Fear of the Lord???

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom. ...The fear which is the first step to wisdom is the fear of being untrue to God and to ourselves. It is the fear that we have lied to ourselves, that we have thrown down our lives at the feet of a false god.
     Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude. (New York: Farrar, Strauss, Giroux): 73


Fear???  I understand a deep sense of awe that, if honored, paralyzes any impulse, on my part, to act unwisely.  I understand the deepest of tragedies that emerges when we lie to ourselves--"when we have  thrown down our lives at the feet of a false god."
     Yet, I cannot reconcile fear with any motivation I might have to act in wisdom.  I am not motivated to seek wisdom in the sense of fear that resides in the pit of my stomach.
     Is my understanding of fear inconsistent with its common definition--with its derivation?  Questions of word derivation lead me to the convenient knowledge the Online Etymology Dictionary affords me.  Here is the entry given for fear:
     Fear (v.) O.E. faeran "terrify, frighten," originally transitive (sense preserved in archaic I fear me).  Meaning "feel fear" is 14 c. Cognate with O.S. faron  "to lie in wait," M.Du. vaeren "to fear," O.H.G. faren "to plot against," O.N. faera "to taunt."
     Awe, perhaps?  Am I shirking moral responsibility, if I opt to live in awe in the stead of living in  fear?  The Online Etymology Dictionary offers the following offers the following derivation of awe.
     c.1300, earlier aghe, c.1200 from a Scandinavian source, cf. O.N. agi  "fright," from P.Gmc. *agiz (cf. O.E. ege "fear," O.H.G. agiso "fright, terror" Goth. agis "fear, anguish," from PIE *agh-es- (cf. Gk. akhos "pain, grief"), from base "agh-" "to be depressed, be afraid"...
     The overlap between fear and awe surprises me.  The sun setting in the northwest sky outside of my home is the best summation of awe that I know.
      I have been blessed to touch--to feel--the texture of awe.  There is a depth to pain, to grief, and to anguish that calls for growth.  I do not seek out pain, grief, or anguish, for its own sake.  Yet, when it comes knocking, I must come to the door.  I must answer the call.
  Yet, for now, I do not know any more than when I first read the passage from Thomas Merton.  How do I advocate for my belief, if I cannot articulate it more clearly?  I fear I do not know.

Neat Handwriting

     "Based on the handwriting, I know it is yours.  But, I have no idea what the paper says," my high school teacher said offhandedly.
     I laugh.  What else can I do?  What can I say?  I love school. I want to do well.  How hard did she try to read my handwriting? Is it just an excuse?
     I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"
     ...
     I have had a wonderful weekend at Lake Superior.  How can I express my thanks for our time at Bluefin Bay?  A poem!  Yes, a poem.  Ode to Bluefin.
     The words flow from my mind.  While on the bus home, I craft the poem in my handwritten words.  Carefully shaped letters.  Carefully drawn between my ode's stanzas?  Hand-sketched bluefins.
     The words are written.  The bluefins sketched.  The ode complete.  My gift is ready to present to Mom.
     "Thank you for the poem.  I want you to know, I typed the poem, 'Ode to Bluefin,' and I framed it."
      I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, can you tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"
     ...
     Diagnosed.  Intentional tremors.  Cerebral palsy.  Diagnosed.  Long-term disability.  Certification questionnaire.
     "Itemize what you do from the time you wake up, until you go to bed at night."  "Address the envelope, and return it to our office."
     "I will type the form, so that my handwriting does not interfere in the message of my need."
     "No, complete the form in your handwriting, so that they may see your need."  Such was the essence of my family's advice.
     I don't mean to be--I don't want to be--defensive.  But, can you tell me, "What constitutes neat handwriting?"

Poster Cures

     I do not ask for cures--not for poster cures, at least.
     Poster children may raise money for research.  Research leads to cures.
     Yet, poster children play on other people's guilt.  Poster children are perched on the pinnacle of, "she is worse of than you are."
     Research is very worthwhile--it is a necessary endeavor.
     Yet, how do I reconcile poster children--their pinnacle--with the benefits they bring to research.  How can we reconcile poster children with the benefits they enable through research.
     Cures do nothing to address PAST anguish.  Cures ignore anguish of today.  I cannot seek cures at the cost of other's pain.  I may not hide between emotions of sorrow or pity.  I may not hide behind the pain others feel.
     Maybe...just maybe...if I raze the roadblocks of pity and sorrow each day, I may help another person to alleviate their pain--the pain of this day, of this moment.
     I may not hide behind "underprivileged--behind "those who are worse off than me." 

Mermaid Chronicles: Katy Lyons

     In the 1960s, a woman with graying brown hair wrapped in a bun, and horned-rim glasses came into my life.  Each week, Katy Lyons parked in our driveway, and carried a green and black exercise mat to our basement.  For an hour, she stretched my right leg.  Under the pot lights in the basement, she laid the groundwork for a stronger leg on which I could stand.  Katy flexed my right foot, and my right hand.

    With her firm hands, Katy gave me a gift.  A muscular yawn.  To my foot.  To my right hand.  A gift was given--a muscular yawn.  It felt so good.  The muscular yawn came slowly.  Yet, when it came,  oh, it feel so-o-o-o good.

     As any kid, I wanted little part of Mom's directive, "Do your exercises."  Memorable to me was the exercise to sit on the hearth in our living room, and propel myself up to a standing position using my right hand and arm.  Although the exercise felt good when I did it, I bored of it quickly.

     Where is my hearth? 

     This morning, this Mermaid entered the pool at the Y.  Buoyant bar bells, and hand paddles were beyond  temptations I could resist.  The only resistance I felt was from the water.  Amazing.  Absolutely amazing.  With the bar bells, I could push my right arm straight down in the water.  Feeling my right arm extended straight was amazing.  Absolutely amazing.

     Katy Lyons.

     I thought of Katy this morning.  What would she say?  How fun it would be to share it with Katy.  Yet, Katy died in the 1990s.  An occupational therapist I met with several years ago knew Katy.  The therapist and I spoke with warmth about a woman, who dedicated herself to children.  Katy dedicated her life to helping kids stand tall--to stand proud--to stand with appreciation.

     Thank you, Katy.

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.

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? 

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.