrection.

In what ways will I meet the cross during my novitiate? In what ways will I be raised up?

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Easter: Day 41

5/30/2014

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I took three vows when I became a Benedictine Canon novice in February: obedience, conversion (conversatio), and stability. I've spent a good deal of time reflecting on each of these recently, and I'd like to spend time with them over the next few days. The strength and power of the vows becomes evident when one considers one's own weaknesses, so I will discuss the vows in light of my own weakness. I want to give consideration to stability today.

Let's suppose that the journey through the novitiate became really difficult and I felt like I wanted to give up.

One of the things that has been true of me in the past is that, confronted with great difficulty, I sink into my shadow's aching, heavy desire to withdraw. I have burned a number of bridges that way, including some that I wished I could restore later and couldn't.

Stability implies that my shadow doesn't get to burn bridges when things become difficult. My vow is to be stable, to stay--to deal with whatever comes my way while maintaining my presence.

When I'm healthy, when my heart's soil is well-tilled, I can do this, often utilizing supports that are already in place. St. Benedict knew that in community oriented away from self-interest and toward God and neighbor, much support would be available to the members of the community. My community is exceptionally supportive, even though it's small and we are not cloistered.

Still, when things are hard and I'm not well, remaining faithful in the exercise of stability means having the humility to acknowledge that I need help even if I'm not sure I'll get what I need, whether from my community or anyone else. It's one thing to pray, "My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth," when one has lots of tangible help around oneself. It's another to pray it when God's help is perceived to be the only available source of help.

At one's darkest moments, the vow of stability implies utter reliance on an uncapturable, untameable God. It's an invitation to fall, trusting that I will be caught, even though I have no safety net of my own devising in place.

By taking the vow of stability, I've promised not to withdraw or give up, period. I've promised to see this journey through, no matter where the path takes me--even if it meanders out of the out of the comforts of community and into places of desolation.

And if my foot slips from its foothold on the wall of a stark, vertical cliff?

Then my vow demands that I must fall back into Spirit's enveloping breath.

Will I shed the burden of fear when I fall? Will I fly on the lightness of hope?

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Easter: Day 39

5/28/2014

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I don't normally do evening posts, but I'm not normally blogging on vacation, either. Consider this an extraordinary post, in any sense of "extraordinary" that you wish.

Recently I picked up an old journal of mine--one that I finished just before I met my husband. It's a journal that represents one of the most tumultuous periods of my life.

As I reflect on the contents of that journal and the period it represents, the power of my own words takes my breath away. My life then, which could so easily be hidden or forgotten now, is recorded by my own hand. Because I took time to speak the words of my heart in those many pages, my experience from that time is memorialized forever.

I remember a homily that a Benedictine priest gave once that began, "Words, words, words!"

"I'm so sick of words!" Eliza Doolittle declared.

Occasionally I wonder if others tire of my words, but tiring though they may be, I write them. And I write them. And I write more of them. Because in my words dwell the power of the Spirit. I am Spirit's instrument when I do this very thing, tap-tap-tapping at my computer or huddling over a journal with one of my precious pens.

When I am alone, when I am fearful, when I am angry, when I am frustrated, or when I am elated, when I am ecstatic, when I am grateful, when I am joyful: I write. Writing is the meeting place between my voice and God's, and if I were ever asked to stop--well, I wouldn't stop, regardless of the cost. I cannot be other than the person I am called by God to be. And I am called to be a writer, among many other things.

As I discern the fullness of my vocation, especially with regard to the possibility of becoming a Benedictine Episcopal priest, I reflect on my writing vocation. How was it planted? How was it nurtured? What was it like when I turned from it? When did I figure out that writing was not just a thing I sometimes did, but rather an identity-creating activity without which I cannot be wholly myself?

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Easter: Day 21

5/10/2014

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Br. Philip-Martín's solemn profession

What's in a name?

Since the last solemn profession held in my Benedictine Canon community, my Benedictine brothers have started to embrace their religious names more fully. In my community, each brother has taken a religious name at his solemn profession, becoming Brother First name-Religious name (so Br. Philip, at his profession in March, became Br. Philip-Martín).

I've given a good deal of thought to the religious name I would take at my solemn profession. I've given less thought, at least until now, to my given first name. I go by a shortened version of my middle name--I have since college. My first name connoted too many aspects of my childhood self that I no longer embraced, so I dropped it, and only a few people call me by it anymore.

I wonder now if continuing to eschew my first name is a sign of my rejection of part of myself. Am I at a point where I can embrace who I was as a child--meek, silent, shy, gullible, frail? Why would I ever embrace those things as a feminist seeking a position of leadership?

I doubt I'll ever return to my first name, especially if I make my solemn profession (because three names is a little much, no?), but I cannot so easily ignore the person I was for nearly two decades.

What do I need to reclaim about my childhood self? What do I fear?

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Easter: Day 18

5/7/2014

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If I may, I'd like to share the fruits of my labors--I'm quite pleased with them.

If you've been reading along, you know that I'm a novice in the Community of St. Mary of the Annunciation, a group of Benedictine Canons in Tempe, Arizona. You may also know that I'm pretty tech-savvy. I build websites. I hang out on various online social networks. So I made a suggestion to my Prior, and he told me to go for it, and this is what happened:

stmarycanons.org

facebook.com/stmarycanons

twitter.com/stmarycanons

I invite you to click each link and discover a little something new about the community that gives me life. (And if you feel especially generous, feel free to share those links with people you like, so they can learn about and associate with this community, too.)

I wonder what will come of my community's presence in the online world. Who will encounter the Benedictine Canons as a direct result of that presence? Whose life will change as a result of our willingness to reach out and share a bit of ourselves in a way that St. Benedict could never have imagined?

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Easter: Day 17

5/6/2014

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As I began morning prayer today, I chanted Psalm 67. And as I chanted

May God be merciful to us and bless us
show us the light of her countenance and come to us

my daughter, Anastasia, joined in. She's heard me chant this psalm for months as part of my participation in the life of the Community of St. Mary of the Annunciation, and now the words that have been on my lips are on hers.

She interrupted me as I continued.

"Should we pray for...?"

At midday prayer, especially when we're praying in my community's oratory (St. James Chapel of St. Augustine's Episcopal Church), we lift up our prayers for others. Anastasia names all of her favorite people, including characters from stories she likes.

After this morning's litany of names, she declared, "And that's it."

But that's not it. Just after prayer, I encountered a new litany of names--the names of the girls in Nigeria who were kidnapped last month by the religious terrorist group, Boko Haram:

Today, during noon-day prayer, I will name aloud each girl who is listed here. These daughters of devastated parents are also my sisters in creation, and I owe them my attention.

I am struck by my feeling of powerlessness in this horrific situation, but I recognize that I can use the power of my voice. I can pray. I can blog. I can keep bringing it up on Facebook and Twitter and every other place where my voice has daily and extensive reach.

Two dear friends of mine--both of them publishers--are helping me empower the creative voices of others, as well. When light is shone in the dark, darkness is made bright. Every voice is a candle whose light, when shared, brightens. I invite you to lift up your voice, your light, with mine. When the voices of the whole world rise up in a chorus, maybe we'll be able to #bringbackourgirls.

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Eastertide: Day 13

5/2/2014

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Okay, God, I get it. My life is going back and forth between awesome and terrible because I'm supposed to be learning something useful, right? The drama is part of the plan, yes?

I'm really done, though. Like, I don't need any more mega-happy things, and I don't want any more mega-sad/frustrating/terrifying things--just middle-of-the-road ordinary would be great.

So maybe the lesson is that the uneventful life isn't such a bad thing. Is that it?

Or maybe as a Benedictine I'm supposed to approach all these storms and brilliant rainbows with a certain degree of detachment because you're the center of the universe, not me? Like... (oh, what is that psalm we were just praying...) psalm 136?

O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever.
O give thanks to the God of gods,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever.
O give thanks to the Lord of lords,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;

who alone does great wonders,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
who by understanding made the heavens,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
who spread out the earth on the waters,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
who made the great lights,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
the sun to rule over the day,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
the moon and stars to rule over the night,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;

who struck Egypt through their firstborn,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
and brought Israel out from among them,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
with a strong hand and an outstretched arm,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
who divided the Red Sea in two,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
and made Israel pass through the midst of it,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
but overthrew Pharaoh and his army in the Red Sea,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
who led his people through the wilderness,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
who struck down great kings,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
and killed famous kings,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
Sihon, king of the Amorites,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
and Og, king of Bashan,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
and gave their land as a heritage,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
a heritage to his servant Israel,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever.

It is he who remembered us in our low estate,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
and rescued us from our foes,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever;
who gives food to all flesh,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever.

O give thanks to the God of heaven,
   for his steadfast love endures for ever.

Okay, so I should approach all these things not with detachment, but thanks. Steadfast thanks for your steadfast love.

Okay. Okay. I'll start again, this time with psalm 138.

I will give thanks to you, O Lord, with my whole heart...
When I called, you answered me;
you increased my strength within me...
Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you keep me safe...
The Lord will make good his purpose for me;
O lord, your love endures forever;
do not abandon the work of your hands.

(Wait, did you hear that last line, God? Because this relationship thing is a two-way street. I'll give thanks, but I'm not afraid to importune you. Loudly. Just so's you know. Because hiding behind pretense just ain't part of the deal. K. Glad we're clear on that.)

Thanks, God.

(Wait--are you laughing at me?)

((Okay, God, my bad. I'm over myself. Thanks for the nudge. Love you.))

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Eastertide: Day 12

5/1/2014

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Courtesy of corpuschristibuffalo.org

Twenty-four years ago, I participated in my first May Day May-crowning. I had just received my first communion a month a few weeks prior, and I got to march up in a procession of other girls in puffy white dresses and waist-length veils so that a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary could be crowned with flowers.

Back then I didn't know anything about Beltane or other pre-Christian May Day celebrations. What I knew was that I got to wear my awesome dress and veil again, this time at Central Catholic, home of that particular BVM statue and the same place where my mother went to high school.

I remember another May Day in which I attended a May-crowning at a cloistered convent of nuns in my hometown, the same community in which Mother Angelica was formed. They had Eucharist to go with it, but as an elderly woman was warbling "Ave Maria" in the choir loft, I was sneaking Smarties into my mouth. My mom caught me and we didn't go up to receive communion. No fast, no feast!

May, mainly in Roman Catholic circles, is celebrated as the month of Mary. I'm no longer Roman Catholic, but I belong to an Episcopalian religious community named after St. Mary of the Annunciation, so honoring her is something I do a lot.

I could crown my community's chapel statue of Mary with flowers today, but if I did, I would want to crown my Benedictine siblings with flowers as well (female and male alike!). Mary shows the Christian world what it means to dare to say yes to bearing God into the world. Mary was pregnant with God's presence well after she gave birth to Jesus. She showed Christians how to hear God's call and allow ourselves, in our unique contexts, to bear God's presence in our very bodies. We bear God into the world in our brokenness as well as our wholeness, in our failings as well as our achievements. Every bit of us, every inch of us, every act of us, every memory of us has the potential to bear God's loving, merciful presence.

Whose God-bearing presence will I honor this May Day?

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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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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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Living Lent: Dwelling - Laetare Sunday

3/30/2014

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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?

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Living Lent: The Reed of God

3/25/2014

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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.

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Living Lent: Homily, Lent III

3/24/2014

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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.

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Living Lent: I don't feel like it

3/22/2014

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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.

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Spirit Whispers: Sister Thea

Spirit Whispers: Speak up

Spirit Whispers: Vulnerability

Spirit Whispers: A Pentecost-tide Theme

Easter: Day 49

Easter: Day 43

Easter: Day 42

Easter: Day 41

Easter: Day 39

Easter: Day 21

Easter: Day 18

Easter: Day 17

Eastertide: Day 13

Eastertide: Day 12

Living Lent: Powers of Mercy

Living Lent: Aurora Chapel

Living Lent: Dwelling - Laetare Sunday

Living Lent: The Reed of God

Living Lent: Homily, Lent III

Living Lent: I don't feel like it

Rev. M. Kate Allen

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