Re-Seeing the Church

 This is from Contemplative Outreach's August 2011 e-bulletin -- "Questions and Answers with Father Carl Arico."

Q:  Dear Contemplative Outreach:  I am so appreciative of your programs. I am a convert to Catholicism by way of my missionary time in Ethiopia and an experience at Lalibela, the hidden holyland. I returned home (because my doctor husband died in Ethiopia) and joined the Catholic Church.  I am feeling now after 15 years a sense of LACK OF JOY in the Church; I found it more in the Protestant Church. However, now once again listening to your programs, I am thinking that perhaps I am entering into a new realm of the church, that I am leaving the roteness of spiritual practices that have become somewhat empty and entering into a way to still be in the church but at a different level of practice. Or....does one really have to leave the church to find JOY in another place? I am just interested in your evaluation of this conclusion.

A:  In every relationship there comes a point when joy wanes.  It is a shock to our system.  We reach crossroads which suggest that we move ahead, go backwards or just leave and wash our hands of the relationship. These crossroads are wakeup calls and I am sure you have experienced them. These experiences can also be applied to our relationship with the Church, which I see as the mystical body of Christ.


I sense that you cannot go back to where you were and you do not have a desire to wash your hands, so lets talk about "moving ahead."  Let's describe it this way: "I have come to a point where I cannot continue as I am - there must be something more to this Church that I have not experienced. I cannot continue in this routine."  Along comes Contemplative Outreach and you begin to hear and enter into the contemplative dimension of the Church. You begin to meet spiritual masters - John of the Cross, Teresa of Avila, Thomas Merton and Thomas Keating - who speak a language that is deeply rooted in the Church tradition, but they speak it in such a way that you are beginning to hear it with new ears. They begin to speak about contemplative prayer, and a practice that you can bring into your daily life.

In hearing with new ears, you begin to look back at the practices that supported you through the years and see/experience them in a new way - the Sacraments, the Creed, the Commandments, the devotions, etc. You have heard "the rest of the story" and it has changed the way your hear with your head and with your heart.  It is not only about doing, pondering and responding, but it is also about resting, intimacy, surrender, transformation, oneness etc, etc. You get in touch with the awesome intimate mystery of it all.

Yes, you need to leave the Church in the way you have perceived her.  Now with new eyes, see her for the first time once again. Just like a relationship where you are able to see the person with new eyes and the relationship begins to grow again.


As the scriptures tells us, "I do not want your burnt offerings, I want your heart."  Therein comes the joy which has been described as an abiding sense of well-being, based on the experience of a conscious relationship with God.
- Fr. Carl

Thereminamagic

I just love the weird and sweet gorgeousness of this. That is all.

Delighting in the View

This is an essay by Gregory Boyle, the Jesuit priest who founded Homeboy Industries, an organization that provides training, jobs, and encouragement  "so that young people could work together and learn the mutual respect that comes from collaboration." It's excerpted from his book Tattoos on the Heart, a collection of essay-parables distilled from his twenty years in the barrio. One reviewer aptly describes it as an  "artful, disquieting, yet surprisingly jubilant memoir."

On an early Saturday morning, several members of an enemy gang, with faces obscured in ski masks, enter a part of the projects where they are certain to catch some rivals "slippin'." They turn a corner and see three brothers enjoying the bright early morning sun right outside their kitchen door. Clearly, the older two, Rickie and Adam, twenty and eighteen, are targets for the invading masked men, but in the frenzy of bullets flying, their twelve-year-old brother, Jacob, not from any gang, is felled, and his brothers' lives are altered immeasurably and forever.

I had known this family since 1984 and watched how, almost imperceptibly, the older brothers would dance close to the gang life and then drift back to other, safer boundaries. Eventually, they were in, and the death of their baby brother, from a bullet inscribed with other names, would be their pervasive and enduring wound for some time to come. 

I hired them both shortly after their brother was killed, and they worked in our Homeboy Merchandising division, selling T-shirts, mugs, mouse pads, and a variety of items sporting the Homeboy logo. They worked closely with enemies--even those who belonged to the gang surely responsible for their brother's death.

A speaking gig to San Francisco came up, and I invited them both--thinking a change of scenery would restore them. They were very excited but completely confounded to discover (once we were at the airport) that, well, we were going to fly and not drive. I guess I thought I had made this clear. Seeing their panic, I decide not to calm them down. Instead, I stop under the wing of the Southwest Airlines plane (at Burbank Airport you walk the tarmac and climb the steps) and stare up, with consternation. "Uh-oh," I say as they rush to my side in a breathless "What?" "What?" unison. I point. "I don't know--is that a crack in the wing, or am I seeing things?" It takes them both a while to see what I'm doing, and they say in brotherly chorus, "You ain't right." "Damn, don't be doing that."

We climb the stairs and find our seats. Rickie lets his younger brother, Adam, get "SHOTGUN" (which I suggest is usually not a thing one tends to yell on planes nowadays). Quickly they discover the laminated emergency cards in the pouch before them, and Adam thinks they're menus and that we're in a flying Denny's. "Two oxygens, please, when you get a chance," he says to the "waitress," who fortunately for all involved does not actually hear him. The pilot speaks over the intercom and drones on in his pilot cadence, "We'll be traveling at an altitude of, etc. . . thank you for flying Southwest Airlines." I shake my head with some force. "Damn, I hate that." Again they turn and begin the "What?" "What?" refrain. "It's ten a.m., and I think our pilot has had a couple of 40s already," making tippling gestures with my hand. "OK . . . cut . . . that . . . out." They seem to be catching on more quickly now.

"Well, what I want to know is, where's the parachute at?" Adam asks, searching everywhere one might search for such a thing. "Well, there is no parachute," I say, becoming Mr. Rogers on a dime. "NO PARACHUTE?" Adam squeals, a bit worked up. "Well, what we sposed ta do if THIS SHIT CRASHES?" Now I'm Mr. Rogers on Valium. "Well, I'll tell you what to do in the event of a crash." They could not be one bit more attentive. "Are your seat belts securely fastened?" They check and nod earnestly. "Okay, now lean forward." They are very compliant. "No, you have to lean as far as you can--is that as far as you can go?" They are so low, I can barely register the nodding of their heads. "Okay," I say, steady and calm as she goes, "Now . . . if you can reach . . . kiss your asses good-bye . . . cuz that's all you'll be able to do if this thing goes down." They can't even believe that their chain has been yanked so egregiously. "Que gacho, right there." "You . . . ain't . . . right."

Takeoff (as is always the case with novice homie flyers) transforms these two big gangsters into old ladies on a roller coaster. As usual, there is great sighing and clutching and rapid signs of the cross. Adam and Ricky can't take their eyes off the tiny window to their right and manage plenty of "Oh, my God's" and "This is proper." Terror melting into wonder, then slipping into peace. The peanuts and sodas are delivered, and they feel special (they were later to report to those back at the office, "They EVEN gave us peanuts!"). Then, after we climb above the bounce, Ricky pats Adam's chest, as they both look out above their own clouds, and whispers, "I love doing this with you, brother."

Life, after unspeakable loss, becoming poetry again. In this together, two brothers, locked arms, delighting in the view from up here.

Thomas Merton writes, "No despair of ours can alter the reality of things, or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always there . . . We are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the general dance." The cosmic dance is simply always happening, and you'll want to be there when it happens.

--Gregory Boyle, from Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion. New York: Free Press, 2010, pp 163-166.

Thirteen Moments from my Thirteenth Year

In honor of Friday the 13th, I offer these excerpts from entries in the diary / log I kept during my thirteenth year. (From age 12 to 13, to be more specific).

Jan. 6, 1973

Today we still had no electricity because of the ice storm. We’re one of those 30,000 homes. I hope ours comes on tomorrow. Didn’t do anything much today. Listened to the radio for a very long time and mom told me to turn it off so I wouldn’t use the batteries up. (They are used up, but she doesn’t know it.)

Jan. 12

Today I had to go to the orthodontist to see what kind of braces my teeth need. He put these metal bands on, and then, he filled this mouth piece with gooey white stuff and put it in my mouth. This way, he got the shape of my teeth. It’s gross, though.

Jan. 14

Our Siamese fighting fish jumped out of his bowl! We found him dead on the table.

Jan. 28

Well, I found out that what people called the “end of the Vietnam War” just meant the Americans were out of it. I’m still glad, though.

Feb. 15

When I went shopping I got two new records. One is “Superstition” by Stevie Wonder, and the other is “Could It Be I’m Falling In Love,” by the Spinners. Mom likes them too! She’s moving with the generation gap and has been in very good moods.

March 14

When I came home I caught an earthworm and named him Einstein. I caught him for my science class, and I’m going to take him to school tomorrow.

March 20

We had Personal Growth today. (That’s Sex Education and the emotional changes that happen). Mrs. Kinnard asked how many girls had started. I haven’t. Last summer Mom said I would start soon. It doesn’t seem that way, though. I’m sort of flat. Not as flat as when I was 3, though. I can’t wait to start!

May 24

At school today, we were about to see a movie, when it got very dark and quiet outside. Mrs. Ryan was looking out the window. Then she suddenly said, “Lou-Ann, come here!” The class started to get up, but she told us “Sit down!” Miss McGee (Lou-Ann) went over to look outside. It got very, very windy and suddenly it started hailing like mad. It got so windy, I thought we were having a tornado. The hail was as big as marbles and golf balls. It broke 3 windows – 2 in the chapel. We wanted to look out our homeroom window but they wouldn’t let us. I was scared to death!

July 5

I’m in a rut now. Marty invited me to a party and so did Pearl. Pearl’s is a boy-girl party. I’m sure I can’t go. I’m going to have to tell her.

August 1

Pearl came over to hang out and we listened to records. We read more juicy parts in the book Tomboy. Of course I have to read it in secret because I know Mom wouldn’t let me read any kind of book like this. It would probably be a rated R or X movie.

Sept. 19

Oh, you know what? We’re having a Mass for the opening of school (ha!) and since they want the “Spirit to blow in us,” they compared us to sailboats with wind blowing in them. So for Mass we have to pin paper sailboats on our uniform to remind us of the blowing Spirit! Isn’t that crappy?

In religion class I just couldn’t be serious. It was very boring.

October 23

Today Sister J.H. IRKED me – and the whole eighth grade! Today was the first day of swimming, and all the 8^th graders except Linda forgot their swimsuits. Sister automatically accused us of forgetting on purpose so we could get in more volleyball practice. We didn’t do it on purpose! We wrote a note to her and she said that was an immature way to approach this. That made me mad. Also, a Watergate hearing was on and Richard Nixon was speaking. Everyone HAD to watch it. Just because I didn’t have my eyes on the TV (I was listening to it and couldn’t see through Margaret’s big head anyway) she said, “Mary, you’re in the 8^th grade, you should be watching this!” Ooooooh!!!

Nov. 3

Whew! I’m sleeping in the den since I saw the spider in my bed last night. Good Night!

Holy Foot-Washing, Jesus!

Ten years ago I was a candidate, one of the adults to be confirmed at the Easter vigil, and I was to have my feet washed on Holy Thursday. This ritual is a commemoration of Jesus' washing of the apostles’ feet before his final Passover meal, the night of the Last Supper.

We, the catechumens and candidates, were told to wear easily removable shoes so we could quickly free our feet for the washing. A priest would be pouring rose-petaled water on our toes. Sometimes, Sister Ruth told us, the feet are kissed after being washed.

Whoa.

I thought of my crusty, rough-skinned feet—closer to hooves, really, the overgrown nails, callouses, corns, and other unnameable vegetables growing down under, wondering if I could stand to expose such horrors to a pedicurist so that I wouldn’t create an ordeal for whoever was to bear the unlucky chore of having to view, much less touch, my feet.

This was a dilemma for several of us candidates (the women, at least). We each seemed sure that our feet were the worst looking specimens of human flesh on God’s green earth, and we carefully planned our own personal cures: an extra-special pedicure at a nail salon, witch hazel and wax, fungal ointments, that Dead-Sea mud that folks use for facials, minty foot creams. My choice: a salty soak and pumice-stone scrub followed by a vaselined self-massage of both feet and light cotton socks worn all night. The finisher: a spritz of Calvin Klein Eternity perfume on my sandaled toes just before heading out to Holy Thursday Mass. If my feet were not ravishing, at least they would be made kissable by smelling like Eternity.

So it was with silently chuckling chagrin that I listened to Father Eddie's reflection about the ceremonial washing of the feet. He compared the water pouring on the feet to the Living Water of the Spirit, flowing through and quenching all the dry places in our soul that harbor shame – the memories, sins, wounds, and secrets that we want no one to see or to touch.

My carefully scrubbed and oil-softened feet were now so presentable – fuchsia toe-nail polish to boot – that they could no longer candidly represent my inner woundedness and shame. Still, the tenderness of that kiss on my foot felt like a blessing breaking through the vanity that had finally driven me – thank God! -- to treat my own woebegone tootsies with great care.

Okay: I know this isn't the most profound example of how grace can paradoxically tease out healing and blessing from shame and untouchability. But it works for me.

Some Thoughts on Good Friday, Easter Sunday, and Beyond

A reflection by Matthew Fox --

Michael Lerner has asked me to write a few thoughts about the message of Good Friday and Easter.  I appreciate his invitation, a sign of the meaning of deep ecumenism and what we have to learn from each others' faith traditions.  

To me, the “paschal mystery” of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus the rabbi is an archetypal reminder about how, as science now teaches us, all things in the cosmos live, die and resurrect.  Supernovas, galaxies, solar systems, planets, beings that inhabit our planet—we all have our time of existence and of passing out of existence.  But we leave something behind for further generations and that constitutes resurrection.  Supernovas leave elements behind in a great explosion that seed other solar systems, planets and ever our very bodies.  Every being leaves something behind as food for others—[Albert] Einstein said no energy is lost in the universe and Hildegard of Bingen said no warmth is lost in the universe.  I like to say that no beauty is lost in the universe.  The universe has a memory for energy, warmth and beauty.  Nothing our ancestors accomplished is lost—so long as we remember.  Hopefully, as humans, we leave beauty behind and wise progeny, maybe books or paintings or scientific breakthroughs or insights, or healed souls or bodies, etc. etc.  Our resurrection is very much a part of our creativity.  Otto Rank: "The artist is one who wants to leave behind a gift."

Jesus left behind the gift of his teachings, a distillation as I see it of the basic teachings of his Jewish ancestors: That compassion and justice are what link us to the Divine and that we are to look not to empires or to objects for the Kingdom of God but within ourselves and among others in community for the love that is at once our love of neighbor and our love of God, a love “that the world cannot give.”  In other words, to “all our relations.”  The fact of his being tortured and killed in a most ignominious way by the Roman Empire is a stark reminder that we do not take on the powers of darkness as our prophetic vocations require without paying a price.  But the story is that life triumphs over death, even if it has to succumb to powers of death at times and the form that a resurrected life takes is diverse.  It often surprises!

We do not die once.  We all die many times.  Life does that to us with our losses, our betrayals, our own mistakes and emptying out.  But we also resurrect on a regular basis as well.  We forgive, we are forgiven, we bottom out, we move on, we give birth anew thus that life and death are more synergetic that we usually imagine them to be.  “God’s exit is her entrance,” as Meister Eckhart put it.  The depths of the valley of death do not overcome the power of life which makes things new again.  Injustice seems to triumph so often but justice will have the last word provided we live and work for it.

To me these are some of the passages that the Good Friday/Easter Sunday archetype bring to awareness.  There is no resurrection without visiting Hades (the story is that Saturday following his death Jesus visited the underworld).  Good Friday rules for a short period.  But the longer period is the new life and the victory over death and the fear of death that Easter Sunday represents.  It is that hope that rises daily with every new sun.  Moving beyond the fear of death we can live fully again and cease our immortality projects, our empire building and pyramid constructing (wall street too) and get on with…living.  Which is sharing.  [Abraham] Heschel: “Just to be is holy; just to live is a blessing.”  Now our fear of death does not have to rule our lives.  Now we can live fully, generously and creatively.

Father James Martin on "Of Gods and Men"

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