moving

No vans required. I am moving all my blogs (yes, there are a number of them…) to a new website: atheologianinthefamily.net. When I started this blog, I intended to focus all my blogging on the lectionary readings. Then I started another blog for more general musings in theology and ethics. 

But my theology and my life are of a piece. I have been inspired by the prologue to the rule of Benedict, in which he describes the monastery as ‘a school for the Lord’s service.’ For me, the family is that school. Home is where we learn to love, to give, to trust, and to think. It seems to me that the most difficult place to live out the Christian faith is at home, in the family, where the daily vexations and struggles are utterly relentless. I once wrote to a friend that if anyone else tried my patience as unremittingly as my children do, I would find some means of escape. So here I am, learning to love those who are at once the easiest and most difficult people to love: those who are closest to me.

And I continue to be a theologian. I’m not a part-time theologian and a part-time mother; I am a full-time theologian and full-time mother. I think theology while I am cooking and disciplining and reading stories; I think about parenting while I am reading theology and Scripture and writing about ‘academic’ topics. These things live together in my soul, and I am both of them at the same time, by training and by temperament. As a teenager, I was certain that my future vocation had to be meaningful, and that I would have to practice it while fulfilling my other life’s goal: being a mother.

So here I am, having found that when dreams come true, they don’t always look like we expected or hoped. Living the dream means making ends meet and coping with defiance and struggling to meet deadlines and staying up late preparing for teaching. Sunny days and happy times grace my daily life, and usually I can see that my life is uncommonly good. Except when I can’t, and then the whole project of living and parenting and writing seems like it proceeds in deepest darkness. Fortunately the light continues to shine, even when my eyes are shut tight against it.

I am grateful for all who have read this blog, and hope that you will enjoy the new one.

light and peace to you all.

Saturday of the second week in Eastertide

Now when evening came, His disciples went down to the sea, and after getting into a boat, they started to cross the sea to Capernaum. It had already become dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them. The sea began to be stirred up because a strong wind was blowing. Then, when they had rowed about three or four miles, they saw Jesus walking on the sea and drawing near to the boat; and they were frightened. But He said to them, "It is I; do not be afraid." So they were willing to receive Him into the boat, and immediately the boat was at the land to which they were going. (John 6:16-21 NASB)

                                                         * * *

We are so used to Jesus walking on the water; it's just one of those things that Jesus does. The disciples, though, must have been terrified. If I were out at sea, at night, in a strong wind, and I saw someone walking across the water--well, my first thought would be that I only thought I saw someone. People don't walk on water.  

Reading this passage this morning, I am struck by the implausibility of the event. No, not that I don't believe what it says; rather, I can well understand the disciples' fright. Not only that, but I think I would probably have ignored Jesus, telling myself that the figure walking towards the boat was just my imagination. And what I would miss! A miracle would pass me by unnoticed.

That makes me wonder how many miracles do pass me by these days. For God shows up implausibly, speaks almost imperceptibly, and works in unexpected places in not-the-usual way. I came across an email yesterday--an invitation to write, actually, dispelling a myth about Catholicism in 100 words, which is a pretty tall order. I hadn't read it carefully at the time. Now I wonder whether I missed something. Am I paying attention? Am I open to the possibility that God might be up to something new? Too often, I think, I look for God in the obvious places and forget that God is everywhere, always doing a new thing. 

I suppose there is a very good reason that the invitatory psalm (said at the beginning of the first office of the day) reminds us, 'if today, you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.' Not that we intend to ignore God; it just happens in the course of our daily life. God doesn't hit us over the head or wave a big yellow flag. We have to pay attention. Fortunately, even our attention to God is a gift of the Holy Spirit. If we want to hear God's voice, all we have to do is ask. 

Deo gratias.

Monday in Holy Week

He does not break the crushed reed,

nor quench the wavering flame.

                               -Isaiah 42

*           *        *

I am glad that something has gone haywire with my email account, at least for the moment. Because the email from Universalis with the daily Mass readings hasn't arrived, I visited the site for Lauds and the Mass readings. A few lines into the Benedictus, I thought, this is a strange translation of the Benedictus. And then I remembered why I like this "strange" translation so much:

Through the bottomless mercy of our God,

  one born on high will visit us

to give light to those who walk in darkness,

  who live in the shadow of death;

  to lead our feet in the path of peace.

The heart of our salvation is this, "the bottomless mercy of our God," whose coming among us we remember in a distinct way this week. God chose this bizarre way to save us, this way that seems so foolish and un-God-like. Gregory of Nyssa contended with those who thought the Incarnation and the Passion were wholly unworthy of God. But it shows God's infinite mercy spectacularly. It is that "bottomless mercy" that inspires the way of the Lord's coming to "visit us."

"He does not break the crushed reed/nor quench the wavering flame." Indeed not. Instead, God opts to be crushed, though Isaiah insists that "he will neither waver nor be crushed until true justice is established on the earth." So the One who cannot be crushed is crushed (Isaiah 53), and so true justice is established on the earth; and we are not crushed, but saved. 

And so all of our Lenten practice comes down to this, this week, in which we remember that all our endeavors to join the Lord in his suffering serve not to crush us, but to prepare us to receive him once again in his mercy--bottomless mercy!--at Easter. 

 Deo gratias.

Monday of the third week of Lent

“My father,” [Naaman’s servants] said, “if the prophet had told you to do something extraordinary, would you not have done it? All the more now, since he said to you, ‘Wash and be clean,’ should you do as he said.”  So Naaman went down, and plunged into the Jordan seven times at the word of the man of God. His flesh became again like the flesh of a little child, and he was clean.

A brother came to Scetis to visit Abba Moses and asked him "Father, give me a word." The old man said to him "Go, sit in your cell, and your cell will teach you everything."

*        *      *

It is the ordinary stuff of life that most escapes our sense of God’s presence: if it is an ordinary thing, God must not really be involved in it. The miraculous is extraordinary, we think. Miracles, like that which Naaman desired, look spectacular. The miracle he got, however, was no less miraculous for being ordinary.

Unfortunately, progress in Christian faith seems to require, as Naaman’s servants and the desert fathers and mothers knew, a steady diet of very ordinary disciplines. Ascetic superheroes get short schrift in the Sayings; Elisha sent Naaman to wash in the Jordan, and Abba Moses sent the brother to go and sit in his cell. Nothing fancy. 

Once upon a time, I used to try do do heroic things during Lent. Then I had children. Now I find that the most basic observance of Lent, according to what the Church teaches, can be a struggle. Is this it? I wonder. Is this really all I can do? And is that enough? 

We don't get to choose how we suffer for the sake of the gospel. We don't get to choose which things will form us in obedience and humility. If we did, well, it wouldn't be obedience, would it? So I drag myself through this Lent, hoping I can make a good confession between now and Holy Week, at least. Somewhere in the dragging, the apparently meaningless and pointless suffering of a very low mood, God is at work. All is now chaos and darkness, and the swirling, struggling feeling inside must be the Spirit, stirring up the water, making ready in some mysterious way for that great command: fiat lux!

And there will be light. There will be light. Not because of anything I do or do not do, but because the One who commands all our obedience is faithful and strong and true: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. 

In the meantime, I think I'll look again at the inside of my cell, and see what it has to teach me.

Monday of the sixth week in ordinary time

Genesis 4: 1-8 (RSV)
Now Adam knew Eve his wife, and she conceived and bore Cain, saying, “I have gotten[a] a man with the help of the Lord.” 2 And again, she bore his brother Abel. Now Abel was a keeper of sheep, and Cain a tiller of the ground. 3 In the course of time Cain brought to the Lord an offering of the fruit of the ground, 4 and Abel brought of the firstlings of his flock and of their fat portions. And the Lord had regard for Abel and his offering, 5 but for Cain and his offering he had no regard. So Cain was very angry, and his countenance fell. 6 The Lord said to Cain, “Why are you angry, and why has your countenance fallen? 7 If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is couching at the door; its desire is for you, but you must master it.”

8 Cain said to Abel his brother, “Let us go out to the field.”[b] And when they were in the field, Cain rose up against his brother Abel, and killed him.

*           *         *

This is going to be a bit wide of the mark, I fear--not really a commentary on the verses at hand. But the thing has been pressing one me for some time, and this passage from Genesis 4 (which continues for another 7 verses in the first reading for today) calls it immediately to mind. That is, we don't usually interpret this tragic episode in relation to what precedes it in Genesis 3. Yes, it's the beginning of sin, and it's amazing how quickly a little stolen fruit leads to fratricide. But it also--I believe--should be read in light of Genesis 3: 16. 

To the woman he said,
“I will greatly multiply your pain in childbearing;
    in pain you shall bring forth children,
yet your desire shall be for your husband,
    and he shall rule over you.”

My thinking about this one verse began several years ago on Christmas Eve. I was listening to the Advent Lessons & Carols service broadcast from King's College, Cambridge, and noticed that in the reading of Genesis 3, this verse was omitted. Maybe it was just a mistake on the part of the reader, though I doubt it. At the time, I wondered. Surely it can't have been left out because it is Not Nice. Maybe it was something to do with the institution of patriarchy--maybe we don't want to think about the imbalance of power that generally obtains in relationships between men and women (which seems to have been confirmed over the weekend, if what I've heard about the newly-released film is true). 

Whatever the reason for the elision of verse 16 that year, I am glad for it. Although I never did come up with a satisfactory guess about the rationale for leaving it out, I did begin to think in a new way about the first part of the curse--the business about childbearing. Yes, it hurts. I can testify to that, having had four children (even had one without the epidural). But I don't think that's what this part of the verse is about. In the first place, the emotional pain of  pregnancy loss seems to me to be greater than the physical pain of labor. And then there are the things that go wrong: congenital defects of the heart or other organs, genetic disorders, infant deaths. About pregnancy loss or the death of an infant, I have no first-hand experience. But I know what it's like to have something big go wrong--or, better, to have something very small go awry (one little extra chromosome) with global effects. The pain of childbearing is increased in a fallen world: things go wrong. 

Not for a few years did I realize (probably only as my children grew) that there was still more pain to be had in the bearing of children. Not only do they give us pain as they come into the world, they continue to cause pain (as well as joy, of course) as they grow and change. Not all of the heartbreak involved in raising children is quite as dramatic as the story of Cain and Abel. But there it is. Genesis doesn't say much about how Eve's birth experience is. We do,  however, hear about this tragedy. Having two sons myself, I can't imagine anything much worse than one of them murdering the other in cold blood. The pain of childbearing is increased in a fallen world: we go wrong, and badly wrong. 

For a while, I wanted to write a book about the pain of childbearing, broadened to include stories of pregnancy loss and more. The trouble was that there wasn't really an "up" side to it. I'm looking again at a verse that's not particularly encouraging to begin with, and saying, but really, it's much worse than that. Hardly the makings of a best-seller, there. 

As always, though, there is much more to it than this thin slice of the story tells us. There are small hints in Genesis 3 and 4 that God will make it right: "the Lord God made for Adam and for his wife garments of skin, and he clothed them" (3: 21). And Eve has another son, Seth, whom she regards as being given to her by God (4: 25), and the writer notes that "At that time [people] began to call on the name of the Lord" (4:26).  In the midst of the pain, it is difficult to see how even this (whatever particular this is so vexing or agonizing) cannot fall outside of the delightful arrangement that is the work of the Wisdom of God (Wisdom 8: 1). Yet there is nothing, not even this terrible outworking of the curse, that can escape the truth: "in Him all things hold together." All things. Most days I fall very short of believing that. But that doesn't mean it isn't true. 

Deo gratias.

Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time

"he preached as one with authority..."

.        .        .

The homily this morning was short (perfectly so, really--no time for the congregation to lose the thread) that I nearly missed it as I quieted the children. Fortunately, I managed to look up and listen just enough to catch the drift of it. Msgr Michael Heinz never said 'Jesus changes everything,' exactly, but that's a crucial piece of what I came away with this morning. The thing about Jesus's astonishing authority is that he not only says things, but what he says, happens. And so we can trust his word.

Good. Really good. Not just good to hear, but thought-provoking now, as I remember the bits of it I caught while attending to the kids. I think, yes, of course.  Jesus tells the storm to be still, and it obeys him. And Jesus is the Word, which goes forth (in Isaiah 55) and does not return empty, but accomplishes the purpose for which God sent Him. In the chances and changes of this life--and there are many for us, just now--one thing is sure: Jesus.

Makes it easier to mean "thy will be done," that's for certain. Thanks, Msgr Heinz.

Second Sunday in Ordinary Time

The body is for the Lord, and the Lord is for the body.
   God, who raised the Lord from the dead, will by his power raise us too.
                                                                              1 Corinthians 6

*        *        *

I learned something new today about the Mass readings. Puzzled by the inclusion of the passage from 1 Corinthians 6, sandwiched between the call of Samuel and the call of Peter, I asked my husband how he thought the readings fit together. "That's easy," he said, somewhat surprisingly. Apparently the New Testament readings in ordinary time are read continuously, without regard for the Old Testament and Gospel readings for the day.

Well. That was a little bit disappointing, I confess. Samuel's response to the Lord, when Eli finally cottons on to what's happening, struck me this morning at Mass. How often do I begin my day with those words? "Speak, Lord; your servant is listening." Probably not ever, if I am really honest. But how differently my days might go, were I to begin each one with the intention to keep my ears open for the Lord's word! When I looked at the readings this afternoon, to put that call into the context of the other set passages, I was intrigued by the 1 Corinthians reading. What on earth has this discussion of fornication and the body and Lord with the description of Samuel's call or Peter's? I'd asked the question somewhat rhetorically, musing already about the possible connections.

I wonder whether the language about us being members of the body of Christ, and the emphasis on our body as the temple of the Holy Spirit, doesn't correspond nicely to the theme of calling. For of course the concept of vocation--to married life, for example, or to the priesthood--involves the body quite directly. Marriage and family life require physical presence, physical attentiveness, the giving of the body over to one's spouse. Childbearing and nursing remind us even more pointedly of the bodily nature of family life. About priesthood--well, I know about childbearing from the inside, and priesthood seems to me to involve care for others as much as motherhood, but in a way so different I can't even begin to get my head around it.

God calls us, and when God calls us, we answer with body and soul: "Speak Lord; your servant is listening." Or, at least, I hope to from now on.
 

Wednesday of the 31st week in ordinary time

The Lord is my light and my help;
  whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
  before whom should I shrink?

I am sure I shall see the Lord's goodness
  in the land of the living.
Hope in him; hold firm and take heart!
  Hope in the Lord!
                                      Ps 27 [26]

*          *         *

What if the darkness, the enemy, is not on the outside? I don't have enemies. Nobody wants to hurt me; I don't have anything to fear. Not really.

Probably this is the case for lots of us. I have been reading Henri Nouwen on spiritual formation, and have just finished a section on fear, and the sorts of things we fear. Loneliness, failure, and poverty seem to top the list. Mental illness, though, might figure in somewhere. Depression and dementia threaten us from the inside, as it were, robbing us not of possessions but of our very selves. About dementia, I know little. About depression, I know way more than I want to. I know how depression eats away at hope and cripples love.

Knowing that "I shall see the Lord's goodness in the land of the living" somehow fails to lift the darkness and gloom. As surely as I know it, and as firmly as I believe it, making the step from knowledge to hope is well nigh impossible. It is as though there is a black hole where joy and peace ought to reside, swallowing every tiny ray of light that comes near it. I can stand outside myself and see that the sun is shining, that I have everything I need, that I am loved by God and by my family. All these things ought to lift the darkness. But no: the blackness eats up all the comfort that this knowledge ought to provide.

The darkness comes from the inside and works its way out--in impatience and sullen silence, in not-caring and not-doing. I can see it seeping through the cracks, however much I would prefer to keep it to myself. I ask my soul, "why are you downcast?" and "why so disquieted within me?" I say, "Hope in God, for again I shall praise him!" I know it to be true, however little consolation it brings.

I dwell sometimes in darkness. That is just the way it is. Fortunately I have been up and down enough that at the bottom I can still just remember that it isn't always like this. For that, and for the psalms, which have been my truest companions since I was a teenager (somehow reminding me that darkness is not my only companion), I am grateful. Because of the psalms, the thought comes unbidden (or is that the Holy Spirit?): "the darkness is as light to thee."

So I wait, brooding, for the 'fiat lux' and for the dawn.

Deo gratias.

Thursday of the 23rd week in ordinary time

But take care that this liberty of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak. For if someone sees you, who have knowledge, dining in an idol's temple, will not his conscience, if he is weak, be strengthened to eat things sacrificed to idols? For through your knowledge he who is weak is ruined, the brother for whose sake Christ died. And so, by sinning against the brethren and wounding their conscience when it is weak, you sin against Christ. (1 Corinthians 8:9-12 NASB)

 

For a long time I have wanted to add to the preferential option for the poor a similar divine concern for the broken-hearted. "The Lord is near to the broken hearted, and saves all those who are crushed in spirit," writes the psalmist. And likewise also the weary (Isaiah 40:31 and Matthew 11:28, for example), and children, and outcasts... So in Paul's letter to the Corinthians today, I was drawn to the emphasis on the weaker brothers and sisters in Christ. These are (like us) those for whom Christ died. Not only that, but these brothers and sisters are "the least" to which Christ refers and with whom he identifies: whatever we do them, we do to Christ himself.

Passages like this always call to my mind people with intellectual disabilities. This is in part because I have a daughter with Down Syndrome, and I realized long ago that I was no closer to God because I knew some theology that she doesn't. And it is in part because of the general disregard for people with such disabilities in contemporary culture. Last month, Richard Dawkins suggested that it is immoral to allow a baby with Down Syndrome to be born. (This infuriates and saddens me, but I won't dwell on it here.) What we do to those with intellectual disabilities--who might very well fall into the category of "lacking knowledge" in Paul's letter--we do to Christ himself.

The whole orientation of our Christian practice ought to favor the weak, the downtrodden, the poor, the refugee, the mentally disabled--those for who Christ died. I know I often forget that--I think about writing my books and get caught up in the stresses and strains of my daily life. I forget that in my daughter, in my children, in all those around me who most need Christ's care, strength, and protection, I have not just those for whom Christ died, but Christ himself.

Deo gratias.

 

Corpus Christi

Not exactly a reflection on the Mass reading today, but perhaps still of interest: thoughts on the sacrament and Christian life. It doesn't answer any questions about what Jesus means when he says he is the bread of heaven; hopefully you've heard a good homily about that!

Thursday of the tenth week in ordinary time

Elijah said to Ahab, 'Go back, eat and drink; for I hear the sound of rain.' While Ahab went back...Elijah climbed to the top of Carmel and bowed down to the earth, putting his face between his knees. 'Now go up', he told his servant, 'and look out to the sea.' He went up and looked. 'There is nothing at all' he said. 'Go back seven times' Elijah said. The seventh time, the servant said, 'Now there is a cloud, small as a man's hand, rising from the sea.'
                                                                                                  1 Kings 18: 41-44

.  .  .

I imagine I am not the first person to notice that Elijah says he hears the sound of rain long before the cloud appears over the horizon. Does he say he hears it because he's confident that it will come? Or does he have super-hearing? (I admit I am thinking of the bionic woman, which dates me.)

My question is really whether Elijah hears the sound of rain by faith. I can't think of another way to read it--though that may just be a failure of my imagination. The failure is easily explained: about to embark on a major transition (moving back to the US for a year), I yearn for some prophetic reasurrance that the promised 'rain' will come. The psalm set for today (at least the passage to be read in Mass) ends: 'The hills are girded with joy.' I want to know that the rain will come, that the hills (not that I expect to see many hills roundabout us in Indiana) will be 'girded with joy.'

There is a kind of blankness ahead, bare hills and sky color of diffuse light, as it is well before dawn. I suppose this is what the promise looks like: a clean white page of time, waiting for its 'potentate' to fill it with his brightness and colors. And so I must wait, too: go back and eat and drink, and wait for the rain to fall.

Easter Saturday

Give thanks to the Lord,
 for he is good,
for his love has no end.

The Lord's right hand
 has triumphed;
his right hand raised me up.
I shall not die,
 I shall live
and recount his deeds.
                           Psalm 117

.       .      .

Some days this is the heart's cry: God has triumphed, and the soul rejoices. The evidence of God's goodness is obvious and close at hand. Even the senses seem to attest to God's goodness, as the psalmist elsewhere exclaims, 'Taste and see that the Lord is good!'

And then there are those other days. On those days, the objective truth of God's goodness remains. It is, after all, Easter week. The triumph of the Lord is--or should be--obvious and close. But, though even the heart knows the truth of God's victory and the extent of God's goodness, the joy and gladness do not seem to follow.

On those latter days--I admit that today is one of those--I am grateful for liturgical seasons and appointed feast days. Holy days of obligation are a gift to me, and the psalms set for Mass and for the daily office make way for me to give thanks to the God of heaven, the One who raised Christ Jesus from the dead.

I am not blessed with a constant experience of the joy of my salvation. Would that I were, that the happy praise of the Lord were always on my lips and in my heart. But I am low some days, downright glum. But that doesn't change anything about who God is, or how right and just it is to praise the Lord 'always and everywhere.' Tomorrow, I will join the rest of the congregation in the alleluias and amens, and happily so: for the company of the faithful supports me (however little they may be aware of it) simply by offering that praise and inviting me to join in. By their presence, they testify to the truth I know, that the Lord has called us all out of darkness and into his marvellous light.

For that, I am glad--truly and deeply glad--indeed.

Deo gratias.

Good Friday

Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows;

yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted.

                          (Isaiah 53: 4)

...my kingship is not from this world.

                           (John 18.36)

Abba Hyperichus said, "The watchful monk works night and day to pray continually: but if his heart is broken and lets tears flow, that calls God down from heaven to have mercy."

*            *           *

That's what today is about: he has "carried our sorrows."  On the cross, Jesus takes on all the sorrows of the fallen creation, of fallen human creatures. And Mark's gospel records Jesus' call from the cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" So cries the broken heart for the God who alone can heal. But Jesus' broken heart calls God down from heaven to have mercy on us all. His heart is the one heart that can break for the whole world and so heal the whole world.

When we are broken hearted over our own sins, when we feel that grief, we participate in Jesus' grief on the cross: he took our sorrows, our grief, and now we only experience it properly as we participate in him. 

Tuesday of Holy Week

Though I thought that I had toiled in vain, and for nothing, uselessly, spent my strength,

Yet my reward is with the Lord: my recompense is with my God…

I will make you a light to the nations,

that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.

                                                                        Isaiah 49: 3-6

A hermit was asked by a brother, “How do I find God? With fasts or labour, or vigils, or works of mercy?” He replied, “ you will find him in all those, and lso in discretion. I tell you many have been very stern with their bodies,  but have gained nother by it because they did it without discretion. Even if our mouths stink from fasting, and we have learnt all the Scriptures, and memorized the whole psalter, we may still lack what God wants, humility and love.”

                                                                        (DF 111)

.                .               .

Isn’t it the measure of humility to think we have not achieved anything? Isaiah reflects on precisely this predicament: ‘I thought that I had toiled in vain’; that all was for nought. But it is in the acknowledgement that all he can do is work ‘uselessly’ that he finds the truth: recompence is with God. Because it is God’s will that God’s salvation reach the ends of the earth, God makes something of out otherwise useless toil. So, as the hermit says, all the fasting and prayer avail us nothing without the marks of true participation in the Spirit—humility and love. And what a good and timely word for this, the last week in Lent. We have fasted and abstained, we have spent time in Scripture and in prayer, we have done works of mercy. But what do we gain by it all? Nothing, so long as we expect the work to get us somewhere. The object of all the Lenten discipline we choose to bear is nothing more or less than the deepening of humility and the widening of our love.

Humility and love should point us towards the cross, where Christ’s humility is displayed in the utmost submission, and his love is extended even in his suffering: ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ Humility and love: forgiving before the repentance, before the acknowledgement of sin. Jesus shows us pure forgiveness, which is the way of humility and love. And so I find myself coming around again to forgiveness, although it appears nowhere in the lectionary readings for today; it is nevertheless what the Lenten season is all about: humility and love.