Photo by jameschew, via Flickr

Anne Rice once wrote that Christians are either Christmas Christians or Easter Christians. In other words, they find their faith centered around Incarnation and gift, or around suffering and redemption.

But I realized something on Christmas Eve, in between the annual welling of tears during Adeste Fidelis and nursing a baby in the sacristy throughout the Liturgy of the Word. She’s not entirely right; she missed a category. I am an ordinary time Christian.

I love both Advent/Christmas and Lent/Easter. These central events of Christianity are packed with profound beauty and insight. I know the themes and connection points backward and forward. I tear up whenever I write about them, awestruck by the beauty of what I’m putting into words. But the reality is that on the days themselves, I hardly ever feel the profundity and the awe.

The high feast days can’t hold the weight of the expectations placed upon them. They’re supposed to be idyllic family times, lots of anticipation and the thrill of gifts (at Christmas) and egg hunts and candy (at Easter). On top of that, they’re supposed to move us to renewal of spiritual commitment.

But no one day can do all that–at least, not for me. Maybe occasionally, maybe by chance, maybe for a moment. Perhaps this is because I’m a choir director, and my job on those occasions is to be on top of the minutiae: making sure everyone starts and stays together, making sure the sound is properly balanced and adjusting microphone placement and levels if it isn’t, communicating corrections to members, making sure we lengthen or curtail the music to fit the ritual at hand. If I was sitting in a pew, or even following someone else’s lead, I wouldn’t have so much of my mind occupied by busy work, and perhaps I’d be a bit more present to the moment.

For me, faith and renewal belong to prosaic times. Faith ignites and inspires when glimpses of the divine pop up within the boring routine of daily life–sometimes in a church building, but more often outside it, when what I hear on Sundays and high feasts illuminates my humdrum everyday. My “yay God” moments come on ordinary days, during ordinary tasks involving ordinary externals. Spiritual insight flames most clearly when the profound truths we celebrate on Christmas and Easter come together to show me something about an unremarkable Tuesday morning, something I wouldn’t have seen otherwise.

And it occurs to me that this is “right and just,” to quote the new translation. Because we don’t live in the high seasons–we live in an ordinary world, and if faith is to have any chance of changing us, and through us, the world, it has to live there too. It has to surround our ordinary moments, whisper holiness into them, fill them up with purpose and meaning. More importantly, it has to direct our actions and thoughts–not just on Sunday, but every day. It has to become who we are, inseparable from what we think and do.

I am an Ordinary Time Christian. No longer will I feel inadequate or deprived when the high feasts don’t live up to the spiritual expectations placed upon them. Because God is everywhere at all times, and I will seek him where he is to be found.

Shared with Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday at Michellederusha.com

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On Saturday night I was singing Julianna through hair washing (“I’ve got that joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart!”) when Alex turned to me and launched into an unfinished conversation from the day before. “Mommy, we don’t sing that Devil verse at school because it would be wrong.”

I paused in the middle of “If the Devil doesn’t like it he can sit on a tack—ouch!” (Julianna’s reward verse for getting through the rest of the torture. It makes her giggle.) “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we can’t sing that at church!” He looked appalled by the very thought. Somewhere deep in my gut, I felt a disturbing flutter. “Well,” I said, “I don’t know that I ever sang it at church when I was little, either. But Alex, church isn’t supposed to be all gloom and doom.”

He looked at me like I was completely nuts. “It’s supposed to be…” He couldn’t find the word, but I knew what he was searching for.

BORING.

IRRELEVANT.

I wasn’t about to fill those words in for him.

There are so many ways to skew how we approach God. An acquaintance of mine once told me, “A person’s faith ought to be a comfort to them, not a source of misery.” The point being that faith should never require suffering or challenge you to do anything you don’t want to do. There’s a strong movement in the world in which church is entertainment—I heard recently of a church where the cross isn’t even used, because it might “make people uncomfortable, and we want all to be welcome.”

On the other hand, there is a strong reaction to all this which focuses myopically on formality, on sacredness—to the point where it’s viewed as disrespectful at least, and perhaps sacrilegious, to crack a smile, to play an upbeat song, or to speak above a whisper.

Believing that God lies squarely in the middle on this topic as almost every other, I find myself continually frustrated. But to see the dawning of POV #2 in my own child brings me to a whole new level of soul disturbance. God created us as people who love laughter and companionship. And since we’re created in God’s image, doesn’t that say something pretty important about God?

At first, casting about for explanation, my mind settled on the strict regimen of behavior expected at parochial school. But as Alex stood beside me during Mass yesterday, his nose pressed to the shiny lacquer of the piano his daddy was playing, looking at reflections of his face and the ceiling in its depths—and more importantly, as we tried to scold him into paying attention—I realized that we bear a large portion of the blame, too.

Not so long ago, I read somewhere that when we’re trying to make the liturgy “relevant” for our young people, the opposite of boring is not entertaining, but meaningful. That’s what I want for my children. Alex shows some really wonderful early signs of reaching that goal—he’s trying to listen to Paul’s brutally convoluted rhetoric and make sense of it, and when he doesn’t (which is every week, of course), he tugs on my arm and says plaintively, “I don’t understand.” I love that about him.

But I think as his parents, we have a huge role in this too. Guidance and formation might happen without us…but it’s not very likely.

“Alex,” I said, “you know, Jesus didn’t walk around being all solemn all the time. He loved to laugh and tell jokes. Jesus was a human being, too.”

Two little ones screamed for attention then, and we never finished the conversation. But maybe that’s okay. Because this isn’t really a conversation that ever gets “finished,” is it?

Alex has been waiting for the chance to jump in the leaves. Julianna has been waiting for the chance to plunge through them and kick them up, just like her mommy loves to do in the fall. Nicholas is ready to follow his siblings’ lead, wherever it takes him.

The sun shines warm, tempered by the chill of a wind waiting to steal the warmth as evening draws near. The smell drifts upward as I crouch close to the ground with the camera.

Time to dig small hands in the leaves, to crinkle them beneath fingernails, and fling them skyward.

Yay God, indeed.

Shared with Wordful Wednesday at Angie’s Seven Clown Circus.

(Mt. 25)

“Much will be required of the person entrusted with much, and still more will be demanded of the person entrusted with more.”

(Lk. 12:48)

Not long ago, I came across a blog post that asked, “How big is your plate?” She was reflecting on busyness and how we prioritize our commitments. How to set limits, to say enough is enough, I can’t do any more. I thought of my mother telling me, “You can do many ministries consecutively, but not necessarily concurrently.”

Among people of faith, there’s a strong predisposition to encourage women to focus on the vocation, or ministry, of motherhood, and to lay the rest of it aside until that commitment is largely fulfilled. But as I was pondering last week, if we’re given gifts—talents (how interesting it is that the word should be translated that way!)—are we not meant to use them all? And if we simply ignore them for a couple of decades, aren’t we, in effect, burying them?

That is the question each one of us faces. Where do we draw the line between giving back/paying forward the gifts we have been given, and thinking the world can’t possibly get by without our particular charism? One is stewardship; the other is pride. And it’s really easy to stray across the line.

A few years ago I probably would have built a big soapbox and tried to tell the world how to tell the difference. But like another blog friend, the more I learn about God, the less certain I am of anything except that absolute certainty is more likely to be a harbinger of pride than stewardship. I can’t claim to know where anyone else’s line is drawn. I can only do my utmost to stay on the right side of it in my own life…and to correct course when it becomes clear I’ve wandered into the path of oncoming traffic.

Sometimes, you need inspiration. Or motivation.

Other times, you need a nice long chat with a friend. Sometimes, you need an hour or two in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to distract you from the quiet your soul is crying out for. Sometimes, you need to take a break, no matter how worthwhile the focus of your efforts.

Sometimes, you just need a nap.

Sometimes, you don’t know what you need. You just know something’s off. Out of sync. You feel restless. Discontented. You know the stock answer: “Our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” But somehow that doesn’t really seem like an answer, but a question. Because that quote implies that you’re neglecting your duty to look for God. But after all, if you already seek to structure your life according to what God is asking of you, for how to use the gifts you’ve been given wisely…well, then, you’re already looking for God, aren’t you? You just have gotten out of sync with Him. And having it pointed out really doesn’t help.

Sometimes you have to beat the demon out on your own. But other times, God steps in, and when you arrive home from an outing with little ones, you find emails in your inbox providing direction and just enough inspiration to jar the loose gears back into place. And you begin anew.

Photo by wenzday01 via Flickr

At 9:55 a.m. on a Sunday morning, we wrestled one unwilling girl and two boys along for the ride up the mauve-carpeted aisle to the empty front pew beside the music area. Christian put a protesting Julianna at the end by the teen ensemble, where she could have maximum exposure to the music. The community hummed around us as the kids unpacked the church books. Alex shoved The Clown of God into my hand, and even though I hate that book, even though we really don’t read to the kids anymore at church, I obliged, since there were still five minutes before Mass started.

When the guitar began—a very distinct strum pattern—my ears perked up. I knew it, but I couldn’t place it until the teens began singing: Open the eyes of my heart, Lord…

I closed the book, but the music peeled off into silence; they were only checking sound. It was Communion before the song resurfaced, and the arrangement of the pew had shifted; after wrestling Julianna up to Communion, she sat at my end of the row. I closed my eyes and tried to internalize the prayer.

Open the eyes of my heart, Lord, open the eyes of my heart. I want to see you. I want to see you.

It took all of three seconds to realize that this is a very dangerous prayer. Dangerous, because to be open to God is to see things that force us to rethink our most cherished convictions. Any philosophy, any belief, any certainty—however pure and noble and holy—can become an idol, fixed in stone and incapable of responding to a reality that is in constant motion. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong, it just means that it’s become self-serving instead of God-centered. The hallmark of spiritual growth is uncertainty, a painful awareness of how much we don’t know, and a longing, a questing, to understand more, to embrace the unknowing.

I’m going through one of those soul-stretching times right now, largely off the radar of this blog, because the subjects are too personal. Insights into the nature of oneself never come singly; they always pile one atop the next until I’m sure the tower must come tumbling down into a pile of rubble, burying me in the collapse.

Of course, it never does. I’m always grateful for soul-stretching…after it’s done. In the middle of it, not so much. It’s more like a scrabble for traction at the edge of a cliff. But, like seeking a fourth pregnancy, even though large parts of my mind cried out, “Enough!”, being open to God is a conscious choice to look big picture, to focus long-term instead of allowing myself to be overwhelmed by the difficulty of the present.

It would be easier to build my beliefs and philosophies around me. But I know that doing so will only trap me inside, until I discover, too late, that God is all around, and I’m on the wrong side of the wall to meet Him. And so I won’t close the door on further stretching. I’ll keep praying that dangerous prayer. I’ll keep questioning, and seeking, and living with uncertainty, in the hopes that as I stumble along, a power greater than me will keep me from hurtling into the abyss to either side.

This is the Eucharistic chapel at our local Newman Center. It sits outside the church proper, completely walled off, with a door that remains closed at all times, and many would say that for those reasons, it was designed “wrong.” And yet when I think of holy spaces—places where I find God, where His presence wraps around me and fills me up, this place is at the top of the list.

There are other holy spaces in my world, places where the silence catches my breath and lifts the pressure from my mind—my parents’ farm, the top of a mountain in Rocky Mountain National Park, where we ate lunch one day on vacation. But these are outdoors. In all the world, the only manmade place that has ever helped me feel the presence of God this clearly is this small room.

To come here to pray requires effort. I must traverse miles of busy four-lane road past by stoplights, businesses, schools, even Planned Parenthood. Twist around old, beat-up apartment houses, into the shadow of towering parking structures. There’s virtually no free parking, so I even have to plan the time of day. And perhaps that effort prepares my heart, lays it open to be touched.

In this place, I have knelt before the simple wooden Tabernacle, my soul raw with anxiety, racked by questions and doubts too frightening to share with anyone but God. I have leaned my head against rough stone walls that catch the ends of my hair, seeking stillness of mind to hear the still small voice of the Lord. I knelt here on my wedding day.

In this place, the light filters through stained glass and a telescoped skylight and becomes a tangible thing, the presence of God, the touch of the Holy Spirit. You can’t touch it, but you can feel it.

May God bless the hands that built this space, the minds that designed it, and all those who retreat here to find peace and understanding.

Image by BFS Man via Flickr

If you knew this was your last day on earth, what would you do today?

Usually when people ask this question, they’re trying to get us to think about our lives differently, to rearrange our priorities properly. It’s a rhetorical device used to make the point that a lot of what we spend our time doing isn’t really all that important.

So what would I do, if today was the end of all things? Well, I’d do a lot of things. I’d keep the kids home from school. Leave the computer off (because obviously the novel’s not gonna get finished anyway). Go out in the middle of nowhere and sit for a couple of hours. Take the whole family out for a 5-star dinner and eat whatever I want, as much as I want.

I can come up with quite a few ways to spend my last day on Earth. You know what all of them have in common? They’re all things you can’t do day after day. What I just described is not sustainable. You have to live real life.

The fact is, we’re never going to know when the end of all things is approaching. People may try to nail down an exact date, like Harold Camping, or they may say, “We may not know exactly when, but everything predicted in the Bible is coming true: wars, natural disasters…so I know it’s coming soon!” The trouble is, wars and natural disasters have always been with us and will always be with us, whether we like it or not. I don’t believe we’re in the end times any more now than they were in 1201 A.D., when an earthquake killed over a million people in Egypt and Syria.

I know none of you need convincing on this topic. I’m only bringing it up to point out that we can’t live “like it’s the last day on Earth”—unless we rethink what that means. We can’t spend our savings, ignore our health in the interest of enjoying the bounty of the world. We can’t stop working and paying the bills in the interest of spending quality time with our families. All we can do is live our everyday lives in the best way we know how: juggling responsibility and relaxation, family and work, and striving to discern the path of righteousness through petty squabbles and earth-shattering decisions. And if we’re doing that, then why worry about when the end is coming? We’re already doing everything we can to be ready.

Image via Wikipedia

I’ve been singing a lot of Carey Landry’s songs to Julianna lately. God hasn’t yet invented the kid who doesn’t like “and if the Devil doesn’t like it, he can sit on a tack—ouch!” But I save that for the tasks she really hates (like having her hair brushed) because the anticipation of that verse keeps her happy until we get done. It’s a reward for getting through her “chores.”

The other song I sing to her is “Oh how I love Jesus.”

Julianna, do you love Jesus?
Oh yes, I love Jesus.
Do you really love Jesus?
Yes, I really love Jesus!
Tell us why you love Jesus.
This is why I love Jesus: because he first loved me.
Oh, how I love Jesus
Oh, how I love Jesus
Oh, how I love Jesus
Because he first loved me.

I was tagged in a meme last week, entitled “five reasons why I love Jesus.” And it brought something front and center that I haven’t really wanted to look at in the light of day.

I really don’t connect with Jesus.

I believe in God; I whisper to the Spirit or to the triune deity throughout the day; I know the importance of Christ’s sacrifice, and Holy Week is the center of the whole year (although this year, because we’re not involved in Triduum liturgies, I feel rather adrift and disconnected). But when people say “I love Jesus,” my insides tense up. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to fundamentalism, the way fundamentalists probably react when Catholics talk about the Eucharist. I know I’m supposed to love Jesus and connect with him as an individual, one like me; that was the purpose of God made man, after all. But I never have been able to do it.

This has never bothered me. Until recently.

Last week, when I was driving home from the writing conference, I listened to a CD of a religious talk my grandmother had sent with me. In the course of listening to these four women speak about their love for Jesus, for Mary, I recognized something lacking in myself. For the first time, I began to long to feel that connection.

I think my problem is that the Jesus of the Bible is underdeveloped as a character. He says a lot of things, and they reveal him to be both charismatic and somebody that you probably longed to smack, because he was so contrary and difficult. What you don’t know is what he felt, how his psyche changed over the course of the years. With a person, you can get some of that from body language. In a book, you have to get it from the writing. And it’s just not there.

I can only extrapolate about Jesus; I can only project myself on him. And that is a recipe for trouble, in my not-so-humble opinion. That’s where people start making God over in their own image, and thinking they’re called to be hateful at military funerals.

There are characters in literature—let’s take the obvious bloggers’ example: Elizabeth Bennet. Everybody identifies with her. Everybody feels like they’d recognize her if she entered the room. In other words, we know her. But how do you get to know somebody who picks fights with people, confuses his friends, refuses to answer their questions straight, and you never, ever, EVER see what he’s thinking?

What am I missing? I try to love Jesus in the people around me, by caring for the least of these in whatever way I can. Is that, really, all it boils down to? Or do others who talk about how they love Jesus have some spiritual direct line to Heaven that I’m missing? And if so, how do I hook into it?

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I came across this exchange of emails recorded in my Journal when I was looking back at them while writing my infertility story a few weeks ago. It’s interesting to see what was on our minds four months before we got married, two weeks before I graduated with my Master’s degree. Especially since I still wrestle with some of the same questions. It’s tempting to go in and edit some of the more self-important language, but I will resist.

Kate, April 29,1999

I’m feeling kind of like I don’t really know what my life is all about. Did you feel this way coming out of school at all, like you had a job but weren’t sure what the goal was? Like, all this time I have been heading toward a graduation—from MU, now from UNI—and then, there’s the rest of my life, and I don’t know exactly what the purpose of it is supposed to be. It makes me depressed. I sort of think, well, then, the wedding is the next goal, but then what, you know? What’s the PURPOSE of life? What is the meaning of life? I know what it’s supposed to be, God and eyes heavenward—and I know also that this is all related to the transition period. But it is still kind of overwhelming and depressing.

 Christian:

In answer to your question about whether or not I felt it when I was graduating, the answer is yes, and here’s the really weird thing, I was freaking out about the very same thing this morning. Like why do I need to worry about all this stuff, why can’t life be more directional? Is getting the house the right thing? Am I going to have the money? Is there a purpose to all this? And it was right around mid-morning [the time of the first email].

 

What I can see for yourself is what I see you doing: spreading your fantastic talent of music to everyone you meet, sharing that talent and knowledge with young learners, accepting and giving love to people around you through many of the things that we have talked about before—volunteering, music, just smiling. And then making life better for everyone you meet each day. We should have a little sign, maybe in our bedroom, that says something like “have I made another person’s life better today?” and ask ourselves every day. Even if it’s each other, if we can answer yes, then I think that we’ve had a good day.

 Kate:

I wondered why I’ve been through all this, school and stuff, and learning to do everything so blasted well—I’m a great writer, a great flute player, a great musician, at least a good teacher—why have I worked so hard to master everything? (no comments from the peanut gallery on my writing, you write journalistic and you’re great at it, I write more personal and I’m great at it.)

 

And then I realized that I am now a medium. I just now realized that it isn’t just for music, either. I have so very much knowledge, so very much capability, for so many things; it’s not hard for me to play, or teach, or write, or analyze. And so now, what do I do with it? All I have to do is say, OK, God, here’s a very well-trained soul and body. Start using it. Because it’s ready to go. How can I fail—as long as I am being a medium, and not trying to take control of the reins.