But...If My Life Was Perfect...

     But...if my life was perfect....
     I would not:
          Be sensitive
          Be compassionate
          Be understanding of other people--of the world around me
          Be flexible in how I approach and accomplish physical tasks
          Be flexible in how I view the diversity of people, beliefs, and cultures
          Be awe-struck by beauty around me
          Be wonder-filled about life within and around me--life distant from me
          Be appreciative of basic human capacities--thinking, and walking, to name a few
          Be attentive to how words are used--how I use words
          Be attentive to how my words and actions affect other people I know and do not know
          Be blessed with a sense of humor
          Be determined to live my life fully
          Be passionate about pursuing my interests
          Be interested in learning every day--each moment--of my life
          Be willing to apologize when I had offended someone else, or stolen someone's dignity
          Be dedicated to fulfilling my human potential, and encouraging others to do so
          Be open to the notion that this list is not complete
          Be baptized...be willing to seek an ongoing living of baptism        
     If My Life Were Perfect, I Would Not Be Human.

At Arm's Length--Or--Take to Heart

     A fortuitous nightmare awakened me to the installation of Pope Francis I.  A moment before me--before my eyes--a moment before the eyes of the world.  The moment is now.
     Pope Francis I touched me--touched the world--with the Hand of Jesus.  He held a baby.  He went to a man unable to come to him.
     Some spoke of--whispered "the economic"--the Poor, the Weak, the Vulnerable--as others within view safely from an arm's length.
     Others speculate whether this is The Moment when administrative mismanagement within the Catholic Church will be cleaned up--whether church management will be made transparent.  Management in the Vatican.  Management in local dioceses.
     Still others ask whether this is The Moment when the Catholic Church will move into the twenty-first century.  Will the Catholic Church embrace married priesthood?  Women's ordination.  Same-sex marriage.
     I shall work--continue to work--with those dedicated to Church Transparency.  I shall work--I shall continue to work--with those dedicated to moving the Catholic Church in the twenty-first century.
     I like others are elated--surprisingly elated.  Yet, I pray of This Moment differently.
     I pray.
     May We embrace This Moment--This Franciscan Moment.
     May we embrace not just the economically--the socially--Poor--the physically Weak, and the Visibly Vulnerable.
     May we embrace our Inner Poverty, our Unifying Weakness, our Inescapable Vulnerability.
     May we not hide under the Guise of Heroism--the Cry of Pity--at those Stronger or Weaker than we see ourselves to be.
     Are you--are We--up to the task of embracing this Franciscan Moment?
      I pray.  May we open our arms to Pope Francis I--to this Franciscan Moment.

Jorge Mario Bergoglio

     What do we know of Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio?  Today he took a new name--Pope Francis I.  What does he tell of who we are as human beings?  What can he tell us, if we open ourselves to him--to the person of God that he is?
     Many people look to his country of origin--Argentina, Buenos Aires to be specific as to his home.  Others speak of his age--76 years old.  Still others highlight his positions on issues facing the Catholic Church.  I hear some people note his personal qualities--his pastoral nature--his humility.
     I am deeply struck by another aspect of Jorge Mario.  Since he was a teenager, he has lived--breathed--with the capacity of one lung.  An infection left him to live differently than he might have otherwise.
     Jesus spoke of--speaks of--living open to vulnerabilities in all areas of our lives.  The College of Cardinals did what I questioned--yet hoped--they would have the courage to do.  The College of Cardinals has given their blessings to the service of a man who may bring his vulnerabilities to us in service.
     Are we willing--can we open ourselves to living our vulnerabilities as the gifts of our lives?
     Is the threshold of our judgment of the Pope--our assessment, be it positive, or negative--his positions on "the issues?"
     Are we up to the spiritual challenge of making ourselves open to the vulnerabilities of Jorge Mario Bergoglio as personified in Pope Francis I?  Are we willing to be mirrored in the face of Pope Francis I?
     In the name of Jesus, as a child of God--a person of God--I pray we may so be.

Corpus Christi. Mystery. Corpus Christi.

     Corpus Christi Sunday is celebrated in the Catholic Church today--the body and blood of Christ.
     I feel truly blessed by the faith community I celebrate Mass with each Sunday.  We are more than a physical structure....more than a scheduled time each week.....more than rote recitation of words....more than obedient people...more than repeated rituals shared each week....
     We are faith-filled.  We do celebrate.  We do celebrate.  We do celebrate Mass.  We do gather each Sunday. We do have a physical structure where we meet each week.  We do recite words we have heard many times.  We strive to obey--our prayerful, communal conscience, if not always that which other deem worthy of obedience.
     I confess.  I am drawn most to the Word when I enter the experience of Mass.  Throughout all aspects of my life, since I was a child, I felt most drawn to words.  Today's celebration of Corpus Christi drew me beyond the words into the experience of the celebration.  Words were the invitation to which I responded today.
    "Lent is a time when we empty our guilt, so as to enter into the fullness of the celebration of Easter."  Those were the homilist's words that spoke to my ears.  Quickly, I grabbed my pen to capture that essence.  All too familiar with the tipping of my mental wheelbarrow of short-term memory, my pen was the savior I sought.  My pen is the tool I grasp hold of to nail moments of grace to my long-term memory.
     Yet, in that moment, I was struck by the sin of squashing grace, or being so arrogant as to think I could preserve that moment for posterity.  Putting my pen away, trusting that what I need to remember I will remember, freed me to be graced by so much more.
    The four music ministers led us in singing liturgical music of celebration.  Guitar.  Piano.  Drums.  Four-part harmony.  Many times, I have seen the faces, heard the words, and the music.  Yet, this morning, I was graced with mystery.  Hearing--truly hearing--the four different parts--soprano, alto, tenor, and bass--of the musicians led me to mystery of wonderment.
     How is it that four individuals open their mouths and produce four different notes that produce such harmony?  Science may explain it, yet, it does not explain the wonder of the moment--the mystery of the experience.
    Spontaneous signing of Mass music by a woman, who lives with Asperger's Syndrome, was shown to my eyes.  No hearing impairment.  No rote recitation of words.  A simple expression of the words coming to her ears.  A personal response in tune with the singing voices of others.
    I have served as a minister of Word--as a lector.  I have served as a music minister,  though both were many years ago.  I have never served as a Eucharistic minister.
    This morning, the choreography of the Eucharist--the celebration of our human tapestry of gifts--was given to me.  I emptied myself of the words, and my eyes were opened to the diverse gifts of our faith community.  Our individual gifts stream to the front of the sanctuary to the hands of our priest, and his ministers of bread and wine.
    Corpus Christi.  Mystery.  Faith.  Body.  Blood.  Grace.  Word.  Music.  Corpus Christi.

My Way to be Christian

The Weapon...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be damned...
Have you accepted Christ as your Lord and Savior???
Do you have all of your questions answered???
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Instrument...I am a Christian....the rest of the world be peace-filled...
I know what Christ teaches about how to save myself and the world.
I listen...I question...I challenge the call to conform...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be peace-filled...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world will peace-filled...
I live by Christ's words...I speak the words Christ speaks to me...
I live with Christ's heart...I act with Christ's hear...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...
Have you joined Minnesota Citizens Concerned for Life...
Do you respect all of life...or do you respect only the life as you conceive it should be...
The Weapon...I am a Christian...the rest of the world be damned...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I breathe Christ...
I respect life that differs from me...I am strengthened by differences in my life...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...

The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...
I am an instrument of thy peace...
Where there is hatred, I sow love...
The Instrument...I am a Christian...the world be peace-filled...

A Shared Ride into the Unknown.

This week, I saw
An intimate--not of my body,
An intimate of my life.

Ravaged.  Robbed.  Quaking.  Troubled.  Resigned.  Disturbed.
Ravaged steadiness.
Stolen dignity.
Quaking confidence.
Trembling, troubled--disturbed--future.
Resigned.

Our causes differ.  Our training--our preparation--from God differs.
Yet, we share an aimless search for the moving targets.
Parkinson's Disease....Osteoarthritis...
They differ in landscape.

Yet, they share--we share--
A roller coaster ride.
Not a steady demise from the sure footing of youth,
No, we share
An unknown ride on a track with hidden, unscheduled twists and turns.

We share a ride
Toward an unknown destination,
At an unknown arrival time.

Prayer...It Makes No Sense to Me...

      On April 25, 1982, had you asked me, "what does prayer mean to you," I would have said, "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace," "The Hail Mary,"  and "Peace be with You." 
     Formulated.  Off the Rack prayers ready for those wanting to wear religion on their sleeve.
     Not quite.  I had--I have--a deep love for each of those prayers.
     Without knowing his name, The Prayer of St. Francis, St. Francis was introduced to me by a Christian choir director in junior high school--in a public school, no less, much to the chagrin of my parents.  A Christian--not a Catholic--choir director.
     Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
     Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
     Where there is injury, pardon;
     Where there is doubt, faith;
     Where there is despair, hope;
     Where there is darkness, light;
      And, where there is sadness, joy;
      Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console.
      To be understood as to understand.
      To be loved, as to love.
      For it is in the giving that we receive.
      In the pardoning that we are pardoned.
     And, it is in the dying,
     That we are born to eternal life.
     My maternal grandfather--Ray, a man who abhorred anything Catholic--would be horrified to hear me say so, yet, his inheritance to me, "Don't feel sad when I die, I have made amends with everyone [with whom] I had differences," reaffirmed what St. Francis told me.
      Prayer.
      It makes no sense to me.  Words that speak such truth.  Words--it is in the dying that we are born to eternal life--far from affirmed in my childhood home, in my family--speak such truth to me.  It makes no sense.  Yet, they are true.

Crucifixion...Resurrection....

     May the peace of Christ be with you.
     It took me many years to utter those words without fear of crucifixion--crucifixion impaled by reason, and logic, crucifixion beyond any hope of faith to surmount.
     I was surrounded by the living of values Christ proclaimed.  Yet, that was not enough.
     There was an invisible stereotype that permeated our home.  Bible-thumping Baptist.  Evangelical.  Unwilling missionary work--infliction of conversion within our house.  Speaking of tongues.  The Holy Ghost--a white-sheeted being antithetical to reason and logic.
     I was surrounded by the living of the values Christ espoused.
     Yet, it took many years to shed my fear of crucifixion--crucifixion impaled by reason, and logic.  Resurrection.  How can you possibly reconcile that with any degree of reason, or logic?  How can you possibly live with any integrity, if you subscribe to the notion of resurrection?  How can you explain resurrection?
      Complicated, yet, simple--not simplistic, but, simple.  I cannot explain the resurrection of a body in logic's tomb.
      I was given a body beyond reason and logic to explain--to reconcile.  No reason--no logic--satisfied those who met my body to understand it--to understand me.
     May the Peace of Christ be with You.  The Prayer of St. Francis.  The Hail Mary.  These three prayers ground me.  Far beyond the words to convey, I had no hope of avoiding a mystery beyond reason, and logic to explain.
     Others better versed than I in the Bible could recite the precise chapter and verse.  Yet, I have heard it said that we need not fear, when  needs arise, we shall be given the appropriate words to utter.  Whether spoken aloud, or held in my heart, confidence has been given, and fears have been assuaged.  Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care about more than structures they enter, no longer is prayer a formula I grab from off the rack.  I cannot explain its shape--its form.  Thirty years ago, a formula.  Today,  a precious mystery.  Thirty years from now?
    Crucifixion.  Resurrection.  I cannot explain it.
    But...I can--I must--live it.  We can--we must live it.

Catholic Church Reform: What Is It?

     Catholic Church reform.  What is it?  What should it be?  Who decides?  Who should decide?
     What is it?
     Hot button issues come to mind.  Women's ordination.  Married clergy. Liturgy--lay involvement.  Liturgy--inclusive language.
     These are valid, worthy issues central to Catholic Church reform.  Yet, in defining what it should be, dangers need to be identified--dangers to effecting reform.
     Herd mentality.  Rote support of hot button issues.  Rote support of advocates, who can speak the loudest.
     I write cognizant of time's luxury, which long-term disability affords me.  I write cognizant of my time's responsibility--God's time to me.  I must not squander that precious time--that precious responsibility.  Were I to squander, I would aggravate the problems--the issues--I sought to address.
     Who decides?
     "Church Hierarchy!" is the rallying cry of church reform campaigns.  Yet, hierarchy, to some degree, is necessary for the advancement of any organization's issues.  In the extreme, anarchy is hierarchy's adversary.  Effective Catholic Church reform lies somewhere in the middle.
     Catholic Church Reform.  Who decides?
     I know my place.  I make no submissive cry to avoid responsibility.  No.  I know my place.  I have been asked to help clarify issues.  Research.  Write drafts of recommendations.  Listen.  Heed direction of individuals who will make recommendations based in part upon my research.  Revise. Rewrite.  Submit.  Listen.
     I have tremendous respect for the knowledge, experience, convictions, and beliefs of the individuals I will work with.  I pray that I will nurture and maintain that same level of respect of and for each individual I meet.
    I pray that I will seek a broad understanding of the people, issues, organizations, and perspectives within the catholic church.  I pray not to imprison myself within the popular positions on hot button issues just to do so.  Already I sense myself doing just that.
   Catholic Church Reform.  What is it?
   It is not for me to define in isolation.  For now, I shall act as a squirrel might.  I shall gather nuts--food for thought--for the work ahead--nuts that may sustain me.  Websites.  Blogs.  Publications.  These are but three of the nuts I gather for the exciting, daunting, scary, exhilarating, unknown journey ahead me--ahead of us.

Changes of Worship

     In college, my political science advisor instructed us to begin with the primary source documents, rather than secondary analyses on any given subject.  He was not dismissive of the value secondary sources provide.  Yet, he advised that any quest for information begin with primary source materials.
     Such might be said of the upcoming revisions to the Catholic Mass.   Deafening analysis of the changes is being given before the changes have been implemented.
     Much is being spoken of the changes that will take place in the Catholic liturgy, before we have an experience of how we will live the changes.  Honestly, I do not know what it will mean to live the changes.  I do not have the requisite experience to reflect on how change of the Mass I celebrate will change me.
     Will it damage me?  Will it diminish my spirituality?  Will it destroy me?
     Liberals are quick to say that religious conservatives, who hold on to the words, and practices of the past, are damaging, diminishing, and destroying the Catholic Church by their resistance.  I question that.  Rather, I wonder.  As a liberal, is there any room within the upcoming changes to enrich my spiritual life--to enrich our communal spiritual life?
     I was raised by a father, who experienced rote Catholicism.  I entered a Church far different from the one he left.  Since 1982, I have been blessed by a wide variety of vibrant faith communities.  The closest I came to the Church my father left was my time at a small, traditional Catholic parish several blocks from my home.  Although I did not experience vibrancy in much of my time there, I remember with fondness the gift the Irish priest gave each Sunday.
     Father Philip nurtured in me a personal bond to God.  How?
     Children of God, was his invitation.  I shudder to think of the foundation I had, when I met him each Sunday.  Any intellectual foundation I might have had needed to be instructed--seasoned.
     Father Philip's beaming smile, and his deep faith were his invitations.  His deep faith was his prayer for mercy.
     Forgive us of any skepticism--distrust--of the motives of other people.
     Those were not his precise words.  Yet, that was the message that I heard.
      I did not embrace many of his words.  Most of what he said is lost to my memory.  Yet, I treasure the personal bond he nurtured.
     People of God.
     I needed years of instruction, much seasoning, before I was worthy of being invited to, "People of God."

     I remember earlier experiences going to Mass on campus.  I was deeply moved by the weekly exchange, "Peace be with you."

     It took me many years to be comfortable with the fullness of the exchange, "May the peace of Christ be with you."  My faith--my understanding--was not deep enough to extend myself in that manner.  I needed tremendous mercy before I was able to affirm, "May the Peace of Christ be with you."
     A friend, who was a child during the 1950s, and embraces the Catholic Church that Vatican II has nurtured, offered a telling observation.
     "Well, it is back to the 1950s."
     I do not have the credibility that living in the 1950s Catholic Church affords.  I pray her words may be an invitation, rather than a eulogy.
      I do not know what her experiences were.  I was born in 1960.  I was raised as a Universalist, some say Unitarian.
      With that said, I pray.
       May we listen to the words we utter.  May we breathe the changes that will be ushered into the Catholic Mass.  May we exhale the cynicism that some meet the changes.  May we come to the changes attentive to the nuances they might offer to us.
     I am not an apologist for the changes that Advent will bring.  I do not know enough to be so.  I welcome the challenge to discover the nuances--to uncover the pearls of wisdom--that the changes might offer.

A New Beginning...

     This week, I joined in welcoming a priest new to our faith community--Cabrini.  This celebration was a first.
     In 1982, I accepted an inviting admonition, "Don't leave your mind outside the door of the church."  Contrary to the admonition, and to my desire to abide by it, I did not know what I was doing intellectually.  I was petrified of being discovered a fraud--a fraud for not being able to articulate what I was seeking.
    I have been blessed by involvement in four communities in 29 years.  An interloper.  A parishioner.  A member.  An engaged witness.
    A college campus faith community.  Deemed too liberal--radical--by some.  Captivating to me.
     Raised to value pacifism, I found a community--a weekly celebration--in which, "Peace be with you" was the ever faithful invitation extended to all who entered.  I sat.  I questioned.  I wondered.  I graduated.
    The only "parish" church--a very traditional, old French church.  At home in spiritual geography.
    The priest memorable to me--an Irishman with a welcoming spirit--Father Philip McArdle.  Though at home in geography, never did the spirit of that church community reside in my heart and soul.  I single and 20ish.  They married and 70ish.  Yet, what I treasure of that time was Father McArdle's endearing words, "Children of God." No tones of condescension tempered his words.  "Children of God" were filled with a spirit of wonder--loving wonder--unjaded by adult cynicism.  Long since forgotten details of my differences with Father Philip.  The gift.  The differences.  They were present--they were real.
     Moved by differences, I joined the thoughtful tradition of John Henry Cardinal Newman.  For 11 years, a member--the Newman Center.
     Students came and went.  I listened.  The Gospels--all spiritual readings and reflections I was fed.  Established traditions cradled others, were still new to me.  Priests came.  Priests went.  Yet, no sense of welcoming any priest new to our community pierces my memory.  I was an attendant member, not a faithful worshipper.
     I entered the Catholic Church long after Vatican II closed.  The Church I entered was far different than the Church others close to me left, or so I sense it was.  I never walked in their shoes--never donned their Ojibwe moccasins.  I was churched a Universalist--a parental evolution from pre-Vatican II, less engaging worship to a more intellectually-challenging fellowship.  They left, I entered.  They seeking intellectual challenge.  I answers to long-held, inarticulable questions.
     Friends faithful to the Church--the hierarchy, the dysfunctions--left.  Yet, leave?  A spiritual cavern beyond my surmounting.
    The hierarchy closed my thoughtful haven.  Some balked.  I searched.  I found.  Welcomed, I found a new home.
    Cabrini.  Celebration.  Faith.  Engagement.  Passion.  Cabrini.

    Eleven years hence, hierarchy visits our home--my new home.  No closing.  A transfer of priests.  A priest new to my home of faith.  Others knew of him.  Yet, none of us knew him.  For the first time in 29 years, I welcome a priest new to me.  Together, I join others in welcome. 

    An interloper.  A parishioner.  A member.  An engaged witness.  A new beginning....What next???  An advocate. ... Whatever it may be, a new beginning...  

Spirituality of the Human Body

     Respect.  Body Parts.
     What on earth do these two phrases have in common?  Contrary to what you may think, a great deal.
     But, before I go further, let me establish what I will not be addressing.  First,  respect--respect for life--in its common parlance is beyond my call--abortion.  I have my views.  I respect those of other individuals with differing views than mine.  I am open to expressing, and exchanging those perspectives.  Yet, my call is to convey my thoughts in a different direction.
    Respect for life--respect for the life I have been given to live.  That is my call.  That is what I pray I will voice today.  Yet, that is a broad, unwieldy scope to address.
    Body parts.  Body parts? Yes, body parts.  How is that remotely connected to respect for the life I have been given to live?
     Once again, let me establish what I will not address--what I do not mean.  I do not drive.  I have no knowledge of auto mechanics--I have no knowledge of automobile body parts.  That is not my call.  I am called to a different direction.  I am called to convey my thoughts regarding human body parts.
     Private parts.  Betrayal.  Disability.
     I am not writing about private parts, per se.  The term is understood--there is an established definition of the term.  I do want to include the term in the context of our human body parts.  I have never heard reference to, much less definition of what might be called public parts--public human body parts.
    We have no understanding of how our bodies serve the rest of us--our mind, and spirit.  We do not attend ourselves to how we honor our body parts.  How do we serve our body parts?
     In recent years, I have been called to respond to these questions.  Until recent years, my right hand did little to serve me.  Never have I had, or will I have fine motor skills in my right hand.  Never have I known any other way to live, so that has required little adjustment of me.
    My right ankle, and my left hand are another matter entirely.  Osteoarthritis in my right ankle caused me to ask--how does my ankle serve me?  It took many months for me to reconcile the fact that my right ankle could not serve me.
    My left hand has been my lifelong workhorse.  She has been called to make up for the many times when my right hand could be of no service to me.  I am scared by little.  Yet, the onset of what I now know to be intentional tremors in my left hand rendered me speechless--a feat for anyone who knows me.  Intentional tremors.  The more I intend to do a given task when I am nervous, the shakier my left hand becomes.
    Intentional tremors made essential the honoring of my body parts, and their service to me.  I took for granted that my left hand would be at my service, at full strength, throughout my life to meet whatever need I had.  Intentional tremors called my right arm and hand to service, as a steadying force.
     Intentional tremors were the sign of the first part of spirituality of the body--spirituality of my body.  I had to identify--I had to come to terms with--what my body parts could do.  How could my body parts serve me?  That was the first step.
    Honoring my body parts.  What does that mean?  What does it call me to do?
    When I honor my body parts, I must humble myself.  I must confess, "What is it that my body part can no longer do?  Honoring my body parts, committing myself to confession is not the end.  It is the second of a three-step process that continues throughout our lives as we age.
     We argue about terms regarding people whose bodies do not function as most people's bodies do.  Yet, we have not elevated our understanding to a betrayal of our human body parts to our minds, and  spirituality of the human body--the spirituality of our human body.  The closest example of spirituality of the human body may be found in the writing of theologian Jean Vanier.  If you have never read his writings, I commend him to you.
      But, the writing of Jean Vanier does not go far enough.  Or, how we read Jean Vanier does not  challenge us to examine our own bodies as worthy of having spirituality appended to it.  We can separate his comments and compartmentalize them as applying to the residents of L'Arche, and no one else.  Whenever we receive communion, we speak of the Body of Christ.  Yet, we do not bring our human body to communion with us.
    Clinical inventory of our body parts.  Physicals, medical tests, and other medical examinations require of us little more than to go skin deep.  That is, in and of themselves.  Yet, if we are wholly attuned to our human body parts, we are called to go much deeper--far deeper than skin deep.
    Glorification of the body.  Glorification of the body may be found in two different places--in the media, and in fine art.  Glorification of the body may have positive or negative impacts in the media or in fine art.  Both need our attention--our open-mindedness.
    Spirituality of the human body...spirituality of the human being.
    How can we ascend to--advance to--a spirituality of our body parts--a spirituality of our human body-- if we separate our human body as we enter the door of the church, or if we separate the whole notion of spirituality when we open the door to leave the church?
     Can we read Julian of Norwich and choose to engage in some form of spirituality regarding our human body?  If we accept the invitation Julian of Norwich offers us, can we develop a spirituality of our human being?  I am not saying that it is necessary to go as extreme as Julian did.  That is not the point. .Yet, are we willing to go further than we have  gone up until now?  I continue to press the issue, because I believe it is possible--it is essential.
    Respect. Respect for life.  Respect for the life I have been given to live. How does my body serve me?  How may I honor my body?  How may I serve my body, so as to preserve and honor her gift--her gifts?  Am I willing to commit myself to pursuing a spirituality of my human body--a spirituality of my human being?

How Do You Say Hello???

     Today is Pentacost Sunday.  I find the celebration of Pentacost--at least at Cabrini--to be quite exhilarating.  I confess I missed this celebration.  All dressed in red, ready to celebrate, my body had other ideas--sleep.  Yet, nonetheless, Pentacost, and how we communicate it is alive in me tonight.
     How Pentacost is celebrated in my life, how it was celebrated in a friend's life?  By what means do we communicate today?  First.  Pentacost.  A celebration of the descent of the Holy Spirit on the disciples of Jesus after his Ascension. That is a definition of the day.  Yet, definition is meaningless without context within our own lives, be it our own, someone we know, or a combination.  [Interesting.  I hadn't thought about that until this very moment.]
    The context of Pentacost in my life is twofold.  I was told of the Pentacostal celebration involving speaking in tongues.  That celebration was meaningless because it was not shared with any context in his life.  I do not know the spirituality--the spiritual context--in which my friend's mother celebrated Pentacost.  So, to comment further would be a grave injustice--unforgivable disrespect.
    My experience of Pentacost comes within the context of a Catholic faith community.  Cabrini celebrates life and death with intense passion.
     Fast forward 70 years. My experience of Pentacost?  Different--not better, just different.
     Pentacost.  Cabrini--a faith community that celebrates life and death with the same passion.  Pentacost, as I have experienced it is a celebration of our communal diversity.  In the stead of spontaneous expressions of need and thanksgiving, Pentacost welcomes different intentions.  Individuals fluent in various world tongues offer intentions in those foreign languages.  But, the offering of intentions does not stop there.  Cabrini is a community of passionate context.  Following intentional expressions in foreign tongues, the individuals repeat the intentions in English.  We are offered context.  We celebrate that context.
    How do you say hello???

Seventy Times Seven

     I hear Jesus speaking to Peter more often than I remember at earlier times in my life.  Peter asked Jesus how many times he had to forgive someone who had sinned against him.  Seven times?  Jesus says, "Seventy times seven."  Forgiveness worthy of her name needs to be repeated whenever her name is called to serve.
     Jesus is not admonishing me to forgive someone, who has sinned me.  Rarely do I think in those terms with regard to other people.  I listen to The Lord's Prayer to attune myself with how I am abiding by the call to forgive other individuals in my life.
     Jesus stands by me, as I whisper, "this isn't fair."  What? Quiet, solitary moments in the bathroom, and in bed, my ankle asserts herself.  "Don't be quite so proud of your accommodations to me."  I want to share my whisper, that she does not rule my spirit
 .  Cleansing, and restful moments may not be sacrificed.  Give me time.  Jesus forgive me, as you call me to forgive not a person, but, my intimate--my ankle.  It is not an it.  My ankle is a she.  My ankle is worthy of my love, my care, my respect, my care.  My ankle--she--is a partner in my life.  I may not neutralize her by reducing her to the state of it--the state of material goods in my possession.
     She has rendered a lifetime of service.
     I revel in the accommodation to her weakness....
    Several days later, I am not as hurt by her pain.  We will enjoy traveling the accommodating path together...swimming, discovering a program with a personal trainer to map out the most accommodating path--not a medicinal, but, a forgiving path.
    My ankle calls me now, yet, in years to come, my ankle's sisters and brothers will plead with me to stop calling them It, and treat them as my intimates.
    Marking--celebrating--51 years of life today, I am evermore aware of the eternal forgiveness that Jesus spoke of.  I am called not to be forgiving of my ankle seven days a week.  I am called to forgive each member of my body's family.
     Am I really that different from anyone else in Jesus call to forgive our intimates--our aging intimates--seventy times seven?  Just a thought.

Maundy Thursday and Disbelief

     Last night, belief, logic, and belittlement clashed, and I failed on all counts to live with integrity within its triangle. I was raised by my parents--two individuals who were raised during a time when they experienced the rituals of Christ's life.  Absent from their experience, as I understand it to be, was a lack of how Christ teaches us to meet and build upon the events of his life--the spirit and wisdom by which he lived his life.  How do you explain Holy Spirit in logical terms--a 1940s white ghost?
     How do we affirm the life of Christ without sterilizing it to its bare realities?  How do you prove the truths Christ lived in concrete terms.  These questions drove two people of integrity from the Christian Church.  The subsequent answers they have lived, in part, is to belittle individuals, who commit themselves to Christ's life as being simple-minded.  My parents do live lives built upon much of what Christ taught and advocated--called for in our lives.
    In 1982, I committed myself to a life of celebration that exceeded logic's limits--reason's realm.  I committed myself to learn from, grow through, and live what Jesus lived.  In so doing, I was not decrying the foundation of the Universalism of my upbringing--there is good to be found in all world faith traditions, and we should support one another in a free and disciplined search for truth.
    Drawn to Christ by questions in search of answers beyond logic, or logic as it was lived in my home, I committed myself to listen to the words of Christ, to observe, and affirm--authenticate--Christ's teachings in my own life going forward.  Contrary to first glance, Universalist/Unitarian fellowship is not, or need not be diametrically opposed to Christianity.  I did not reject my Universalist roots as it seemed to my family and a Christian mentor.  No.  I embraced Christ as I saw him in expressed in a Catholic campus community, through Mass, and in the diversity of friends.
     Since 1982, I have not done well in meeting the criticism of faith in Christ.  The only meeting I have done has been in trying to share my life freely--trying to share how I live my life.  I do not do well to meet questions of fact that I understand to be static within Jesus' life historically ignorant of its vibrancy to life today.  I do not mean to imply that the way I live is better.  I do not want to entrap myself by belittling logic's limits, or reason's realm.
     In recent years, I have heard two types of Catholics, and Christians identified.  There are the thinking Catholics, and then there are Catholics.  Polite disdain is the best description I know to give to the attitude toward Catholics.  Rather than engagement with all Catholics, as I understood the call of Universalism to be--finding the best in all faith traditions--I am met with belittlement of other Catholics, and the smug tolerance of thinking Catholics.  I hear complaints that Catholics, and other Christians, I do not witness the recognition of the smug criticism, and intolerance.  I speak of Catholics, because it is in the Catholic Church that I have met beauty.  Yet, the same basic distinction has been drawn between Christians and Christians.
    I confess I do not understand the distinction--the need for smugness, intolerance, and recognition.  I want to understand.  I do understand that I met a different Catholic Church--a different expression of Jesus--in 1982 than was experienced in the 1940s.  I do know that they experienced a monolithic expression of Christianity.  There was one, and only one, way to be Catholic.
    I was astounded to discover the rich diversity of Christian faith's expression.  My new college friends did not fit into neat little boxes.  Intellect was not mutually exclusive to Christian faith.  Yet, intellect was not a guarantor of Christian faith.  Integrity was not the titled property of intellect.  Christian faith was not--is not--integrity's competitor.
    I can etch in stone definitions of Christianity's core--of Catholicism's essence.  Yet, I cannot etch in stone a static description of Christ, of Catholicism, of Christianity, as I will live it for the rest of my life.  I can and will share as much as a tolerant door--a tolerant window--is opened to me.

Spiritual Divorce???

     Several hours of love, spiritual commitment, and celebration of our lives' joys and sorrows leads me to wonder regarding the future of our worshipping community.  An Archdiocesan action may well result in a change of priests.
     I cannot respond in anger, submissiveness, hostility, or cynicism.  I responded to spiritual vacancy quite early in my adult life by converting to Christianity from Universalism.  I did not abandon my Universalist roots.  They inform my Christian life.  Twenty-nine years after my conversion, I cannot go back.  I cannot live by my intellect, logic, and reason alone.  Faith is essential to my life.  I have been spoiled by the integrity of the Catholic parishes--the Catholic worshiping communities in which I have lived.
    I have experienced the closing of one campus worshiping community due to an Archdiocesan action approximately eleven years ago.  Though painful, I am much stronger--much richer--by the move into a different Catholic faith community.
     Trademarked words that represent the best in their respective product, or service fields lead to the making the names verbalizing imProper nouns--trademark.  We wipe our tears with Kleenex, clean our ears with Q-Tips, we google the world wide web for information, etc.
     A spiritual profile of myself is not simple.  It complexity is essential to understand, not elusive, but, essential.  Most identifiable to most are the words Catholic in ritual, Christian in my living.  Not perfect, by any stretch.  Yet, isn't that what it means to be Christian.  It is an imperfect striving to be perfect?  Were our strivings perfect, then what would the need be for perfection? After all, wouldn't perfection be an achievement, and not a goal?
    Catholic and Christian are words that describe me as an adult seeker of ritual, and life.
    More elusive to many are my childhood cornerstones--Universalist, and Unitarian.  I understand them more as one fellowship today.  As a child, there seemed to be a more peaceful, maybe less militant understanding of what Unitarian meant.
   Only as an adult have I come to understand that each fellowship shapes, or expresses what it means to be Universalist, or Unitarian.  I was raised in the First Universalist Church in Minnesota during the 1960s.  Although the denomination was always known as the Universalist-Unitarian Fellowship, the individual churches were known as either Universalist, or Unitarian.  I don't remember knowing any Unitarians.  I understood "Unitarians" to be more militant in the expression of their commitments.  I have no recollection of what led me to that sense.  It may be the stark contrast between Unitarian versus the Trinitarian foundation upon which Christianity is built.  Universalism, I was raised to believe, was built upon the belief that there is good to be found in all world religions.  My child sense of the Universalist church that I was raised in was composed of individuals who were quite active in their support for the United Nations, and the World Federalists.
    Only as an adult have I begun to understood how the current affairs in the world shape how each Universalist, or Unitarian Church expresses its commitment to the belief in the pursuit of thoughtful, logical, reasonable deliberations.  As a Universalist, I was raised to believe that there is good to be found in all world religions.
    Only as a Catholic have I come to appreciate the vast difference between religion and faith.
Much moreso than in Christian denominations.  The gradations among Catholic parishes--Catholic communities--are understood by many Catholics to vary much more dramatic than they are.  Yet, the gradations are not as grandiose as they may seem to some.  The structure of the Catholic celebration focuses around the altar--the Table of Christ.  A Catholic could walk into any Catholic church, and be reasonably certain that they would hear one reading from the Old Testament, a second reading from the New Testament, a psalm, and a reading from one of the Gospels--Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John.  Acts might be read during the Easter season.   Three liturgical cycles of biblical readings, seasons of the liturgical year including Advent, Christmas, Ordinary Time, Lent, the Triduum, and Easter are constant across all Catholic parishes.
    In no way do I mean to dismiss the vast differences between the Catholic Church pre-Vatican II, and Post-Vatican II.  Though born in 1960, I am a child of the Post-Vatican II Catholic Church.  My sense from Pre-Vatican II Catholics is that to be Catholic implied much more of a unified expression of beliefs and forms of expression, than is the case today.
    Individuals I knew, who were raised as pre-Vatican II Catholics, led me to believe that there was one way to be Catholic.  I do not mean to blame them, or denigrate their message to me.  They were expressing their experience to me.  When I was introduced to post-Vatican II Catholics, I was blown away--perplexed.  Each individual had tremendous integrity, and yet, they were not expressing their Catholicism identically--not by a long shot.
     I do not think that the changes that are forthcoming in my Catholic faith community will be as drastic as the  Universalist versus Catholic, or the pre- versus post-Vatican II Catholics I experienced during the last thirty years.  Yet, I do believe the change will be radical.  I pray it may inform my faith, and the faith of my community, rather than weaken its fabric.

Left With Fear

     I fear little.  Not because I am brave, or courageous, not be a long shot.  I fear little.
     Fear's expenditure lessens my deposits of strength to take on necessary human challenges.  My moment's challenges?  They are few.  Preserve my mind's vitality.  Nurture my spirit.  Treat my hand gently.  Preserve the gifts she gives me--the strength I have taken for granted--abused--for a lifetime.
     My vehicle's challenge?  There is but one.  Preserve the strength of my left hand.  Right-handed I am not.  Ambidextrous I am not.  My mind--my spirit--are conveyed through the strength of my left hand.  Friends, family, and a spiritual community revitalize my mind and spirit.  With them, my voice sharpens.
     Exercise might strengthen the hands of some.  Yet, my lifelong abuse of my left hand fertilizes this moment's fear.  Osteorthritis attacks with anxious fear.
     Writing is my voice.  I attend to my ankle--I accommodate her anxiety.  Yet, I fear threats to my left hand's grip--the strength she brings to me.  I must give her due gentleness, that she not be lost to me--to my mind, to my spirit.
     Am I alone in such piercing fear?  I don't think so.  Yet, I cannot say what for others is the unrealized piercing fear that awaits an honest revelation--a revelation that would bring a much more authentic life.  I don't know what my left hand's compromise is--or my compromise to my left hand's honor.  If I did know, I would challenge friends, family, and strangers to be open to their body's revelation--an invitation to authenticity.
     To sleep I go.  Healing--rejuvenation--I seek.

Mature Healing

     Nancy Mairs is an author, a Catholic, an individual with a wheelchair, who is affected by multiple sclerosis.  I was drawn to her writing when I had a voracious appetite to understand my own disabilities--cerebral palsy, and epilepsy.  There is a spirituality of the human body, which is central to how I live the spirituality of The Body of Christ.  It is amazing, it is not a mechanical ritual, nor an esoteric body of knowledge to be studied.
   I gravitate toward Nancy Mairs' writing from a new dimension.  Intellectually, I know she may not telegraph to me--warn me--of the pitfalls I may face, or how to navigate a new chapter in my life--living with the use of a wheelchair.  Yet, the anxious child in me is staying up late to cram for her final exam in living with a wheelchair.  What leads me to think that I will be protected from making mistakes using my wheelchair?  After making mistakes at work, a friend reminded me, "You are not PERFECT Patty, you are human!"
     Yet, news that I should receive my wheelchair within a week or so has accelerated my anticipation.  It is the night before Christmas, and I am waiting for my presents to arrive--I am waiting to open my present.  What is it that Nancy Mairs can tell me that will satisfy me?  I am not married, nor am I a mother, or an individual with multiple sclerosis.  I do not use the word "cripple" to describe the fact that I have cerebral palsy, and epilepsy.  Although, I do understand the feelings that might lead me to change my ways.  Yet, I am not to that point yet.  I do not aspire to using that word in reference to myself.  Nancy Mairs has opened me to the need to be more receptive to the words that I use in describing my cerebral palsy, and epilepsy, and now, my osteoarthitis.  Through her openness, Nancy has encouraged me to be more reflective about such adjectives.
     The return of my voracious appetite for Nancy Mairs, and similar writers, is a sign that I am healing.  My right ankle might be on her last leg, although she has been relieved of her painful bone spurs.  Yet, I am healing.  I am not healing toward a past version of myself--a version with more physical flexibility.  No, that is a false sense of healing.  Mature healing is not movement toward a perfect, god-like way of living.  No.  I have not been granted supernatural--infallible--powers that elevate me from daily struggles.  No.  Mature healing, if I choose to embrace it, calls me to seek accommodation to what I may no longer do.
     During a home evaluation, in which I tried out a wheelchair to see if it would work in my own home, I told the medical vendor that I had three questions to which I needed answers.  When he tried to evade my questions, I made myself quite clear.  First, I needed to know, "what can I do today with this wheelchair?"  Secondly, "with practice, what will I be able to do with this wheelchair?"  Third, "what will I not be able to do--what will I need to ask help in accomplishing when using my wheelchair?"  He was afraid of his answers to my questions.  I was forthright.  "I may not like your answers, but, I need to ask the questions--I need answers, so that I may live as fully as is possible."
     I am anxious.  I want to get started in my quest for answers.  As much as I may want the vendor, or someone else to answer my questions, no one may answer the questions for me.  I have forgotten the willful child, who unwittingly outfoxed the physical therapists.  When given tasks designed to get me to use my left and my right hands, I found a way to accomplish the tasks without using my right hand, which was affected by cerebral palsy.  I was too young to have plotted such rebellion.  I was just willful.  Much has changed, but, I think that willful soul is still resident in me, below my ankle foot orthotic, perhaps?

I've Got to Hand It to You

    Until relatively recently, I have given my left hand little due attention--little credit--for her service to me.  Some were amazed at what I could do with the use of just my left hand--with little to no help from my right hand.  I felt no amazement--I was born this way--never have I had full use of both hands.  So amazement was not worthy of my energy's expense.  My occupational therapists were frustrated, if not angry.  I kept finding ways to do tasks they conceived to be two-handed tasks without calling on my right hand.
     My views toward my left hand have changed since July, 2009.  No longer working--living on long-term disability--I was called to a different view of my left hand.  She was shaky.  No longer was indomitable strength in hand.  Nor was it at arm's reach.
     My left hand still has some strength.  Yet, she has put me on notice.  She will not stand for any further abuse for my ego's sake.  Boxers may fear a right jab.  I fear my left's fist in my face.
     So, do I duck?  No. What do I do?  Wake up.  Look.  Listen.  Feel.  Accommodate.
     Habits are hard to break.  Yet, too much is at stake not to act.  Now.
     I am not alone.  We do not want to admit it, yet, we are aging.  Each of us is called to different accommodations.
     Outstretched hands.  Figuratively, I pray I have outstretched hands that welcome others into my life.  Yet, literally, I need to give care not to try to stretch my fingers so wide that they are strained by going beyond their natural limits.  I recognize when I try to grab too much weight, and in such a way that I compromise the palm of my hand--where my hand and thumb meet.
     I am further along in recognizing that I need to care for my right ankle.  She needs my loving care, so that she does not give out completely.  The temptation to be angry with her is present.  She has failed me.  Yet, will anger bring her strength back to me?  Will resignation to her disintegration make her strong?
     There must be a middle point between anger, and resignation.  The ballerina tries not to fall off her balance beam.  Am I alone on the beam?  Where are you?

Body, Mind, and Spirit

     The juxtaposition of these three words is hardly novel.  Oftentimes, a prescription is offered to achieve balance among the three essences of who we are as human beings.
     I want to offer a different view.  Always,  I have thrived on challenge. But, I do not relish the challenge lunged at me from an aggressor's hands.  I do not savor harsh challenge inflicted in my heart by a marksman's sword.  No, there is a different challenge--a pristine challenge.  I revel in challenge to sharpen my wit. I revel in challenging others to sharpen their wit.
     Today's pristine challenges are marked by questions.  Should you be receptive, I invite you to attend to them.    
     Is body, mind, and balance something you value?  Do you respire enough to aspire to a body, mind, and spirit balance?
     Clearly, a balanced spirit is the offspring of a balance between body and mind.
      Is your body being fed by your mind?  Does your body need a change of your mind's pace?  Is your mind being fed by your body?  Can your body move enough to feed your mind?  Is your body being fed fresh air to stimulate new ideas?
     Do you value body, mind, and spirit balance?  Do you respire deeply enough to aspire to an inspiring life--a life through which your spirit may soar on eagle's wings?
     Just a thought.