Violence and Destruction: on hard lessons

Oof. I don’t know whether you noticed, but last Sunday’s readings were tough.

First, Jeremiah 20:7-13:

Oh Lord, you have enticed me, and I was enticed;
You have overpowered me, and you have prevailed.
I have become a laughingstock all day long; everyone mocks me.
For whenever I speak, I must cry out, I must shout, “Violence and destruction!”
For the word of the Lord has become for me a reproach and a derision all day long.
If I say, “I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,”
Then within me there is something like a burning fire shut up in my bones;
I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot….

And so on.

(The Lectionary informs me that we had the option of reading Genesis 21:8-21 instead. You know, the one where Abraham abandons his child and the mother of his child to die in the wilderness.)

And for the Gospel, we got Matthew 10:24-39, which lays out the cost of discipleship in bleak and uncompromising terms:

…Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.

For I have come to set a man against his father,
and a daughter against her mother,
and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law;
and one’s foes will be members of one’s own household.

Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.

As always, it’s not all harshness and despair:

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.

And Jeremiah ends, however reluctantly, with praise and hope:

Sing to the LORD; praise the LORD! For he has delivered the life of the needy from the hands of evildoers.

For me, there’s always the temptation to skip right to these lines of consolation, passing by the swords and enmity, the fire and reproach. And I’m an avowed devotee of the hard pieces of the Bible. (I took a survey recently that asked me what three books of the Bible were the most meaningful for me. I listed Ecclesiastes, Esther, and 1 Corinthians.) But these passages are just so raw. Jeremiah spits and flails: at God, who forces him to speak words that sound like insanity, words of condemnation against the city and people he loves; at his “close friends,” who are the very ones watching and waiting for him to stumble; even at his own life. “Why did I come forth from the womb,” he cries at the close of this chapter, “to see toil and sorrow, and spend my days in shame?” For me, these are hauntingly personal words, echoing times too numerous to bear remembering when Jeremiah’s words could have been mine. They rip through the tranquil air of the sanctuary. They smell of hospitals and sting like wounds.

I happened to be the lector for that reading from Jeremiah yesterday. Listening to the words come out of my mouth, and minutes later listening to the words from Matthew rolling out from the priest, I found myself thinking about the lectionary–and about the place of scripture in the liturgy–in a new way. It actually struck me as being quite like the experience of talk therapy, in which part of the point is to provide a safe place to tell the impossibly hard stories. Let me explain.

Here we were, listening to Jeremiah tell me that being a prophet was like being raped by God, and to Jesus telling me that the cost of speaking God’s love would be slander, exile from my family, and violent death. But we heard these words, as always, within the context of safety that liturgy gives us: We come together in a place that we have deemed to be holy, in a time that we have set apart as sacred. We sing, bear candles, wear vestments, enfold ourselves in prayer. We have a time and a place appointed for the passages that trouble us as well as the passages that set us at ease. Within the safety of this ritual, the words are not made easy. We don’t get to skip ahead to the happy ending. But somehow, we are able to bear them.

Vigil

I tell people that the Easter Vigil on Holy Saturday night is my favorite service of the year. This year, a friend invites me to put my money where my mouth is: why don’t I join him for the Easter Vigil with the Society of Saint John the Evangelist, the Episcopal monastery a few blocks from my apartment. The service starts at 4:30 am Easter Sunday, but, he tells me, the cool kids start gathering before 4.

I set an alarm, but I am keyed up, and find myself awake a few minutes before it goes off. I crawl out of bed, trying not to wake my husband, slip into last week’s jeans and a thick red sweater. I wonder, sleepily, what I am trying to prove here. Does it even work to do Easter Vigil twice? At what point do I reach liturgical overkill? My friend is a master of the virtue which my father terms “cheerful persistence.” While I am drinking that first, necessary, silent cup of milky Irish Breakfast, my phone rings. I assure him that I’m still coming, am almost out the door.

Heavy socks, sneakers, scarf and mittens: it may be April, but this is still Massachusetts. As I tie my shoes clumsily in the dark, I find myself humming, internally, the chant from a few hours before: Come ye, take light from the light that is never overtaken by night; come glorify the Christ, risen from the dead.

 


 

It is, as promised/threatened, a long service. We start in the emptiest dead end of the night, with a brazier of great leaping flames in the monastery garden. On the other side of the wall, an occasional car is heard rushing down Memorial Drive. We light candles from the Paschal candle, and hold them in our seats, watching the wax dwindle and spill onto our fingers and the cardboard holder, as we meander through scripture. The Creation. The Flood. The Aqedah. Through Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones, into Zephaniah’s promise. Our second tapers are burning low when we stand to chant the baptismal covenant, claiming anew what seem to me to be some awfully stark and uncompromising statements about who God is and how the world works. To my delight, the celebrant dips what looks like a paintbrush into water taken from the baptismal font and walks around the sanctuary, flicking it over our heads. The drops hit me, hard, in the forehead, and trickle down into my eyes. I love this about my tradition, that it loves words and also matter: stories and fire and water and song.

Meanwhile, the black circles of stained glass high on the walls have slowly turned to glowing blue; outside, the sun is rising. Finally, finally, it is Easter. The lights come up, the candles on the altar are lit, and we sing and say and sing again “Alleluia,” and ring bells, louder and louder. We are back in the familiar terrain of the Eucharist, and I love this, too, that the impossibly strange can be so familiar, such a comfort. (And yet there’s always something new: this morning my chunk of bread breaks off and falls into the chalice of wine. I look up at the deacon in panicked hilarity. He tells me, kindly, not to worry, “just reach in and fish it out.” I return to my seat and giggle through the ravishing first verse of “Now the Green Blade Riseth.”)

Slowly, the world is returning to normal: normal church time (Sunday morning); normal hymns–familiar tunes, polished phrases, played just a bit too slowly for my poor breath control; and the normal gentle hubbub as the congregation makes its cheerful way outside. But for me, at least, that glimpsed mystery adheres to all things, to the sung dismissal and the sunshine outside and the churchy chit-chat with friends over coffee afterward.

 


 

There is not a useful way to be detached or ironic about Easter. Like many people I know, I often cultivate a dryness, a deprecation, about matters of faith, born of the fear of sentimentality, or of fear that it will turn out not to be real, or that people will think that I’m deluded, or of fear of something else. There are so many shapes fear takes, and always with the result that I disavow my own deepest life. Here, though, there is no place for this fear. I am laughing immoderately, and weeping, and possessed by that rich solemnity of joy, in turns and then all at once. What can I say? Christ is risen. For me, it’s not about believing it; what I believe is that I don’t have to believe it for it to be true. The resurrection is the shape of the world. It just is. And sometimes—as this morning—it is given to me to experience.

 

 

You, too, are the Body of Christ (part two)

So, in my previous post, I wrote about the dynamics at play when a sheltered Catholic (me) decides to attend a non-Catholic worship service.  In this post, I’ll share my reflections on the actual service I attended–a weekday low mass at an Episcopal church.  In general, I would say that the service itself was incredibly similar to a Catholic mass, the language was noticeably formal, and the people I met tried incredibly hard to be welcoming.

I had been thinking about going to a service at this particular church for a long time, and one night while walking back from the farmer’s market, I decided to make the time and just headed in, vegetables and all.  I was struck by how similar the church looked to the chapel at my undergrad–a little spare but beautifully decorated with stained glass windows and a little marble.  There were about 6 or 8 people there and a few more trickled in after the mass started.

One thing that I immediately noticed was the language of the mass.  The structure of liturgy of the Word then liturgy of the Eucharist and the call and response were very familiar–almost identical to a Catholic service.  But the language was so formal.  So many “thees” and “thous” and “speakest” and “hast”–I suddenly understood how very English the Episcopal Church is (or rather, how very Latinized the Roman Catholic Church is).  These language differences also made me think of the recent retranslations of the Roman Missal that caused so much uproar in the Catholic Church.  I, like a lot of Catholics, wasn’t a big fan of them when they first came around, for a number of reasons (some theological, some sentimental).  Though the retranslations intended to solve a number of errors and mistranslations, they have been widely criticized because of their clunky, formal style (“chalice” for “cup” and “enter under my roof” for “receive”, etc).  What is frustrating about these translations is that I work really hard to teach high school students that prayer (and liturgy) is simply a form of communication between God and humans, just like a conversation one would have with a friend.  When they finally believe me (it takes a lot of convincing) and see prayer that way, they inevitably are far less intimidated by prayer and are encouraged to treat their relationship with God like one of close friendship.  So here’s my problem: we don’t use words like “chalice” and “thee” and “hast” in conversation, least of all, conversation with our friends.  So can this kind of formal language create distance between the worshipper and God?  Does this kind of language adequately express how the average Catholic or Episcopalian would choose to converse with God?  I couldn’t help but feel alienated at this mass, like I felt alienated during the first few weeks of the Catholic retranslations.

Things really got interesting after the service.  I gathered my things to go and was greeted near the door by the pastor who celebrated the mass.  I chatted a little bit with him about what brought me there, my job, etc and he invited me downstairs where they were having fellowship, and the other parishioners there echoed the invitation.  I was a little hesitant but genuinely felt welcomed, so I went.

The fellowship downstairs was a lovely expression of Christian hospitality.  There was a simple meal of wine, cheese, crackers, fruit, etc.  Everyone brought something to share and everyone pitched in to set up the table.  We sat down to eat and discuss some Bible passages the pastor printed out to share.  I wasn’t sure what to expect but I was quite sure this had never happened at any Catholic parish I had ever visited.  (Talking with people you don’t know after Mass?  MADNESS.)

The Bible passage was a Psalm and it was wonderful to simply listen to what others thought of the passage.  Most of those present were older, so I was captivated by their listening to where they are on their faith journeys and how the Psalm could speak to them.  The conversation meandered, and eventually, we came onto the topic of the Catholic Church.  A few of those present appeared to be ex-Catholics and bore some pretty serious wounds from their histories with the Catholic Church.  Finally, the question came up as to why non-Catholics are not permitted to take the Eucharist in a Catholic Mass, i.e.: why belief is a prerequisite for partaking.  One woman spoke up and explained, “well, that just goes to show how differently we think about the Eucharist.  Catholics don’t believe in the power of the Eucharist; they think it’s just a symbol.  We think it’s effective and it makes us into the Body of Christ.”

At this point I should mention that I hadn’t been “outed” as Catholic yet.  Rather than serve as a mouthpiece for all things Catholic or violate what might be seen as a safe space to discuss painful experiences with Catholicism, I chose not to jump in and declare my Catholic identity.  However, Catholic educator alarm bells were ringing in my head at the characterization of the Eucharist as a symbol.  And ironically, this argument from effect is exactly what Catholic theology uses to explain precisely why non-Catholics cannot take communion–Catholic eucharistic theology also holds that because the unity among the churches of the Body of Christ does not exist yet, we cannot share the same Eucharist as if we did.  So the woman who spoke up really called Catholic theology to task in an important way, one that I hadn’t considered before: if we really believe the sacrament is not just a symbol, if we take serious its efficacy, can’t it make us into the Body of Christ?  Aren’t we saying that the Eucharist is just a symbol when it is shared only by those who are already united in faith?  Perhaps that is an overly simplified way to think about the effect of sacraments, but I couldn’t help but notice that from this Episcopalian perspective, Catholic theology looks like it doubts the efficacy of the Eucharist.

So I left that evening wondering–what will make us into the Body of Christ?  I don’t have a magic solution to that problem, but more than anything, I am glad that I went to this mass and glad I can continue to discuss theology with my non-Catholic brethren.  Such a rewarding experience is a great reminder for me to step outside the Catholic bubble more often.  It seems to me that sharing in the Eucharist, even with some restrictions, and trading ideas in theology is the best way to effect the Body of Christ here and now.

 

You, too, are the Body of Christ (part one)

I’m sort of ashamed to admit it, but I grew up in a pretty serious Catholic bubble.  I went to Catholic schools my whole life and grew up in a heavily Irish neighborhood.  My Irish/Polish and Mexican families are teeming with Catholics.  I don’t think I knew anyone who wasn’t Catholic until I went to high school.  In college, I met a number of Muslims and Jews, thanks to an explicitly inter-religious campus ministry, but my exposure to non-Catholic Christianity was quite limited.  Before I met Mary, I didn’t know the difference between the terms “Episcopal” and “Episcopalian.”  This is all by way of introducing the slightly embarrassing fact that before this year, I had never attended a non-Catholic Christian worship service.

This limited exposure wasn’t by design; I chose to go to Catholic schools, but I didn’t realize that by choosing Catholic education I was also choosing an environment  predominantly populated by Catholics and thus, not by other Christians.  I didn’t really think about how myopic I was until my sister decided to get to know our neighborhood and began conducting what she called “theological field trips,” where she went around to the Protestant* Christian churches in the area to visit at a different worship service each week.  As she rattled off the list of churches within a few miles of our house, I realized that I had passed those addresses a million times, but never noticed them because I never had a reason to go in.  I could name 15 or 20 Catholic churches in a few miles radius (like I said, really Irish neighborhood), but couldn’t list a single non-Catholic church.

As I’ve said, I am ashamed of this bubble. I’m ashamed because it means that by explicit choice or not, I have surrounded myself with Catholics and failed to experience and learn about the other half of the Christian church.  Such a Catholic dominated environment is dangerous primarily because it can lead a person to see the Catholic perspective as the normative Christian perspective.  It reminds me, in a way, of Peggy McIntosh’s analysis of white privilege where she lists “arranging to be in the company of people of  [one’s] own race” as the first example of white privilege.  I’m certainly not saying that ecumenical relationships are nearly as complicated or oppressive as race relationships/racism, but like it or not, there is a power dynamic at play if I can choose to surround myself with Catholic friends, Catholic schools, Catholic churches, and Catholic theological perspectives with ease and rarely encounter the “other” voice of the Protestant Christian.

Coming to understand this “theological privilege” is difficult and surprising for me because I am someone who tries to constantly analyze the privilege and power at work in the world.  Racial and gendered privilege are especially poignant issues to me and I would never accept such a ignorance or lack of exposure in any other realm of my life.  So I decided a few months ago to simply attend a worship service at a church of a different denomination.  A few blocks from my apartment is an Episcopal church so I attended a low mass at 6pm on a Tuesday night.  (Imagine that!  A mass at a convenient time for people who work! Ok.  End of snark.)   I tried my very best not to make it a “museum visit,” where I looked at the service from a detached, analytic lens, but to experience it as it was–a spiritual and religious service.  I’m happy to report that my overwhelming reaction was the feeling of being welcomed, by the pastor, the community, and the fellowship following the service.

I’ll  use another post to reflect on the actual service itself, as this post is growing mammoth, but let me end with this point: not to make excuses, but I think, unfortunately, this Catho-centric experience is really common for Catholics.  Perhaps its the size of the Church, the extensive education system, or the Catholic pride some feel, but there are some undeniable power dynamics at work in the Christian Church.  I hope that both institutionally and individually, Catholics have the self awareness to analyze these power dynamics, but also that our Protestant brethren participate actively in that discussion.

To end, I’ll note that the title of this post comes from a phrase that a cheeky Jesuit I know uses.  He says the masses for a particular retreat I lead, a retreat that is populated by mostly Protestants.  When they approach him in the communion line, arms crossed for a blessing, instead of the usual “Bless you in the name of the Father…” or “May Jesus live in your heart,” he says “You, too, are the Body of Christ,” with particular emphasis on the “too.”  When I realized what he was saying, and how refreshing that blessing might sound to a person deliberately excluded from sharing the Eucharist, I was struck by its spirit of inclusion and I hope to keep that strike that same spirit throughout my studies and theological exchanges with all Christians.

*For lack of a better one, I’ll use the term “Protestant” to describe the half of the Christian Church that isn’t Catholic, even though it defines those Christians in terms of the Catholic Church, and I do so with the understanding that this term lumps in about a billion Christians with a great diversity of beliefs into one word.  If others have a suggestion to describe what I’m getting at, I’d love to hear it.

How do you get Catholics to sing at Mass?

Ah, the age old question.  I wish I had a punchier answer.

But the reality is that this is an extremely difficult question to consider.  In my Campus Ministry department, we are working on some evaluations and strategic planning for next year.  We are grappling with difficult questions like, “How does our programming contribute to the faith development of our students?” and “What leadership skills do we develop in our retreat leaders?” and even more pressing, “How much of our budget can go towards pizza parties next year?”  But in all seriousness, one of the questions that always comes up is how to get students to really connect with the Mass.

Discussion of school Masses always gets strangely tense in a Catholic school.  The reality is that most Catholic schools have significant non-Catholic populations among the students and the staff, so not only do school Masses have to engage disengaged Catholics, but another section of the population would rather not be there all together.   No matter how many arguments a campus minister might make on behalf of school Masses (“You get an hour to sit and reflect by yourself!”  “At least you’re not in class!” “If you were at a Jewish school you’d have to go to Jewish services!”), there are always loud voices that argue we shouldn’t have Masses at all or that non-Catholics should be exempt from going.  Beyond that, the engagement and participation varies so much from person to person and Mass to Mass that campus ministers seize on anything that might maximize liturgical participation and joy.  Music is usually the first target.

As I participate in these discussions, I am reminded of a liturgy class I took in grad school.  One of the professor’s favorite lines was “the liturgy is not a plaything.”  He belittled the idea that the externalities of liturgy (ie: quality of the music, banners, programs, lighting, homilies, etc) were what mattered and disparaged the attitudes of liturgists who “played around” with these things.

But these discussions invariably lead to a kind of chicken-egg reasoning–“Do Catholics sing because they’re engaged in the Mass, or do Catholics become engaged by singing?”  Should campus ministers focus on making music and lighting better, or should they argue that what brings people to Mass is out of the control of the liturgist?

I am comforted, somewhat, by the fact that this is not a problem our school alone faces.  Liturgists at schools and parishes throughout the Church deal with this problem.  Whenever I hear someone evaluate a parish or a Mass, s/he always begins by describing the music.  Fussy music directors and stagnant music abound in the Catholic Church and everyone has an opinion about it.  So it is hard to be the person on the front line, making the decisions about what 650 people are going to be doing for an hour, knowing many will simply disengage.

And it is this train of thought that leads me right to the siren song of self importance.  I have to consciously remind myself that sacraments do not depend on me, that the Mass is not subject to what I think is important that year, or what I think students would enjoy singing.  And this is where I get stuck–believing I can’t do everything, but wanting to do something.  Knowing that music matters, but failing at fixing the entire problem.  I love to tinker and try to make what is good even better, and I have to remind myself that the Kingdom is beyond our efforts AND our vision, and that I am a worker, not a master builder. 

But I have to disagree with my former professor.  Externalities do matter, a lot.  Anyone who has ever planned a Mass and had the barrage of comments/opinions/nitpicking afterwards knows that.  And if the Mass is the front lines–the place where the most people encounter Catholicism in motion, I have to do everything in my power to plan a smooth and meaningful liturgy.  But that doesn’t mean I should start tinkering with everything.  Just maybe–solid songs that everyone can sing, a homily that is brief and to the point, and a Sign of Peace and Communion procedure that is smooth and effective.  Maybe liturgists can just focus on those things.

I really wish I had the answer to getting Catholics to sing.  Until someone figures it out, I’ll be poring over music books and planning for next week.