Waiting & Becoming

Advent is often described as a time of waiting. And as a child, I was taught that we were waiting for the birth of Jesus. Such waiting was fun – full of starry nights, carol singing, and hot chocolate. When the wait was finally “over” and we returned from Midnight Mass, my mother would uncover the small figurine of the baby Jesus who was then lying in the manger with Joseph and Mary attentively watching him. The whole scene never failed to impress me: the crisp night air that embraced us while walking home from Mass, the family and friends who gathered at our home to partake in cookies, dried figs, and small glasses of Port until about 2 AM, the baby in the manger with his attentive parents and a variety of animals – many of which I’d helped arrange in the days prior to his arrival. All of this, in my estimation at the time, had indeed been worth the wait.

I have to admit that as I’ve grown older waiting is not always as much fun as it used to be. There’s waiting in line at the grocery store while the person in front of me has decided to have the price of each individual item double-checked, there’s waiting for the 86 Bus which conveniently decides to arrive earlier than scheduled causing me to have to wait an additional fifteen minutes in the 20-degree-weather before the next one comes along, and there’s waiting for papers and final exams to finally be over so that I can enjoy a bit of vacation before the next semester begins. Of course, there are also profoundly frightening moments of waiting – waiting for the results of a medical test, waiting to know if a loved one is safe, waiting to see if that person who just collapsed on the sidewalk is in fact going to be okay. I think that’s what makes waiting so difficult: it reminds us that we are never in as much control as we would like to be. And this is humbling, perhaps as humbling as God becoming human, sleeping in a manger, breaking bread with so-called outcasts, and hanging on a cross. The lesson of Advent and its waiting, I think, is not that God demands our humility, but that God shows us how to live in the midst of all the chaos (sometimes happy and sometimes sad) that is human life. It is not a passive waiting, it is not simply a call to hum along with John Mayer and wait “on the world to change.” Rather, it is a call to remember that the world has changed and is ever-changing; it changed in God becoming one of us, and it changes as we continuously become one with God.

Communion Across Centuries (and 3,000 Miles)

When I was about six-years-old, I used to love reading various books about the lives of the Saints. One of my favorite books included the story of St. Agnes. I cannot say that I was particularly drawn to her story – the words “virgin and martyr” made little sense to me then. No, it was not her sexual “purity” or willingness to die for her faith that attracted me – it was her beauty. She was portrayed by the book’s artist as an adolescent girl with dark hair and blue eyes that were simply captivating. Each time I picked up the book I quickly skipped over St. Patrick and St. Maria Gorretti to gaze upon St. Agnes and each time I felt comforted that this young woman was praying for me even if she was at a distance.

I have not thought much about St. Agnes until recently when I found myself doubting whether or not I’d made a mistake in pursuing doctoral studies. I was in the midst of wrapping a birthday gift for my godchild Isabel who turned ten (“double digits” as she likes to remind me) this month and was feeling a bit down because this would be the third birthday that I would not be able to celebrate with her. My studies at Harvard Divinity School have taken me a long way from my native California and sometimes those 3,000 odd miles seem like an endless space between beloved family and friends and me. As I wrapped Isabel’s gifts, I felt the grief welling up within me and the question of “sacrifice” surfaced. What had I sacrificed in pursuing doctoral studies on the East Coast? Time with family and friends, the comforts of familiarity, the grace of the Pacific – these, among other thoughts, came to mind. And so did St. Agnes. Her young face, piercing eyes, and the white lamb in her arms, a symbol of the sacrifice that characterized her life and name, swirled around my mind.

“Sacrifice” has always been a loaded term for me. Too many times, it has been used to sanction violence against women (and men) by claiming that such unnecessary suffering is a participation in the cross of Christ when, in fact, it is really a participation in structures of domination that are created by humans. This being said, there are moments in which we suffer the pain of sacrifice because we believe that in doing so we are enabling a greater good to emerge. For me, sacrificing my time with family and friends in California, missing yet another of Isabel’s birthday parties, is only bearable because I believe in the work that I am doing. I believe that engaging in a critical feminist theology of liberation with its vision of a world characterized by peace and justice is not simply worth these years of doctoral studies, but worth a lifetime of struggle and commitment. I believe such a world of justice and peace, such a coming of the “kindom” of God, is better than any gift I could possibly give Isabel. Such a world will probably not come around in my lifetime or even in Isabel’s, but I think that it is still worth working towards for as we work towards it we place ourselves in good company, company like St. Agnes, Dorothy Day, and Mary of Magdala. We place ourselves in the Communion of Saints where centuries, not to mention miles, cannot separate us from each other.

Currently a doctoral student at Harvard Divinity School, Pearl Maria Barros earned her Master of Theological Studies degree from Harvard Divinity School and her Bachelor's of English and Religious Studies from Santa Clara University. When not reading, writing, and researching, she enjoys visiting with friends and family, traveling, and drinking coffee.

More than Meets the Eye

About five years ago, I wrote an entry in my journal which I entitled “Being a Catholic Woman.” I was a college sophomore, a double-major in English and Religious Studies, and an aspirant in a Roman Catholic women’s religious congregation. And I was searching – searching for a place to belong within a tradition that often defined me as the eternal compliment of men. At the time I wrote, “It seems that being a Catholic woman today is to work and be unappreciated, to speak and be silenced, to love and be rejected. It is to be caught between stagnant tradition and an enriched personal experience of faith, while attempting to build the Kingdom of God through a unique vocation and a myriad of ministries. Being a Catholic woman is a constant challenge to bring the Gospel not only to all of God’s people, but also to a hierarchical and patriarchal institution.”

I think there is still some truth in those words. “Being a Catholic woman,” for me, has indeed entailed living between the extremes of speech and silence, of love and rejection. What is different for me now, I think, is that I have come to accept the space between these tensions as my home.

When I was a little younger, in fact, when I wrote that initial reflection on Catholic womanhood, I still believed (desperately hoped?) that Catholicism would open its arms to me – its feminist daughter. I thought that I might still find a home within its familiar walls, that my questions and concerns about women, ethics, God would be welcomed. But they weren’t. Instead exclusive language continues, motherhood (physical or spiritual) is claimed as the essential vocation of all women, and theologians who dare to speak-out in favor of women’s reproductive rights are threatened with ecclesial censure. It has been hard for me to continue identifying myself as a Catholic woman. Of course, most would say that I should accept the Church as it is or leave. And perhaps they are right, perhaps I should leave. But who would I be without being Catholic? Being Catholic is not some sort of temporary club membership. It is a way of life. The teachings, controversies, horrors, and graces of the Catholic Church are the lenses through which I view the world. They are a part of me. Sometimes they obscure my vision, sometimes they sharpen my sight, but in all moments they enable me to recognize that being a Catholic woman is much more complicated than what at first might meet the eye.

Currently a doctoral student at Harvard Divinity School, Pearl Maria Barros earned her Master of Theological Studies degree from Harvard Divinity School and her Bachelor's of English and Religious Studies from Santa Clara University. When not reading, writing, and researching, she enjoys visiting with friends and family, traveling, and drinking coffee.