holy defiance

I am now officially obsessed with the virgin martyrs.

I have been making a meandering sort of progress through Kathleen Norris’s The Cloister Walk. It is my habit to pick up a chapter here and there, waiting sometimes days or even a week or two between readings.

Yesterday morning I picked up the text and found myself at a chapter about the virgin martyrs. I was madly underlining, bracketing, and starring the text, making copious notes in the margins with blue ink. I was so inspired and while I wasn't quite sure why at the time, I wanted to stand up and cheer in response to what I was reading. Norris’s narrative of the virgin martyrs and her own observations and conclusions about their choices and behavior gave shape to thoughts and feelings to which I have been utterly unable to encapsulate with my own words: thoughts about beauty and womanhood, thoughts about identity and purpose, thoughts about the world and God’s place for me in it, thoughts about death to self and surrender to Christ, not to mention all the feelings I have about this crazy and unexpected path I find myself walking.

Over the last several weeks, there has been a lot of internal juggling going on (hence the silence): this whole amazing business of claiming my identity as a writer and attending a writer’s conference, of writing a thorough confession to my body: it all happened after I came to God with an attitude of complete surrender. His work in me is not primarily about the writing and yet, that's how a lot of this is being made manifest right now. I wrote on one blog about how frustrated I was with my single status, and came to God in prayer. Instead of asking Him to satisfy me with someone else, I told Him, Okay. For now, your answer to my request for a partner is either ‘no’ or ‘not yet’. If you’re not going to fill this empty space with someone, what do you want to fill it with instead?

He wasted no time in responding.

That is when the most amazing things started happening. I prayed that prayer on February 15. Just eight days later, I woke up earlier than normal on a Saturday morning with the compelling directive in my heart and soul: I need to confess my sins toward my body. I couldn’t say for sure at the time that I knew it was God prompting me; I didn't know where the injunction was coming from. All I knew at the time was that piece of writing was not one I ever intended to write. It was not coming from me. But write it I did, and posted it with the smallest measure of faith that doing so was an act of obedience.

And now I'm watching all sorts of unimaginable blessings spring forth. One of those blessings is that I've found a substantive piece of God’s design for me, which is in short to bring forth this confession, to invite and give permission to others to do the same, to be witness to what God does in the wake of affirming these truths, taking them out of darkness and bringing them into the light, and to surrender this wholly unexpected place in my heart through which God desires to minister to others in a very particular way. Whew! I receive confirmation from Him almost daily (sometimes multiple times daily) that I’m on the right path, that he intends me for this particular and not wholly formed ministry. I don't have the opportunity to lose momentum, so often is He putting wind in my sails.

One of the many unexpected byproducts of this is that the space in my heart that felt so empty and dried out is no longer vacant, but bursting with fullness, lush and verdant and teeming with new life. God has filled it to overflowing; the heart He's given me in exchange for the one I surrendered to Him is one that has eyes only for Him. His design for my life in the context of His grander scheme is unfolding before me and I find myself utterly caught up in it, unwilling to allow that anything or anyone should take me away from it.

I am open to new friendships, but where relationships of the dating/courtship variety (or whatever you want to call it) are concerned, I feel a clear and resounding “no” rising up within me whenever it is offered. It feels incredibly empowering to declare truly and with utmost conviction that I’m just not all that interested in that right now, period. I cannot knowingly declare that this is the way it's always going to be; but I can affirm that this is the way it is now.

I make no apologies for this.

While I understand some women are in the habit of saying things they don’t really mean, it is irritating when I’m not taken at my word. Remember when Elizabeth in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice refuses Mr. Collins’s offer of marriage? He repeatedly attempts to counter her refusals of his proposal by accusing her of playing coy and of trying to incite greater passion from him. She keeps reaffirming her refusal with noticeable and increasing annoyance. While my circumstances are different than Elizabeth's, I can appreciate her frustration in that moment: her "no" is not being heard, but is being taken for something else entirely.

A couple months ago, I told a certain would-be pursuer three times over the course of two days quite explicitly that I wasn’t interested in dating him (I actually said three times: I don’t want to date you). Just seconds after I said this a fourth time, he accused me of being "unclear". I wish I was kidding.

I realize that this is one of those rare instances where my feelings and decisions are counter-cultural both in a popular sense and where the culture of the church is concerned as well. Most everyone desires companionship and to pair off with another. It is expected that single Christian adults are in pursuit of a marriage partner. It would not surprise me in the least to find that there might again be a time in my life where finding a spouse will be more important to me than it is at present. But it’s not now. I am satisfied and filled with contentment in the relationships with those I consider to be my community. I do not lack for human connection.

So what does any of this have to do with virgin martyrs? I'm so glad you asked!

Depending on the historical context from which they are being evaluated, virgin martyrs have been accused of being “unchristian” in their refusal to marry, and as an impossible ideal of Christian womanhood. It would seem then, that married Christian women and “those who do not suffer enough, would seem doomed to be imperfect models of Christian faith” (Norris, p. 187).

What makes the virgin martyrs such powerful examples is that they refused to marry pagan men or to worship idols and false gods as required by Roman law. It wasn’t merely popular culture they were defying: aligning themselves with Christ as they did was to openly resist the authorities and invite a vicious and brutal death. It was to blatantly defy every accepted standard of female behavior. They weren't going to marry pagan husbands in order to produce children who would also be required to worship false gods.

It wasn’t only in their behavior that they defied the laws of the time. Many virgin martyrs lucidly vocalized their dissent, which only incited more vehement responses from the prevailing male authorities. One such martyr, Mahya, after being publicly stripped naked at the command of the king declared, “‘It is to your shame … that you have done this; I am not ashamed of myself … for I am a woman – such as created by God.’ Had she finished her scriptural allusion,’ the authors note, ‘Mahya would have added, ‘created by God in his own image, male and female.’ Typically, such speech angers male rulers … the more the martyrs talk back, the more they mock those in power by their allegiance to Christ and his invincible power” (Norris, p. 194).

And what about their virginity? Typically, virginity is thought of as referring to someone who has not experienced sexual intercourse; in this sense, it is seen as a passive state of being, one that precedes knowing and experience. But the virginity that the martyrs embodied had more to do with embracing and affirming their identities in and alignment with Christ. One Benedictine sister described virginity as having its center in the heart, such that it could be named “singleness of heart”. The same sister continues, “Virginity is a state that returns to God in wholeness. This wholeness is not that of having experienced all experiences, but of something reserved, preserved, or reclaimed for what it was made for. Virginity is the ability to stay centered, with oneness of purpose” (qtd. in Norris, pp. 200-201).

Norris makes the point that physical virginity of the martyrs is not the issue, “and it never was. Reading between the lines of the tortures the virgin martyrs endured, it seems obvious that they were raped. Scholars of the early church now confirm this. The real issue is that these unprotected women dare to make an outrageous claim – that as Christians, they have been made in the image of God – and are thus greatly feared by governing authorities and punished to the full extent of the law.”

She continues, “In reclaiming our virginity, women can reclaim our first selves. We can allow the fierce, holy little girls we were to cast judgment on the ways our adult lives do and do not reflect what we were made for” (Norris, p. 203). In this sense, virginity is for the married woman or the single woman; it is available to all women. At these words I want to stand up, raise my arms, and cheer!!

For the first time in my life, I can affirm I am as single-hearted in my devotion to God as I’ve ever been. I don't know how else to say it: I am enamored of Him and desire in my depths to honor Him with my obedience by being true to that for which He has called me. Right now, in this moment, I’m doing what I was made for. At last, I can affirm without a doubt and know deeply without tangible proof that I am exactly where He wants me to be, that I am conforming exactly to that “fierce, holy little girl” He always intended me to be. Finally, after years of donning masks and acting a part, I am learning what it means to be me.

Though I really do understand when incredulity is the primary response to this declaration, that like Mr. Collins, some might think I’m just trying to put would-be pursuers in suspense, it is frustrating not to be taken at my word. I understand that it might seem ridiculous for me to be complaining that someone wants to pursue a relationship with me. What a terrible problem to have, some might say (and have said). I’m aware of how this sounds, which is why it’s difficult for me to articulate and why even now, I’m hesitating at posting this at all.

But I here affirm that I am a whole being, created in God’s image. Jesus Christ has filled me with Himself and I want only to be filled with Him. I am wholly at His disposal; I am caught up in Him. He is the only one on whom I set my sights. While declaring this publicly won't put me in any danger of suffering sadistic tortures or dying a brutal death, I understand that what I'm saying puts me in an overwhelming minority. But the testimony of the unswerving and undivided devotion of these virgin martyrs speaks volumes to me these thousands of years later; their stories aid me in understanding my own heart better: that theirs was a defiance not for the sake of defiance. Their defiance of the laws and accepted standards of the times in which they lived was a natural byproduct of the single-hearted love and devotion they bore toward their Creator.

It’s outrageous to claim this, I know. I can't claim that I understand it fully. But I’m not going to stop surrendering to Him now, not when I've opened my hands to Him and have begun to receive my true self from Him. This is not defiance for its own sake: it is just too wonderful finally to begin to understand and embody His design and purpose for me. I'm willing to fight for and defend this, even if it means turning aside from every accepted convention of faith and femininity.

Martyrdom of Saint Agatha

Sebastiano del Piombo (1485-1547)

just sayin' ...

NOTE: For those of you that may be new to this space, this blog started out as a way for me to process and journal through my exploration of the Traditional Catholic faith. Ultimately, it's a path I chose not to go down, but found much in my exploration that I continue to value and treasure that has changed for the better the way I engage with God in prayer and in worship. I recently had to communicate to the priest who was leading me through the catechism that I would not be returning for further instruction, nor did I have the intent to convert.

This is something I had some measure of fear to declare, knowing what his thoughts would be when he became aware of my decision. It was Terri (love her!!) who first asked me the question I had not yet asked myself: what is it that you fear from this conversation? I realized that it boiled down to being afraid of what they'd think or what would be said of me to others. Like many people, I prefer that everyone who knows me would think well of me. Writing this forced me to embrace the truth that no matter what anyone else might think, my soul is firmly in the grip of my Heavenly Father.

The letter was mailed last week.



Dear Father,

I am sorry that I missed your call the other day. I succumbed to the flu over the weekend and had little in the way of a voice that day. I hope you will forgive me for not calling back, but at present, I think it best to express myself in writing.

First of all, I wish to thank you for taking time in your instruction with me and for our conversations on the phone as well. I have learned much over the past several months and have come to hold an increasingly deep appreciation for the Catholic Church: for its historical roots, for the profound and deeply-rooted beauty of the liturgy, for learning about the lives of saints I never knew before, and for so much more. The family at Holy Redeemer is such a precious, beautiful, and generous one.

That being said, I wanted to let you know that I will not be coming back. This is not a decision I made lightly, but I am certain it is the right one. While I respect that your convictions are to the contrary, I rest securely in the knowledge that my heart and soul are safe in the hands of God.

I could launch into pages of testimony regarding all the reasons as to the whys and the hows of my decision. I could go into detail about my prayers, my tears, and the nights of heartache. But I realize that even if I wrote some fifty pages more and laid out the best constructed arguments, it would be to no profitable end for either of us. I am reasonably certain my testimony would do nothing to convince you that I am not in error, that my faith is not as one-dimensional as a cartoon drawing.

Let it be said that I came to God with open hands and after a few months of stifling and suffocating it, an open heart. What freedom came when I remembered that my heart and my intellect need not be in such opposition to one another, that I need not be caught at the center of this self-imposed tug-of-war. As Solomon wrote, I learned and am continuing to learn to trust in the Lord with all my heart and not lean on my own understanding. I am utterly content to be His child, to know this perfect Love that casts out all fear, to abandon myself to Him wholly with all that I have, to know that I can neither contain nor define Him or subject Him to any limitations. I have trusted and am continuing to trust Him to lead me and am overwhelmed by the blessings He pours out on me. I know that I am at the center of His heart, and that He is evermore in the center of mine; I am swept up in the story He is telling.

I do mean it most sincerely when I say that I am thankful for the instruction I received and for the welcome I received at the parish; I was delighted to be included in that close-knit community for a time. And so I respectfully request that you accept my decision not to join the Catholic faith. I do respect your convictions, but cannot adopt them as my own.

inexorable trust

I have had such deep and abiding joy since I surrendered both my heart and my mind to God over the past few weeks. In some ways it feels strange not to be in a continual state of struggle, to have prayers composed of tears and beating fists. In many of my prayers over the last several weeks and months, I have asked to be brought to a place of peace and rest. Now that I am there, it feels somewhat strange and foreign. I am by no means inactive, but I am resting. It is a sweet and blessed place to be.

I am continually in awe at how God can use whatever choices we make, whatever we offer to Him in order to mold and shape us into the fullness of who He created us to be. I have no idea whether or not He intended me to explore a traditional and ancient mode of faith, or whether that direction was one of my own choosing. But I really don't think it matters, nor do I feel a compelling or pressing need to figure it out. No matter the choice, Yahweh can bring about blessed and beautiful fruits from it.

He knew my heart was not fully His, nor was it ever fully mine. I was so selective about engaging my heart not only in my faith, but in my relationships with others and with myself as well. I can see the beginnings of my stoic tendencies back to my earliest days, denying forgiveness for playground offenses, steeling myself against the pain of childhood betrayals. When teased and taunted in middle school, I drew inward, becoming cold and numb. This carried through to high school and eventually to college where, in a moment of despair, I told a friend maybe some of us just aren't meant to be loved. It was my way of numbing myself against the pain of rejection and betrayal; what I did not realize is that I was likewise numbing myself to goodness and joy. How this must have grieved the heart of God!

There were times throughout my personal history where I allowed myself to receive and to feel, to experience both joy and grief in all their fullness. But I was so selective. My heart was on a leash and the moment I sensed the slightest risk, I called for a retreat, stuffing it quickly behind a thick and prickly armor.

As I walked through the catechism and experienced the traditional Catholic mode of worship, it appealed to that very stoic and guarded part of me. There was something that was intellectually appealing about prescribed prayers and proper forms, of calculated motions and genuflections, of consistency and historical rooting. But the more I began to intellectually assent to these things, the more stifled and distant my heart became. I felt the chasm deepen and widen; I started to feel as though I was choking.

Anyone who has followed here knows the rest of the story: how I struggled and faltered, how I cried and plead and beat my fists on the floor; how I eventually leaned away from my own understanding and threw myself heart first into the arms of Jehovah-Shalom; how in that moment of surrender I began to trust without a doubt that I have been, am now, and will be sheltered safely in His arms and in the center of His heart; how in that place of childlike abandon and utter trust, two parallel lines intersected inside me; how I returned to a church home ready to welcome me back; how my heart and I danced and still dance in worship, singing, shouting, raising hands to heaven without even a twinge of self-consciousness. My body, my voice, and my mind are responding to a faith that is heart-first. I dance like a prisoner set free of her chains, sing like someone who has long been denied her own voice. If I could, I would defy the laws of gravity and fly; and it is so very good that it does. My heart's tethers have disappeared altogether.

I would have not chosen on my own to struggle, fight, and suffer as I did, but neither would I trade any of it for what I have now. I am more His than I ever was; I am more the child as an adult than I was on the playground. I am His, and it is good, it is true, it is so indescribably beautiful.

I know the day will come when I will talk to the priest, when he will ask me why I have not returned to the parish. And I know by what he taught me that when he learns of my return to my church home, of how I will not be converting, that he will think I have fallen out of God's good graces, that I am apostate, that I will most certainly not be welcome in heaven. Even now I pray for the grace to respond in truth and with love, to explain that I belong to Yahweh; that my return to my faith home came as an act of complete and utter childlike surrender to God; that I am at the center of Jehovah's heart, and that He is at the center of mine.

Blessings and peace.

playing with light photo by kirsten.michelle

a new kind of clarity

Words are stirring inside me and have been for some time now, but they are spoken in a heavenly language for which the translation I offer will be woefully inadequate. Perhaps my understanding of them and their significance will improve with time and perspective, but I know that however poor my rendering, this point in my journey should be marked. Like the ancients often did, these words are my way of stopping to set up an altar in recognition of Yahweh's faithfulness and tender mercies. These words are my pile of stones in the wilderness.

Unable to bear with my intellectual pretenses any longer (not having realized until recently that that is what they were), I finally unlocked my heart. I allowed myself to feel, to trust beyond reason, and to take a step back from the intellectual and rational explanations I've absorbed and reiterated here. While studying the Catholic faith, I unconsciously put my heart on a very short leash, allowing my intellect to leap at new information and giving it precedence. It was an easy habit to relearn, having only journeyed deeper into my heart's territory over the past year or so; it is a tender and tenuous path to walk, being less than certain or defined. I admit that I have been overfond of leaning on my own understanding.

It is tempting at times to think that we can define and understand God, how He works and moves in His people. When offered definites and explanations and formulas, I was eager to clutch them and hold them close, to have mysteries demystified, to have God and faith more neatly packaged for my use. Most of these explanations and arguments seemed perfectly rational to me; since much of it was so in line with what I thought to be logical, it was hard to dispute even though my heart quietly protested. I barrelled forward, and the chasm between my mind and heart deepened and grew wider. I intuitively recognized the disconnect, but continued to move forward in spite of it, believing that is what I needed to do.

One of the lessons of the catechism is about and how human beings were designed by God. Human beings, I was told, are comprised of intellect and will, spirit and soul. There was such an emphasis on the intellect and the will. Our intellect teaches us what is true and it is by our wills that we follow it. No mention at all of the heart. It was only a week ago that its omission drew my notice.

I suppose some would hear "heart" and equate it with emotion. In my understanding, it includes emotion but is so much more. It is where belief abides. Solomon cautioned that as "the wellspring of life", it should be guarded above all else. Christ advises that the law will be written on our hearts, which I take to mean that it is not simply our compliance with the law that matters, but the heart from which our obedience springs. He is not after our performance: He wants our hearts, a reformation from the inside out.

[I think it's important to emphasize here that I speak only from my own experience; I was only a catechumen where the Catholic faith was concerned and it is a path on which I did not cover much distance. From those I've met, I know it is a mode of faith in which many are engaged with their whole selves. It would be categorically unfair and untrue to extrapolate from my experience that the Catholic faithful do not engage their hearts.]

As I continued in my lessons with the priest, a few things struck me as completely foreign. There seems to be a continual fear and concern about making it into heaven. Even the most pious and faithful followers seem to have no small measure of trepidation when it comes to "getting in". This was a foreign concept to me, having been raised to believe that once covered with the blood of Christ, always covered. The passage in 1 John came to mind more than once: ... love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment, because in this world we are like him. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. But the explanation I was offered about dying with mortal sin on your soul depriving you of heaven seemed to make some kind of sense at the time.

Another piece that did not resonate with me was the matter of strict adherence to prescribed modes of acting and speaking. This first drew my attention when I discussed baptism with the priest. I was baptized at the age of fourteen and intially, was happy to learn that though not a Catholic baptism, it was still considered valid. But then I was asked what were the exact words of baptism that were spoken. I recalled them to the best of my knowledge, and then was advised that it would be best to perform a conditional baptism in case the correct words were not spoken those many years ago. It was better not to risk the loss of heaven based on an invalid baptism.

This was so alien to my way of thinking. The Christ I have come to know is One who weighs the heart, who looks beyond the exterior and beyond our formulas. I have a hard time believing that our Yahweh is One who would deny mercy to a soul earnest in pursuit of Him because a very specific set of words were not spoken or because prescribed prayers were not prayed. This is not to say that I do not value liturgy or find it beautiful, reverent, and inspired; oftentimes, it has moved me to tears and given words when I have none. I would never say that our obedience is not important, or that God is a cosmic teddy bear who will condone our aberrant behaviors. But God knows our hearts: He is best in a position to weigh our intentions and actions, our contrition for a sin, our desire for holiness and for union with Him. He knows whether or not we trust Him. I am more certain than ever that my salvation and sanctification rest not on following prescribed words or actions, but in God alone: in inviting Him to have His way with me, to follow His lead even when it seems to defy logic, to trust His goodness and bless His name even in the midst of profound ambiguity and pain.

These words fall short of what I mean to convey, but I'll trust that anyone reading this knows my heart well enough to look to the deeper meaning of what is written here.

I have come full circle; I am hardly the same as when I embarked upon this path, but somehow I find myself where I started. And it's not because what I found along the way is anything I necessarily thought to be blatantly incorrect. I have a greater appreciation for how my sin grieves the God I love. I understand better now that the Christian faith is logical, ordered, and rational. I have a better understanding of how spiritual disciplines teach us to deny ourselves and choose Christ. These things have added to my understanding of God and deepened my faith.

These things are right and good and important, but are no substitute for a faith that is lived from the heart. It was only when I tried to edge out my heart completely that I was most driven to hearken to her voice and heed her wisdom. It was only when the chasm between my heart and my mind widened beyond bearing that I learned to trust beyond reason and beyond logical explanation and to place my heart in His hands, to trust that I know Him, that I belong to Him, period.

My understanding is a gift from God, but ultimately is insufficient to lead me down this path of faith. I am more certain that I worship best in spirit and in truth when heart, mind, body, and soul are united in the worship of the Yahweh I know and love. I do not understand Him, but I know Him in my depths. I am His, in all this complex and mysterious comingling of mind, heart, body, soul. I trust in the truth He has revealed. Having known the tension of a mind and heart divided, I know the deep pain that can cause. Had I continued so insistently that I follow my head in spite of my heart, I am fairly certain I would find myself resentful and disillusioned later on. Once I began to know that they were not at odds with one another, doors were unlocked and flung open. And that is where God has a chance to step in, roll up His sleeves and really get to work.

So I abandon my dichotomies, offering myself to Christ again as wholly as I ever have. I return with joy to the Church body I've called home and for the first time in months, raise my hands and sing at the top of my lungs, dance and shout for joy to God in heaven above. It is the same, but somehow different, as He has made me new. He has set me free. He has brought me home.

There is so much more I could say, but even were I to write a thousand more words, I don't know that I could explain this any better. I bring back much with me and know that this is only the beginning of more adventures in faith to come. He has prepared me and is preparing me to live as one who trusts Him ruthlessly, who walks in mystery, who flings herself into His arms, knowing my heart is already His.

The Heart of the Matter

Oh, how my heart loves to breathe! No longer requiring her to be silent, I am enjoying her presence and voice through my days. She is not as shy or tentative as I might have thought.

Last week's revelations have meant that I've encountered this week peacefully. My body is still tired and I still walk amidst ambiguity and mystery. I still have many questions and doubts continue to rise to the surface. But I know my heart is playing catch up, having not been invited until now to join me on this journey. I don't need to have a list of the answers neatly tucked away, and I don't have to be in possession of perfect clarity.

And so I find that this is a good time to pause on my path, remove the rucksack and stop for sustenance and rest. All journeys require rest along the way, a warm, hearty meal and a night at an inn under warm covers. Without it, the wayfarer becomes exhausted and depleted, her bones cold and her muscles stiff. Without rest, she is more likely to be disillusioned with her path and give up altogether.

I am less certain than ever about where this exploration will lead. My intellect continues to trust the knowledge it has obtained, but my heart is less certain about embracing this strange new thing. I need time to know if this is because her lack of engagement in this process means she needs time to catch up, or if she has her own reasons for holding back. I'm pausing to listen to her and honor her wisdom, knowing she is not opposed to my intellect, but just operates differently.

So I feel my chest rise with deep breathing, stretching and flexing this muscle that has gone too long without use. Don't hurry. Rest. Take in your surroundings.

I am typically someone who is more interested in destinations than in journeys, more invested in answers than the questions that lead to them. I will pay lip service to the process, but am really after the result. It could be argued that the result is the point, after all.

After this week I say, maybe not. Maybe the journey is just as much the point as the destination is. Even should you end where you started, you come back an explorer. You come back having seen new lands, experienced new things. You come home changed.

I don't know if that's what will happen. The truest thing I can say right now is that I just don't know. Put up your feet awhile dear heart, and unlace your boots. Stay awhile under this roof and get your bearings. Take in a good meal and sleep as long as you need.

Breathe.

That is my heart speaking. It's good to have her with me again.

Surrender

I've been so exhausted this week; I'm certain at least some of it has to do with the consecutive weeks of overtime I've been working. Those long weeks cannot help, but really, I've known all along the root of my fatigue goes much deeper.

I've written on both blogs now about my exhaustion and anger at God. About how much I don't want to be in this place right now. About how I feel like God pulled a fast one on me: I go looking for love, but God has other plans. So I waltz along happy to have found it, then that rug gets pulled out from under me. In the process, my convictions get turned upside-down and inside-out and I'm on a path I was never looking for.

Perhaps my response to all this was delayed; but I've written about that too. I was so busy arguing with my heart that I never heard its cries. Shhh, shhh, I would tell my heart. You shouldn't be feeling this way. But then those cries pressed up against the walls of my heart; I was both pricked and squeezed. Then at last that most tender and wounded organ saw the light of day and was permitted to breathe.

As much as I didn't want to be angry at God, my denial of that reality inhibited my ability to approach Him with any integrity. So I let the anger out. Perhaps it was because of being denied expression for so long, but once the anger was unleashed, I fixated on it. My prayers became about nothing else besides what I had most wanted but been denied; what I had sought and God had used to turn my faith upside-down. I won't lie: I felt tricked, duped, and deceived. Sometimes I even felt like the butt of His joke. So I beat my fists on God's chest, feeling myself to be a victim of divine trickery. I wanted desperately to abandon this whole process, to return to the old way of doing things. To surround myself in a warm blanket of familiarity, to be comforted and unchallenged. To find what I had set out for in the first place. To be in the midst of the known.

I lay in bed this morning, wide awake but still utterly exhausted. I've shared with others that the words "tired" or "exhausted" are woefully inadequate for describing whatever this state is. Adding hours to sleep could not and did not meet my need.

It was still so early. Not wanting to be awake but unable to return to sleep, I poured my limp body out of bed and as I often do, gazed at my bookshelves. I fixated on the thin green spine of one I had started several months ago, but put down. Not understanding but obeying the impulse, I picked it up and took it to the living room with me. The Critical Journey is about faith and faith journeys, it's about encountering walls and crises. It's about feeling stuck and cultivating an awareness that will help us both to become unstuck and to hedge ourselves against getting caught in the mire again. It compared the stages in a life of faith to a spiral "and we experience more depth each time we recycle through the stages at a higher place in the sprial" (p. 9). Where I was unmotivated to continue my reading before, I couldn't stop turning the pages now.

I saw myself in these introductory paragraphs and I let the words pour over me:

"Faith is a verb, action, the dynamic that drives or gives life to the relationship between us and God. Our response called faith is the human recognition, on the one hand, that God is God, and, on the other hand, that each of us is special. It is the recognition that we are most fully human when we acknowledge and accept God is God in or lives. ... Therefore, faith as a verb is neither static, an object to be dissected, nor a qualifier that either puts us on God's side or distinguishes us religiously from one another. Faith with reference to the journey is simply the process by which we let God direct our lives or let God be God." (p. 4)

"Getting stuck occurs sometimes from our fear of facing the unknown. Other times it results from personal or work crises that we cannot control. ... It may even be that we are simply afraid to face the fact that we are loved unconditionally by God. Accepting that means admitting we cannot control God or our destiny. Whatever the cause, becoming caged at a stage is real. If we are aware of it, we will have less likelihood of staying stuck." (p. 10)

"A crisis can knock us off balance, making us afraid, vulnerable, and ripe for change. This also happens in our spiritual journey. We have a crisis in our faith that causes us to reconsider. It might frighten us, at least make us vulnerable. If we become bitter or too resistant, we can get very stuck. But if we let the change or crisis touch us, if we live with it and embrace it as difficult as that is, we are more likely to grown and to move eventually to another stage or spiral in our journey. When we are most vulnerable, we have the best chance to learn and move along the way. In the midst of pain there is promise." (p. 13)

I saw myself so clearly. I was letting myself be caged, protesting the loss of a control that was strictly illusory to begin with. I resisted walking into the endless stretch of unknown before me. I fought the crisis instead of pressing my weight against God in the midst of it. And worst of all, I was dissecting myself in two: my head and my heart were at war with one another. It is no wonder my reserves were depleted.

Closing the book, I cloistered myself in my room. Sitting on the floor, I picked up the rosary beads for the first time in a week. They still feel foreign and strange to me, the words still come awkwardly, like marbles out of my mouth. As I moved through the decades of Our Fathers and Hail Marys and contemplated the joyful mysteries, I wept. I no longer suppressed the tears that rose to the surface: I let myself feel loss for the warmth and comfort I leave behind for a way of faith that is alien to me. I let myself feel the pain of a love that slipped through my fingers. And then I thought of Christ who left the comfort and warmth of heaven for an earth that must have been a cold, dank, and uncomfortable place for Him. I let my mind turn to Mary at the moment of the Annunciation, who neither resisted nor protested, who did not rationalize or justify, who took the words of the angel and let them be. I am the Lord's handmaiden. Let it be to me as you have said. And so I let the rosary and its mysteries wash over me.

Once those five decades were completed, I continued to let the tears come. I raised up my palms and held them open, quietly. I said little to God and if He spoke to me, I'm not sure I could provide an adequate translation. But if I had to try to articulate His message, I think He wants me to be more gracious with myself, to allow Him to carry me along this difficult path. He understands my anger and He understands that I'm hurting right now in a way no words can describe. He knows me and my frustration with the ambiguity in this process better than I do myself. He knows that it the midst of all this hurt and confusion, it is tempting to revert to what I've been called to leave behind.

Before today, I understood that He's been there too. But this morning, it was wholly different. Today I stopped fighting Him, coming instead with open hands. I unclenched my fists and opened my palms to the sky. I held them to heaven silently. The tears still came, but a heaven-sent peace and calm washed over me as I gave up on my idea of how this all should be. I breathed in and out more deeply and without trying to understand or explain it, simply let the peace He offered permeate the most hidden and unvisited corners of my soul. The war between my mind and heart slowed and ceased in those minutes, the wall I erected between the two dissolved. I don't feel so exhausted now.

It was not so much an answer He provided or a promise the path ahead would be smooth. It was simple surrender; it was a step toward resigning the control I was fighting to maintain. It was me moving toward God, allowing Him to be God. It was giving Him the things that are wholly inadequate in themselves to propel me forward in my journey. My own efforts at digging out of my stuckness were only putting me deeper in the mire that hindered me; today I rested my weary arms and put down the shovel.

He met me in this place of my giving up. The fighting now over, I bury my head in His chest and wrap my arms around His neck, letting Him carry me. Sometimes I think that's the most difficult thing: to stop our legs from walking, carrying ourselves down what paths we will and instead like a small child, to stretch forth our arms in a simple gesture that says, carry me. And then to let Him bear our weight and do the walking.

The Unknown

... never doubt in the dark what God has told you in the light.

Victoria Christopher Murray

I must confess that I'm not as certain and sure-footed as what I write here might indicate. I have my fair share of questions and doubts, moments where it seems like the most prudent thing would be to turn my back on the whole endeavor and return to what I know best.

I talked to the priest about this earlier this week; I was telling him how when I am there in the thick of my learning, surrounded by the faithful, I am so very certain. My intellect readily assents and my will is eager to follow. When I come home, I am no longer surrounded in the same way, I am no longer engaged in dialogue about the faith. I am in relationships where boundaries have been necessarily drawn so I may protect this infant thing that is so precious and still taking root in me.

He told me with sadness of how he's known many who have turned back from embracing the Catholic faith to keep the peace in relationships with family and friends. I told him that given the strain I've experienced in many of my relationships, I could understand the sentiment and empathize with those who were forced to forsake one for the other, but that I had no intention of abandoning what was so clear in front of me (while there is some relational strain and a gap in understanding where one did not exist before, I am not -- thank God -- in the unfortunate position of entirely forsaking one for the other). As I noted in a previous post, Christ made it clear that we have to love Him more, that we cannot allow even family relationships to be a cause of hesitation or of turning back. I've never before had to make that distinction; I've always had my family and many friends along the way with me. The fact that there is a measure of difficulty in making the separation does not give me a pass where obedience is concerned. The truth is that I'm scared to obey. But I'm more scared not to.

... to one who knows the right thing to do and does not do it, to him it is sin.

James 4:17

No exceptions. No caveats.

I can't reverse this process, I can't unknow what I've learned. There are times where this would be a tempting option were it a viable one. And I know that it won't be a giving up just for the present; I know there will be sacrifices to be made down the road. It's no great secret I would love to get married; by embracing the traditional Catholic faith, I'm effectually cutting myself off from the overwhelming majority of single men who call themselves "Christian". Am I forfeiting this dream? I cannot know; I only know I must love Christ more and love Him first. I must deposit at the altar all those things I have now and all those things I dream of having (even those dreams God Himself has given), trusting that like Abraham received Isaac back from the dead, so may I receive back those things I sacrifice.

I know what I need to do, I know the direction in which I must continue. But so often in my heart there is a pulling back. This is really all I have to offer up to Him: obedience in spite of my feelings, moving forward when I feel most like staying put.

Miles for My Soul

By now, just about everyone at Holy Redeemer knows me and my story, even if I have not met them personally. They know what musical instruments I play, they know about my commute, where I work, and that I'm in the process of converting. Word travels fast in a little chapel!

Doug and Linda are a couple about my parents' age who befriended me in my earliest days at Holy Redeemer. Especially when it became clear I would be heading down this path on my own, establishing new person-to-person connections at the chapel became of vital importance to me. I was instantly drawn by Linda's warm, open smile and her easy and friendly manner. Her husband Doug is at first blush a very serious and reserved man. He acts as altar server every other Sunday and on those Sundays he's not serving at the altar, he leads the congregation in praying the rosary prior to Mass. His voice is deep and calm, mesmerizing at times.

Without reserve, I remember telling Linda how I came to be there, about my family, and even my fears and reservations about this whole process. She listened attentively, taking in everything I said. When I spoke with her last week, she said that she had a grey wool suit about my size that she could no longer wear but didn't want to give away to Goodwill. She wondered if I would like it. I was blessed by her generosity and told her I would be grateful to have it. This last weekend she shared with me that her husband converted after twenty-five years of marriage. Her own openness so encourages me.

Yesterday her husband Doug asked me if he could bring the suit to my car for me.

"You're from Bellingham?" he asked. I replied that yes, I was and he asked how long a drive it was.

"About 110 miles," I replied.

"An impressive distance. I admire that kind of dedication," he said (this from a man who must first take a ferry from a neighboring island to get there).

He's not the first one to make this kind of comment. Honestly, it is one that makes me squirm a bit, even though I do appreciate and value what is being said. It's really not any form of modesty that makes me want to say, it's not a big deal (regretably, I have never been very good where modesty is concerned). Despite having had similar conversations with other parishioners, I feel unpracticed as to how to reply except to say that the drive is a relatively quick one on Sunday mornings (especially in the unusually beautiful weather we've been enjoying) and that every mile is worth it. I have yet to find the fitting words to say that I am blessed beyond the miles I drive or the money I spend putting gas in my car. I don't know quite how to sum up that I what I am receiving in exchange for miles and hours on Sundays is a complete steal when measured against what I am receiving in return.

... for you are receiving the goal of your faith, the salvation of your souls.

1 Peter 1:9

It's as if I've given a quarter in exchange for a library, or a ten dollar bill for a luxury yacht. It's like I gave Starbucks a dollar in exchange for unlimited lattes for life (only so much better).

I guess that's it. I will drive the miles and give the hours because I'm receiving Jesus. My soul is hungrier for Him than ever before, and here I am filled.

And I leave wanting Him more.

For Those I Love

Dear Family & Beloved Friends,

I wish I could make all of this make sense to you. I wish I could ameliorate your fears, amend your anxieties about all of this. I wish I could convince you of what I see, lend you my mind's eye. I wish I could make your apprehension for me evaporate with explanations.

I wish I could pour out my heart to you, tell you everything I'm learning, tell you everything. It was with difficulty I learned that such openness did us all more harm than good. My excitement was quashed by concerns and critiques, by the cautious reserve you displayed when I told you. You feared for me and questioned my motives. I can't say I wouldn't do the same were our roles reversed.

I've learned to draw strict boundaries around this, my journey. Perhaps you see them as walls. But I've learned to trust myself and the God who leads me down this path, learning to trust that if He's leading me away from one thing, He is drawing me toward something better; it's that something better that I long to protect. It is not easy to hold all this back from you; I am accustomed to transparency. I feel like the blind man in Scripture who given fresh sight, is warned by Christ not to tell anyone. I revel in being given new eyes, eyes that see a faith that it wider, deeper, higher, richer, broader than I have ever known. But my sharing so clearly hurts you. It causes you to question and doubt me to some degree; it makes me feel defensive when I have no cause to be. And so I limit what I disclose, not wanting to compromise in any way what I've found by carving this path.

We follow a Savior who commanded of His followers: If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. This is the Christ who said to let the dead bury their dead; who, when one promised to follow Him anywhere but first wanted to bid his family farewell replied, no one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God. This is the Messiah who commanded His followers to be perfect, the One who proclaimed He came not to bring peace, but a sword and in the same breath that he who loves his father or mother ... son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.

Ouch. Sounds harsh, I know. Were I the author of this faith, I wouldn't do it this way. But I'm not. It is not up to me to decide how it should be done. And while I have no intent of turning my back on any relationship, Christ so clearly demands that I not allow even the love of my family to restrict me from following Him without reserve and without condition. I wish I could convey the depth to which this pains me; I have always been privileged to be surrounded by like-minded wayfarers in matters of faith. And now that I've found another way of embodying my faith: a way to which my intellect, heart, and spirit assent, a way that draws me with its fullness and reverence, a way entrenched in history and tradition, a way so deeply rooted in the words of our Lord, I find that I am pulled in this new direction. I am leaving behind the way of familiarity and comfort, embracing something wholly new to me. In a relatively short amount of time, I've seen my heart expand, my faith deepen, my trust challenged. I've seen my heart place its dependence more upon God than ever before.

I cannot and will not let this go.

I do feel so alone in this sometimes. But I cannot allow discomfort or lack of familiarity sway me. Onlookers may be skeptical, they may have their critiques. Comforts have been stripped and He asks of me: will you follow me? He demands unadulterated motives, He requires I follow Him no matter the cost. When He takes away a relationship, when others think I'm crazy, when those closest to me disapprove: will you follow me? If anything or anyone is worth the sacrifice, He is. He so clearly is. And so I lay it all down before Him (again, again, and again), fumbling as I try to place my trust in Him, awkwardly pressing my weight into Him.

There is so much more I could and want to say. But this is not the time or place to offer proofs, to cite texts, or to lay out convincing arguments. This is about my heart and yours.

Know that I am in the most secure place in the world; my heart is safe in the hands of God. Know that I am not abandoning myself. I am only beginning to step into the fullness of faith, the fullness of who God made me to be.

grace & peace,
kirsten

Taking a Leap

I sat up in my room on Monday night, staring at it. I held my mobile phone in my hands and just stared at the number I had selected. Breathe in. Breathe out. I continued to stare, knowing I should call. I needed to call it. I wanted to call it. At least I think I wanted to. So why was this so difficult? Why the clammy palms, the racing pulse? Breathe in. Breathe out.

The phone wasn't going to dial the number on its own. Clearly, I had to be the one to press the button -- which I couldn't seem to get myself to do.

I tried to reason with myself: I knew my trepidation over this phone call was unduly exaggerated.

I had had Father C's phone number stored in my mobile phone for several days already. I knew that he knew who I was, and I knew that he knew about this faith journey I was on. He had to have seen me at the several Masses I had attended. But I had never spoken to him before. And I think I realized that calling him now was indicative of an internal commitment I had made to which I had not yet given any external expression.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The path before me was clear. Given what I had learned, what God had revealed, what He had convicted me of all pointed to the same place: conversion. A scary word, at least for me. But not when I considered that what I was committing to was fully embracing the truth as I now understood it. When I considered that I was committing to living in the fullness of faith, the correct decision was clear, no matter how overwhelming my trepidation might be.

And I knew I had to do this alone, independent of any other person.

In fact, whether I wanted to or not, I was going to be doing this alone. I feel anything but brave about it; in fact, I am altogether lacking where bravery is concerned.

After calling and talking to one of the two Catholic people I know and giving air to my insecurities, I was encouraged to call Father C. She assured me of his friendliness, and the ease with which she spoke with him when they first met. After hanging up with her, I called him right away.

After introducing myself, he knew exactly who I was. So, you're interested in the faith?

Yes, absolutely. I replied.

I grew more and more at ease as the conversation progressed; I discussed what I had learned and prayed through so far, and what some of my initial hesitations had been. I spoke of my family and my friends, and how I knew they were supportive, but could not really understand what I was doing. I told him about how I was learning to trust God with them. I am fully convinced this is the next step for me, I told him.

And before I knew it, we had arranged for me to receive instruction in the faith in order to be prepared to take the Blessed Sacrament. We discussed being conditionally re-baptized to ensure the correct words were spoken. We said our good-byes and I hung up the phone, relieved to have finally made the phone call.

And then it hit me: I am becoming Catholic.

Looking Back & Looking Ahead

If you had told me two months ago that I'd be spending Sunday mornings attending a traditional Latin Mass, wearing a skirt, head covered, I probably would have laughed (or at least would have asked to take your temperature to ensure you weren't delusional from fever).

The church I've called home for nearly the past four years is held in a large warehouse-type building; the pastor often wears jeans, members of the motorcycle ministry come dressed in full leathers, and the seats come equipped with coffee-cup holders. To call the worship upbeat is an understatement; even at the end of an exhausting day, it would have me jumping and dancing where I stood, hands extended heavenward. I've never doubted that the teaching was solid and that the hearts of every person there were sincerely and unwaveringly seeking Christ alone. I had no reason to think -- I never even remotely suspected -- that I would find a fuller expression of faith. Not a chance!

When I was challenged with learning about the Catholic faith, I did so knowing one thing: if what I believed to be true was in fact true, I would end up where I started. And if it wasn't, it was time to comply with the truth God would reveal to me through this process. It was a chance to flex those dogma muscles and to see if they would support the weight of this challenge.

Not that I didn't give some serious pause to this whole process -- I remember a day with spurts of tears and fervent prayers, questioning myself and my motives for agreeing to engage in this challenge, doubting my sanity and myself. I was frequently on my knees this day, begging God to hold me up, to check my motives, to show me the next step, to lend me clarity of thought.

Over the last several weeks, I have been gently and lovingly led. I have been challenged, but never pushed. My daily prayer has been enlighten my intellect Lord, and lead me into the fullness of Your truth. Grant me the grace and strength of will to obey. It's far from easy to see where I've been deficient in my faith and its practice, or where I have been in error. But if I am going to ask the question, I must accept the answer God gives. How else am I to grow in my faith if not willing to follow where Christ leads (even if some friends and family think I'm crazy)?

To be sure, I have resisted and rebelled, I have wanted to spew out some lessons I've learned as soon as I taste them. But the Christian faith is not a smorgasbord buffet where we can pick and choose what we like and disregard what we'd rather not have on our plate. And so when I feel the resistance, I ask myself: do I resist because it goes against the character of God? is it unbiblical? is it untrue? does it pull me away from Christ? or, do I just not like it? In those moments, I stop and pray for the gift of humility and for Christ to conform my stubborn will to His own. Throughout this whole process, I have often repeated to myself:

If I am lacking or in error, it is I who must change -- not God.

I know that some continue to believe that I'm headed in a thousand miles in the wrong direction. There is nothing I can say that will convince you otherwise. But from where I stand, I see that I have given up nothing, but gained much. I am leaving nothing behind, but receiving more from the Lord than I knew was possible. I find myself clinging to Christ more fervently than ever before, drawn deeper into His heart, and -- I believe -- seeing His will more clearly. Who would dare give that up if they found it? Certainly not me.

Dear friends, you are such a blessing to me! I pray for you. Please continue to pray for me.

Beginnings

I used to think on Mary only around Christmas time. To be sure, when it comes to the arrival of our Lord on earth, she is impossible to ignore. But I have thought of her lately for other reasons altogether.

I suppose it's only natural I should think of Mary as I've undertaken my study of the Catholic faith. Even before I began to understand what her special significance was in the Catholic church, I began to look to her example.

And then I let my imagination do a little wandering.

Nothing is said of how the community around her responded to her pregnancy. Imagine if you will a teenage girl, a betrothed virgin, belly swelling with pregnancy. Oh sure, some would say. An angelic visitor? The Son of God? Pshaw! Did some think her the ancient middle-eastern equivalent of Hester Prynne, an adulterous woman unwilling to call out the true father of the child within her?

What did the neighbors think? What were the temple priests saying? People would be incredulous, naturally. They were expecting a political hero, a conquering king for a Messiah. Not a squealing infant. Who besides Elizabeth and Zechariah, I wonder, believed the story of her angelic visitation?

Imagine the secret whispers, the sideways glances of those around her. Imagine the consequences a woman believed guilty of adultery would face. And still she was able to say, my soul doth magnify the LORD (Luke 1:46). I imagine she knew the manifold social and religious implications her mysterious pregnancy held. I imagine she came to know only too well the cost of obedience.

While I may in no way compare myself to the Blessed Mother, I look to her as an example. Though the text is not explicit, I have to believe that her obedience cost her more than we know. When the story of the Immaculate Conception circulated, I can only hypothesize as to what people thought of her, what they whispered about her as she walked past them. I imagine some thought her a liar, or just plain crazy, concocting stories of angelic visitations and the whole Holy-Spirit-coming-upon-you and power-of-the-Most-High-overshadowing-you thing (Luke 1:35). I imagine some were compelled to collect stones.

But she remained obedient in spite of what was likely a prevailing sense of disbelief and outright obstinacy that God would choose such humble and entirely unexpected means to redeem His people.

So I endeavor to adopt the same attitude here, if even in its smallest portion. I know some will think I've gone off the deep end. I know not everyone will approve or understand. But obedience comes with a cost; that much is promised us. And so I find myself compelled by the truth God has revealed, pulled to a new place in my journey of faith. I certainly did not expect it.

But isn't it just like God to do that?

[if you're just getting started, click here, here, and here to see where the journey began ...]