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.
Showing posts with label transformation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label transformation. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Ohhhh...
In a time when dramatic events, and ghastly acts of inhumanity, few events, or milestones cause an audible response from me. I imagine I am not alone in that.
Just now, one such audible response was evoked. Neil Armstrong died at the age of 82. To people of a certain age, they remember where they were when they looked at the first black and white images of the moon. To people of a certain age, they remember where they were when they heard the iconic words, "One small step for man, one giant step for mankind."
I was in Brainerd on a family vacation. I was a sick nine-year-old, moaning with an earache--nothing serious, but, I remember.
Long before cable television. Long before personal computers, Neil Armstrong took us beyond boundaries of what we imagined possible.
How do we pay homage--meaningful homage--to Neil Armstrong?
First, stop. Take a look at, and return to The First Moon Landing with Neil Armstrong.
In homage to Neil Armstrong, are we willing to commit ourselves to one action?
Live our lives imagining a future beyond what seems possible to us now--beyond the limits imposed by our own cynicism and skepticism.
Challenge our friends, family--our society--to live beyond what they imagine might be possible.
Let us pay homage.
Just now, one such audible response was evoked. Neil Armstrong died at the age of 82. To people of a certain age, they remember where they were when they looked at the first black and white images of the moon. To people of a certain age, they remember where they were when they heard the iconic words, "One small step for man, one giant step for mankind."
I was in Brainerd on a family vacation. I was a sick nine-year-old, moaning with an earache--nothing serious, but, I remember.
Long before cable television. Long before personal computers, Neil Armstrong took us beyond boundaries of what we imagined possible.
How do we pay homage--meaningful homage--to Neil Armstrong?
First, stop. Take a look at, and return to The First Moon Landing with Neil Armstrong.
In homage to Neil Armstrong, are we willing to commit ourselves to one action?
Live our lives imagining a future beyond what seems possible to us now--beyond the limits imposed by our own cynicism and skepticism.
Challenge our friends, family--our society--to live beyond what they imagine might be possible.
Let us pay homage.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Criminals' Acts...Wasted Lives...
Theater 9. Aurora, Colorado. James Eagan Holmes. Alleged Criminal. Criminal Acts. Wasted lives.
Engrossed in news coverage of the Aurora Shootings, some say they do not want to focus on Holmes. They want to put the spotlight on the lives of the 12 individuals who died.
Yes. By all means.
As of July 21, 2012 at 3:58: The Denver Post reports the names of Veronica Moser, Jessica Ghawi, Alex Sullivan, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, John Thomas Larimer, Rebecca Wingo, and, on air, CNN reported A.J. Boik, and Jesse Childress. In coming hours--in coming days, more names will emerge--more profiles shall emerge. Read and listen to those coming names and stories, in coming days.
For now, I offer to you a question--a response--that haunts me.
What is the motivation--what possibly may explain such horrendous acts? What a wasted life.
What an excruciating extinguishment of human potential. Extinguishment of the crimes' commissioned subjects--extinguishment of the human potential of the crimes' commissioners.
The commissioner. A wasted life. Extinguished hopes of what might have been. Condemnation to a barred life--a mental hospital, a prison, an lethal injection, or an electric chair. What a wasted life.
Some spew anger. Damn him to the acts he committed. Inflict upon him an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Some forgive, the person, if not the act.
Some pray. We are called to pray. Some for the commissioned. Others for the commissioner. All are called to pray for both--the commissioned, and for the commissioner.
How may we speak--how may we act. How may we dedicate ourselves to learn from--commit ourselves to a positive response to such horrendous acts?
How? We must.
Engrossed in news coverage of the Aurora Shootings, some say they do not want to focus on Holmes. They want to put the spotlight on the lives of the 12 individuals who died.
Yes. By all means.
As of July 21, 2012 at 3:58: The Denver Post reports the names of Veronica Moser, Jessica Ghawi, Alex Sullivan, Matt McQuinn, Micayla Medek, John Thomas Larimer, Rebecca Wingo, and, on air, CNN reported A.J. Boik, and Jesse Childress. In coming hours--in coming days, more names will emerge--more profiles shall emerge. Read and listen to those coming names and stories, in coming days.
For now, I offer to you a question--a response--that haunts me.
What is the motivation--what possibly may explain such horrendous acts? What a wasted life.
What an excruciating extinguishment of human potential. Extinguishment of the crimes' commissioned subjects--extinguishment of the human potential of the crimes' commissioners.
The commissioner. A wasted life. Extinguished hopes of what might have been. Condemnation to a barred life--a mental hospital, a prison, an lethal injection, or an electric chair. What a wasted life.
Some spew anger. Damn him to the acts he committed. Inflict upon him an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Some forgive, the person, if not the act.
Some pray. We are called to pray. Some for the commissioned. Others for the commissioner. All are called to pray for both--the commissioned, and for the commissioner.
How may we speak--how may we act. How may we dedicate ourselves to learn from--commit ourselves to a positive response to such horrendous acts?
How? We must.
Gun Abolition. Pacifism. Civility.
Pistol. Shotgun. Rifle. AK 47. Militia. The Second Amendment. Right to bear arms. National Rifle Association. The NRA.
I confess. My visceral reaction to the words preceding this paragraph are rooted in illiteracy. Rightly or wrongly, I choose to root my life in more fertile ground--ground that nurtures the loving of the human spirit. I understand nothing more. I expect nothing less.
Conflict. War.
Korea. Vietnam....Iran. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Etched in my memory. My father--a Korean War veteran. My brother--Selective Service Draft Number 30, save Conscientious Objector status.
Iran. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Blurred to my attentiveness. Avoided that I might be not submissive--not submissive to War's Clutches.
Pacifism. Pacifist.
I am grounded in "Pacifism." Yes, my name is "Patricia--Patty." Yet, I call myself a "Pacifist."
Most call "pacifism" a common noun. Proper to me, "Pacifism--Pacifist" are proper nouns.
I resist temptations to respond to Rage's White Noise. Yet, piano, and violin notes, CNN's words dissolve my resistance--call me to form my thoughts--call me to express my words.
Gun Control. Not enough. I want more--much more. No one speaks of Gun Abolition. Is such too extreme?
Gun Control. Some advocate. Others can legislate. Some can enact. Yet others may judge. I shall reflect. Gun Abolition.
Let us restore civility. Not just for today. Not just for this week. Not just for this Presidential campaign. Let us restore civility beyond measure of time.
I confess. My visceral reaction to the words preceding this paragraph are rooted in illiteracy. Rightly or wrongly, I choose to root my life in more fertile ground--ground that nurtures the loving of the human spirit. I understand nothing more. I expect nothing less.
Conflict. War.
Korea. Vietnam....Iran. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Etched in my memory. My father--a Korean War veteran. My brother--Selective Service Draft Number 30, save Conscientious Objector status.
Iran. Iraq. Afghanistan.
Blurred to my attentiveness. Avoided that I might be not submissive--not submissive to War's Clutches.
Pacifism. Pacifist.
I am grounded in "Pacifism." Yes, my name is "Patricia--Patty." Yet, I call myself a "Pacifist."
Most call "pacifism" a common noun. Proper to me, "Pacifism--Pacifist" are proper nouns.
I resist temptations to respond to Rage's White Noise. Yet, piano, and violin notes, CNN's words dissolve my resistance--call me to form my thoughts--call me to express my words.
Gun Control. Not enough. I want more--much more. No one speaks of Gun Abolition. Is such too extreme?
Gun Control. Some advocate. Others can legislate. Some can enact. Yet others may judge. I shall reflect. Gun Abolition.
Let us restore civility. Not just for today. Not just for this week. Not just for this Presidential campaign. Let us restore civility beyond measure of time.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Enablement. Pity. Transformation.
Tonight I acted such as I do rarely. I disentangled myself from my enablement--enablement of an acquaintance. Her lifetime. Horrible abuse. Justifiable anger. Deep pain.
I minimize no one's abuse--I minimize no one's pain. Each of us have been given our own challenges.
Our charge--our human dictate--is to transform our abuse--our pain--whatever its severity, whatever its source may be, into constructive motivation to live toward our future. Though I may sound so, I am not Pollyanna's advocate--I am not her apologist.
We may not transform our pain at the cost of another's life.
"There, but by the grace of God, go I." "I contribute, or act charitably on behalf of those less fortunate than I."
Both reek of arrogance, unwillingness to understand the essence of transformation, to name but two.
Enablement. Pity. Transformation.
Enablement. A noun. Give (someone or something) the authority or means to do something.
Pity. The feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others.
Do not get me wrong. Sorrow and compassion are of tremendous comfort to me at moments of life's challenges.
What I do not abide by is the rotten smell of eggs--the dripping of molasses--that protects pity's pearl.
Tonight I was overcome. A rotten egg. The molasses. It oozed out of my earpiece. No longer could I digest the eggshells thrown in my direction. I had to speak.
Transformation. A thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance.
As someone who strives to live by the example of Jesus--living a life transforming, wallowing has no place--my wallowing, or other's wallowing.
Wallow. (to wallow) (of a person) indulge in an unrestrained way in (something that creates a pleasurable sensation.) [Boldface in original text.]
Unfortunately, wallowers do not recognize their own indulgences. Unfortunately, people living transforming lives mistake their own transient enablement, and pity for their lives imbued with sorrow, compassion, and joy. Such transience is normal--such transience is necessary to us mortal beings..
I pray I may--we may all--call out those people who wallow in their abuse and pain. I pray I may--we may all--affirm the transforming lives of the People of God who surround us.
I minimize no one's abuse--I minimize no one's pain. Each of us have been given our own challenges.
Our charge--our human dictate--is to transform our abuse--our pain--whatever its severity, whatever its source may be, into constructive motivation to live toward our future. Though I may sound so, I am not Pollyanna's advocate--I am not her apologist.
We may not transform our pain at the cost of another's life.
"There, but by the grace of God, go I." "I contribute, or act charitably on behalf of those less fortunate than I."
Both reek of arrogance, unwillingness to understand the essence of transformation, to name but two.
Enablement. Pity. Transformation.
Enablement. A noun. Give (someone or something) the authority or means to do something.
Pity. The feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others.
Do not get me wrong. Sorrow and compassion are of tremendous comfort to me at moments of life's challenges.
What I do not abide by is the rotten smell of eggs--the dripping of molasses--that protects pity's pearl.
Tonight I was overcome. A rotten egg. The molasses. It oozed out of my earpiece. No longer could I digest the eggshells thrown in my direction. I had to speak.
Transformation. A thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance.
As someone who strives to live by the example of Jesus--living a life transforming, wallowing has no place--my wallowing, or other's wallowing.
Wallow. (to wallow) (of a person) indulge in an unrestrained way in (something that creates a pleasurable sensation.) [Boldface in original text.]
Unfortunately, wallowers do not recognize their own indulgences. Unfortunately, people living transforming lives mistake their own transient enablement, and pity for their lives imbued with sorrow, compassion, and joy. Such transience is normal--such transience is necessary to us mortal beings..
I pray I may--we may all--call out those people who wallow in their abuse and pain. I pray I may--we may all--affirm the transforming lives of the People of God who surround us.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
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...
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...
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Prayer...A Nascent Transformation...
The Hail Mary.
Shall we pray? Sister Immaculata proffered.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
And, blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Pray for us,
Now, and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
Seat of wisdom, pray for us.
The prayer was a reverential invitation to understand words new to me. I was never sure whether the words were, "Seat of wisdom, pray for us," or, "Seed of wisdom, pray for us." Yet, somehow, that detail did not matter. Both Seat and Seed confirmed a nascent transformation yet to be lived.
Hail Mary, Full of Grace.
As inexplicable as the Hail Mary's beauty on my first hearing 30 years ago is its beauty today. Whenever an ambulance passes by me, the Hail Mary comes to my ears. I do not recite it at other times. Yet, at the moments of urgent need--the need of others--the Hail Mary is given to me to utter.
I have no Rosary beads. I do not know the Rosary. I do not pray the Rosary. Not by my judgment of its value. Rosary has been in my vocabulary for nary three decades. Maybe in seven more decades, I will know the Rosary. Maybe in seven decades I may pray the Rosary.
Others better versed than I 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 is given, and fears assuaged. Blessed by and with a faith-filled worship community, and Christians who care deeply about the heart and soul--far 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? A precious mystery to be lived, not feared.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Verbal Abuse
Recently, I heard myself to say that verbal abuse, and sexual abuse are not the same. I abhor little. Yet, abuse of any form, I abhor--tremble away from. I cannot speak to sexual abuse from first-hand experience. I know one, maybe two individuals whose lives have been touched--violently touched--by sexual abuse. Hostility, and submissiveness, respectively, make it difficult for me to address with compassion my friends' experiences.
Hostility, and submissiveness are common responses to sexual abuse. Yet, I do not feel I may address the issue with the respect it deserves.
For those reasons, I direct my ponderings to what I do understand from life experience. Bullying. Verbal abuse.
I do not feel the piercing sting--the deep pain--inflicted by Palsy Patty, and the mimicking of my bent right arm in my face during my childhood. It was not everyone--each of my peers, or every day of my life. Yet, I never knew the moment, when the bullying would attack.
My only response was to identify the words I could speak--the explanations I could give--that would make other kids understand why I looked different.
I do not understand. Contrary to each and every belief of everyone I knew, I knew that all I needed to be given were the words--the explanations--that would make people understand. I knew that I could create the understanding that did not exist--in which kids and parents were not willing to engage.
Compounding the verbal abuse---the lack of understanding--of my peers was the attitude--the belief--of adults that bullying--verbal abuse--was nothing more than a phase kids go through. No credence was given to the notion that the self-esteem of the kid being teased was not a phase that would be outgrown. No credence was given to the notion that the nurturing of positive self-esteem was essential--the positive self-esteem of kids who were being teased. I understood. Yet, far deeper than the physical disability I had, I was disabled from enlisting the support of my parents, the parents in my neighborhood, the authority figures--principals, most teachers, and counselors--people who I thought were supposed to know better.
I do not understand quite where my conviction came from--my belief that I could nurture understanding, if only some one of these adults would give me simple, logical, reasonable, understandable words, and explanations. Nascent faith, perhaps? I do not know. All I do know, is that in eight grade, I made a commitment to myself--I did not have a sense of God, or that might be what I might call it--to dedicate myself to work toward nurturing the understanding that I did not experience. It took me years to understand--to identify--what form my missionary work might take. Writing? That seemed the most likely to me, yet, I had no notion of what my outlet would be. My self-confidence--my introversion--did not lend itself to speaking, or assuming any leadership positions.
1978. College. A staff member asked if I was interested in serving on a campus-wide "Handicap Awareness Committee." Bingo. While people close to me did not understand my involvement, my dedication that precluded the studying I should have been doing, I knew better. I knew that if there was any hope of my making any meaningful contribution to society, I needed to work through the issues
Pervasive though my paralyzing fear was--fear that others would criticize me, and my actions--I assumed leadership of the Handicap Awareness Committee. I was driven by the knowledge that I was pursuing my missionary work. No trips to Central America for me. My missionary work was right at home.
My missionary work was being carried out. I spoke to education students at a college in South Dakota. I nurtured understanding in future teachers of the necessity of nurturing understanding, and building self-esteem. I shared the transcript of the speech I gave with parents in my neighborhood. I took the necessary risk of building understanding--of communicating to them what I had not been able to do twenty years earlier.
Palsy Patty died. No longer would she have negative, hurtful power over me. I do call upon her when communicating understanding, and compassion are my call to do.
"There goes another gimp," spoken by a coworker, who must have seen someone behind me with a walking disability, called the spirit of Palsy Patty to me in an instant. Gimp is not a word I use to describe myself. Gimp is not a word worthy of my speaking--reflective of the respect of other individuals I am called to express--to or in regard to any other human being.
Verbal abuse is not the same as sexual abuse. Yet, they do share an untenable violation of the human spirit.
Verbal abuse. Hostility. Anger. Submissiveness. Others may choose to respond in such spirit. I cannot respond in such a spirit. [In the heat of political debate, and hyperbole, name-calling of the individuals with opposite convictions is unthinkable. Yet, far too often, that seems the norm.] It is not a matter of whether I will not respond so. My will is not in question.
Verbal abuse. For a lifetime, I have been called to nurture understanding, build self-esteem, and most importantly separate actions from the individuals responsible for their commission. Verbal abuse--name calling. Physical proximity has no part in the commission of verbal abuse. I abhor the infliction of any derogatory word on the basis of different beliefs, or actions.
When I asked my father why the kids were teasing me, he said, with deep love, "There is nothing you did wrong, it is something wrong with them." Emotionally, I did not question his love. Yet, I could not reconcile how something could be wrong with the kids teasing me. Young as I was, that seemed an untenable response. An eye for an eye?
Verbal abuse. Bullying.
Thank God, bullying is finally getting its due in the United States. It has taken us until suicides rooted in sexual orientation-based situations for society to take bullying seriously. Suicides are the sad impetus to take seriously a grievous violation of the gifts of being human.
Verbal abuse. Bullying.
Whatever the subject may be, whoever the object may be, I cannot so engage. Such is my missionary work. I do so act. With Compassion. With Joy. With Resolution.
Verbal abuse. Bullying.
How do you respond? Do you erect physical boundaries? Or, is defamation limited to those human beings within your earshot?
Hostility, and submissiveness are common responses to sexual abuse. Yet, I do not feel I may address the issue with the respect it deserves.
For those reasons, I direct my ponderings to what I do understand from life experience. Bullying. Verbal abuse.
I do not feel the piercing sting--the deep pain--inflicted by Palsy Patty, and the mimicking of my bent right arm in my face during my childhood. It was not everyone--each of my peers, or every day of my life. Yet, I never knew the moment, when the bullying would attack.
My only response was to identify the words I could speak--the explanations I could give--that would make other kids understand why I looked different.
I do not understand. Contrary to each and every belief of everyone I knew, I knew that all I needed to be given were the words--the explanations--that would make people understand. I knew that I could create the understanding that did not exist--in which kids and parents were not willing to engage.
Compounding the verbal abuse---the lack of understanding--of my peers was the attitude--the belief--of adults that bullying--verbal abuse--was nothing more than a phase kids go through. No credence was given to the notion that the self-esteem of the kid being teased was not a phase that would be outgrown. No credence was given to the notion that the nurturing of positive self-esteem was essential--the positive self-esteem of kids who were being teased. I understood. Yet, far deeper than the physical disability I had, I was disabled from enlisting the support of my parents, the parents in my neighborhood, the authority figures--principals, most teachers, and counselors--people who I thought were supposed to know better.
I do not understand quite where my conviction came from--my belief that I could nurture understanding, if only some one of these adults would give me simple, logical, reasonable, understandable words, and explanations. Nascent faith, perhaps? I do not know. All I do know, is that in eight grade, I made a commitment to myself--I did not have a sense of God, or that might be what I might call it--to dedicate myself to work toward nurturing the understanding that I did not experience. It took me years to understand--to identify--what form my missionary work might take. Writing? That seemed the most likely to me, yet, I had no notion of what my outlet would be. My self-confidence--my introversion--did not lend itself to speaking, or assuming any leadership positions.
1978. College. A staff member asked if I was interested in serving on a campus-wide "Handicap Awareness Committee." Bingo. While people close to me did not understand my involvement, my dedication that precluded the studying I should have been doing, I knew better. I knew that if there was any hope of my making any meaningful contribution to society, I needed to work through the issues
Pervasive though my paralyzing fear was--fear that others would criticize me, and my actions--I assumed leadership of the Handicap Awareness Committee. I was driven by the knowledge that I was pursuing my missionary work. No trips to Central America for me. My missionary work was right at home.
My missionary work was being carried out. I spoke to education students at a college in South Dakota. I nurtured understanding in future teachers of the necessity of nurturing understanding, and building self-esteem. I shared the transcript of the speech I gave with parents in my neighborhood. I took the necessary risk of building understanding--of communicating to them what I had not been able to do twenty years earlier.
Palsy Patty died. No longer would she have negative, hurtful power over me. I do call upon her when communicating understanding, and compassion are my call to do.
"There goes another gimp," spoken by a coworker, who must have seen someone behind me with a walking disability, called the spirit of Palsy Patty to me in an instant. Gimp is not a word I use to describe myself. Gimp is not a word worthy of my speaking--reflective of the respect of other individuals I am called to express--to or in regard to any other human being.
Verbal abuse is not the same as sexual abuse. Yet, they do share an untenable violation of the human spirit.
Verbal abuse. Hostility. Anger. Submissiveness. Others may choose to respond in such spirit. I cannot respond in such a spirit. [In the heat of political debate, and hyperbole, name-calling of the individuals with opposite convictions is unthinkable. Yet, far too often, that seems the norm.] It is not a matter of whether I will not respond so. My will is not in question.
Verbal abuse. For a lifetime, I have been called to nurture understanding, build self-esteem, and most importantly separate actions from the individuals responsible for their commission. Verbal abuse--name calling. Physical proximity has no part in the commission of verbal abuse. I abhor the infliction of any derogatory word on the basis of different beliefs, or actions.
When I asked my father why the kids were teasing me, he said, with deep love, "There is nothing you did wrong, it is something wrong with them." Emotionally, I did not question his love. Yet, I could not reconcile how something could be wrong with the kids teasing me. Young as I was, that seemed an untenable response. An eye for an eye?
Verbal abuse. Bullying.
Thank God, bullying is finally getting its due in the United States. It has taken us until suicides rooted in sexual orientation-based situations for society to take bullying seriously. Suicides are the sad impetus to take seriously a grievous violation of the gifts of being human.
Verbal abuse. Bullying.
Whatever the subject may be, whoever the object may be, I cannot so engage. Such is my missionary work. I do so act. With Compassion. With Joy. With Resolution.
Verbal abuse. Bullying.
How do you respond? Do you erect physical boundaries? Or, is defamation limited to those human beings within your earshot?
PeaceNext...Intimate...Self-Disclosure...
During the 1960s, long before the advent of the World Wide Web, and social media, my parents involved our family in a foreign exchange program of social workers--the Twin Cities International Program--TCIP. Mom and Dad served as a host family to Knut from Denmark, Ilsa from Austria, Jun Bok from South Korea, and a man, whose name I believe was Daniel. These three men and one woman stayed with us during four years before I was ten. Knut seemed old to me, although he was probably 50:) Mature may be a more apt description than old. He was tall with balding light brown hair. I remember he gave me a book of Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tales. I think Mom and Dad still have the book. It has been many years since I have read the book. It is fairly small book with an ivory cover, and a picture on the front cover. Then there was Ilsa. Her father carved wood. Mom and Dad still have a shallow wooden plate with the names of my parents, my brother, sister, and me, carved around the edge. My parents have it mounted on the wall at the top of the bookshelves in their library. I can think of no more treasured symbol of our family. I do not remember much about Daniel, other than that he was from Italy. Jun Bok. Ah yes, Jun Bok. He was a borderline operator--definitely a character. He gave my parents at least one bottle of tabasco sauce. More memorable was his observation of my dad trying to assemble a new Weber grill. Dad was having the difficulty inherent to any item with the instructions, "Some assembly required." After watching Dad struggle for quite some time, Jun Bok said, "American technology. Nothing works." Jun Bok returned to South Korea many years ago. I do not know what has happened to him. Yet his words live on in my memory.
Each of the individuals we hosted, in addition to individuals from all around the world--not just Europe and Asia--who visited our home and attended a number of pool parties my parents hosted broadened my childhood horizons. Although I have not kept up with any of the individuals--a sad reality of life--I do bring from that experience openness to, and individuals from other countries.
I treasure the perspectives I have been given when I have spent time with individuals from other countries while at home, or when I have visited other countries. I will always remember with great fondness the conversations I had with a number of individuals from Norway while I spent nine days as a graduate school course. The Norwegians I met apologized to me for their poor English speaking skills. Such was not the case. My understanding of Norwegian was rudimentary at best. Yet, my love of the country--the fjords, the brisk air--is difficult to describe.
Now I find my connections to individuals in other countries through the World Wide Web--through e-mail, and social media. A skeptical eye is given to social media. I would warn against brandishing all social media outlets on the basis of how some individuals on some sites choose to use the sites.
PeaceNext. I am an incorrigible pacifist. Some say pacifist is synonymous with weakness, in a pejorative sense. I beg to differ. My interest in ecumenism led me to the PeaceNext website. The subtitle following the "PeaceNext" website title says, "Council for a Parliament of World Religions."
How, as someone raised to believe that there is good to be found in all world religions, could I pass up the opportunity to explore a network committed to integrity in nurturing constructive dialogue. Slowly I find myself open to friendship from around the world.
Some hesitate to engage in online networks of any form due to concerns for security, or personal disclosure. Others hesitate to engage in discussions of religion--it is too personal. Well....On one level--on an intellectual level--I understand. I respect the right of other individuals to not so engage.
Yet....yet....I cannot follow suit. It was not until this moment that I understood why. I am not a Bible-thumping woman on the street corner trying to force beliefs down people's throats. I try to be more subtle than that.
Long before I understood the intellectual nuances--the spiritual dimension--of engaging in social communities rooted in integrity, such as PeaceNext, I was confronted with the reality of bodily engagement. Not physical combat. No. Misunderstanding of my bent right arm, and my limping right leg led my peers to tease me. Kids mimicking my bent right wrist of my face was, "Palsy Patty." I was called to make myself understood--to make myself palatable in the eyes of people who met me.
No one may endanger me. My exterior is deceiving. As my sister says of me, "I don't worry about Patty out on the streets, I worry about the people who encounter her."
My life calls me to unequivocal self-disclosure. If I do not share of myself--if I do not reach out to other people-what am I living to do? I am called to find opportunities, such as PeaceNext, and other in-person, and online forums for the sharing of diverse perspectives dedicated to deeper understanding, and transformation.
Each of the individuals we hosted, in addition to individuals from all around the world--not just Europe and Asia--who visited our home and attended a number of pool parties my parents hosted broadened my childhood horizons. Although I have not kept up with any of the individuals--a sad reality of life--I do bring from that experience openness to, and individuals from other countries.
I treasure the perspectives I have been given when I have spent time with individuals from other countries while at home, or when I have visited other countries. I will always remember with great fondness the conversations I had with a number of individuals from Norway while I spent nine days as a graduate school course. The Norwegians I met apologized to me for their poor English speaking skills. Such was not the case. My understanding of Norwegian was rudimentary at best. Yet, my love of the country--the fjords, the brisk air--is difficult to describe.
Now I find my connections to individuals in other countries through the World Wide Web--through e-mail, and social media. A skeptical eye is given to social media. I would warn against brandishing all social media outlets on the basis of how some individuals on some sites choose to use the sites.
PeaceNext. I am an incorrigible pacifist. Some say pacifist is synonymous with weakness, in a pejorative sense. I beg to differ. My interest in ecumenism led me to the PeaceNext website. The subtitle following the "PeaceNext" website title says, "Council for a Parliament of World Religions."
How, as someone raised to believe that there is good to be found in all world religions, could I pass up the opportunity to explore a network committed to integrity in nurturing constructive dialogue. Slowly I find myself open to friendship from around the world.
Some hesitate to engage in online networks of any form due to concerns for security, or personal disclosure. Others hesitate to engage in discussions of religion--it is too personal. Well....On one level--on an intellectual level--I understand. I respect the right of other individuals to not so engage.
Yet....yet....I cannot follow suit. It was not until this moment that I understood why. I am not a Bible-thumping woman on the street corner trying to force beliefs down people's throats. I try to be more subtle than that.
Long before I understood the intellectual nuances--the spiritual dimension--of engaging in social communities rooted in integrity, such as PeaceNext, I was confronted with the reality of bodily engagement. Not physical combat. No. Misunderstanding of my bent right arm, and my limping right leg led my peers to tease me. Kids mimicking my bent right wrist of my face was, "Palsy Patty." I was called to make myself understood--to make myself palatable in the eyes of people who met me.
No one may endanger me. My exterior is deceiving. As my sister says of me, "I don't worry about Patty out on the streets, I worry about the people who encounter her."
My life calls me to unequivocal self-disclosure. If I do not share of myself--if I do not reach out to other people-what am I living to do? I am called to find opportunities, such as PeaceNext, and other in-person, and online forums for the sharing of diverse perspectives dedicated to deeper understanding, and transformation.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Relax...A Time for Joy. A Time for Sorrow.
The premise of Patty's Ponderings is to reflect on the fast-paced, deadline-driven world in which we live. My disclaimer? I am no longer in the work world. Sometimes, I feel guilty that I am not offering my nephews an example of a good work ethic. Yet, as my mom says, going swimming--strengthening my right arm, and preserving my right ankle as much as is possible--is my job. I do not mean that my swimming is drudgery, as the work world often seemed to me to be. My swimming is challenging. Yet, it is rewarding--very rewarding.
But, I digress.
This morning, I went to work. Zoomer and I left to swim at the YMCA. Fifteen minutes after leaving home, she and I arrived at the pool,. During those 15 minutes, I encountered two people engaged in my pet peeve--engrossment in their electronic devices. First, a man in his twenties stood at the end of a switchback--an accessible ramp--engrossed in a conversation with someone. Later in our travels, Zoomer and I met up with an attractive, blond woman dressed in a gray business suit, and a fuchsia blouse. The blond businesswoman's head was buried in some electronic device. Zoomer is my silent business partner. Thus, while the electric wheelchairs of some people make noise that alerts people to their presence, such is not the case for me. The businesswoman was so engrossed in her electronic encumbrances that she did not see me coming. I spoke up. We parted ways.
Such encounters lead me to wonder--to ponder. What is so important that we miss in our surroundings--people, beauty, and all that life offers? What do we miss because of the magnetism of electronic devices? Complaints are made that no one has time to relax anymore. I challenge the premise.
No one has time to relax anymore? No. That is wrong. They do--we all do. It is a choice.
I confess that I am addicted to my computer. I communicate with individuals living on other continents. But, as much time as I spend sitting at my computer, I am not its slave. Though my contact with people is radically different from my working days, such is not all bad. I make choices. Essential to engaged living is circulating with people every day. Circulating without tether of wires, ear plugs, or other such appendages. Be it the grocery store. the Y, the Children's Museum, or wherever I find myself, full attentiveness to the people I encounter, meet, and know is vital. May I help them? May they help me? May we share our joy? Or are we called to share our sorrow. Joy is not happy. Sorrow is not sad. Happy and sad are nothing more than superficial ways of gasping for air. Joy and sorrow call us to inhale...to exhale--to live fully.
Take time. Take the time. Read Ecclesiastes 3:1-15.
But, I digress.
This morning, I went to work. Zoomer and I left to swim at the YMCA. Fifteen minutes after leaving home, she and I arrived at the pool,. During those 15 minutes, I encountered two people engaged in my pet peeve--engrossment in their electronic devices. First, a man in his twenties stood at the end of a switchback--an accessible ramp--engrossed in a conversation with someone. Later in our travels, Zoomer and I met up with an attractive, blond woman dressed in a gray business suit, and a fuchsia blouse. The blond businesswoman's head was buried in some electronic device. Zoomer is my silent business partner. Thus, while the electric wheelchairs of some people make noise that alerts people to their presence, such is not the case for me. The businesswoman was so engrossed in her electronic encumbrances that she did not see me coming. I spoke up. We parted ways.
Such encounters lead me to wonder--to ponder. What is so important that we miss in our surroundings--people, beauty, and all that life offers? What do we miss because of the magnetism of electronic devices? Complaints are made that no one has time to relax anymore. I challenge the premise.
No one has time to relax anymore? No. That is wrong. They do--we all do. It is a choice.
I confess that I am addicted to my computer. I communicate with individuals living on other continents. But, as much time as I spend sitting at my computer, I am not its slave. Though my contact with people is radically different from my working days, such is not all bad. I make choices. Essential to engaged living is circulating with people every day. Circulating without tether of wires, ear plugs, or other such appendages. Be it the grocery store. the Y, the Children's Museum, or wherever I find myself, full attentiveness to the people I encounter, meet, and know is vital. May I help them? May they help me? May we share our joy? Or are we called to share our sorrow. Joy is not happy. Sorrow is not sad. Happy and sad are nothing more than superficial ways of gasping for air. Joy and sorrow call us to inhale...to exhale--to live fully.
Take time. Take the time. Read Ecclesiastes 3:1-15.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Losing a Life
Little leaves me speechless. Tonight I read an e-mail message saying that a 32-year-old woman, who was a part of my worship community, was murdered. I know no specifics. I did not have the privilege of knowing Carolyn.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
Today, I spoke at length with several people. Both women are legally blind. One woman is hostile at the world for all that has befallen her in her life. The other woman contributes to society from the root of her blindness.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
Hostility....cynicism....pity....
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
I listened to pity-filled, cynical, hostile woman for nearly two hours. I abhor pity. I cringe at cynicism's crust. I hate hostility.
Pity, cynicism, and hostility need not hover over the woman's spirit. I pray for the woman. She speaks of resurrection--belief in transformation. Yet, personal transformation--willingness--must go before resurrection. No magician's black hat, and wand. Personal transformation.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
I cannot--I will not--invest my brief life in hostility, cynicism, or pity. Certainly not all three.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
In hopes of nurturing some infinitesimal seed of transformation, I offered \a litany of personal challenges. A glimpse of what is possible, if only personal willingness is sacrificed for a greater good.
I do not know. I may never know. Did my litany of personal challenges pierce her self-pity, her crust of cynicism, and her heartfelt hostility. My style is not to meet self-pity with self-pity. That is not my style. Frankly, most of the time, I do not think of my personal challenges to be such, I have my moments as any other human being. Yet, until I meet someone who does not surmount their own--does not try--I must challenge them. Yet, at times, I must offer my litany as a hope-filled offering--a wake-up call. I slowed the pity, silenced the cynicism, and halted the hostility. But, for how long?
The second woman I spoke with today is a different spirit. We are alike in our abhorrence of self-pity. We disavow ourselves of cynicism's temptation. We have no time for such wallowing. Hostility? We have no hours to harbor hostility.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
We understand challenge. We surmount it, when possible. We claim no perfection.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
Carolyn, I am sorry I did not know you.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
Today, I spoke at length with several people. Both women are legally blind. One woman is hostile at the world for all that has befallen her in her life. The other woman contributes to society from the root of her blindness.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
Hostility....cynicism....pity....
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
I listened to pity-filled, cynical, hostile woman for nearly two hours. I abhor pity. I cringe at cynicism's crust. I hate hostility.
Pity, cynicism, and hostility need not hover over the woman's spirit. I pray for the woman. She speaks of resurrection--belief in transformation. Yet, personal transformation--willingness--must go before resurrection. No magician's black hat, and wand. Personal transformation.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
I cannot--I will not--invest my brief life in hostility, cynicism, or pity. Certainly not all three.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
In hopes of nurturing some infinitesimal seed of transformation, I offered \a litany of personal challenges. A glimpse of what is possible, if only personal willingness is sacrificed for a greater good.
I do not know. I may never know. Did my litany of personal challenges pierce her self-pity, her crust of cynicism, and her heartfelt hostility. My style is not to meet self-pity with self-pity. That is not my style. Frankly, most of the time, I do not think of my personal challenges to be such, I have my moments as any other human being. Yet, until I meet someone who does not surmount their own--does not try--I must challenge them. Yet, at times, I must offer my litany as a hope-filled offering--a wake-up call. I slowed the pity, silenced the cynicism, and halted the hostility. But, for how long?
The second woman I spoke with today is a different spirit. We are alike in our abhorrence of self-pity. We disavow ourselves of cynicism's temptation. We have no time for such wallowing. Hostility? We have no hours to harbor hostility.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
We understand challenge. We surmount it, when possible. We claim no perfection.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
Carolyn, I am sorry I did not know you.
Life is a gift. It is a fleeting gift.
Friday, January 13, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Advocating or Proselytizing
Advocate. Proselytize. Convert.
This week, proselytizing, and advocacy came to the fore. When is proseltyzing appropriate? When do we advocate? How do we do so effectively?
Proselyte. Greek word, proselytus means "convert to (Judaism), stranger, one who has come over."
Open to beliefs diverse from my own, I do call for a foundation. Respect. Patty's Prerequisite. Respect. Mutual respect.
Several years later, a similar seeking. A far different result. I was more mature. My search was on solid ground. A foundation was laid. Respect. My prerequisite met. Mutual respect.
The YMCA's poolside proseltyzing was unprovoked. Yet, I was called to advocate for my own beliefs--my own needs.
Advocate. Latin. Ad- to, + vocaere, to call, related to "vocem" (...voice.)
This week, proselytizing, and advocacy came to the fore. When is proseltyzing appropriate? When do we advocate? How do we do so effectively?
Proselyte. Greek word, proselytus means "convert to (Judaism), stranger, one who has come over."
First, a proselyte appeared. In the YMCA's (Young Men's Christian Association's) poolroom. The intended audience? My personal trainer. I was not privy to their conversation. My clues? A Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages. The personal trainer, held captive to the
What was I called to do? What am I called to know before deciding to act? From what past life experiences may I discern today's experience? Several.
Common to teenagers, I sought out a willing proselyte in junior high school. Questions addressed, if not answered. Bible study sessions. Context. My response? A conversation with the pastor--Mark. My creekside chidhood home would suggest a conversion blessed by water. Such was my family's fear. Have no fear. Clear to me, this was not the time, this was not for me. At the creek, with respect, I made clear, this was not my conversion's time--this was not my conversion's place.What was I called to do? What am I called to know before deciding to act? From what past life experiences may I discern today's experience? Several.
Open to beliefs diverse from my own, I do call for a foundation. Respect. Patty's Prerequisite. Respect. Mutual respect.
Several years later, a similar seeking. A far different result. I was more mature. My search was on solid ground. A foundation was laid. Respect. My prerequisite met. Mutual respect.
The YMCA's poolside proseltyzing was unprovoked. Yet, I was called to advocate for my own beliefs--my own needs.
Advocate. Latin. Ad- to, + vocaere, to call, related to "vocem" (...voice.)
How was I called to advocate--to advocate effectively?
I was not privy to the words exchanged between the proseltye, and the personal trainer. My only clue--a Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages.
My choices? Two. Proselytize? No. I had no reason to address the proselytizer. She was not talking to me. She was gone. Advocacy? Yes. The trainer.
Advocacy. To call for what? How?
My feelings? Anger. Frustration. Disappointment. Determination.
Convert. Latin word, convertere, 'turn around, transform,' from com- 'together' and 'vertere "to turn."
I was not privy to the words exchanged between the proseltye, and the personal trainer. My only clue--a Bible--a hand pointing to biblical passages.
My choices? Two. Proselytize? No. I had no reason to address the proselytizer. She was not talking to me. She was gone. Advocacy? Yes. The trainer.
Advocacy. To call for what? How?
My feelings? Anger. Frustration. Disappointment. Determination.
Convert. Latin word, convertere, 'turn around, transform,' from com- 'together' and 'vertere "to turn."
Open to beliefs diverse from my own, I do call for a foundation. Respect. Patty's prerequisite. Mutual respect. Some may call my optimism--my positive nature--to be syrupy. Yet, I prefer to think of it as an invitation to me, and to others to seek the best opportunity to transform something disappointing, bad, or whatever, into a positive situation.
In terms of the proselytizer and my personal trainer, I have a positive outcome to share. In the pool, I kicked my anger, and formed a constructive e-mail message stating my feelings, my intention to cancel our next session, and go back to my swimming routine. Surprisingly, my direct approach caught the trainer's attention. In a positive manner. She understood how she could have handled the proselytizer differently. She understood that I deserved her attention. Barb expressed a desire to be more attentive. We will meet again.
In terms of the proselytizer and my personal trainer, I have a positive outcome to share. In the pool, I kicked my anger, and formed a constructive e-mail message stating my feelings, my intention to cancel our next session, and go back to my swimming routine. Surprisingly, my direct approach caught the trainer's attention. In a positive manner. She understood how she could have handled the proselytizer differently. She understood that I deserved her attention. Barb expressed a desire to be more attentive. We will meet again.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
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."
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.
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.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Being a Follower
I have never considered myself to be a mindless follower. The appointment of a priest new to our parish community last July put that to a test. I was not familiar with the priest by name, although most everyone else seemed to be. I did not know what to expect.
Fears before the appointment were that a very conservative priest would be assigned to our parish community. I did not engage myself in the fear. I had a choice. I vetoed the worship of doom. I feared the tailspin such engagement might engender in me more than I did the appointment of a conservative priest. Not for any high-minded reason. I could not afford to do so.
The tension between fear and physical health is greatly underrated. Physical calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. Physical calm.
With the July, 2011 announcement all fears were allayed. So would seem the end of the story. The liberal...no...the spirit of engagement--engagement of the mind, spirit, and Body--would continue. Case closed.
Well...not so fast...
The priest joined the community--the priest became pastor to our community.
Whew! We are safe.
Well...not so fast...
Symbolic of the affection for the new priest is a woman, who was a member of the previous parish to which our priest pastored. Some refer to her as a "groupie." I have not met her. I know little more than the back of her head. Yet, she came in hopes of hearing the words, and receiving Holy Communion from this priest. After she satisfied that hunger, she left. Or so it seems.
It is easy to scorn her. Tempting to say, "Move forward. Welcome the priest, who pastors your parish now."
Well....not so fast...
Hospitality is not closing the door on someone on the basis of geographic boundaries. Our parish is enriched immeasurably by the geographic diversity that is the fabric of our community.
The "groupie" puts a question to me, "Are you listening to all of his words, and attending to all of his pastoral actions?" Or, "Are you getting up, walking out, and closing your ears and eyes to what you do not want to see or hear?"
It is tempting to do nothing more than "Like" what he, or anyone else in the Church, or community might say, in order to be in good standing. Yet, I find myself trying not to end with a Like link click, but, trying to begin with the Like link, and seeing where it leads me.
Where do I take it? What do I do with it?
Sunday, October 23, 2011
An Invitation
This morning, I greeted a woman at Cabrini, whom I have known by face for many years. I, like many others, have dismissed her as having much noteworthy to offer. In a parish--a faith community--with so many social justice activists, this woman has been overlooked. I am not proud of that fact.
This week, I looked on the Cabrini website. I was taken for a moment to see a beautiful picture of the front of our church. Who took the picture? You guessed it. The woman overlooked by many. I was given the opportunity to express how much I enjoyed the picture.
I was touched. In many ways, I was moved. She was clear. She knew that people did not like her, per se. She explained that she had been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. Her feelings--her experience of other people--were clarified. Awkwardness in communication.
She expressed frustration. "At least with you, they can see your disability." She asked me about it. I explained the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck five times, and the resultant cerebral palsy. Yet, I conveyed genuine understanding of her frustration. I explained my epilepsy to her. We talked.
She spoke of determination to continue working--the desire of supervisors that she stop working.
I encouraged her to continue taking pictures.
I learned a lot this morning. I have been dismissive of her prayers for the Minnesota Vikings football team, at various points. I did not view this woman to be someone, who was driven by social justice issues per se. Fleetingly, I have asked myself, "what draws this woman to Cabrini."
This morning, the priest, known for being outspoken on controversial issues offered a clue. He juxtaposed recent objections to his outspokenness with the deaths--the wakes, and burials--of an 11-year-old girl, and an adult. He needed to leave early to attend to the services for those individuals. He said the message of this week's events to him was that we needed to be more about love.
That may sound trite. Not new, or earth-shaking. Yet, in those moments this morning, it was clear. His outspokenness is not pursued for its own sake. His outspokenness was--is--deeply felt.
He invited us to pray for a more loving archdioceses.
This week, I looked on the Cabrini website. I was taken for a moment to see a beautiful picture of the front of our church. Who took the picture? You guessed it. The woman overlooked by many. I was given the opportunity to express how much I enjoyed the picture.
I was touched. In many ways, I was moved. She was clear. She knew that people did not like her, per se. She explained that she had been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. Her feelings--her experience of other people--were clarified. Awkwardness in communication.
She expressed frustration. "At least with you, they can see your disability." She asked me about it. I explained the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck five times, and the resultant cerebral palsy. Yet, I conveyed genuine understanding of her frustration. I explained my epilepsy to her. We talked.
She spoke of determination to continue working--the desire of supervisors that she stop working.
I encouraged her to continue taking pictures.
I learned a lot this morning. I have been dismissive of her prayers for the Minnesota Vikings football team, at various points. I did not view this woman to be someone, who was driven by social justice issues per se. Fleetingly, I have asked myself, "what draws this woman to Cabrini."
This morning, the priest, known for being outspoken on controversial issues offered a clue. He juxtaposed recent objections to his outspokenness with the deaths--the wakes, and burials--of an 11-year-old girl, and an adult. He needed to leave early to attend to the services for those individuals. He said the message of this week's events to him was that we needed to be more about love.
That may sound trite. Not new, or earth-shaking. Yet, in those moments this morning, it was clear. His outspokenness is not pursued for its own sake. His outspokenness was--is--deeply felt.
He invited us to pray for a more loving archdioceses.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Where is the Middle???
I find myself in the middle of a different search for information. The search is new to me. I am accustomed to the search for information regarding my epilepsy, and seizures most prominently. Brain damage and cerebral palsy to a lesser degree. Although all four are intertwined. My search is for how to be of compassionately informed support to someone, who is academically familiar with the medical condition he faces now as he looks in the mirror.
With some, the temptation is to throw facts, and information--research--at them to help them contain their condition into a manageable form. With others,, the temptation is to offer pity. Sometimes, that is manifest in Poster Children to attract justifiable support for individuals with the condition, and for research. On a personal level, pity well may be uncertainty, and discomfort, as to how to address the situation. Most tempting, and most frightening to me is the offer to cure or to heal someone by mystical powers.
Most helpful to me with regard to my seizures, epilepsy, cerebral palsy and brain damage is a balanced approach.
I don't seek to be cured, or to have never had brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. I cannot roll back history. Such is a waste of precious energy. I prefer to seek insights--to how to live an insightful life--on the basis of my brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. To some degree, I have known that since eighth grade.
I don't know how to be of help. Facts, and information are readily available. Pity is against my religion--pity that is closed to the possibility that more constructive responses are available. Healing by means of mystical powers frightens me.
I do make a distinction between healing by means of magical waving-of-a-wand means--full healing--and prayer. The distinction is difficult to articulate. Sometimes, the words may be the same, yet the tone is different--completely different. I know it when I hear it--when I feel it. I try to respond, so as to increase the likelihood of more compassion in the future.
So, where does that leave the man facing a medical condition new to him personally? We have known one another for a lifetime. We respond similarly to much of what I have described--research, pity, cures, and healing by mystical powers. I find it difficult to articulate the nuances in prayer that exist.
I am leery of the support that consumer organizations can, and do provide. I am not saying that they serve no useful purpose. My concern is that the support--their expressed mission--is aimed more at publicizing research, and raising funds for the continuation for that research. Both, essential.
Where is the spiritual element of support? Where is the spirituality of the human body in this discussion? Often, the triangle, body, mind, and spirit," is discussed. Of the three, most often, body and mind are linked. Similarly, mind and spirit are linked.
Yet, body and spirit seem miles apart. I don't know precisely how to articulate it. Maybe if I did--if we were willing to--articulate the relationship between the two, we might get beyond some ghost-in-a-white-sheet mentality of the body and the spirit.
With some, the temptation is to throw facts, and information--research--at them to help them contain their condition into a manageable form. With others,, the temptation is to offer pity. Sometimes, that is manifest in Poster Children to attract justifiable support for individuals with the condition, and for research. On a personal level, pity well may be uncertainty, and discomfort, as to how to address the situation. Most tempting, and most frightening to me is the offer to cure or to heal someone by mystical powers.
Most helpful to me with regard to my seizures, epilepsy, cerebral palsy and brain damage is a balanced approach.
I don't seek to be cured, or to have never had brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. I cannot roll back history. Such is a waste of precious energy. I prefer to seek insights--to how to live an insightful life--on the basis of my brain damage, cerebral palsy, epilepsy, and seizures. To some degree, I have known that since eighth grade.
I don't know how to be of help. Facts, and information are readily available. Pity is against my religion--pity that is closed to the possibility that more constructive responses are available. Healing by means of mystical powers frightens me.
I do make a distinction between healing by means of magical waving-of-a-wand means--full healing--and prayer. The distinction is difficult to articulate. Sometimes, the words may be the same, yet the tone is different--completely different. I know it when I hear it--when I feel it. I try to respond, so as to increase the likelihood of more compassion in the future.
So, where does that leave the man facing a medical condition new to him personally? We have known one another for a lifetime. We respond similarly to much of what I have described--research, pity, cures, and healing by mystical powers. I find it difficult to articulate the nuances in prayer that exist.
I am leery of the support that consumer organizations can, and do provide. I am not saying that they serve no useful purpose. My concern is that the support--their expressed mission--is aimed more at publicizing research, and raising funds for the continuation for that research. Both, essential.
Where is the spiritual element of support? Where is the spirituality of the human body in this discussion? Often, the triangle, body, mind, and spirit," is discussed. Of the three, most often, body and mind are linked. Similarly, mind and spirit are linked.
Yet, body and spirit seem miles apart. I don't know precisely how to articulate it. Maybe if I did--if we were willing to--articulate the relationship between the two, we might get beyond some ghost-in-a-white-sheet mentality of the body and the spirit.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Stop Bullying: Speak Up Pledge
We all have the power to stop bullying by getting involved and performing simple actions that can make a difference in others' lives. Together we can create a community that is committed to ending bullying. So join me in taking the pledge to Stop Bullying: Speak Up today.
Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge
http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup
I urge you to take the Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge today.
Whether it be with children, teens, adults--whatever the age--our words matter. It does NOT matter whether or not we know the individuals. EVERYONE deserves basic, human respect. Suicides have resulted, and self-respect damaged over feelings regarding sexual orientation, disabilities, and appearance, to name a few, that have been used as justifications for bullying. Please take this pledge.
Expedite necessary action. First, press http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup. Second, press the Take the Pledge icon. Third, add your name. Fourth, press the Like button. Identify yourself as a teen or an adult. Share the Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge with your friends.
Further action may be taken, if you so choose. First, you may add a Comment to your Pledge Signature. You may join groups of others concerned. Other options are offered on the Stop Bullying: Speak Up Facebook page.
Most powerful are the words you speak--the words you tolerate. Actions you take--actions you tolerate matter as well.
Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge
http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup
I urge you to take the Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge today.
Whether it be with children, teens, adults--whatever the age--our words matter. It does NOT matter whether or not we know the individuals. EVERYONE deserves basic, human respect. Suicides have resulted, and self-respect damaged over feelings regarding sexual orientation, disabilities, and appearance, to name a few, that have been used as justifications for bullying. Please take this pledge.
Expedite necessary action. First, press http://www.facebook.com/stopbullyingspeakup. Second, press the Take the Pledge icon. Third, add your name. Fourth, press the Like button. Identify yourself as a teen or an adult. Share the Stop Bullying: Speak Up pledge with your friends.
Further action may be taken, if you so choose. First, you may add a Comment to your Pledge Signature. You may join groups of others concerned. Other options are offered on the Stop Bullying: Speak Up Facebook page.
Most powerful are the words you speak--the words you tolerate. Actions you take--actions you tolerate matter as well.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)