How Do You Remember Your Patron Saint?

"Be who you are and be that well!" This was the quotation from St. Francis de Sales, the founder of the Order of the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales, that both high school and college students at my Oblate run institutions seemed to love. I was among that camp, as well. In the high school world of uniforms and schedules, pressures to take Advanced Placement courses, and participate in extracurricular activities and sports, this was the quotation that everyone who went on their mandatory junior retreat would come back stating. I do not know if Fr. McCue, the chaplain at the high school, ever realized that it would be this quotation from the patron saint that would serve as the summation of Salesian spirituality in our minds, but it did.

Even in college, this sentiment reigned. I recently talked to a good friend from college, Tiger. He and I both served on the Student Government Association and ran in a variety of crowds. In 1997 at the Oblate founded college, DeSales University in Center Valley, Pennsylvania, most of the students were from the Pennsylvania-New Jersey area. But what marked many of us was not our geographic region of origin, but the Catholic high school and the order who ran it. There were the Father Judge boys and the St. Hubert's girls, both schools located in Philadelphia and single-sex schools. Lineages from Northeast Catholic, Archbishop Ryan, and Monsignor Bonner. For everyone to be who they were meant an acceptance of diversity, at least in Catholic high school lineage. High school rivalries ceased as new identities were forged under the college banner.

Tiger and I came from the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales lineage, he from Father Judge, me from Bishop Ireton. As we chatted the other night, we found it to be no great irony that Alan, our other SGA friend-colleague for many years, went to St. Francis de Sales in Toledo, Ohio.

Tiger and I talked vividly about how "Be who you are and be it well" as a spirituality continues to live strongly in us, despite not having any formal connection to the Oblates at this time. Alan, in some ways, serves as our closest link; he joined the order and was ordained. A few years ago when I was living in Ohio, I ventured from Cleveland to Toledo to another ordination occasion. It was so strange to see him dressed in black and with a collar, and overhear women whisper, "Oh, Fr. What-a-Waste". It seems to me that a life is not wasted in becoming more fully a human person and grow to be more fully a unique individual. And just as Tiger and I both find ourselves not as closely linked to the Salesian tradition of spirituality as we once were, "Frankie D's" words still provide a homing for us to become the unique beings that we were born to be.

Kate Lassiter likes Catholic kitsch. She also likes chewy brownies and exercise balls. She can be reached at kate.lassiter@vanderbilt.edu.

Catholic Charities & Prop. 8

Like so many Americans, I owe a lot to Catholic Charities, the oldest and most active Catholic social service network in the country. Twenty years ago Catholic Charities of the Diocese of San Diego, California arranged the adoption of my younger brother. I remember the day he was brought home from the hospital as one of the happiest days of my life.

Over the past several months, groups in favor of California’s Proposition 8 – the proposition banning gay marriage in the state – ran ads exploiting the 2006 closure of Catholic Charities’ adoption agency in Massachusetts after anti-discrimination laws required that an agency receiving money from the state (which Catholic Charities does) could not discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation against any married couple seeking to adopt. Catholic Charities of Massachusetts found itself caught between its desire to assist all adoptions (especially those of hard to place foster children) and the Vatican’s prohibition of adoption by same-sex couples. The California ads argued (evidently effectively) that the only way to prevent a similar end to Catholic Charities’ adoption agencies in California was to nip the equal right to marriage in the bud.

In the midst of the passage of Proposition 8 and ongoing public outage, I have been pondering the role Catholicism has played and should play in this controversy. One option for a Catholic like me – who supports both the universal right (rite) of marriage and the good and necessary role of Catholic Charities’ adoption agencies – is to continue to fight against propositions like 8, and in the event of their defeat, hope for the privatization of Catholic adoptions. The adoption service could then continue separately from the state and in line with the wishes of the Vatican.

However, a private Catholic adoption service that defines marriage solely along official church lines still perpetuates a form of discrimination. As a Catholic I often feel myself caught in the murky tide-water between the official stance of the Vatican and what I believe I am called to do as a follower of Christ. I feel caught not because I believe I should do what the Church tells me, but because of the good the Church does do. A church should not have to choose between religious freedom and good works, but the Church must also be open to changes in the hearts and minds of all its members such as those demonstrated by the resounding cry of outrage over the passage of Proposition 8. Rather than abandon adoption work or shuffle adoptions by LGBT couples discreetly to other agencies when the Church finds its values compromised, perhaps it is the values themselves that must be reexamined. Maybe then will we as one Catholic church, gay and straight prospective parents together, truly be able to extend our arms to the needy – especially when it is homes for children that we seek.

Rebecca Curtin lives in Somerville, Massachusetts and works for the English Department at Harvard University. She always misses California, despite its political liberal/conservative split-personality.

Waiting for Advent

The new Church year is just around the corner. Soon we’ll move from Ordinary Time to the Season of Advent, from green to violet and rose, from the daily stuff of faith to four weeks charged with the feeling of hope and anticipation.

I can’t help but look forward to Advent and it’s palpable excitement as we look forward to the coming of Christ Jesus. To me it feels like those days when you wake up super early and the sky is still darker than dark. You make yourself a cup of coffee, and sit on the couch, waiting for the dawn to come and the world to wake up. That’s the feeling I have right now as I think about Advent.

As the stores start cranking out the holiday merchandise and the Christmas present pitches, I want to hang on to this feeling of anticipation, of hope and trust in the new life of Christ Jesus. While I don’t normally do a lot of holiday shopping, I think this year I might try to get all my shopping done before Advent begins. That just might help me better embrace Advent and all that the new year holds for us.

And I might just make it a habit to wake up early. This will give me a chance to spend time with two Mary’s -- Mary Oliver the poet and Mary the Mother of God. The poet because her poems from Why I Wake Early will be good morning meditations for Advent. The Mother of God because I feel drawn to walking with Mary, especially as she prepared for the coming of not only her child but to God and to new life for the world. Wow!

In what ways are you preparing for Advent?

Sister Julie Vieira, IHM, blogs regularly at A Nun’s Life (http://anunslife.org) and is trying to wait patiently for the Season of Advent to begin.

Double or Nothing

This week’s readings are weird, starting with the first. I don’t feel much related to this praiseworthy woman. It sounds pretty—I want to say hey, thanks, cool that you got around to talking about us ladies—but as you can see I’m feeling cranky.

And what about the second reading? My only encounter with apocalypse occurred one day in high school when people said the world was going to end and everyone grew giddy and stuck a sign over the mural in the chorus room, so “The Music of Our Lives” was now “The End of Our Lives.” We kept living.

By the time I get to the Gospel, I want help. My best friend doesn’t like this parable. My girlfriend thinks the master is just a jerk, until I point out that these masters usually symbolize God. “Oh,” she says. Oh indeed. What is up with Jesus lately? Last week with the whips, this week with the redistribution of wealth in a seriously non-Marxist way.

Cranky? You and me both, Jesus, and now I’m questioning myself. I don’t know my quantity of talents or if I’m investing them wisely. I don’t know if I’m a wakeful child of light, or a worthy woman, and I don’t know if I should be

I’d like to say that the bottom line in these readings is not to live in fear. To respond to God without worry about being pretty enough. To live gracefully without fear of a sudden end. To use what you have, to risk, to increase, not to bury or cower or fear a capricious master.

And it might be. But if it were, couldn’t we leave out the stuff about teeth-gnashing? Couldn’t we skip the thieves in the night? Couldn’t we just say that women helping the poor are awesome and leave out stuff about husbands and flax?

The problem is, the world still feels like a big old cipher, and sometimes scripture is just a cipher on a cipher, and sometimes it seems like a better idea to dig a hole, bury the talents, and walk away.

The problem is, no matter what I believe, there comes the day when I am left alone, with the creepy stories and the good stories running up and down my brain, when I must choose the bottom line myself.

Is that a leap of faith? Am I a faithful person? This plot of ground might have a light underneath. Or it might have a slavering sharp-toothed critter. Jesus might be going crazy, and I just don’t think I’m the kind of girl the Bible people had in mind. I wanted you to know before I ask. Should we dig? Should we invest? It might be serious—even dangerous--nonsense. Wanna play?

Rebecca Fullan is trying to write a novel in a month, and therefore cannot blame all her crankiness on Jesus, who she has to admit she quite likes, even in his moods, and she hopes such sentiments are reciprocated.

Beyond the meat and potatoes … Er, sort of

I’ve been practicing yoga with a lot more regularity lately. This isn’t my tradition. I grew up in enough of a meat and potatoes kind of town to fully understand that some people, albeit less and less every day in our increasingly Cosmopolitan world, think yoga is a bunch of hooey. I pretty much get where they’re coming from—I grew up in a pretty traditional, Catholic environment. Spirituality to me growing up was sitting in a wooden pew smoothed over from a great many sits before me, staring up at saints in colorful robes catching the sunlight from behind them, listening to the priest drone incantations way up front, staring into the glow of candles lighting the altar, talking to God in my head, on my knees.

So I don’t think I started out thinking yoga would provide some sort of profound experience. The first time I tried it was in college, in a big aerobics classroom with bright neon lights and mirrors all around. It seemed to be mostly about exercise, and muscle toning. But after a class or two of getting over the seeming silliness of it all (things like planting all fours and sticking your backside in the air) I started to have a few moments of notable expansion in my head and heart. I don’t think I articulated it much then. Yet off and on over the years, I continued to practice, with different teachers, in different environments. And now for the past year and a half I have settled on one studio, with a gentle teacher, restful lights, and simple music. And something about doing this week after week, going to the same place, moving through the same poses … the experience has steadily deepened in meaning for me.

Growing up in a Catholic gradeschool, there was a lot more ritual and routine built into my days and weeks—more, I realize now, than I’m naturally apt to build into life on my own. Mass was always on Thursday mornings in the church, music preparation on Tuesday afternoons in the gym, lunch unerringly at noon. I guess by nature I’m more prone to flighty swings in one direction or another—I’ve learned this about myself when let loose into an adult life that I can shape however I choose. But perhaps more of that habit of ritual sunk into my bones than I realized. Even though the squirmy 12 year old in me—and the ardently independent 20 something, I suppose—are a bit surprised to say so, it seems my heart and spirit start to expand and see the bigness around me a bit better when I corral them into a space I have seen many times, into movements I have come to expect, in an environment where I have met serenity before and thus have some measure of trust I can find it there again.

Kate Lucas lives in Minneapolis, MN, where she writes grants and many other communications for an international NGO that supports communities in Guatemala. She served with the Colorado Vincentian Volunteers several years ago and now scratches out poetry and knits in her free time.
Image used from: http://static.flickr.com/108/305169133_f9305a73c3.jpg

Marriage & the Book of Ruth

“Wherever you go, I shall go, whatever you do, so shall I do. Your people shall be my people and your God shall be my God too.”
Rendering of the Book of Ruth in song by the Benedictine monks in Weston Priory, VT.

Next week is my ninth wedding anniversary and I have been trying to find a way to mark the day even though my husband Chase and I will be apart. I keep telling myself that it won’t be so bad...after all this is not the first time we have been away from one another on November 13th. But this year, as was the case last year, he is in Europe and I am in New England and the distance feels even greater.

For the past few days each time I feel a longing to be with Chase or I begin contemplating my sense of loss I find myself re-reading the words of the Book of Ruth 1: 16-17. This is the passage in which Ruth commits to return with her mother-in-law Naomi to the latter’s homeland despite Naomi’s protestations. Ruth’s powerful but gentle retort is in part: “Do not ask me to abandon or forsake you! For wherever you go I will go, wherever you lodge I will lodge, your people shall be my people and your God my God.”
These words, spoken between two women, were typed—boldly—on the cover of the program for my wedding Mass and for nearly a decade I’ve turned to them in times of struggle and in times when I’ve needed to be reminded of the depth of love my God has for me. Most importantly I have turned to them to help guide the wonderfully complex journey that marriage can be. As a Catholic woman it is a joy to have this image of female friendship and compassion as a model.

Here I find an accessible image of deeply passionate union whereby the love and connection between two people allows one to embrace fully the life, the family, the nation, and the world of another. This is done not without trepidation and not without being aware of sacrifice but rather while embracing and facing head-on these very things. Ruth speaks these words to Naomi even though her promise will require her to move into foreign and unknown territory and even though Ruth risks losing her own world in the process. It is to this image of love so strong that even the unknown is not a barrier that I am drawn. In the entire Bible it is this passage and these words of fidelity and this promise of companionship that helped me first imagine and then work to craft a life in partnership with my husband.

I do not know if this exchange between Ruth and Naomi resonates with Chase the way it does with me. But I do know that on the 13th I will read Ruth’s words once more, I will most likely listen to my well-worn vinyl recording of the Benedictine monks of Weston Priory, VT singing them, and I will be praying for the wisdom and strength to live by them in the coming year. Click here for a link to the monks singing their song “Wherever You Go”. [http://www.westonpriory.org/music.html]

Elizabeth Duclos-Orsello is a mother, wife, runner, and Catholic living and working in New England where she is a professor of American Studies. She also writes for the blog “The Public Humanist."

A Lesson in Hope

“The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there.” Tears ran down my face as I drove to work on Wednesday morning. Listening again to the words of Obama’s victory speech replayed on NPR, I cried as I had the night before, with excitement that change truly is possible. I walked into the faculty lounge and joined some of my colleagues as they buzzed around the coffee pot with tears of their own. I ventured to my classroom only to throw aside my baptism lesson plans to listen to the thoughts and ideas of my students.

Understandably, the school had asked us not to disclose any political opinions in our classes, a difficult task during the weeks leading up to the election since “I can’t tell you” only seemed to ignite a wildfire of questions.

“Ms. Ma’ake, who did you vote for? We won’t tell that you told!”
“Are you extra happy this morning?”
“Did you say the Pledge of Allegiance with extra umph this morning? Ms. Katana totally did!”
“Blink twice if you voted for the person who won!”

And finally the question I had been waiting for came. “Can we talk about Prop 8?”
I was surprised that the CA initiative to ban gay marriage hadn’t already come up in class. Every hand shot up.

“Can I ask a Church question? I don’t understand how we’re taught to love everybody, but the Church isn’t really accepting of gay people.”

As difficult as it is every year when this topic arises, I was glad that they were thinking, and questioning, and beginning to form opinions. The whole class looked at me, expecting me to say we had to start the baptism chapter, but instead I asked them to put the chairs in a circle so we could discuss. It was the fastest I had seen them move all year. I reminded the girls to be respectful of each other in their comments, briefly explained Church teaching, and pointed out that the Prop 8 initiative in CA, although related, was a separate issue than the Church’s stance on homosexuality. I watched as the discussion unfolded organically – as they shared how they felt and questioned the state, the Church, and each other. I didn’t have to say much (a good thing since there wasn’t much I was allowed to say) until the very end of class.

“Ms. Ma’ake, how come gay people don’t just get frustrated and leave to form their own church where they can get married and do what they want.” Suddenly I thought back to a liturgy class I had in grad school. Frustrated with what seemed to me like ridiculous and backwards moving liturgical regulations, I asked my professor, how she could still work in her field with so much to be angry and disappointed with. I found myself giving my students the same response she had given me. “Because they love this church. Because this faith tradition belongs to them too. Because Catholicism is something many can’t and don’t want to walk away from. Because people still believe that change is possible. Because if they leave and stop pushing and questioning and educating others on the importance of pushing and questioning, who will? And then how will change ever take place?” Heads nodded, “that makes sense.”

I was struck by their understanding of what it means to treat all people with dignity and respect and equality. I was struck by their enthusiasm and youthful confidence that “when we’re old enough to vote, we’re going to change things!” I was struck by the hope they filled the classroom with. When I talk about virtues in class we spend time redefining hope and correcting the false understanding of “hope” as “wish.” Hope, instead, is envisioning a change and then putting in the difficult work necessary to make that vision a reality. I was overjoyed that my students understand and live this notion of hope. They envision a change – a more just state, Church, and world. They hope.

I don’t think the reality of how significant this moment in history truly is has hit me yet, but I left school on Wednesday renewed and more hopeful than I have been in a long time, not only because of the change that is already taking place, but more so because of the change that is on the horizon.


Tefi Ma’ake spends much of her day either laughing (internally) at the silly things her students say or pondering the profound wisdom 16 year-old girls sometime surprise her with, all the while encouraging an honest and necessary questioning of faith and Church. Currently a high school teacher and campus minister, Tefi soon hopes to pursue doctoral studies in the field of religious education and multicultural theology.

Laying Foundations

Today is the feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica in Rome. It is a feast that celebrates the building in which the bishop of Rome is seated; it is the cathedral of the diocese of Rome. The basilica and the land upon which it sits has a long history, beginning in the time of Constantine when the land was donated by the Lateran family. It is the place where popes were consecrated until the Avignon papacy in the fourteenth century. When the pope returned from France, the church and the palace were in ruins. The building we now know at the Lateran Basilica began to be built in 1646. Most Catholics think of St. Peter’s as the pope’s church, but truly it is the Lateran Basilica which is. And likewise, it is the people’s church because it is the home of Catholics worldwide.

It seems odd, then, that the Gospel reading recounts Jesus’ anger in the temple, and his promise to destroy the temple. Perhaps it is even stranger to listen to today’s reading from Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, which speaks of individuals being temples. “Brothers and sisters,” Paul says. “You are God’s building.” This Sunday then points to a creative human tension that exists: we celebrate the dedication of a building as a place that shelters and empower, heals and shepherds the people of God while also acknowledging that the power to build comes not from a physical structure and the trappings of it, but from the people who dwell in and around it.
The river that flows down side of the temple, as described by Ezekiel, does not just pool. If it did, it would become stagnant and unfruitful. Instead, it flows past the temple and waters the fruit trees whose leave and fruits serve to both nourish and heal. The people of God act the same way, then, streaming out of the basilica and into the larger world in order to promote greater healing and care for all people of the world. And yet this feast of the dedication of the Lateran Basilica gives us great pause, causing us to recall that no building can do what individuals gathered together can.

Kate Lassiter recalls laying bricks with her Dad, the handyman, when she was in 5th grade. She remembers being amused by the seeming orderliness of the lining up the bricks in a repeating pattern, while knowing that the brick sidewalk was built on a bed of sand.
Photo from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Shebli2.jpg

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.

A Civic Sacrament

The highlight of my eighteenth birthday was not buying cigarettes or getting into the clubs – it was my mother driving me to city hall so I could register to vote. No, seriously. It was February, 2001, a good three years from my first presidential election, but I had been waiting for this moment since I first knew what voting was.

The first memory I have of electoral politics was the 1988 presidential election. My mom and I lived with her parents in upstate New York. I remember the Dukakis button on my mom's pink ski coat as clear as yesterday. My Poppy told me that he wasn't just a Democrat, he was a union member, and that meant an awful lot in deciding who to vote for. It was then that I couldn't wait to be part of the excitement of making the big decisions about the future of my country. Since that formative moment, politics has almost been like a religion to me. My childhood idols were, equally, Joan of Arc and Elizabeth Cady Stanton.

Political identities, like our spiritual identities, are a way of navigating the world in a manner that coincides with our most deeply held values. Leading up to the 2002 election, I wore my green Wellstone button with the same regularity as I wore my miraculous medal. When the electoral process elicits this type of fervor, it can be difficult to remember that people of good conscience can come down on different sides of the same issue. While it may be easy to demonize someone who supports the Iraq war or legalized abortion, it is necessary to approach political discourse with a spirit of charity. No doubt, each of us have reached this time and place with deeply held convictions that we hope reflect God's love, and the best way to spread that love in a world still imperfect.

I've voted for Sheriff in Venango County, caucused for Kucinich in central Minnesota, and am anxious to cast my ballot on Tuesday. In my experience, voting has taken on a sacramental tone. We are, in the voting booth, alone with God and our conscience, not too much unlike confession. Democracy is a blessing and a responsibility. Jesus says in the Gospel of Luke, "Much will be required of the person entrusted with much, and still more will be demanded of the person entrusted with more." For those of us so blessed to live in a time and place where we, as women and as citizens, to be able to have a fair and equal say in who will lead our country is nothing to take lightly. I pray that as each of us (in the US, anyway) head to the polls on Tuesday, we will do so in a spirit of hope and love for our neighbors – especially those with whom we disagree.

Johanna Hatch is a feminist activist, writer, and amateur hagiographer living in Wisconsin and working in non-profit administration. Her least favorite thing about autumn in the Midwest is snow before Halloween.

A Celebration of Life--Dia de los Muertos

The end-of-lunch bell had already rung and I was late entering the traffic jam of the hallway. “Ms. Ma’ake!” I had no choice but to stop amid my mad dash to the classroom. “I bought sugar skulls for you,” Claudia proudly stated, “for Dia de los Muertos! I thought of you when I saw them!” I couldn’t help but smile. Claudia hadn’t been the first student in the past few weeks to ask me if we were decorating and celebrating the Day of the Dead again this year. Somehow, the holiday had become associated with me during my first year of teaching at Notre Dame Academy, ironic in itself since it was new to me until I began teaching at an inner city, predominantly Latina high school in Los Angeles a few years back. The beauty of the Dia de los Muertos traditions struck me in such a profound way during my years at Bishop Conaty, that the rituals and symbols – the ornate altars decorated with pictures, sugar skulls, marigolds, food and drink – became my own. I had been so surprised to find out that it wasn’t already a celebrated school tradition at Notre Dame that I took it upon myself to educate my classes of the Mexican tradition of celebrating loved ones who had passed on. We spent days making paper flowers, painting calaveras (skulls), praying for the people in the photographs we brought in, and decorating the ofrenda (altar) in the chapel.

Rooted in ancient Aztec belief that death is simply and wonderfully a continuation of life, this holiday celebrates our loved ones who have moved beyond the physical limitations of this world. It is a joyous occasion, where graveyards are decorated, families feast, and the living dance with the memories of those souls who live on. The history of the holiday and its connection to Catholicism are interesting. Like many cultural traditions, the Day of the Dead became intertwined with the Catholic feasts of All Saints and All Souls after the introduction of Spanish conquistadores to Mexico. The Spanish were unsuccessful in eradicating the cultural practice of the indigenous people, and over time, the beauty of the Aztec beliefs were enmeshed with the truth of the Catholic faith tradition. Say what you will about this complicated history, for me the current practice of Dia de los Muertos is another awesome reminder of how faith and culture need each other to be fully expressed.

I love the tradition and ritual of the Day of the Dead because it hits home for me on so many levels. This past summer I was blessed with the opportunity to travel back home to Tonga, the land of my father. I say back home even though it was my first trip, because it truly was a return – a fulfillment – of my dream to know my roots. The reason for our visit was my uncle’s funeral, a seemingly sad occasion at first glance. I wanted to be with my family and experience the funeral rite of my Tongan heritage. I had no idea what was in store. The Tongan funeral ritual is beautifully elaborate and prayerful in a way I had never experienced. For nights leading up to the wake and funeral, apo, community members don the mats traditionally worn on important occasions and gather at the hospital to pray and sing over the body. Here at the hospital the apo officially begins, as the body is prepared for the nightlong celebration. The family’s home is decorated with colorful blankets and lace, flowers, pictures, Tongan mats and tapa cloth and the body laid out for viewing. Villagers from all over the island gather first for mass outside of the home and then for the all night vigil of feasting, gift exchange and song. Once the sun rises, the whole community gathered processes with the body through the town to the church for the funeral mass and burial.

Months have passed since my time in Tonga, and I still often find myself at a loss for words when I try to explain the transformation I experienced there. While the loss of my uncle was difficult, the focus of my time in Tonga was not grief and sadness, but hope. Like Dia de los Muertos, my uncle’s apo was a celebration of life, a testament to the strength and importance of community, and a reminder of what our Catholic faith is all about – resurrection.

Tefi Ma’ake spends much of her day either laughing (internally) at the silly things her students say or pondering the profound wisdom 16-year-old girls sometime surprise her with, all the while encouraging an honest and necessary questioning of faith and Church. Currently a high school teacher and campus minister, Tefi soon hopes to pursue doctoral studies in the field of religious education and multicultural theology.

An Imperfect But Interesting Path To God

Years ago one of my uncles made a video in which he asked people whether my grandfather should be be considered for sainthood. The only person on the video who said that my grandfather shouldn't be a saint was my father -- my grandfather's youngest child. It wasn't that my father didn't love his father, but I think my father wanted to remember his father in his own way, rather than have his father be an inspiration for all time. That project never progressed beyond the video, but it has led me to reflect on the difference between saints and souls this weekend.

Saints are difficult to love. For the most part, the meaning of saints' lives has become intertwined with the statues that represent them -- beautiful but cold to the touch. Although the saints were once alive, full of passions that made them wonderfully human, our collective memory of them has unfairly stripped them of their human behavior. Souls, on the other hand, are our family and friends, the person you know intimately and the person you've never met. As they were in life, in death we still think of them with foibles and idiosyncrasies. Their eternal state is a representation to the lives they lived -- close to God but never quite reaching Him. However, death does not rob those that we pray for on All Souls' Day of their very interesting qualities as it does with saints.

In today's gospel reading we're reminded that Jesus says “Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and I will not reject anyone who comes to me...” In that line is the core of faith -- that no matter what wandering path we take, so long as we make our way to Jesus we will be accepted. No pulling, no guilt trip -- faith is voluntary and unconditionally accepting on both sides.

The path to God might be less direct if you're not a saint. On All Souls' Day I pray for the souls who are not yet quite with God but had, I hope, an interesting journey wandering around seeing what life had to offer before departing this earth. I don't know if my grandfather ever wanted to be a saint. I know I much prefer being a soul than a saint -- flawed, imperfect, interesting but still in the end with God.

Sarah Albertini-Bond lives in Virginia Beach, VA, with her husband and is very sure that no matter what, she'll never be considered for sainthood.

Not So Very Perfect People…Pray for Us

Dedicated in loving memory to Fr. Robert Manning, S.J.

Whenever I lost something as a child, my mother would ask, “Have you said a prayer?” Usually I responded that I had not, and would follow this admission with a quick, “St. Anthony, St. Anthony, come around, something is lost and must be found.” Many cradle Catholics can rattle off saintly rhymes such as, “Hail Mary Full of Grace, help me find a parking space.” At the very least, most could name one or two saints you should pray to in order to pass an exam (St. Joseph Cupertino), travel safely (the controversial, yet ever popular St. Christopher), sell your house (bury St. Joseph upside down in your garden), aid with the impossible (St. Jude), and the list continues! Who are these people we pray to?

Most people were taught that we petition the saints as intercessors to pray for us to God, since they experienced the same challenges when they were living that we experience now (although I doubt Mary struggled to find city parking at night like I do in Boston). If I am calling upon a holy woman or man to pray to God for me, I assume that they are not only holy, but that they must be “Very Perfect People” (V.P.P.).

St. Teresa of Avila in the prologue to her spiritual autobiography admits she cannot find any comfort in the saints because unlike them, she has lived a wretched life, resisted God and even turned away from God after trying to dedicate her life to loving God. SAINT Teresa is one of only two women to be given the title, “Doctor of the Church” being recognized for her tremendous contribution and writings on prayer. Teresa of Avila, patron saint of headaches, exemplifies “perfectly” that the sainthood to which all baptized are called involves recognizing how far away from perfection one really is. Recognizing saints as ordinary people who had faith, prayed and lived out of their belief in God is a rich part of our tradition. Yet, in what ways can we begin to make the connection that being called to holiness is not synonymous with aiming to be a V.P.P.?

The approach of All Saints Day begs us to reflect on who the saints have been in our lives that modeled how to be ordinary, but holy people.

Tootsie Torian…pray for us…Joseph Burnett Storey…pray for us…Charley Nelle Rives…pray for us…Bob Manning … pray for us…

M. Nelle Carty is in her final year of working towards the M.Div. at the new Boston College School of Theology and Ministry. She owes a great deal to recently deceased Fr. Bob Manning, S.J., who offered her a great deal of love and support at the onset of her degree.

The Personal Is Political

My sister got married two weeks ago. I thought I knew how the preceding weeks would play out, as my brother had gotten married eight weeks earlier. But there was one conversation leading up to this wedding (which, unlike the last one, would be a full nuptial Mass) that really did surprise me. It began rather casually: “So, are you going to take communion at your sister’s wedding?”

Almost everyone in my extended family claims “Catholic” as part of their religious identity, most with qualifiers: lapsed, progressive, recovering, conflicted, faithful, or (my personal qualifier) faithfully conflicted. We all knew the “rules” around receiving communion, and knew everyone else at the wedding would, too. In this conversation, it became evident that we all had reasons why we thought that taking communion might seem improper: not having attended Mass in weeks/months/years, lacking belief but not respect for the sacred act, or having one of those markers that may or may not disqualify you, like divorced and remarried or (me again) in a same-sex relationship.

What was causing so much hesitation, I gathered, was the very public nature of this particular Eucharistic celebration. Unlike at regular parish Masses, almost everyone in the congregation at this wedding would know us in contexts outside the Church. Being seen taking, or abstaining from, communion, could be placed by anyone observing in the context of our individual histories, opinions, and commitments. What would normally be considered a personal, spiritual matter suddenly felt public and even political. If most of those present were aware of one’s opposition to the hierarchy on certain fundamental matters, not taking communion could become a political act, a way of silently but boldly registering that complaint in the minds of those present. On the other hand, taking communion in that same circumstance could be just as political – a way of saying that one’s personal faith experience need not be dictated by the hierarchy’s rules.

This was a poignant question for me, I realized, as it would really be the first time I would take communion – or not – in a setting where almost all present knew I was gay. Not taking communion could draw attention to the Church’s unjust and exclusionary practices toward LGBT people. Taking communion could be a way of standing up to these practices, of publicly stating that this is my Church, my faith, too, and I won’t let anybody decide for me whether I am worthy of it.

I’d always thought that social action belonged in the realm of faith-between-Sundays. Mass was what we did to nourish ourselves for work in the world, not itself an arena for social action. But this conversation made me rethink this division, and helped me for the first time to integrate my strongly held feminist/activist convictions with my deeply personal experience of the Eucharist, making it evident that, as always, the personal is political. Even a small and silent act has the power to make people think and question, to reorient people in unexpected ways toward injustice in the world and injustice in our Church.

Kate Henley Long is a choreographer, writer, nanny, queer activist, and avid watcher of crime shows. She and her partner live in Cambridge, MA, and will not be having a full nuptial Mass when they get married.

At God’s Table

I had been dating my husband just a few months when he invited me to come to church with him. I was hesitant. I hadn’t been to church in a long time. I had found too much to disagree with and had walked away.

He convinced me. I don’t know what I expected to happen. I had this strange irrational fear that an invisible barrier would bar me from coming in. “Our Doors Are Open Wide,” the sign said.

When I entered, I asked God if it was okay. I was filled with an overwhelming sense that of course it was okay, I was always welcome – that the only thing holding me back was me.

As a kid, I was a passionate practicing Catholic. I fervently prayed the rosary; I had deep discussions with God. I took each sacrament seriously. During high school, I taught CCD, attended retreats, and was a lector at Sunday Mass.

In my late teens and throughout my twenties, I had too many reasons to stay away. Some were my own willful desires to be in charge, to rebel. But mostly, I found too much I disagreed with.

I am reminded of something the Dalai Lama said, told to me by a Tibetan living in exile; when approached by a western Christian who wanted to convert to Buddhism, the leader of Tibet suggested he stay in the religion into which he was born, because it still had a lot to teach him.

I learn as much – maybe more – from what I disagree with. It forces me to look within, to dialogue with God, to see what it is I do believe and why – and then to look again at the thing I disagree with, which is usually an interpretation of scripture or doctrine. Text is always up for re-interpretation, and in fact must be reinterpreted, by many people, in many ways.

Too many of the disgruntled are leaving the table. In the Catholic Church today, we need to keep the disenfranchised voice at the table.

It’s easy to get up from the table when no one is listening to you and you don’t like the side dishes, even when you are hungry. It’s easy to refuse the whole meal and get up in search of another. But the harder path is to stay for what you came – the main dish – which everyone will alter slightly with condiments to suit their own tastes, and everyone will take a different part (this one likes white meat, this one likes the dark) – salt, pepper, ketchup, steak sauce – we are all sharing the body of Christ in the Eucharist. What is even more challenging is not to sit silently as you share the meal, quietly observing a discussion with which you passionately disagree, but to raise your voice and take issue, in the way God has set out for you – with kindness and compassion, with tolerance for others but still speaking your own truth as God speaks within you.

Felicia Schneiderhan is a freelance writer based in Chicago, where she lives year-round on a boat with her husband Mark. Visit her blog at Life Aboard Mazurka.

"What Love Looks Like in Public": 30th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Reflecting on this week's readings, I am reminded of my first tour of the LA Catholic Worker community--the spirit of welcome that they shared, the look of the smoggy skyline from the top floors of the house, the delight they took at sharing bits of the house's story, and the photos on the walls of prophets like Dorothy Day, César Chávez, and Dan Berrigan, SJ, whose lives I had only read about. That wall of pictures had a way of making me feel like the stories were still going on, that the community carried them forward, that others would continue to do so in the days ahead.

The liturgy interwove the stories that the pictures told with those of the wider Catholic community. The presiders added to them, reflecting the diversity of those who gathered there. Whether a priest led our celebration or a layperson did, a man or a woman, celibate or not, they all communicated their passion for the Gospel with humility and sincerity. The homily was infused with the fruits of the Bible study in which the community members had participated that week; everyone had the opportunity to reflect on the Gospel after it was proclaimed. The kiss of peace lasted as long as it needed to, not complete until you had hugged or helloed everyone in the room.

Maybe it was because members of the community made the Eucharist that I remembered that most people came to the Catholic Worker literally to be fed, that no one is turned away. Maybe it was because the people there, in their brokenness, had in their hearts the radical kind of love to which Jesus calls us this week, that I felt there was room for the rest of us, too. Maybe it was because they put that love into action, in a very public way, that I was reminded of the meaning of justice. The soup that would later be served on Skid Row was blessed at the end of the communion meal, and I reflected on the cost of the kind of discipleship these women and men practiced. One of the community members played at his guitar, and we sang:

I have decided to follow Jesus.

I have decided to follow Jesus.

I have decided to follow Jesus.

No turnin' back.

No turnin' back.

The quote in the title of today's post is attributed to Cornel West, in his definition of justice.

Image Credit: Christ in the Breadlines by Catholic Worker artist Fritz Eichenberg (1901-1990).

Jesuit Martyrs and Saints: One Catholic's Heroes

Martyrs and Saints. These are the action figures, the heroes of my childhood and my faith today. Did my parents get me Wonder Woman comic books? No. My good Catholic parents, God bless them, gave me comic books detailing the stories of martyrs and saints and Catholic leaders such as Pope John Paul II. I love that these “characters” filled my imagination and even to this day, I look to these Catholic heroes for inspiration, solidarity, and strength.

When I was studying theology at Regis College in Toronto with the Jesuits, I discovered a whole new set of heroes: the Jesuit martyrs and saints. These guys are in a class all their own in some respects because they are so filled with the zeal and mission characteristic of the Jesuits. My interest and devotion to the Jesuit martyrs was peaked when I visited the North American Jesuit Martyr’s Shrine in Midland, Ontario. Right next door to the shrine is a re-creation of one of the French Jesuit missions from the 1600s, Sainte-Marie Among the Hurons, which helped give me a context to the kind of life the missionary Jesuits lived. I was overwhelmed with the stories of Jean de Brébeuf, Isaac Jogues and the other Jesuit martyrs and how they had given their lives and their deaths for the faith. Experiencing the mission helped me to get to know these martyrs

As with any hero, looking up to them means that you try to emulate their values, attitudes, actions, and perhaps their way of life. For me and the Jesuit martyrs, it means committing myself fully to the liberating mission of Jesus Christ. It means being willing to give of my whole self, not just the parts of myself that I choose.

Who are your heroes and what do they teach you about living the liberating mission of Jesus?


Sister Julie Vieira, IHM, is a member of the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary of Monroe Michigan. She is author of the popular blog www.ANunsLife.org in which she writes about being a young, Catholic nun and answers readers' questions. Sister Julie also ministers at Loyola Press, a Jesuit publishing company in Chicago.

In Memory of My Grandparents

When my grandparents were my age, the second Vatican Council hadn't even happened yet. The Catholic Church as I know it is extremely different from the Catholic Church that they knew and is even different from the Catholic Church that my parents have known in their lifetime.

Both of my parents were raised in Catholic households, my mother in a Polish Catholic family and my father in a German and Irish one. They went to Catholic schools, sang in church choirs, and attended every holy day of obligation. There were also the more cultural signs of their Catholicism - meatless Fridays, prayers to Saint Jude, palms on the wall.

My parents passed many of these elements of Catholicism onto me. We ate pasta and fish sticks on Fridays in Lent and kept our Palm Sunday palms year round; we lit the candles on the Advent wreath over Sunday night dinner; we said a prayer to Saint Christopher every time my dad backed the car out of the driveway on a road trip.

My maternal grandfather would have been 87 this month - my paternal grandmother 88. All of my grandparents have passed away and as I think about these birthdays, I think about the foundation my grandparents laid for me. My grandparents lived their Catholicism as it had been passed on to them, my parents live their Catholicism as it has been passed on to them, and I live my Catholicism as it has been passed on to me. As an individual I have kept some things and changed others, just as the Catholic Church has as an institution.

Sometimes it is hard to see that change does happen – within individuals and also within the Church. But when you look at it over the period of a lifetime, there are changes. I wonder what traditions will be the same and what will have changed fifty years from now, during the course of my lifetime.

Deb Heimel grew up in Pennsylvania and hasn’t had fish sticks in 13 years.

The Power of Place

Recently, I have been trying to convince myself to attend mass at the parish in which I grew up. After fifteen years away from my New Hampshire hometown I am spending the fall right in the middle of it since I’ve moved here to care for my mother. Being back in the spaces and places of my childhood has reminded me of how much I have changed since I left. But most challenging has been my struggle to redefine a relationship with the faith community once at the core of my life.

I have fond memories of my childhood parish, an impressive brick edifice rising over the city. It was here that I was an altar server and it was here that I sang “glory to God in the Highest” at the top of my lungs in the choir. But it was also in this space that I first identified the limits of what I began to call “comfortable Catholicism”. By high school I was frustrated with my fellow congregants. In my mind too many of them were people who faithfully attended mass on Sundays without embracing the radical change which I was beginning to feel my Catholic faith called for.

In the years since I have sought out Catholic churches very different from the one in which I grew up. I Kansas City I worshiped in a dilapidated building with Catholics from all over the world. In Minneapolis I worshiped with radical Catholics in a gymnasium. In Boston my Catholic community included women meeting in living rooms. And yet I can not ignore the call of this suburban church here in my hometown. Each time I drive by I feel a tug in the pit of my stomach. I think that this tug is a longing to make sense of my own faith journey and to reconcile where I am with where I’ve been. While I believe that “the church” is not synonymous with a physical building I am increasingly convinced that for me, the physical spaces of my Catholic identity loom large.

As I think about what it might be like to worship inside my childhood church I am worried. I assume that I will struggle at first to enter a peaceful, reflective place in my own heart. But still, I cannot shake the sense that this place--this very space--might still be important to my Catholicism. After all, this building literally holds segments of my faith journey. These fibers and beams and plaster housed, nurtured, and protected my earliest explorations of Catholicism. Might they be able to nurture my current questions and beliefs? Perhaps I will find out soon.

Elizabeth Duclos-Orsello is a mother, wife, runner, and Catholic living and working in New England where she is a professor of American Studies. She also writes for the blog “The Public Humanist”.

Why Jesus?

On my husband Mark's last birthday I took him to see a play at the Lookingglass Theater in downtown Chicago, then to the Signature Room lounge atop the John Hancock building. We sat before a table of cocktails, cheese, and chocolate cake, overlooking the sparkling skyscraper rooftops against the black backdrop of vast Lake Michigan.

Something about the vantage point – watching the city we love at night from high above– led our conversation away from the ordinary.

"But why Jesus?" I asked him. "Why do you think it's important that Jesus was the son of God? Why does it matter?"

He answered that Jesus went to the very depths of despair in people – the lowest of the low – and embraced them, and suffered alongside them.

Imagine for a moment that God couldn't go into the depths of sin – but a human could, and God as human could. Why Jesus? Because that's how God sent Himself into the depths of human despair and suffering. He wanted to reach us in the places we hide. Where do we hide? In vice, debauchery, hatefulness, violence. In power trips, in gossip, in the place we believe we are cast out, invisible, worthless.

God wanted to come after us. Whatever capacity and craving we have for sin, he wanted to call us back to him, make it possible for us to come to him – he wanted to reach us where we were.

God waits for us at the bottom, at the place we think we can't go any lower. Christ went into the deep, horrible places. He brought fishers of men along with him. He waits at the bottom for us, and then when he helps us up, he gives us reels to bring others.

God doesn't ask anything of us that he wouldn't do Himself. He went to the bottom to give us hope – to show a way out. He sends us to do the same.

Felicia Schneiderhan is a freelance writer based in Chicago, where she lives year-round on a boat with her husband Mark. Visit her blog at Life Aboard Mazurka.

What Belongs to God

Dedicated, with thanks, to Father Geoff Farrow, and, with hope, to ourpresidential candidates.

Listening to the presidential debates, I’ve hated the bug-on-water dance that the candidates do around the questions.And here’s Jesus in the Gospel this week , sounding similar. The questionposed to him is salved with praise—but Jesus is savvy. He knows these are razor-edged smiles.

So is Jesus being politic? “Yes, it’s lawful to pay the tax,” and he’s a collaborator, a disloyal Jew. “No, it’s notlawful to pay the tax,” and he’s a trouble-stirring rebel. Maybe Jesus is merely hedging his bets.

But let’s give him the benefit of doubt. It’s the Christian thing to do. Let’s say there can be can’t-catch-mewords that are also life-words (“Then repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, but to God what belongs to God”). I am left with an image, concretely—looking at a coin, I can see the face on it. But I don’t see the face of God stamped on anything, unless we’re counting crucifixes, and I doubt Jesus was gunning for a big pile of crucifixes. I come out of this story knowing what to give to Caesar, but with much less clarity on what to give to God.

Where is God’s image? Where is God’s inscription? In me, I want to say, pointing to Genesis, in us. But what does that mean? I’ll be a bad debater here—I’ll reach out for something of which I can’t guarantee the truth, much less the palatability, and I’ll tell you what I suspect it means.

I must look beyond the easy, stamped-on meanings I have made of myself, and remember that there is a mysterious self-- deeper, stranger, more frightening, and far less politic, and it is the impulses and creativity of this selfthat I owe to God. It is this that shall be taxed, and taxing, not out of punitive greed, but because without it my system will cease to function, its parts ungraced, unfunded.

Do you know that self? It wakes me restless and draws me through the flames of fear. It wrecks my routine, devours easy lies and willful ignorance. In what world is it good citizenship to ignore a crumpled stranger? Not my world, says this self. In what world do you swallow your true words for sugared acceptance from anyone, includingyour church? Not my world, it insists. I want to shrug it off. But this week Jesus tells me that I am accountable, and that I must hunt for the currency with which to pay. The truth is I am rich in this coin, and you are also. I only hope we will have the courage to render it forth.

Rebecca Fullan recently received her Master’s in Theological Studies from Harvard Divinity School. She is currentlyliving in New York City and searching for employment that will enrich her, she hopes, in both Caesar’s and God’s currencies.

(Photo Credit: Charlotte Rahn-Lee)

That Elusive Thing Called Community

“We have all known the long loneliness, and we have learned that the only solution is love, and that love comes with community.” –Dorothy Day

Today was a beautiful October day. I stepped outside to catch the last of the sun as soon as I got home from work. It’s that time of fall where the trees have dropped about half their leaves, so walking down a street lined with ash trees is like strolling through a golden tunnel.

Yet despite the beauty, my heart was filled with heaviness. It was Friday night, and I was alone. I was slung with the prospect of a wide open night with absolutely no plans—this suddenly lacked the allure it had in the middle of a busy work week. For a moment I felt overwhelmingly alone.

Solitude has been a common theme for me as of late—I recently moved into an apartment for the first time by myself. Since college I have been on a steady path of downsizing, ever since the highpoint of 11 roommates during a year of vounteering and community living after college. So I was very excited about a place all my own—I couldn’t wait to organize and decorate just how I liked. Yet I don’t think I fully thought through the intangible aspects of living alone. Now it seems a very long way from that house of 12.

That year working with the poor, I saw again and again the results of broken relationships. People isolated, on the street, with no one to turn to. I was reminded again and again that all of us are fragile, that nothing in life is a given. The bottom can fall out for myriad reasons. If we have someone to turn to, we’re probably going to get back on our feet sooner. But so many don’t. According to John Cacioppo, author of Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection, Americans report having “significantly fewer close friends and confidants than a generation ago.” And it is estimated that by 2010, about 10 percent of Americans will live by themselves. Community is so hard for us Americans! We value independence so much.

At one time I think community was created by one’s neighbors, and one’s parish. This was certainly the case for my mother and her large Catholic family, growing up in a working class neighborhood of South Minneapolis. Yet in 60 years, that neighborhood has completely dissolved from what it once was—everyone has moved on. There are a number of reasons why that urban community is no longer, too many to expound upon here. But there’s no doubt it’s a difficult thing to create and maintain community. It takes sacrifice, and a lot of continual work. It requires putting down roots, and saying “enough.” It requires making time for people. It is not always fun—yet it can create a great deal of richness. And therein lies the discomfiting, nagging paradox.

Kate Lucas lives in Minneapolis, MN, where she writes grants and many other communications for an international NGO that supports communities in Guatemala. She served with the Colorado Vincentian Volunteers several years ago and now scratches out poetry and knits in her free time.

The Devil Within

Early one morning when I was in grade school, I approached my dad with the moral dilemma troubling me big time. "If we're supposed to love everyone, what about the devil?" He answered, "You can love the devil, but not the devil's ways." This made sense and gave me some peace.

As an adult, I have sought a simple idea such as this one to help me wrap my mind around how I can understand the devil today. Does the devil even exist? In biblical stories the devil takes all manner of form – the snake, the trickster – to pull one over on us.

And then there is Christ's response to the Pharisees when they question why his disciples break the tradition of the elders and don't wash before they eat.

"Nothing outside a man can make him 'unclean' by going into him. Rather, it is what comes out of a man that makes him 'unclean.' …For from within, out of men's hearts, come evil thoughts…" (Mark 7:14-20)
The devil is not some outside force, peering in at the window, ready to strike us at our weakest points. Just like God dwells in each of us, so can the devil.

Was it really the snake who tempted Eve in the garden? Or was it more like Eve was hanging out in the garden, kind of bored, and a snake of an idea slithered into her mind – there's a tree smack in the middle of everything that God said don't touch…hmmm…wonder what would happen if I touched it?  

The force that separates me from God comes on most strongly when I am bored, when I'm frustrated and anxious and fearful, and, surprisingly, when I am right. Oh, how I love to be right! How I love to lord it over other people that I am right, and then the little devils get loose in my mind and go to all the places where I am right-right-right. Because when I am feeling right, then I don't need God.

The devil, at its core, is the idea that I am God.

Felicia Schneiderhan is a freelance writer based in Chicago, where she lives year-round on a boat with her husband Mark. Visit her blog at Life Aboard Mazurka. 

28th Sunday in Ordinary Time

In Masses that I have attended this particular 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time , the priest or deacon serving as homilist has often offered a catechismic interpretation on these readings, following an argument that the Church as divine institution knows the secret of being well-fed: place ultimate trust in God, that through God alone, all persons will be cared for. As a hearer of these homilies I have walked away with the following principle: to be fit to receive to the Eucharist, the bread of life, ensures that you will be prepared enter the feast of the Kingdom of God. One becomes fit by being content with the church as it is. Fit by making yourself ready to receive the Eucharist, confessing sins great and small to receive absolution on Saturday afternoon from the rector or monsignor. Fit by wearing clothing appropriate to mass. Fit by kneeling at the appropriate times. Fit by adoring those bells that still ring at many diocesan parishes at the point of epiclesis, moment of the Holy Spirit's descent. It feels like familiar territory where ordained clergy, also all male, lest we forget, proclaim that receiving the Eucharist, adoring the Eucharist, with the hope of the forgiveness of my sins--for only venial sins are forgiven with my contrition and reception--will bring more me fully into the Kingdom of God. Credo. Yes, I believe.

But I don't want to be merely penetrated by the idea of my lack, my lack as a female, a layperson, one who must pray and hope for my own redemption. The kin-dom beckons us to believe in something more than what is conveyed in the homilies I’ve heard on this Sunday at diocesan parishes. I don't know what that something more is exactly, but, Credo, I believe that is has to do something about not only taking Jesus, the Eucharist as the bread of life, into our being, but believing that somehow we are enough with or without reception of the Eucharist. Unsought for abundance is the central theme of the readings. Wine overflows; oil overflows; Paul is full; the banquet table is laden with food. How then is a theology of abundance subverted in a theology of proper observation of the Eucharist?

"My friend, how is it that you came in here without a wedding garment?"

And she was reduced to silence.

The king said to his attendants,

"Bind her hands and feet, and cast her out into the darkness."

Many are invited. Few are chosen.

These words are the oft neglected part of the reading for this week. They do not fit neatly into the storyline. The king has invited anyone who can be found in the street to celebrate his son's wedding. "Come to the feast!", the servants call, gathering good and bad alike. The hall is full. But the king spots someone with no wedding garment. She is cast out. Commentaries note how wedding garments may just have meant clean clothes and that for an individual to be invited, not despite, but regardless of last minute invitations, and to arrive in soiled garments would be an insult to the host. Who do we truly insult with our dirt and soil, sweat and shame? Is it the God beyond God who will destroy the veil that veils all peoples or those who walk about the hall filled with guests?

In addition to preparing for doctoral exams in religion, Kate Lassiter farms with friends in Nashville, Tennessee, where they know what it means to be both well-fed and overwhelmed by the amount of fresh produce to can, dehydrate, and process during the growing season. She can be reached at kate.lassiter@vanderbilt.edu.

Mate' Communion

Argentina is well-known for its yerba mate' culture. Mate' is everywhere here—sitting at the ready in the cubicles at my English students' workplace, enjoyed during my Spanish classes, passed around at the language intercambio on Tuesdays.

There is much to say about mate' and the way it facilitates social relationships. Here's the rough & dirty of the tradition: yerba mate' is placed into a shared cup (often with sugar) and passed around the group. Everyone drinks through a straw and the cup is refilled regularly.

It's really a beautiful tradition.

The other day, it dawned on me that it's a lot like Catholic Communion. A community of people sharing in this goodness. There's no fear of the exchange of germs, there's no concern about running out of yerba. The sharing of mate facilitates conversation, makes people relax, and encourages a warm, open environment. When someone pulls out the mate', the entire mood of a conversation shifts into companionship.

The historical roots of Communion are similar—a meal shared, conversation enjoyed, people together. That's how mate' feels too—time together, a chance to chat with people.

I love that there are the connections in our rituals. It reminds me that we humans have a sort of instinctual need to share with one another. It makes me feel hopeful.