Dear Boston,
I have a confession to make: though I've never set foot in you, I've been in love with you for most of my life. Crazy, right?
I'm not sure how or when it happened, but I was slightly taller than knee-high to a Shetland pony, I think. I hadn't run into 'We're all marching to Pretoria' yet, so nowhere in South Africa had entered consideration. I was already in love with London after a brief stop in LHR on our way to Pakistan (the chips were really good, what's a girl to do?). I hadn't met NYC yet - but that was never a contender. DC was nice, beautiful during cherry blossom season, Bawlmer was lovely, but...
...it was always you.
I think it was Social Studies class, really. You know, THAT story. The Tea Party. The little Muslim girl I was secretly loved your rebellious spirit; your heart to fight for what you believed in. (And TEA, seriously? Who drinks that stuff? I just KNOW you wouldn't have done the same with perfectly good cawfee.) Then, I heard about your winters - and I LOVE snowy winters (Ok, a lot of it is cold rain, I hear, but...). And what politically minded young girl didn't kinda sorta fall head over heels for the young JFK? AND OMG, the OCEAN. Finally, I saw your skyline. That was it. YOU were it.
But I never got there. My parents only let me apply to Harvard and MIT, and we totally knew that wasn't going to happen (because MY rebellion was underachieving) - but if I'd applied and gotten into BU, BC, Brandeis, Tufts or Wellesley, the DC metro area wouldn't have seen me for dust.
And somewhere in my heart, I suspect south of the Mason-Dixon Line would never have seen me again as a permanent resident. I was even willing to forgive THAT 'a' - you know, the one where people pahk their cah. How's that for true love?
But it never happened, and life - and my preference for sleeping and pottering during time off - got in the way of my even flying into Logan to visit and meant that I only loved you from afar through glimpses and your natives.
From those glimpses of your city and your people, I built up a picture: warm and welcoming - if reserved at first before opening your heart; intellectual; down-to-earth; scrappy; the only people outside Poland able to pronounce Yastrzemski; stubborn enough to refuse to recognise the letter 'r' as part of the English language; hardy; people who put their shoulder to the wheel when the going gets tough - or even when it doesn't.
Yeah, my crush on you is a big one. And I swear, if we'd found each other, I would never have cheated on you with London.
So, when I heard the news yesterday, my heart broke - even more when I had to tell my friend, Phil, who had spent his university/graduate years in your city, what had happened. I don't have the right to claim any kind of deep grief: that goes to your own and those who have known and loved you over the years. Nor can I claim any understanding of how you feel: the only inkling I have is from how I felt when I saw pictures of Washington on 9/11 or when I heard about London on 7/7. But that is only an inkling.
All I can say is that my heart is with you - and so are my prayers, my sorrow and my deepest condolences.
Grieve. Weep. Stop. Take all the time you need to get back on your feet. We've got your back. And hard as it is, don't close your heart. Stay Boston - that will be the ultimate triumph.
Boston - we love you and we need you - as much as we did in 1776.
We always will.
Love,
Me
Tuesday, 16 April 2013
Monday, 15 April 2013
The prodigal daughter returns, or, Habeo Papam and reflections on 18 years in the Church
I was convinced St Francis was chasing me.
No, seriously. In the first week of March, he was EVERYWHERE. Ok, I was re-reading Rachel Remen's Kitchen Table Wisdom and My Grandfather's Blessings, so I knew he was going to appear once, in one of my favourite stories of hers about a young doctor who railed against the system the way I rail against the pastorally incompetent in any field, who found his strength in St Francis' gentleness, remembering that he became a paediatrician to protect innocent life. Totally expected.
'Make me a channel of your peace' at mass in Wokingham before the baptism I attended on 10 March. Suddenly, after months, a Franciscanfiend friend reappeared on FB chat after months of silence. St Francis was quoted in my newsfeed, by a friend in a conversation, and finally, just when I thought I was going to get a break, on telly.
'Et tu, Without a Trace?????' I thought. 'What on G-d's green is going on here? I get it, Lord, I need to shift from anger to a gentler way; my strength is in my vulnerability, my openness.' I simply thought it was the Holy Spirit's way of emphasising Rachel's story, reminding me that it was absolutely ESSENTIAL I shift NOW from my often super-judgmental way of being. 'Ok, ok, I get it, Lord. Really.' But Francis kept showing up everywhere.
The conclave began soon after, and like a good Catholic, I was wrapped up in it like being wrapped up in a duvet on a lazy, snowy Saturday morning. I was completely entranced by the seagull who seemed to want a bun warmer without fully understanding the consequences.
That evening, Wednesday, 13 March, I knew something was up when smoke hadn't gone up by 17.30. I was counselling that evening, so I'd asked for texts when the smoke went up and, in the case it was white, for further details as they arrived. I dozed off waiting for my 18.30 client, coming to full wakefulness with a start at approximately 18.14. I fumbled around in my pocket for my phone, to see it blinking balefully at me - and a little white envelope in the top lefthand corner...
...and 7 text messages reading some variation of 'white smoke'.
Damn it. Client in 15 minutes, no chance to hear the announcement live. Damn it! ONE MORE BALLOT, PEOPLE, AND I COULD HAVE DONE THIS LIVE.
Let's just say I was eternally grateful this was a long-standing client who looked down a lot whilst speaking - but my phone didn't blink till end-of-session, 19.20.
"Argentinian" (!)
"Jorge Bergoglio" (Italian descent, nice. Add the Spanish upbringing to that, his Latin is going to ROCK.)
"Jesuit" (Oh. my. fucking. G-d. The Holy Spirit made it in. A South American Jesuit???????????? YESSSSSSSSSSS!)
"Regnal name: Francis."
My heart stopped. I didn't need to ask if it was Xavier, De Sales or any of the others. I knew who it was.
Francis of Assisi. You know, the one who'd been chasing me for the last week.
At last, I knew why.
Then I got an email from a Jewish friend, one who had been Catholic, entitled 'Habemus papam', telling me, 'I love him.'
I went home and watched the announcement; read his biography, read his character.
Something in me, something that had been held tightly for over a decade, since the sex abuse scandal broke out and I had felt betrayed beyond imagining, beyond any possibility of forgiveness, beyond any possibility of healing or remaining in the Church except day-to-day - that something unclenched. No. More like, unfroze.
I wept.
Finally, after years of feeling lost, trapped in a choice of my own, I was home.
Not habemus papam, but habeo papam. I have a father.
My father being who he was, I have spent my life fighting with male authority. No matter how many wonderful father figures and male friends came my way, I never trusted it, never believed it, never sat with it. Add the fact that my father's brother sexually abused me, and it is hard for me to be held by a man in any sense: emotionally, physically, spiritually. I'm the one who always hugs over, so I'm not trapped. I look for the lie beneath the charm immediately; for the thug beneath the gentleman; the amorality beneath the pronouncement of religious orthodoxy. I look for the serial killer in the pillar of the church, the workplace, the society.
I knew, when I joined the Church on 15 April 1995, that I was joining a church whose leader didn't want me. I looked beneath the adulation and saw a man who, born behind the Iron Curtain and raised to power as we entered the 1980s during the Cold War, spoke out against communism even as he borrowed its tactics: eliminating the Devil's Advocate, so his endless, personal - often politically opportunistic - preferences for canonisation went forward without challenge; wielding the word Marxism to silence liberation theology; going beyond that to silence any dissent or challenge. In addition, his cultivation of the papal celebrity culture and his demand for unquestioning obedience was always going to ensure we stood on opposite sides. But I had grown up with not being wanted, I could handle that: I was coming into the Church for the sacraments, for the home it had been for me through many close friends, but above all, for Christ - for that knowledge I had understood .
Then came the sexual abuse scandal - and the Pope's unwillingness - and let's be honest, if he could silence liberation theologians, he could defrock Bernard Law and others - to handle it.
It was like being hit in the solar plexus with a sledgehammer. As it went on and on and nothing happened, I nearly walked, over and over again. Every day was a struggle. Trusting anyone in a collar was a struggle. Watching priests I didn't know or trust with children made me want to throw up. Some days, it is STILL a struggle.
And now that I can, I want to say to everyone who got impatient with my - or another's - struggle with the Church and our ability to stay within it, or trivialised their feelings by whatever means (it was ages ago, the number of priests was few, etc, etc) - you trivialised EVERY survivor's struggle. Remember that next time you open your mouth to dismiss someone who couldn't stay in the Church or someone who is tied up in knots about it: you are dismissing your sexually abused friend, lover, cousin, sister, mother - in this case, me - and ask yourself why you feel the need, why your emotions are at such a height - is it because you yourself want to leave, but dare not? Because you were sexually abused and have shut it off? Because it's so horrific, you need to reduce it to numbers to make yourself more comfortable at someone else's expense? Why?
The years of silence stretched on, and John Paul II died to unseemingly hasty calls of 'Santo subito,' a testament to the invasion of celebrity culture/hysteria and the erosion, under his papacy, of the Catholic Church's ability to think deeply, grieve with dignity and take time, counsel and challenge (hence the institution of the Devil's Advocate) when making a decision.
Under the next pope, it felt even more clear I was unwelcome: from his calls for a smaller, solipsistic Church where everyone agreed with each other (erm, sorry? A smaller CATHOLIC church? When Jesus wanted everyone in, from tax-collectors to Pharisees? How does THAT work, then?) to his claim that Protestants weren't 'churches' to his endless :facepalm: moments when it came to other religions - all indicative that he saw non-Catholics as something less than human - it still wasn't working for me. And let's not forget how with one breath he said, 'Sorryforthesexualabusescandal' and in the next said that ordaining women was anathema - as if raping a child and ordaining women were morally equivalent. In addition, the creation of the Ordinariate, a church within a church where Anglo-Catholics can just form their own little ghetto, only serve each other and not give back to the whole Church, simply so more people who claimed a particular, narrow version of lace-brigade, church-as-social-institution, us/them orthodoxy could come into the Church, felt like an complete abandonment of principle: you leave everything to come all the way into the Church OR YOU DON'T COME IN. Simples. The rudeness with which Vincent Nichols treated Rowan Williams at the press conference announcing the Ordinariate made me ashamed to be a Catholic, even more ashamed to be one with him as my representative.
I'm not denying that both these men did good for the Church. But from where I stand, the way in which they lived their office, the implicit values they steeped the Church in, meant big trouble ahead.
Why do these values matter, you ask? You either believe the rules or you don't, right? Who or what the pope, the leader of your institution is, doesn't matter.
Wrong. If you want to understand the dynamics a classroom, look to the teacher. A religious community, look to the prior/abbot/superior. A family, look to the parents. A political party, look to the leader.
Leaders set the values and create the milieu in which the institution is steeped.
And the milieu set by the previous two popes can be summed up fairly simply: "Agree and obey all dictates without question; conflict/robust discussion is unwelcome and punishable by excommunication; those who disagree/question/are not like us are not human and therefore are not subject to the basic kindness and courtesy we give humans; if it looks orthodox, it IS orthodox, no need to examine any further."
Think that's exaggerated? Then listen to the response I got when I mentioned to a clerical acquaintance that I was horrified by how Nichols had treated Rowan Williams at said press conference:
Why? He doesn't recognise his status as Archbishop of Canterbury; he has no need to acknowledge him. Rowan Williams doesn't have the right to speak.
It's HIS CHURCH.
No, it isn't. It's NOT a Church. They're apostate.
At which point, my internal response was, 'Wow. You really ARE a cunt, aren't you? 'WHY?' How FUCKING OBVIOUS IS WHY? BECAUSE HE'S A HUMAN BEING, AND ANYONE WITH EMPATHY WOULD TREAT HIM AS IF IT WAS HIS CHURCH, WHATEVER THEY MIGHT BELIEVE. Man, bet you treat waiters and people who serve you like shit, because, 'They're not priests. They're not real people.' Thank G-d you're not someone I would ever have to consider going to for pastoral care.'
As per the above example, it is in those most invested in the institution, dispensing its ways - the clergy - that the milieu manifests itself most strongly. Let's take the values: obey without question, no need to think; those who are not 'us' and question can be treated as less than human; if it looks orthodox, it IS.
What is the common thread here? Most clearly, a lack of self-awareness and examination; a lack of depth; appearance = what is real; consensus = orthodoxy/faith, conflict = heresy, which leads to an atrophy of the ability to grapple with the difficult. A lack of discernment and discrimination, an inability to deal with complexity and read subtext. Also, a profound inability to do that which a Trinitarian G-d does best: relationship, which requires the ability to acknowledge and navigate conflict.
Now imagine those values creating an influx into the priesthood. Who's coming? Certainly not those with a deep sense of service to G-d and others, or those with deep self-awareness and willingness to listen and change, or those with an ability for deep relationship and intimacy. No. The influx becomes those running away from their issues, whatever they may be; the eternal Peter Pan for whom the priesthood is about extending university rather than taking responsibility and entering adulthood; those who want to parrot the lines and gain easy status; those who equate agreement/acquiescence with love and are threatened by conflict; for those who want some measure of power over others, pounding them from the pulpit, using them to dump unconscious emotions and prop up fragile egos. From what I've heard of seminary interviews, they're none too discriminating as long as you give the right answers. Easy enough to lie or fudge an answer. But beginning one's ministry with a lie, conscious or not, never ends well for anyone.
That's not to say there aren't some amazing entrants with deep pastoral gifts into this fray - and if you're a friend of mine, you know I consider you part of this narrowing thread. But the problem is this - it is extraordinarily difficult to root oneself healthily and deepen against considerable pressure: if you are pastorally gifted and minded, but liturgically more relaxed, the constant snark, borderline bullying and little 'Oh well, he's...not quite one of us,' is the Chinese death by a thousand cuts, requiring an immense sense of self - and more than a bit of the rebel - to resist. Because, you know, we're all wounded in some way. It becomes hard not to wear a mask and pretend for much-needed relief, but to quote Kurt Vonnegut:
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.
To those with a true pastoral calling: it is best not to pretend, or one day, you will find yourself being cruel in the confessional; avoiding the call of your pastoral gifts; going through the motions. You will find yourself losing your most profound gifts and your vocation.
Observation indicates some truth to my extrapolation: from clerics who expound proper dress for mass, yet titter about being dressed up as a geisha to being obsessed with a 'sunrise' of drainpipe trousers to the times I've talked people down from hurtful confessions to story after story of requests for pastoral help ignored in the hopes it would go away, I really hate to admit that this trend seems real. You can also see it in the shift in how priests write: go to someone like Cormac Rigby or Timothy Radcliffe and compare them with most of the newer priest writers. Their thoughtfulness, depth, and ability to construct an argument wipes the floor with every last one of the current crop.
As the influx of the emotionally unaware, pastorally ungifted, self-absorbed, style-obsessed parrots of orthodoxy increases, that leaves more and more of the real work on the shoulders of the pastorally gifted and competent priests. Add to that the lowered expectations of the laity when it comes to pastoral care, and the unwillingness to help priests become better pastors by lovingly challenging them, and the situation becomes even more precarious.
As that ratio reaches tipping point, the Catholic priesthood heads into pastoral clusterfuck.
That pastoral clusterfuck is exacerbated by the dynamics that are then set up in churches - so those who support their fragile egos or naturally enter into the dynamics they unconsciously need will get preference, those who don't will get shunted aside. Lather, rinse, repeat over parishes around the world and the laity get increasingly unhealthy as well. Witness the polarisation in the Church; the shrillness on both sides, and the childish equating of "good = agrees with me; bad = disagrees with me."
And from whom are our future seminarians drawn?
Into the fray, enter Jorge Bergoglio, Pope Francis, a man whose central values revolve around relationship and pastoral care, who eschews grandeur and appearance - a man who prefers public transport to being driven; who has refused the papal apartments; who wears simple black shoes; who chose to wash the feet of prisoners; who cooks for himself and drinks yerba in the Buenos Aires slums. Oh, and cancels his own newspaper subscription.
Which, of course, gets him damned for being liturgically less ornate than the previous pope; for not wearing the red shoes and the mozzetta; and even more heinously, for his 'trouble pronouncing Latin' - which could only be said with a straight face by linguistically challenged, arrogant Northern Europeans who have no concept of Latin vowels. His Latin, FTR, is swoonworthily perfect. Do remember that he has one lung and his 'trouble' is stopping to catch his breath.
The intense reaction to the new pope is fascinating: branded 'Uriah Heep' by the most arrogant of tradofascists; 'concern', which smells far more like fear, from many clergy; and the need to put him in a box with JPII and Benedict: 'What we believe', 'Why we believe' and 'Doing what we believe' for one of the more inane posters I've seen.
Amazing how afraid of real power people are, isn't it? Power that is centred in a real, loving relationship with G-d that then spills over onto his people. Does this man need a mozzetta to show his power? I think not. He is completely centred in G-d, authentic, and in a moment of true meeting with another.
So he's in relationship, you shrug. That's doing. But that's not all. The man's a JESUIT, people, with degrees in CHEMISTRY, PHILOSOPHY and THEOLOGY. The stupidity of assuming that because he practises his faith, he can't THINK it, is beyond mindboggling. And I can tell you from his face, in picture after picture, he is constantly discerning - there's a ferocious intelligence and perception behind those eyes; Jorge Bergoglio doesn't miss a beat.
This need to split, to say 'He does, so he doesn't think like Benedict did,' shows the depth of the rupture our Church has experienced, and explains the paucity of deep thought and theology in recent years. An unwillingness to hold conflict is not a strength; it is a weakness, a brittleness. Anything that moves us away from wholeness, away from being able to hold opposites and paradox, makes us more shallow, less nuanced, weaker. It makes union an impossibility.
But now we have a pope who can hold it - and us. And that's terrifying, because he is going to ask us to level up - by example. Laity will look to him and go, 'Oh, that's what pastoral care looks like,' then demand it of their priests, far too many of whom believe their priesthood is all about them. We will ALL be forced to look beneath style to substance, to our relationship with G-d and others. We will all be made to think about how we love.
I will be forced to really examine my thoughts a week ago, when we were called to offer one another the sign of peace on a Monday, and I looked hard at the priest, thinking, 'Don't make me do the sign of peace on a Monday. I don't want to touch these people.'
These people - those not like me, those I perceive as self-absorbed, playing the victim, faux pious - those I see as less than human. Yes, I too, am part of that milieu, part of the problem. Let change begin with me - it's the only change I can make.
Habeo papam.
This man, this pope, this...Papa - he will challenge me to the core. He is far more doctrinally conservative than I am; he will do things with which I disagree; I may well be upset by some things I discover about his past.
But our hearts, nuestros corazones, are one. At the centre of our values is a yearning for G-d and the pastoral: the people. Being there for those who need us, no matter the cost. I have a clergy friend who cycled to a suicidal young woman in the rain. THAT. Always THAT, and the readiness to sacrifice oneself for that which is greater than we are.
I can rest in that. I know I am wanted - because I am loved, held precious, because I am part of the flock, one of G-d's own - contingent on...nothing. And bring on the challenge - I can't wait - this is going to be exhilarating.
Finally, I can put down the self-imposed burden of shouting warnings and leave that where it belongs - in the hands of one whose heart is with the people. I can trust that I am held, valued and loved, and in that trust, I can worry about MY faith.
Considering that today, 15 April 2013, I've come of age as a Catholic - I'm now 18 - it's about damn time.
No, seriously. In the first week of March, he was EVERYWHERE. Ok, I was re-reading Rachel Remen's Kitchen Table Wisdom and My Grandfather's Blessings, so I knew he was going to appear once, in one of my favourite stories of hers about a young doctor who railed against the system the way I rail against the pastorally incompetent in any field, who found his strength in St Francis' gentleness, remembering that he became a paediatrician to protect innocent life. Totally expected.
'Make me a channel of your peace' at mass in Wokingham before the baptism I attended on 10 March. Suddenly, after months, a Franciscan
'Et tu, Without a Trace?????' I thought. 'What on G-d's green is going on here? I get it, Lord, I need to shift from anger to a gentler way; my strength is in my vulnerability, my openness.' I simply thought it was the Holy Spirit's way of emphasising Rachel's story, reminding me that it was absolutely ESSENTIAL I shift NOW from my often super-judgmental way of being. 'Ok, ok, I get it, Lord. Really.' But Francis kept showing up everywhere.
The conclave began soon after, and like a good Catholic, I was wrapped up in it like being wrapped up in a duvet on a lazy, snowy Saturday morning. I was completely entranced by the seagull who seemed to want a bun warmer without fully understanding the consequences.
That evening, Wednesday, 13 March, I knew something was up when smoke hadn't gone up by 17.30. I was counselling that evening, so I'd asked for texts when the smoke went up and, in the case it was white, for further details as they arrived. I dozed off waiting for my 18.30 client, coming to full wakefulness with a start at approximately 18.14. I fumbled around in my pocket for my phone, to see it blinking balefully at me - and a little white envelope in the top lefthand corner...
...and 7 text messages reading some variation of 'white smoke'.
Damn it. Client in 15 minutes, no chance to hear the announcement live. Damn it! ONE MORE BALLOT, PEOPLE, AND I COULD HAVE DONE THIS LIVE.
Let's just say I was eternally grateful this was a long-standing client who looked down a lot whilst speaking - but my phone didn't blink till end-of-session, 19.20.
"Argentinian" (!)
"Jorge Bergoglio" (Italian descent, nice. Add the Spanish upbringing to that, his Latin is going to ROCK.)
"Jesuit" (Oh. my. fucking. G-d. The Holy Spirit made it in. A South American Jesuit???????????? YESSSSSSSSSSS!)
"Regnal name: Francis."
My heart stopped. I didn't need to ask if it was Xavier, De Sales or any of the others. I knew who it was.
Francis of Assisi. You know, the one who'd been chasing me for the last week.
At last, I knew why.
Then I got an email from a Jewish friend, one who had been Catholic, entitled 'Habemus papam', telling me, 'I love him.'
I went home and watched the announcement; read his biography, read his character.
Something in me, something that had been held tightly for over a decade, since the sex abuse scandal broke out and I had felt betrayed beyond imagining, beyond any possibility of forgiveness, beyond any possibility of healing or remaining in the Church except day-to-day - that something unclenched. No. More like, unfroze.
I wept.
Finally, after years of feeling lost, trapped in a choice of my own, I was home.
Not habemus papam, but habeo papam. I have a father.
My father being who he was, I have spent my life fighting with male authority. No matter how many wonderful father figures and male friends came my way, I never trusted it, never believed it, never sat with it. Add the fact that my father's brother sexually abused me, and it is hard for me to be held by a man in any sense: emotionally, physically, spiritually. I'm the one who always hugs over, so I'm not trapped. I look for the lie beneath the charm immediately; for the thug beneath the gentleman; the amorality beneath the pronouncement of religious orthodoxy. I look for the serial killer in the pillar of the church, the workplace, the society.
I knew, when I joined the Church on 15 April 1995, that I was joining a church whose leader didn't want me. I looked beneath the adulation and saw a man who, born behind the Iron Curtain and raised to power as we entered the 1980s during the Cold War, spoke out against communism even as he borrowed its tactics: eliminating the Devil's Advocate, so his endless, personal - often politically opportunistic - preferences for canonisation went forward without challenge; wielding the word Marxism to silence liberation theology; going beyond that to silence any dissent or challenge. In addition, his cultivation of the papal celebrity culture and his demand for unquestioning obedience was always going to ensure we stood on opposite sides. But I had grown up with not being wanted, I could handle that: I was coming into the Church for the sacraments, for the home it had been for me through many close friends, but above all, for Christ - for that knowledge I had understood .
Then came the sexual abuse scandal - and the Pope's unwillingness - and let's be honest, if he could silence liberation theologians, he could defrock Bernard Law and others - to handle it.
It was like being hit in the solar plexus with a sledgehammer. As it went on and on and nothing happened, I nearly walked, over and over again. Every day was a struggle. Trusting anyone in a collar was a struggle. Watching priests I didn't know or trust with children made me want to throw up. Some days, it is STILL a struggle.
And now that I can, I want to say to everyone who got impatient with my - or another's - struggle with the Church and our ability to stay within it, or trivialised their feelings by whatever means (it was ages ago, the number of priests was few, etc, etc) - you trivialised EVERY survivor's struggle. Remember that next time you open your mouth to dismiss someone who couldn't stay in the Church or someone who is tied up in knots about it: you are dismissing your sexually abused friend, lover, cousin, sister, mother - in this case, me - and ask yourself why you feel the need, why your emotions are at such a height - is it because you yourself want to leave, but dare not? Because you were sexually abused and have shut it off? Because it's so horrific, you need to reduce it to numbers to make yourself more comfortable at someone else's expense? Why?
The years of silence stretched on, and John Paul II died to unseemingly hasty calls of 'Santo subito,' a testament to the invasion of celebrity culture/hysteria and the erosion, under his papacy, of the Catholic Church's ability to think deeply, grieve with dignity and take time, counsel and challenge (hence the institution of the Devil's Advocate) when making a decision.
Under the next pope, it felt even more clear I was unwelcome: from his calls for a smaller, solipsistic Church where everyone agreed with each other (erm, sorry? A smaller CATHOLIC church? When Jesus wanted everyone in, from tax-collectors to Pharisees? How does THAT work, then?) to his claim that Protestants weren't 'churches' to his endless :facepalm: moments when it came to other religions - all indicative that he saw non-Catholics as something less than human - it still wasn't working for me. And let's not forget how with one breath he said, 'Sorryforthesexualabusescandal' and in the next said that ordaining women was anathema - as if raping a child and ordaining women were morally equivalent. In addition, the creation of the Ordinariate, a church within a church where Anglo-Catholics can just form their own little ghetto, only serve each other and not give back to the whole Church, simply so more people who claimed a particular, narrow version of lace-brigade, church-as-social-institution, us/them orthodoxy could come into the Church, felt like an complete abandonment of principle: you leave everything to come all the way into the Church OR YOU DON'T COME IN. Simples. The rudeness with which Vincent Nichols treated Rowan Williams at the press conference announcing the Ordinariate made me ashamed to be a Catholic, even more ashamed to be one with him as my representative.
I'm not denying that both these men did good for the Church. But from where I stand, the way in which they lived their office, the implicit values they steeped the Church in, meant big trouble ahead.
Why do these values matter, you ask? You either believe the rules or you don't, right? Who or what the pope, the leader of your institution is, doesn't matter.
Wrong. If you want to understand the dynamics a classroom, look to the teacher. A religious community, look to the prior/abbot/superior. A family, look to the parents. A political party, look to the leader.
Leaders set the values and create the milieu in which the institution is steeped.
And the milieu set by the previous two popes can be summed up fairly simply: "Agree and obey all dictates without question; conflict/robust discussion is unwelcome and punishable by excommunication; those who disagree/question/are not like us are not human and therefore are not subject to the basic kindness and courtesy we give humans; if it looks orthodox, it IS orthodox, no need to examine any further."
Think that's exaggerated? Then listen to the response I got when I mentioned to a clerical acquaintance that I was horrified by how Nichols had treated Rowan Williams at said press conference:
Why? He doesn't recognise his status as Archbishop of Canterbury; he has no need to acknowledge him. Rowan Williams doesn't have the right to speak.
It's HIS CHURCH.
No, it isn't. It's NOT a Church. They're apostate.
At which point, my internal response was, 'Wow. You really ARE a cunt, aren't you? 'WHY?' How FUCKING OBVIOUS IS WHY? BECAUSE HE'S A HUMAN BEING, AND ANYONE WITH EMPATHY WOULD TREAT HIM AS IF IT WAS HIS CHURCH, WHATEVER THEY MIGHT BELIEVE. Man, bet you treat waiters and people who serve you like shit, because, 'They're not priests. They're not real people.' Thank G-d you're not someone I would ever have to consider going to for pastoral care.'
As per the above example, it is in those most invested in the institution, dispensing its ways - the clergy - that the milieu manifests itself most strongly. Let's take the values: obey without question, no need to think; those who are not 'us' and question can be treated as less than human; if it looks orthodox, it IS.
What is the common thread here? Most clearly, a lack of self-awareness and examination; a lack of depth; appearance = what is real; consensus = orthodoxy/faith, conflict = heresy, which leads to an atrophy of the ability to grapple with the difficult. A lack of discernment and discrimination, an inability to deal with complexity and read subtext. Also, a profound inability to do that which a Trinitarian G-d does best: relationship, which requires the ability to acknowledge and navigate conflict.
Now imagine those values creating an influx into the priesthood. Who's coming? Certainly not those with a deep sense of service to G-d and others, or those with deep self-awareness and willingness to listen and change, or those with an ability for deep relationship and intimacy. No. The influx becomes those running away from their issues, whatever they may be; the eternal Peter Pan for whom the priesthood is about extending university rather than taking responsibility and entering adulthood; those who want to parrot the lines and gain easy status; those who equate agreement/acquiescence with love and are threatened by conflict; for those who want some measure of power over others, pounding them from the pulpit, using them to dump unconscious emotions and prop up fragile egos. From what I've heard of seminary interviews, they're none too discriminating as long as you give the right answers. Easy enough to lie or fudge an answer. But beginning one's ministry with a lie, conscious or not, never ends well for anyone.
That's not to say there aren't some amazing entrants with deep pastoral gifts into this fray - and if you're a friend of mine, you know I consider you part of this narrowing thread. But the problem is this - it is extraordinarily difficult to root oneself healthily and deepen against considerable pressure: if you are pastorally gifted and minded, but liturgically more relaxed, the constant snark, borderline bullying and little 'Oh well, he's...not quite one of us,' is the Chinese death by a thousand cuts, requiring an immense sense of self - and more than a bit of the rebel - to resist. Because, you know, we're all wounded in some way. It becomes hard not to wear a mask and pretend for much-needed relief, but to quote Kurt Vonnegut:
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.
To those with a true pastoral calling: it is best not to pretend, or one day, you will find yourself being cruel in the confessional; avoiding the call of your pastoral gifts; going through the motions. You will find yourself losing your most profound gifts and your vocation.
Observation indicates some truth to my extrapolation: from clerics who expound proper dress for mass, yet titter about being dressed up as a geisha to being obsessed with a 'sunrise' of drainpipe trousers to the times I've talked people down from hurtful confessions to story after story of requests for pastoral help ignored in the hopes it would go away, I really hate to admit that this trend seems real. You can also see it in the shift in how priests write: go to someone like Cormac Rigby or Timothy Radcliffe and compare them with most of the newer priest writers. Their thoughtfulness, depth, and ability to construct an argument wipes the floor with every last one of the current crop.
As the influx of the emotionally unaware, pastorally ungifted, self-absorbed, style-obsessed parrots of orthodoxy increases, that leaves more and more of the real work on the shoulders of the pastorally gifted and competent priests. Add to that the lowered expectations of the laity when it comes to pastoral care, and the unwillingness to help priests become better pastors by lovingly challenging them, and the situation becomes even more precarious.
As that ratio reaches tipping point, the Catholic priesthood heads into pastoral clusterfuck.
That pastoral clusterfuck is exacerbated by the dynamics that are then set up in churches - so those who support their fragile egos or naturally enter into the dynamics they unconsciously need will get preference, those who don't will get shunted aside. Lather, rinse, repeat over parishes around the world and the laity get increasingly unhealthy as well. Witness the polarisation in the Church; the shrillness on both sides, and the childish equating of "good = agrees with me; bad = disagrees with me."
And from whom are our future seminarians drawn?
Into the fray, enter Jorge Bergoglio, Pope Francis, a man whose central values revolve around relationship and pastoral care, who eschews grandeur and appearance - a man who prefers public transport to being driven; who has refused the papal apartments; who wears simple black shoes; who chose to wash the feet of prisoners; who cooks for himself and drinks yerba in the Buenos Aires slums. Oh, and cancels his own newspaper subscription.
Which, of course, gets him damned for being liturgically less ornate than the previous pope; for not wearing the red shoes and the mozzetta; and even more heinously, for his 'trouble pronouncing Latin' - which could only be said with a straight face by linguistically challenged, arrogant Northern Europeans who have no concept of Latin vowels. His Latin, FTR, is swoonworthily perfect. Do remember that he has one lung and his 'trouble' is stopping to catch his breath.
The intense reaction to the new pope is fascinating: branded 'Uriah Heep' by the most arrogant of tradofascists; 'concern', which smells far more like fear, from many clergy; and the need to put him in a box with JPII and Benedict: 'What we believe', 'Why we believe' and 'Doing what we believe' for one of the more inane posters I've seen.
Amazing how afraid of real power people are, isn't it? Power that is centred in a real, loving relationship with G-d that then spills over onto his people. Does this man need a mozzetta to show his power? I think not. He is completely centred in G-d, authentic, and in a moment of true meeting with another.
So he's in relationship, you shrug. That's doing. But that's not all. The man's a JESUIT, people, with degrees in CHEMISTRY, PHILOSOPHY and THEOLOGY. The stupidity of assuming that because he practises his faith, he can't THINK it, is beyond mindboggling. And I can tell you from his face, in picture after picture, he is constantly discerning - there's a ferocious intelligence and perception behind those eyes; Jorge Bergoglio doesn't miss a beat.
This need to split, to say 'He does, so he doesn't think like Benedict did,' shows the depth of the rupture our Church has experienced, and explains the paucity of deep thought and theology in recent years. An unwillingness to hold conflict is not a strength; it is a weakness, a brittleness. Anything that moves us away from wholeness, away from being able to hold opposites and paradox, makes us more shallow, less nuanced, weaker. It makes union an impossibility.
But now we have a pope who can hold it - and us. And that's terrifying, because he is going to ask us to level up - by example. Laity will look to him and go, 'Oh, that's what pastoral care looks like,' then demand it of their priests, far too many of whom believe their priesthood is all about them. We will ALL be forced to look beneath style to substance, to our relationship with G-d and others. We will all be made to think about how we love.
I will be forced to really examine my thoughts a week ago, when we were called to offer one another the sign of peace on a Monday, and I looked hard at the priest, thinking, 'Don't make me do the sign of peace on a Monday. I don't want to touch these people.'
These people - those not like me, those I perceive as self-absorbed, playing the victim, faux pious - those I see as less than human. Yes, I too, am part of that milieu, part of the problem. Let change begin with me - it's the only change I can make.
Habeo papam.
This man, this pope, this...Papa - he will challenge me to the core. He is far more doctrinally conservative than I am; he will do things with which I disagree; I may well be upset by some things I discover about his past.
But our hearts, nuestros corazones, are one. At the centre of our values is a yearning for G-d and the pastoral: the people. Being there for those who need us, no matter the cost. I have a clergy friend who cycled to a suicidal young woman in the rain. THAT. Always THAT, and the readiness to sacrifice oneself for that which is greater than we are.
I can rest in that. I know I am wanted - because I am loved, held precious, because I am part of the flock, one of G-d's own - contingent on...nothing. And bring on the challenge - I can't wait - this is going to be exhilarating.
Finally, I can put down the self-imposed burden of shouting warnings and leave that where it belongs - in the hands of one whose heart is with the people. I can trust that I am held, valued and loved, and in that trust, I can worry about MY faith.
Considering that today, 15 April 2013, I've come of age as a Catholic - I'm now 18 - it's about damn time.
Monday, 18 March 2013
An offering for the papal installation: 'Don't fly for me, Argentina', with apologies to ALW and TR
I'm a writer and a talker by nature, but music wins hands down when it comes to times of great emotion.
So here is my offering for the papal installation tomorrow, which I look forward to with great joy and maybe just a touch of cheekiness. From what I've seen of Papa Francis, I think he might approve. As the mass is chock full of glorious music, I would have my humble offering relegated to (one of) the offertory hymn(s).
It is, of course, a nod to His Holiness' request that his Argentinian countrymen not fly over to attend the mass, but remain spiritually close and give the money they would have spent flying to the poor.
Por supuesto, we all know the song it is based on. I've stayed very close to the original, since the emotional tenor was nigh on perfect. In addition, I've had two (waiting on a third) friends who are singers scan it.
With no further ado, may I present Don't fly for me, Argentina:
It won't be easy
You'll think it strange
When I try to explain why I asked -
That I still need your love
Though I said, ‘Don’t be here’
You won't believe me
All you will see
Is a boy you once knew
Although he's dressed up to the nines -
At sixes and sevens with you
I had to let it happen -
I had to change
Couldn't say ‘No’ to those down at heel
Looking down at my ballot
Listening to the Son
Trusting the Spirit
Frightened of this burden coming my way
But there was no question at all
I take up the Cross for you
Chorus:
Don't fly for me Argentina
The truth is the poor, they need us
O Pastor Ecclesiae
Ever feeding God’s sheep
I’ll keep my promise
Don't keep your distance
And as for fortune and as for fame
Don’t ever invite them in
Though it seems to the world
They are to be desired
They are illusions
They are not the solutions
They promise to be
The answer is here all the time:
G-d loves you, entrusts you to me
Don't fly for me, Argentina
[Chorus]
Have I said too much?
There's nothing more I can think of to say to you
But all you have to do
Is look at me to know
That every word is true
So here is my offering for the papal installation tomorrow, which I look forward to with great joy and maybe just a touch of cheekiness. From what I've seen of Papa Francis, I think he might approve. As the mass is chock full of glorious music, I would have my humble offering relegated to (one of) the offertory hymn(s).
It is, of course, a nod to His Holiness' request that his Argentinian countrymen not fly over to attend the mass, but remain spiritually close and give the money they would have spent flying to the poor.
Por supuesto, we all know the song it is based on. I've stayed very close to the original, since the emotional tenor was nigh on perfect. In addition, I've had two (waiting on a third) friends who are singers scan it.
With no further ado, may I present Don't fly for me, Argentina:
It won't be easy
You'll think it strange
When I try to explain why I asked -
That I still need your love
Though I said, ‘Don’t be here’
You won't believe me
All you will see
Is a boy you once knew
Although he's dressed up to the nines -
At sixes and sevens with you
I had to let it happen -
I had to change
Couldn't say ‘No’ to those down at heel
Looking down at my ballot
Listening to the Son
Trusting the Spirit
Frightened of this burden coming my way
But there was no question at all
I take up the Cross for you
Chorus:
Don't fly for me Argentina
The truth is the poor, they need us
O Pastor Ecclesiae
Ever feeding God’s sheep
I’ll keep my promise
Don't keep your distance
And as for fortune and as for fame
Don’t ever invite them in
Though it seems to the world
They are to be desired
They are illusions
They are not the solutions
They promise to be
The answer is here all the time:
G-d loves you, entrusts you to me
Don't fly for me, Argentina
[Chorus]
Have I said too much?
There's nothing more I can think of to say to you
But all you have to do
Is look at me to know
That every word is true
[Chorus]
Friday, 15 March 2013
My response to the Tridentinist reaction to the papal election
The absolute frothing at the mouth at Rorate Caeli (a blog devoted to the preservation of the Tridentine mass) after the papal election essentially constituted a psychotic break, inasmuch as a blog can have one. From 'OMG, he's going to get rid of the 1962 mass and TALK TO NON-CATHOLICS, and PAY ATTENTION TO THE POOR (who are lazy, according to many of the commenters), THE WORLD IS ENDING!!!' to thinly veiled death wishes for the new pope, it made for some pretty horrific reading. After a bit of kvetching to friends, I thought I'd better put my money where my mouth is and actually comment at the blog.
I doubt it will be published at RCae, and I'm not that bothered - the author of the blog will read it, perhaps discuss it, perhaps dismiss it, but the seed will be there. However, it's time I said what I want to say to them here, without the rage they provoke in me, and ask the questions I want to ask - so I'm posting it:
I doubt it will be published at RCae, and I'm not that bothered - the author of the blog will read it, perhaps discuss it, perhaps dismiss it, but the seed will be there. However, it's time I said what I want to say to them here, without the rage they provoke in me, and ask the questions I want to ask - so I'm posting it:
Your lack of respect and charity towards the pope, less than 48 hours after his election, proves you are NOT a 'deeply Catholic' blog, but a one trick 'TRAD MASS' blog. A little more self-awareness around what this anger is really all about and a little more focus on what's wrong and sinful with YOU would go a long, long way. You're like addicts - you use the trad mass to mask something else. Go inward and deal with your own issues, rather than projecting them and vomiting your rage on everyone else.That way, you'll come to understand that the only link in all the Catholic communities that you have come into conflict with is you. Perhaps you'll even find yourselves taking responsibility for your role in those conflicts. Maybe if you loved thy neighbour as thyself, rather than treating them as commodities or objects of scorn, you'd get a lot further, feel less isolated and be much happier.
As someone who has been unhappy with previous popes, I have NEVER, EVER spoken with the vitriol, ill will and ill wishes towards ANY of them that you all have spoken - and I have always respected the decision of the Holy Spirit and their authority. And I am one of those 'liberal Catholics' you treat with such contempt.
The implicit death wishes on this blog HORRIFY me. They're inhuman. LISTEN TO YOURSELVES, PEOPLE. How would you feel if any of this was said to you or your family?
Maybe you'd be a lot happier if you actually gave more - of yourselves, not your pocketbook - rather than obsessing about form.
That obsession kicks up a question: are you obsessing about form to avoid real relationship with G-d? As long as you focus on form, He can't come in and change your life. And that's really comfortable, isn't it? You can stay stuck in your rage, never having to change, living in your small, safe world where everyone agrees with you. I get it. We've all been there; it's the most human thing. But it's not the most godly thing, and that's the whole point of this journey and being Catholic, isn't it?
As a friend of mine noted after reading your blog:
[T]he source of their knee-jerk fear [is that] he's the real thing; his faith is so much deeper and truer than theirs. He is a challenge; he's going to push for truth and integrity, and they don't want that. They only really care about the superficial. And hey, I speak as someone who always loved the superficial.... but you have to have more than that, and they don't.
That's what you're afraid of, isn't it? The discovery that the emperor has no clothes - or in this case, no genuine faith. We all know it's true, your fear screams so loudly it drowns out everything else. Where there is fear, there is no faith, and certainly, no love - since love drives out fear, and perfect love will drive out all fear.
My heart aches for you. Being that angry and afraid sucks boulders. Trust me, I know. Turn away before it leads you so far down the road of spiritual darkness that you can never turn back. Please - we really DO want you walking with us - but right now, it's impossible for you to. Take our hand, talk to us, walk with us, G-d wants us all home. Look at His universe - He created diversity, not conformity, and yet it is one Creation, one Church. Come back. Don't shut yourself out in a self-imposed Hell.
It may be that you're not ready to hear any of this yet, and that's fine - but it has been said, whether or not this is published, and perhaps one day, it will find fertile ground.
G-d bless, now and always.
Tuesday, 12 February 2013
Early reflections on a papal resignation by The Parish Heretic
It was just past 5 yesterday evening when I looked at the candles on the altar and did a double-take. I stared harder. And harder.
'Surely not,' I thought.
What was it that had me so startled and unsettled? Unbleached candles.
Only Catholics will understand what I felt when I thought I saw unbleached candles on the altar when there wasn't a requiem mass due. I was taken aback enough that I nearly tapped the next passing cleric on the arm and asked about it, but I left it, thinking it was surely an illusion.
'No one here, G-d,' I thought. 'Please. Please let this just be about my thinking about Brenda, not a moment of foresight.'
As Vespers began, I breathed a sigh of relief - finally, the candles looked the colour they were - white.
After an indulgent dinner at the Old Parsonage, a not-long-enough night's sleep, and unexpected snow, Monday morning promised to be normal enough, with the added pain in the ass of finishing a Power Point presentation (deadline today).
Taking a break during the PPT and other administrative duties, I was idly checking my fb newsfeed when a post by a non-religious friend made me freeze in my tracks:
Popes can resign?
Now, I'm one for reading subtext. In trying to make sense of it, I assumed that J must have been having a conversation about it and posted it as a question to his Catholic friends.
But even three words conveyed without tone of voice carry a plethora of meaning/emotion. There was too much...startlement in that choice of phrasing, too much, 'Wha?' for me to hold on to my initial interpretation. So I googled.
And sat back in shock.
Surely a parody, I thought, looking for Onion, Daily Currant and Daily Mash email addresses. Instead, I saw Guardian, CNN, Telegraph, Reuters...
It's true. Oh my G-d, it's true.
In that moment, it didn't matter that I was so upset by his election that I had to walk out of the room and cry. Every moment of irimtation, rage, 'DO SOMETHING ABOUT THEM!', calmer moments of disagreement, not one of them mattered.
Not one.
What I did surprised even me - I reached for my phone and texted two clerical friends...then rang one. I, the ultimate anti-Catholic in so many ways, desperately wanted to be around Catholics, around those who would understand the shock and the tangled feeling on hearing the news.
Today, I was completely Catholic.
Today, I wanted nothing more to talk over my feelings of shock, being unsettled, of fear, of grief, doubt. Today, I wanted to be wrapped in that world that I normally keep at arm's length; that world where the words novena, sacrament, veneration are tossed about as casually as my expression, 'Are you on CRACK?' Today, I found myself wanting to round on Protestants and say, 'BUT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, OK?'
Because honestly, you don't. Oh, you can get it intellectually, but you don't feel it viscerally, that tug in the solar plexus, that sense of being winded, the way a Catholic does. You don't have that sense of the world tilting on its axis slightly as the rest of the world carries on as normal.
You take it as a sign that we don't rest in G-d. That's just not true; it's that we have an infrastructure - a priesthood, sacraments, ritual, tradition - that makes manifest the intangible, the ineffable - a world of rich, deep symbolism that is our way of expressing G-d in the world.
Now, is it easy to get lost in infrastructure and ritual and make the means the end? Absolutely. But isn't that also the case with the literalism of 'Sola Scriptura'? How often has that been twisted to bully others and suit beliefs that make those not like us less than human? And to me, how barren is that world, one without metaphor and symbolic language and ways of expressing deeper truths, of making manifest that which is unseen.
So don't assume that, because we are shaken by the loss of the pope, that I and my Catholic peops don't rest in Jesus or don't see G-d as the foundation of our faith. That's a lazy, unnuanced assumption that needs informing. Tolle lege, tolle lege.
And don't assume that, because you know me as irreverent, liberal, challenging, and willing to give two fingers to the Catholic hierarchy (and any member, regardless of rank) when I think it is wrong, that I immediately want to hear nasty, snarky jokes about this. Or that I want endless snide comments about the sexual abuse scandal. Or that I'm over it or don't care. Or that you have no limits on what you can say to me about the Church or its pope, that I'll hold your unreasoning hatred against all things Catholic or religious, because of course I REALLY feel that way, since I'm not REALLY Catholic.
That would be a lazy, unnuanced assumption that needs informing - because if you believe that those adjectives above are all I ever am, if you see me that one-dimensionally - snarky, challenging, indiscriminately rebellious, irreverent - you don't know me at all.
If you want to know how I really feel and understand what I really believe, ask - then take the time to listen.
And you'll understand that my faith is a fractal, and how it is absolutely possible - nay, necessary - that I can weep at both the papal election and the papal resignation.
Because that is love. Not infatuation, but love.
Papa, I may have fought you almost every inch of the way, but it made me a better Catholic. I understood what I believed, what I stood for, what was important. And so...
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And Papa, I don't think I said, 'I love you,' near enough
And as you leave us, my heart and prayers go with you. I love you.
Deus te benedicat.
'Surely not,' I thought.
What was it that had me so startled and unsettled? Unbleached candles.
Only Catholics will understand what I felt when I thought I saw unbleached candles on the altar when there wasn't a requiem mass due. I was taken aback enough that I nearly tapped the next passing cleric on the arm and asked about it, but I left it, thinking it was surely an illusion.
'No one here, G-d,' I thought. 'Please. Please let this just be about my thinking about Brenda, not a moment of foresight.'
As Vespers began, I breathed a sigh of relief - finally, the candles looked the colour they were - white.
After an indulgent dinner at the Old Parsonage, a not-long-enough night's sleep, and unexpected snow, Monday morning promised to be normal enough, with the added pain in the ass of finishing a Power Point presentation (deadline today).
Taking a break during the PPT and other administrative duties, I was idly checking my fb newsfeed when a post by a non-religious friend made me freeze in my tracks:
Popes can resign?
Now, I'm one for reading subtext. In trying to make sense of it, I assumed that J must have been having a conversation about it and posted it as a question to his Catholic friends.
But even three words conveyed without tone of voice carry a plethora of meaning/emotion. There was too much...startlement in that choice of phrasing, too much, 'Wha?' for me to hold on to my initial interpretation. So I googled.
And sat back in shock.
Surely a parody, I thought, looking for Onion, Daily Currant and Daily Mash email addresses. Instead, I saw Guardian, CNN, Telegraph, Reuters...
It's true. Oh my G-d, it's true.
In that moment, it didn't matter that I was so upset by his election that I had to walk out of the room and cry. Every moment of irimtation, rage, 'DO SOMETHING ABOUT THEM!', calmer moments of disagreement, not one of them mattered.
Not one.
What I did surprised even me - I reached for my phone and texted two clerical friends...then rang one. I, the ultimate anti-Catholic in so many ways, desperately wanted to be around Catholics, around those who would understand the shock and the tangled feeling on hearing the news.
Today, I was completely Catholic.
Today, I wanted nothing more to talk over my feelings of shock, being unsettled, of fear, of grief, doubt. Today, I wanted to be wrapped in that world that I normally keep at arm's length; that world where the words novena, sacrament, veneration are tossed about as casually as my expression, 'Are you on CRACK?' Today, I found myself wanting to round on Protestants and say, 'BUT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, OK?'
Because honestly, you don't. Oh, you can get it intellectually, but you don't feel it viscerally, that tug in the solar plexus, that sense of being winded, the way a Catholic does. You don't have that sense of the world tilting on its axis slightly as the rest of the world carries on as normal.
You take it as a sign that we don't rest in G-d. That's just not true; it's that we have an infrastructure - a priesthood, sacraments, ritual, tradition - that makes manifest the intangible, the ineffable - a world of rich, deep symbolism that is our way of expressing G-d in the world.
Now, is it easy to get lost in infrastructure and ritual and make the means the end? Absolutely. But isn't that also the case with the literalism of 'Sola Scriptura'? How often has that been twisted to bully others and suit beliefs that make those not like us less than human? And to me, how barren is that world, one without metaphor and symbolic language and ways of expressing deeper truths, of making manifest that which is unseen.
So don't assume that, because we are shaken by the loss of the pope, that I and my Catholic peops don't rest in Jesus or don't see G-d as the foundation of our faith. That's a lazy, unnuanced assumption that needs informing. Tolle lege, tolle lege.
And don't assume that, because you know me as irreverent, liberal, challenging, and willing to give two fingers to the Catholic hierarchy (and any member, regardless of rank) when I think it is wrong, that I immediately want to hear nasty, snarky jokes about this. Or that I want endless snide comments about the sexual abuse scandal. Or that I'm over it or don't care. Or that you have no limits on what you can say to me about the Church or its pope, that I'll hold your unreasoning hatred against all things Catholic or religious, because of course I REALLY feel that way, since I'm not REALLY Catholic.
That would be a lazy, unnuanced assumption that needs informing - because if you believe that those adjectives above are all I ever am, if you see me that one-dimensionally - snarky, challenging, indiscriminately rebellious, irreverent - you don't know me at all.
If you want to know how I really feel and understand what I really believe, ask - then take the time to listen.
And you'll understand that my faith is a fractal, and how it is absolutely possible - nay, necessary - that I can weep at both the papal election and the papal resignation.
Because that is love. Not infatuation, but love.
Papa, I may have fought you almost every inch of the way, but it made me a better Catholic. I understood what I believed, what I stood for, what was important. And so...
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And Papa, I don't think I said, 'I love you,' near enough
And as you leave us, my heart and prayers go with you. I love you.
Deus te benedicat.
Monday, 14 January 2013
Word whimsy, or, The Dubya/Kerry Debate Moirail poetry slam
This shouldn't have been a surprise, after all, my moirail and I are no stranger to co-creating the weirdest English associative masterpieces ever. But more recently, we've been far more focused on analysis and elucidating patterns, and silliness has mostly fallen by the wayside.
One of the marks of a remarkable connection with another, I feel, is the ability to slip seamlessly into thinking or working together with almost nothing being said, where the next part of the sequence of events emerges naturally and creatively, where one role flows seamlessly into the other - as my French polisher friend might say, 'You can't see the join.' I can count on the fingers of one hand the people I can do this with, and Ari has always been one.
Don't get me wrong - what Ari terms the 'hive mind' is no Borg mind. Seamless teamwork means thinking together, not thinking as one - and this is an essential difference. Knowing what the other is doing or about to do is not the same as defining it. As I said to her, 'We operate/grab the same principle, but within that principle, we operate individually.' So: when Ari rhymed, we both grabbed the rhyme principle, agreed upon it, but operated as ourselves within it, communicating any evolving changes naturally. So each person is actually operating in two versions of flow: their own and the combined flow to achieve the common goal. Therefore, though you will see that we're operating by a common set of principles and objectives, our individual essences glow through each one of our contributions - and the whole is more than the sum of our parts.
This was the second time in 10 days I've been blessed by such flow, but as ever, when it comes to Ari, it was nothing expected, and something whimsically weird, that set us off: her parsing of the Dubya/Kerry 2004 debates.
It began with an innocent enough email:
'It's against the law in the United States to hire people illegally.'
I... I would never have guessed....
Me: Me either. Shocking, isn't it???
Ari: Yes!! God, it's totally given me a different perspective on... on everything.
Me: Like, TOTAL GAME-CHANGER, YOU KNOW? WOW.
Ari: IKR??? Everything I thought I knew has just been flipped over. I mean, SHIT.
Me: Like, as upside down as Purim. V'nahafoch hu.
Ari: My mind can't even take it in, you know? This is not the world I thought I knew!
Ari: My mind can't even take it in, you know? This is not the world I thought I knew!
Me (thinking, and informing Ari by gchat, 'SHIT, we're rhyming): How do you even begin to cope when NONE of what you've always believed is true?
Ari: I... I don't think I can cope. I'm going to have to start anew.
Me: I might have to sue...
Ari: I... I don't think I can cope. I'm going to have to start anew.
Me: I might have to sue...
Ari: Fuck, you too???
Me: I'm afraid 'tis true...may even have to lie down in my pew.
Ari: O woe, that the folly of our times should have gotten even to you...
Me: It is even difficult to find joy in the letter 'q'...
Ari: The horror, the horror! One more reason that the election of Dubya over the profound sagacious Kerry was an event to rue!
Me: That, but even more the result of the 2000 election, just...blew.
Ari: 'Twas a dark day indeed, a harbinger of bitter years to come. They say that September the eleventh was our nation's loss of innocence, but for me... that travesty was when I knew.
Me: The darkest of days - songs of hope fell silent, brave hearts trembled and angels held their breath - when one moment set the whole world askew.
Ari: Aye, that was when it became apparent to all that dire portents were starting to brew.
Me: ...and festering hatreds really started to stew. Alas, moirail, 'tis time for me to leave work, so I must bid you adieu! Do carry on if you wish to continue!
Ari: Eight years later, a new direction was long overdue. Farewell, farewell, and may the post-work frivolities ensue! I love you.
Me: It truly was, that joyous day, when winds of hope blew through. I promise they shall, dear moirail, and I love you too! < <3>
Ari: < <3>
(Note: <> is the symbol for moirail, which most closely resembles a heartsister/heartbrother, with the added component of balancing each other. Ari and I have modified it to essentially mean 'moirail hug' by the addition of a heart in the middle.)
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Spice Lounge, Oxford FTW
People often ask me what my favourite Indian restaurants in Oxford are - the answer to that is that I haven't tried all of them, but my top 3 are Aziz on the Cowley Road (often in the top 50 in the country), Bombay on Walton St (it's small, tends to fill quickly and if it is FULL to the gills, you'll pretty much only be allowed to hang for 90 minutes) and Spice Lounge in Summertown, my 'local', as it were. I have recently been told that Kebab Kid on the Cowley Rd and on Gloucester Green offer the best homemade Pakistani-style curry around - having tried a bite of Nahed's one evening, I have to agree. I'll get back to you when I've tried a proper serving size.
But of them all, it's Spice Lounge that's my haunt and my housemates' (yes, that's all of them) favourite for takeaway, and not just because it's nearest - the food is great, but on top of that, the people are fabulous. I feel like a member of the family there - I get huge grins and a warm welcome on my arrival. Ali, the owner and my favourite Hajji, and I check in with each other's lives - sometimes his kids are in the reception area, doing their homework. Often, if it's early and quiet, we'll have a proper chat.
So it really is like visiting an extended family member's home.
And as with all extended family members, there are the odd bumps in the road. We're human. Last night, an extremely capable and solicitous, but young and new, waiter stopped by our table about midway through and asked if we were finished. Now, to be fair, it was obvious *I* was, but less clear that my friend was. She took a final bite and sheepishly put her knife and fork down as we continued catching up on a year's worth of news.
A couple of minutes later, I gently asked if she was done, saying I wasn't worried about the time. She looked hugely relieved and said, 'Well, I'll just have some more rice, if that's ok.'
'Of COURSE it is - *I* had a Grande Eggnog latte before you arrived at Starbucks, then a small Gingerbread latte to keep you company. Eat away and as much as you want, I don't care!' She carried on very happily till her rice was finished, but I was aware that she might not have done so.
Also, I had a report from a friend who'd been asked a question she deemed personal and impertinent - NOT a come-on, I hasten to add. Just a question out of curiosity, but one that was just a bit too personal coming from a stranger.
Time, I thought, to speak to Ali. Maybe I could have pulled the waiter aside, but he was very busy and I did think that it was worth addressing with everyone, just in case he wasn't alone.
I turned around to see him by the coffee machine, checking on bits and pieces, excused myself to my friend, and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Hey, could I borrow you for a minute?'
'Of course!'
'Listen, you guys are absolutely fantastic, I love how friendly you are and I love that I'm known here. Just a couple of things.'
'PLEASE. Tell me. Tell me, I want to know.'
'Well, first of all, I just want to say that your new waiter - the young one - is fantastic and totally on top of things. Just the tiniest thing: he came by and asked if we were finished - I obviously was, but she wasn't...and you know how it is. He obviously just wanted to get it right. Now, I'd just say, 'No,' and not be bothered, but...'
'Sometimes, especially if people are here for the first time, they get conscious about it and stop eating.'
'Exactly, whereas someone like me just isn't fussed.'
Then I narrated my other friend's story, prefacing it with, 'I know it was just curiosity, and meant in a friendly way.'
His eyes went wide, and even as he agreed with me as to motive, he said, 'But, from the other side, it's offensive, isn't it?'
'It could be, ja.'
'See, this is what happens sometimes when you aren't on the floor and when people are new - we got a new team whilst I was away (on Hajj). Sometimes, I just don't know. Thank you SO much for telling me.'
'Look, please - you guys are fantastic and so friendly, it's great, it's just those things.'
'Please. Always come and tell me. And tell your friends they can come and tell me.'
'I will.'
I walked away feeling great, and the rest of dinner included a decadent pudding thrown in for free and profuse thanks from Ali again on my way out.
It was amazing.
I was forcibly reminded, as I always am after a 'clear the air' session, how much better relationships are once things are worked through. There is space for conflict, space for anger, space for hurt, space for discussion - and every single time I've worked things through with someone, the relationship has come out stronger and deeper as a result.
I don't get the burying, the avoiding - I mean, I understand them, but I don't get them. Things don't get better, they get worse. Relationships where you're walking on eggshells are either going to be dropped into the space where you need to deal with things, or the relationship will just stop working.
Why? Because you can't trust someone who's lying to you. Without that trust, nothing works. When you open up, especially when it's most scary because you're having these intense feelings, and you're held in the space where they're accepted and understood, you know you can trust, no matter how hard it gets. You relax into the relationship, healed, becoming wholly yourself.
And you know what's real. Frankly, I'd rather hold intense emotions such as anger, grief, sadness, anxiety, woundedness openly in a space, no matter how painful it is, than have it as a relentless subtext to the relationship.
Had Ali gotten defensive or not wanted to know, no matter how good the food is, it's likely that at some point, I'd have stopped going, because the service would have fallen apart. Small problems need to be dealt with, or they become big problems, endemic to the place and culture. I couldn't have trusted it and I couldn't have been myself. And had I gone around telling everyone else about those incidents, telling them how angry I was, it would have hurt a damn good person and a good business. And he couldn't have trusted me. I wouldn't have trusted myself either.
But now, I know I absolutely can - Spice Lounge will continue to be my regular haunt - and extended family home - for Indian food.
If you're in the area, may I warmly suggest you make it yours.
But of them all, it's Spice Lounge that's my haunt and my housemates' (yes, that's all of them) favourite for takeaway, and not just because it's nearest - the food is great, but on top of that, the people are fabulous. I feel like a member of the family there - I get huge grins and a warm welcome on my arrival. Ali, the owner and my favourite Hajji, and I check in with each other's lives - sometimes his kids are in the reception area, doing their homework. Often, if it's early and quiet, we'll have a proper chat.
So it really is like visiting an extended family member's home.
And as with all extended family members, there are the odd bumps in the road. We're human. Last night, an extremely capable and solicitous, but young and new, waiter stopped by our table about midway through and asked if we were finished. Now, to be fair, it was obvious *I* was, but less clear that my friend was. She took a final bite and sheepishly put her knife and fork down as we continued catching up on a year's worth of news.
A couple of minutes later, I gently asked if she was done, saying I wasn't worried about the time. She looked hugely relieved and said, 'Well, I'll just have some more rice, if that's ok.'
'Of COURSE it is - *I* had a Grande Eggnog latte before you arrived at Starbucks, then a small Gingerbread latte to keep you company. Eat away and as much as you want, I don't care!' She carried on very happily till her rice was finished, but I was aware that she might not have done so.
Also, I had a report from a friend who'd been asked a question she deemed personal and impertinent - NOT a come-on, I hasten to add. Just a question out of curiosity, but one that was just a bit too personal coming from a stranger.
Time, I thought, to speak to Ali. Maybe I could have pulled the waiter aside, but he was very busy and I did think that it was worth addressing with everyone, just in case he wasn't alone.
I turned around to see him by the coffee machine, checking on bits and pieces, excused myself to my friend, and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Hey, could I borrow you for a minute?'
'Of course!'
'Listen, you guys are absolutely fantastic, I love how friendly you are and I love that I'm known here. Just a couple of things.'
'PLEASE. Tell me. Tell me, I want to know.'
'Well, first of all, I just want to say that your new waiter - the young one - is fantastic and totally on top of things. Just the tiniest thing: he came by and asked if we were finished - I obviously was, but she wasn't...and you know how it is. He obviously just wanted to get it right. Now, I'd just say, 'No,' and not be bothered, but...'
'Sometimes, especially if people are here for the first time, they get conscious about it and stop eating.'
'Exactly, whereas someone like me just isn't fussed.'
Then I narrated my other friend's story, prefacing it with, 'I know it was just curiosity, and meant in a friendly way.'
His eyes went wide, and even as he agreed with me as to motive, he said, 'But, from the other side, it's offensive, isn't it?'
'It could be, ja.'
'See, this is what happens sometimes when you aren't on the floor and when people are new - we got a new team whilst I was away (on Hajj). Sometimes, I just don't know. Thank you SO much for telling me.'
'Look, please - you guys are fantastic and so friendly, it's great, it's just those things.'
'Please. Always come and tell me. And tell your friends they can come and tell me.'
'I will.'
I walked away feeling great, and the rest of dinner included a decadent pudding thrown in for free and profuse thanks from Ali again on my way out.
It was amazing.
I was forcibly reminded, as I always am after a 'clear the air' session, how much better relationships are once things are worked through. There is space for conflict, space for anger, space for hurt, space for discussion - and every single time I've worked things through with someone, the relationship has come out stronger and deeper as a result.
I don't get the burying, the avoiding - I mean, I understand them, but I don't get them. Things don't get better, they get worse. Relationships where you're walking on eggshells are either going to be dropped into the space where you need to deal with things, or the relationship will just stop working.
Why? Because you can't trust someone who's lying to you. Without that trust, nothing works. When you open up, especially when it's most scary because you're having these intense feelings, and you're held in the space where they're accepted and understood, you know you can trust, no matter how hard it gets. You relax into the relationship, healed, becoming wholly yourself.
And you know what's real. Frankly, I'd rather hold intense emotions such as anger, grief, sadness, anxiety, woundedness openly in a space, no matter how painful it is, than have it as a relentless subtext to the relationship.
Had Ali gotten defensive or not wanted to know, no matter how good the food is, it's likely that at some point, I'd have stopped going, because the service would have fallen apart. Small problems need to be dealt with, or they become big problems, endemic to the place and culture. I couldn't have trusted it and I couldn't have been myself. And had I gone around telling everyone else about those incidents, telling them how angry I was, it would have hurt a damn good person and a good business. And he couldn't have trusted me. I wouldn't have trusted myself either.
But now, I know I absolutely can - Spice Lounge will continue to be my regular haunt - and extended family home - for Indian food.
If you're in the area, may I warmly suggest you make it yours.
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