An open letter to all those who were forced to endure Catholicism Pre-Vatican II from a "conservative young person"

I smile and nod politely when you talk about how we need to appreciate priests, all priests, even if we don't agree with everything they say or do. We should be grateful to have a priest.

I nod and murmur my agreement because I do, in fact, agree. A priest is a gift to a congregation. A man who has given his life to Christ to serve Christ's flock. To give us the sacraments. To provide us opportunity for confession, to celebrate the Mass.

I am grateful for priests. I am grateful for their sacrifices. I am grateful for their fiat.

But then you start complaining about the "young conservative priests" who just don't understand what it was like for those who had to live through the time before Vatican II... all that Latin and stuff. 

And I get very confused why you don't seem grateful for them, why you instead insult their orthodoxy.

I'm not a priest. So I can't speak for the young priests who I pray for, who I am so very grateful for, who are rediscovering and upholding the traditions of the Church.

I can tell you that as a millennial Catholic, I was raised in the hey-day of "Vatican II" Catholicism.

I was raised with experimental liturgies outside in the woods. With changing the words for the distribution of communion... at the whim of the liturgical committee for that particular mass. With a sign of peace that took longer than the entire Eucharistic Prayer. 

I was raised to see that as the epitome of Catholicism.

And, I have to tell you, it left me feeling empty. It left me searching. It left my heart restless. And then slowly, I began to discover the riches of the Faith, the traditions of our Church. The hidden treasures that seem to have been cast aside years ago.

I was raised with no incense at Mass, no "smells and bells". My parish was "modernized" when I was a small child, the crucifix replaced with an organ. The tabernacle at some point moved off the altar.

I don't remember the time before those changes. I do remember people leaving our parish in frustration with the changes. I remember years afterwards of my dad coming home stressed after another contentious parish council meeting. I remember him and my mom talking about how another family had left our church to go to the other parish, or a different church entirely.

Yet, even though I prefer more traditional style churches, I include the driver of this change in my prayers. I thank God for his service. I remember the joyful look in his eyes during Mass, and I never question his devotion.

I similarly never question the joy and clear love of my fellow parishioners who like guitar mass, who like the folksy music. If that allows them to worship and draw closer to God, then I will sing with joy beside them. I will be glad that their faith is enriched. I will sing loudly to support a quiet cantor. I will do my very best to help you grow in your faith in any way I can. Because we're a parish family, and while we may have differences in preference, our goal is the same- to worship God and grow in our love of Him that we might better know, love and serve Him in this life that we may be with Him in the next.

Here's the thing though. That last sentence I typed was one I was never taught. I loved church for my entire childhood. I went to every religious ed class, and just generally liked all things church related. When I got my Bible in 7th grade, I read it cover to cover, because that seemed like the right thing to do. I could answer all the questions posed at religious ed. And so, somehow, I managed to think I was supposed to be able to find all the answers. But I couldn't. I couldn't even figure out that basic "know, love and serve God." If anything, I would have said that our purpose was to love our neighbor, and to radiate Christ to them. Well... yes... that's a part of it. But the first part of the Great Commandment? 

I didn't understand that, and nothing in the people centered liturgy pointed that out to me. 

Over the last few years, I've finally started learning. And I've gotten past most of my initial feelings of hurt that none of this was ever taught to me. Most. Because for the most part, I can see it as a wonderful blessing that the young, orthodox- seeking, Catholic-nerd people of my generation have to desire and want these things. We have to go out of our way to experience what your generation had the opportunity to pray daily. But your generation, for whatever reason, must not have understood the reasons that my generation can give for the older traditions.

I can understand your desire to have a close encounter with God. I desire that too. 

I can understand your desire to improve the world around you. I desire that too.

I can understand your desire to ease the suffering of the poor, the sick, the outcast. I desire that too.

I also desire a liturgy that will lift my heart, mind and soul above the present moment. Above this earth. I desire a liturgy that will be deafening loud in the quiet of my heart. I desire a liturgy that will challenge me not to stay as I am, but to push me to become a saint.

And I experience that most in the Extraordinary Form. In the ageless chant. In the whispered Aves and gentle clicking of my rosary beads against the pew before Mass. In those moments, I start to get a glimpse of what it means to have a communion of saints, worshipping God in the same Mass here on Earth that John sees in heaven. In those moments, I am challenged to grow, to love God better. To learn more about Him. To be in awe in His presence. To go out and serve Him in the world.

I don't remember what it was like then. From what you've told me, it must not be anything like what I experience.  From the anger in your voice, I think it must have left you feeling empty, as the experimental woods liturgies left me. It must have left you seeking more. I hope you found it.

If your preferred liturgical methods of worshipping inspire you to love God and serve Him in love through your service to your through your neighbors then I'm truly glad you have that experience. Please be glad for me too and support my faith journey. We're in this together, after all, seeking that same common goal of heaven.

But... it's in Latin...

A funny thing has happened over the last few years. My heart is slowly being converted. I say it's funny, because in a single instant my life changed. But the process of becoming holy. Well... that's a road that winds onward, with the destination visible but the path twisting and winding through unseen bends.

It's also somewhat strange for me this year, because I have had a really hard time pinpointing any spiritual growth, persay. As if I've settled into a comfortable routine of prayer and Mass... and reading and writing. And I grow frustrated at my lack of progress. And complacent in my journey. And I teeter back and forth between those two thoughts, both full of pride and not faith. And then... well.. I see it. Small. Tiny baby steps. Tiny little steps where I'm teetering and falling and teetering and falling again. But somehow, I keep being pulled back up on my feet.

I'm learning to ask for help. To ask for mercy. To ask for forgiveness. I'm starting to see just how deep the sin runs into my heart. And, in turn, to see just how merciful and loving God is.

I've been hearing a lot, recently, about pondering things in our heart. About discerning God's purpose for us, with the gifts He's given us, and the crosses we carry.

And in the middle of this pondering through Advent, and then Christmas, I went to the "Old Mass" (as I once heard a kind and wonderful priest refer to the Extraordinary Form) ... again. I've been a few times, maybe twenty or so over since the first I attended in January 2013. And I've always found it beautiful, full of reverence. But I struggled to see where the love was in it. I struggled to enter into the beauty I saw. 

It was carefully and reverently done, with great love of God. The music was nice. The vestments had so much care taken with them. The ceremony was beautiful, but it seemed just that... foreign to the way I was used to worshipping.

Intellectually, I knew better. I studied the words of the Mass. I read the rubrics. I sought Scripture and found it there, present in front of me. Yet, still, I was confused.

I kept going, each time the opportunity presented itself, convinced in my head that this was right and true, and a gift. Yet still, I never left with the same sense of quiet peace I experienced after a usual daily Mass.

And then I went again. And each of my objections... the ones I hadn't been able to quiet in my head despite studying and reading and finding answers, they each feel away. 

I couldn't determine why. I couldn't figure out what had changed. The very parts I had found confusing, that I was discomforted by were now the ones I missed at the next Novus Ordo Mass I went to. The chanting of the Word. The inaudible whispers of the priest. The facing of priest and people towards God, together in prayer and worship.

A week before I would have said that it was strange to proclaim the Word twice. That the Mass would make more sense if we could hear the words of the priest, clearly. That the purpose of the Mass being in Latin was for it to be in a universal language.

Yet, at this Mass, I heard God's love proclaimed in the inaudible words of the priest. Not trying to entertain a congregation, he was allowed to focus on God, to speak quietly. To speak God's presence into mere bread. The priest was allowed to be in awe. And in so doing, he allowed us the same grace.

For what is the natural response to Love, to Beauty? What is the response to beholding our Lord?

If for moments where we glimpse mere mortal greatness our response is to draw quiet, how much more should we quiet ourselves before our Lord? If when we behold mortal love our response is to quiet ourselves and look in awe, how much more in the presence of Love itself?

The silence is shocking, deafening. And it's meant to be that way. The shock of quiet doesn't mean we need to be louder to try to drown out the awe. Perhaps instead it's the opportunity to draw close, to look, to ponder in our hearts something greater than what words can tell.

And yes, that quiet is reverential. It prevents us from getting too "comfortable" in the presence of our Lord and God. It prevents us from drawing into such a routine that we forget the awe. That we forget the mystery. That we forget to ponder as Mary did. That we forget the Mass isn't about us and what we get from it.

So... that's what I'm hoping to do more of this year. That's my one New Year's resolution for 2016. To make time for the quiet, and the pondering. To put my books, and reflections and rote prayers to the side and sit in the uncomfortable and comforting, disquieting silence of God. To humbly offer God my praise... with empty hands and no words to offer Him, no thing to offer Him but myself. To strive to say my yes to Him each day, to voice a fiat from my heart.

Softly and Tenderly, Jesus Is Calling...

As I was listening to one of my favorite artists, Audrey Assad's newest soundtrack, a collection of hymns yesterday, I put one song on repeat. I let it cycle through, four or five times, until I was able to sing and focus on the words.

"Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling, calling for you and for me. Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling, calling for sinners to come home."

And the words started to sink in a little bit. And they began to resonate with some other things I've been thinking about, well, all summer.

The call of every Christian to evangelize. And how, well, I don't think we're being very successful right now.

Last spring, I read one of the most challenging, and page turning books I've ever read. It made waves a few years ago, but I finally got around to reading it during the Easter season last year. I finished the last page, and turned back to the first. This time with a pen ready.

Sherry Weddell's Forming Intentional Disciples made me think through a lot of things. Most of it had me nodding my head in agreement. But there was part of it throughout that left me unsure. And that part was the most important part.

I knew it was the most important part, even without the author having mentioned that repeatedly. She called that the kerygma.

Most of us would know it as the Good News.

So, here I am, cradle Catholic who always "did all the stuff' and desperately wanted to "do everything right" at church all through high school. The girl who had people comment when after a particularly intense week at a Catholic summer camp was so lit up and on fire that it was noticeable to pretty much everyone that something had changed.

Then college happened, and I let my faith life die so far down that I wasn't even sure I had one. But here's the kicker. I still "did all the stuff". I happily said I was Catholic, went to mass a couple times each week, sang in the choir, participated in Bible studies, went on retreats, taught religious ed for a year, and served as an Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion nearly every week.

In th midst of that, my dad passed away suddenly. It was like the bottom piece of a Jenga tower had been pulled out, but somehow, everything was still standing. So I kept on, pretending everything was completely fine.

I began my first year of teaching, confident that I would be able to do everything independently and stubbornly, just like I'd always done. Confident that I would be able to balance everything, and to continue to hold that breath that was keeping the Jenga tower from crashing down.

Well... I didn't quite succeed in that.

Through none of those four years of college or my first year back in Ottumwa would I have ever said I wasn't seeking God. I would have said that I was. I was going to church, and I was still "doing all the things". Well... except for that one thing. The praying thing. It had been a good long while since I had done that in any way more than saying words. My last entry in the prayer journal I had started for college was written a couple weeks before my dad passed away. I started a couple different journals, each time writing one entry and then casting it to the side. I wanted God. But I didn't really think he wanted me. After all, I was doing all the things. Why wasn't He answering that cry?

All of a sudden, I was unable to hold my breath. Well, maybe it wasn't so sudden. Maybe I'd been holding my breath for over two years. But I finally had to let out that breath. I finally had to feel again. I finally had to stop the doing, and let God.

In a simple moment on a cool spring night, I felt God's grace wash over me. And for the first time in years, it wasn't me, doing. It was me, receiving.

Ready for the kicker? A year or so later my best friend asks me what the most important part of my faith is. And I turn around in the middle of the street, and I stare at her. Because even after that year of healing, even after a year of learning about my faith and throwing myself back in, and actually starting to pray, I still didn't get it. I was on fire for God. But I still couldn't answer that most important question. "Jesus," I mumbled. But inside my heart, I didn't know how to answer. Why? Why was Jesus so important? He changed my life, yes, but how? How did I encounter Him? How did He continue to work in my life?

I didn't have the answers.

All I knew was that I was supposed to know.

When I read Weddlel's comments on sharing the kerygma, I was back in that street again. Looking down at the shadows of the streetlight, not quite sure how to answer. The kerygma? The mystery? The Good News? What Good News? My life has changed. But how?

So... fast forward to yesterday and today. And the last few months as I've been studying how to evangelize. Pope Francis' trip to the US, the upcoming Year of Mercy. How does this all fit in?

This morning when I listened to my daily reflection, it focused on the Gospel of today- Luke 11:37-41.

After Jesus had spoken,
a Pharisee invited him to dine at his home.
He entered and reclined at table to eat.
The Pharisee was amazed to see
that he did not observe the prescribed washing before the meal.
The Lord said to him, “Oh you Pharisees!
Although you cleanse the outside of the cup and the dish,
inside you are filled with plunder and evil.
You fools!
Did not the maker of the outside also make the inside?
But as to what is within, give alms,
and behold, everything will be clean for you.”

The reflection talked about the importance of doing things with our hearts, and not just on the external. Yikes.

When I got to Mass after school, the first reading from Romans 1:16-25 was even harder to ignore.

Brothers and sisters:
I am not ashamed of the Gospel.
It is the power of God for the salvation of everyone who believes:
for Jew first, and then Greek.
For in it is revealed the righteousness of God from faith to faith;
as it is written, “The one who is righteous by faith will live.”

The wrath of God is indeed being revealed from heaven
against every impiety and wickedness
of those who suppress the truth by their wickedness.
For what can be known about God is evident to them,
because God made it evident to them.
Ever since the creation of the world,
his invisible attributes of eternal power and divinity
have been able to be understood and perceived in what he has made.
As a result, they have no excuse;
for although they knew God
they did not accord him glory as God or give him thanks.
Instead, they became vain in their reasoning,
and their senseless minds were darkened.
While claiming to be wise, they became fools
and exchanged the glory of the immortal God
for the likeness of an image of mortal man
or of birds or of four-legged animals or of snakes.

Therefore, God handed them over to impurity
through the lusts of their hearts
for the mutual degradation of their bodies.
They exchanged the truth of God for a lie
and revered and worshiped the creature rather than the creator,
who is blessed forever. Amen.

Wow. Leave it to St Paul to hammer it in even deeper.

The love part has to come first, because God has to come first. When we do it on our own, we will never be able to do more than the motions, because our heart isn't Christ's heart unless we give Him our heart.

We need to change the way we evangelize. We need to stop looking at people and judgementally saying, "you sinner- we can fix you. Follow this plan." We need to humbly start looking at ourselves first. Our first words should give praise and glory to the goodness of God, the mercy of God, the love of God, that we have experienced. We need to tell the story of how we are being sanctified. Isn't that how one of the most popular hymns of all time tells the tale?

Amazing Grace... how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but now I see.

Putting God first in our story doesn't mean that we change the actions. Rather, it gives meaning to the actions, a purpose to the reverence, and reminds us that we are only strong in Him. that we are weak. It is humbling, and in so being humbled, we are made whole and uplifted. Because our God, seeing His child ready to receive His grace wastes not a second of pouring it into to our open hearts, our open ears, our open mouths, our open hands.

So, rather than complain of the problems of the world, that have always been there, will always be there, and are there to draw us out of the world and into our Creator's arms, we should speak the life that is in us, and share the love that fills us. Not from pride, but from humility and joy. Not from our strength, but to share the news that God has come! That He is Risen!

It is only when we realize that the problems of the world are a reflection of the sin in our hearts, that we can begin to root out the evil. As long as we are pointing fingers, as long as we are viewing ourselves as having all the answers, we will never be able to love. We need to give charity freely to all, in our words and actions, and focus our judgement on our own hearts. Do justice, love freely, speak the truth. Live as Christians. Acknowledge our own faults and work to fix them.

And that's the story that needs the telling. The story of how Christ wants to save us each as He sacrificed for all, if only we will let Him in. The story of a sinner, once lost, now daily lifted up by God, a God who calls out each day so that each can respond again. Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling. To you... and to me.

Rejoicing when I don't want to

It seems there's so much wrong in the world right now, and in our state, and country, and town, streets, neighborhoods, and classrooms, that is frustrating. So much injustice. So much hurt. So much blame to go around.

So much bothering me right now- babies being slaughtered, people being killed, people being hurt, people hurting in so many ways, that I was finding it really hard to pray today.

I just wanted to shout at God that it wasn't fair.

And that's when I was reminded that He knew that. That He knew it wasn't fair. That His Heart was broken, too, and that He didn't understand why any of His children could act the way they did. He knew, and He came into the world anyway. He came down and suffered beside us, instead of fretting and worrying and shouting from afar. He came not only to conquer death, but He came to give us hope. He walked this path in this world we live, but He walked it with no sin. He suffered beside us and along us, and so much more than us, while He was himself blameless.

He willingly choose to enter this world, knowing the hurt, the pain, the brokenness that existed. And He choose to come anyway. He chose to love anyway.

Sometimes the not being able to do anything when a loved when is hurting is just so incredibly hard to watch. Not being able to take away the pain of losing a spouse. Not being able to "do" anything when it seems that someone you love so very much is spinning a world of hurt, and has been for so long, that the person doesn't seem to notice the hurt anymore. And it's really tough when you want to shout out the help, to instead help them to learn to laugh again. It's really, really hard, to go down into the hurt. At least for me. It's so much easier to stay out of the pain and try to pretend like everything is all fine and dandy. It's so easy to be selfish.

Because in the middle of my trying-really-hard-not-to-be-angry-but-still-being-angry attitude, I heard the Psalm at mass tonight. "Let us go rejoicing to the house of the Lord." Rejoicing? When people are hurting?

Well... the Gospel had something more to say about that:

LK 8:19-21
The mother of Jesus and his brothers came to him
but were unable to join him because of the crowd.
He was told, “Your mother and your brothers are standing outside
and they wish to see you.”
He said to them in reply, “My mother and my brothers
are those who hear the word of God and act on it.”

Yes. Rejoicing. Rejoicing that God loved us enough to come and suffer beside us. Rejoicing that He told us that when we act on His word, we are His family. When we act. When we do what he did. When we go into the sad parts, and the hurting parts, and offer ourselves. And that we should rejoice because Our God does understand how hard this is.
So my prayer today ended up changing from whining to asking for the strength to push in. Even if it is just hugging someone. I need to do more. I need to step outside the selfishness of "me" and find ways to help.

The sum of the little things can outweigh something larger

Sometimes strangers can leave quite an impression.

I'm at a debate tournament this week... which means staying in a hotel, and going back and forth between other hotels with several thousand debate students, coaches and judges.

On the first day, I was cheerfully greeted by a custodian who was cracking jokes and succeeding in getting most of the people around him to smile. His joy was contagious. That was the most noticeable thing about him. The second most noticeable thing was the crucifix around his neck.

And then... seeing him again yesterday, again cheerful, again spreading joy. Again wearing the cross of Christ.

That's not the type of witness you see everyday. But that's the type of witness that makes a difference.

You see, this man's day had been made so much more difficult by the swarm of 500 people waiting to use the elevator that he also needed to use. But instead of complaining... instead of being angry, he chose to use the time as an opportunity to spread joy.

He was carrying a cross... and that's what made the crucifix around his neck stand out all the more powerfully.

He wasn't doing a mighty deed of courage, or performing some large sacrifice that would be noticed by those around him. He was offering a small sacrifice with joy... maybe so routinely that he no longer saw it as a burden. And that's what made it so powerful.

I read a powerful quote yesterday about the importance of the little things.

"A drop of rain is also a small matter; yet every rain, the heaviest as well as the lightest, is made up of drops."

Those "small drops" can sometimes be the most difficult things to do... not because of the difficulty they pose. In fact, the ease of fulfilling some of these is part of what can make it difficult. Difficult to see the importance. But without that, without the little things, the bigger things grow impossibly hard.

The little things, frequently done, add up to a lot. The great things look grand... they're things we aspire to, and see as praiseworthy. They're things we see as worthwhile. The little things are hard in their littleness. In the humility required to embrace them. The little things betray a lifetime, not a mere moment, of virtue when we see them.

And this person was able to point that out through his actions. I wish I'd thanked him for that witness, for teaching me a lesson without preaching, without thinking about it. Because in those two short encounters, I was blessed to see that little acts can be so much more powerful than great ones.

Trying to listen

This morning I was getting ready to leave for work, and opened the door to the porch only to notice a bird flying frantically around. I quickly stepped back and shut the door, not wanting to let the bird come into the house! I went out the other door, and opened the door to the porch from the outside, hoping that it would notice and fly out the door. The bird noticed the change. But he didn't fly for the open door. No, this bird flew directly... into the window. This process repeated itself several times, as I heard three or four thumps, only to look each time and see the little bird perched safely on the windowsill.

I had to leave for work, which meant shutting the door, and leaving the little bird to fend for itself.

Ok... so... entertaining story. But, then this afternoon happened.

I walked into the church after work, and, noticing that a gentleman was praying near the tabernacle, went to a pew and began to pray. A few minutes later, the gentleman left the area, beginning his usual walk around the church to pray.

A few moments later, I noticed he was standing beside me. I glanced up. "Well?" He started, then paused, looking at me. "You can have Him."

I smiled, and a moment later, got up... because yes... I did want to spend some quiet time with Jesus. But this man's act... well... that struck me profoundly.

So I went over to pray, but I had a really hard time focusing, as this encounter kept popping into my mind. When's the last time that I "let someone have Jesus"? Or do I tend to treat this relationship as one that I don't want to let others into? That I don't want to share?

As much as I SAY that I want others to have that encounter with Him, do my actions really show it?

And then the morning came flooding back to me. At first, my thoughts were just on how a bird is a beautiful symbol for the Christian people. This is particularly evident in painting from the middle ages. The tie-in to the Eucharist... especially with pelicans. A parish near me, St Mary's in Oskaloosa actually has a pelican carved into the altar. The thought used to be that a pelican would, when it couldn't offer its babies the nourishment they needed, tear into its own flesh and feed them its blood to sustain them. What appears more helpless, and is thus a better image than the way we so desperately come to our Saviour than that image of a baby bird, mouth wide open so that He can feed us from His very self? (Pelicans have always been my favourite bird... learning this legend just made them more fascinating to me!)

Pelican feeding young window

But the image of the bird crashing into the window kept popping into my mind. So I reflected on that a bit more. And as the image grew clearer, so to did the message. This bird was desperately trying to get back outside. To get out of the trap. And he was trying oh so very hard to do so. But he was only willing to fly back and forth from window to window, and not to fly out the door wide open that he didn't know anything about.

But it's so shiny and pretty! Ouch! I just want to go outside!

Yep. That sounds familiar. And that thought shook me. Because in trying to find God on my own, and not looking at the door He has opened, well, I'm bound to keep crashing into the glass. Seeing the outside, but never able to get there.

So... that door is there. And unlike me to the bird this morning, God's not going to shut the door on me and leave me alone to find my own way through it. The door will be open... I just need to find a way to stop stubbornly aiming for the window.

Set the world on fire

I wasn't intentionally pondering St Catherine's famous quote this morning because it was her feast day.

It's well known, and with good cause. This single quote seems to sum up the life and message of this mystic saint, and doctor of the Church.

St Catherine challenges all Christians to live a life of discipleship. Of radical trust and encounter. Of mission and service.

Frankly, her words should shake us. They are very bit as radical and terrifying today as they were in the 14th century. The world is different, but her battle cry to all the baptized is not.

By virtue of our baptism, we are all called to "set the world ablaze".

And we are called to do that each day. In each opportunity given to us.

Sometimes, that means speaking out.

And sharing the truth.

It always means cultivating our own interior life of prayer. It always means deepening our relationship with Christ. Sometimes, I think it's easy to get wrapped up in the things that need to be done... and it's so very easy to move the box "God" down further on the list. Maybe that's just like any other checklist I write, where the most important thing is always the thing I put off the longest. But in this case, it never postpones something, it actually slows me down with all the other things! Because the God part of life isn't separate from the rest of life.

He's there, beside us always. Even when we don't sense Him. Even when we are simply so unaware of what the lack of His presence would mean that we just continue on, blithely ignoring Who surrounds us.

Set the world ablaze. You. Me. That guy you see buying the same thing at the supermarket each Tuesday. The girl who walks with her eyes cast at the ground. The little boy playing in the pool. You. Me.

We are charged with setting the world on fire. We are charged with spreading the Gospel. Today. Each day. We can't do that without a fire in our hearts, burning with love for God. We can't do that when we choose to live lives of lukewarm complacency. We can only do that if we commit. If each day we ask God to make the fire in our hearts stronger, so that it cannot be contained.

St Catherine of Sienna, pray for us.