The Novena

In the course of my studying the Faith, I've been introduced to a wide variety of practices and traditions that were foreign to me in my Protestant background. One of these practices was praying to Mary and the saints. Before I learned about the foundations of this practice, I expected to find it a difficult pill to swallow. Surprisingly, once I learned where the practice has its origins, it was relatively easy to attest to its truth.

I know this is a practice with which many Protestants object, pointing out Christ's sole mediatorship, skepticism as to whether the saints in heaven can actually hear those of us on earth, and the obvious argument that the believer may go directly to Jesus. My purpose here is not to delve deeply into the topic or to defend/debate the practice, but for the purpose of creating a general understanding, I will summarize some of the foundations for it (for a fuller description of the practice, click here):

• In Revelation 5, the saints are described as interceding for believers on earth: they fall on their faces before the Lamb "holding golden bowls full of incense, which are the prayers of the saints" (v. 8). In Revelation 8, there is another description of angels offering the prayers of the saints up to God. These passages show that the saints in heaven are aware of our prayers and actively interceding on our behalf (vv 3-4).
• Believers in the Catholic church are actively encouraged to bring their petitions and concerns directly to Christ. So why bother offering prayers to the saints in heaven? Simply because a saint is in heaven does not mean he/she ceases to be a part of the Body of Christ. If we can petition Christ directly (as we should), then why do we ask our friends in the flesh to pray for us? In the same way, we can petition the saints in heaven to offer up prayers to God on our behalf. Christ is not offended or maligned when we ask fellow believers to intercede for us; in fact, intercessory prayer is encouraged (1 Tim 2:1 and James 5:13-16 are just a couple examples). In the same way, we may ask those saints in heaven to bring our prayers before the throne of Christ.

The word novena comes from the Latin word novenus meaning "nine"; a Roman Catholic Prayers site defines a novena as "a devotion consisting of prayer for nine straight days, in which the faithful ask God for special graces." The practice originates from the church in Acts 1 where the apostles, Virgin Mary, and other believers were "together constantly in prayer"; it was after these nine days of committed prayer that Matthias was chosen to replace Judas amongst the apostles, and the Holy Spirit descended at Pentecost.

A simple Google search will yield novenas for almost any purpose imaginable, or to any saint you've heard of (and probably some you haven't). Not long ago, I mentioned to M my continued stomach troubles. After a few months of only mild symptoms since my diet change, I had a sudden and unexpected relapse. My old pain was back with a vengeance and it lasted for days on end. He suggested a novena. I had seen the word before, but really didn't know what it meant or how it was intended to work.

Though I grasped in a cognitive sense that saints in heaven are not only aware of, but can hear our prayers and intercede on our behalf, I still felt weirded out by the idea. I've only ever prayed directly to God and I have to admit, it seemed like a bit of a betrayal at first. But then I reasoned that I was asking for a fellow member of the Body of Christ -- a member who was in a glorified state, no less -- for assistance. Because intercessory prayer is encouraged both explicitly and implicitly in Scripture (just count how many times Paul asks the churches for prayer!), I know that God is not the least bit offended when I ask my friends to pray for me. If I'm reading the passages in Revelation correctly, the saints, elders, and angels in heaven bring our prayers to the throne of God. It couldn't hurt to ask, could it?

A common misconception is that prayer to a saint is worship. Think of the last person you asked to pray for you: were you displacing God's authority by asking him/her to pray for you? After all, we can go directly to Christ, right? But He gives us the Body, both mystical (in heaven) and corporeal (on earth) for our benefit. In the same way, asking for the intercession of a saint in heaven is not worship anymore than asking for the intercession of a friend in the flesh (a saint on earth) is; by asking for intercession from a saint in heaven, I'm asking for another member of the Body of Christ -- one who has been cleansed of the effects of sin -- to bring my request before God. These, our "cloud of witnesses", are not idle where the Body of Christ on earth is concerned. They have run the race before us and continue to assist believers on earth in their own journeys heavenward. And ultimately, any saint or angel in heaven is not seeking any glory for themselves. At the end of the day, they all point to God.

As part of my reasoning process, I arrived at the realization that this practice has been around since the inception of the Church. Assuming there is truth in the practice, even my feeling weird about it wouldn't make it any less true. If it were entirely without merit, would it still be a practice that the Church would maintain for so long? Would not the practice of praying novenas have died ages ago if it were completely bogus? I also realized that if saints and angels do have any power where our prayers and supplications are concerned, this power comes only from God and is bestowed by Him for our use and our benefit.

Yes, we can and should pray to God directly. Absolutely! But we may also ask those glorified members of the Body of Christ to put our pleas before Him in a language we cannot yet know. Much like we might employ a lawyer to present a compelling case for our requests before a judge, we can ask the saints in heaven to intercede and help us when we especially require the help.

I did some research a found this Novena to Saint Raphael. I was looking for someone who was known for intercession with physical illness. Appropriately enough, the name Raphael means "God heals". So I printed out the novena and kept it by my bed.

The first night, I knelt beside my bed, still feeling weird about the whole process; rationally, it made sense but I still had that internal knee-jerk response that made me feel uncomfortable about the whole process. I breathed in and out slowly, asking for the smallest shred of faith to pray this prayer.

And so I did -- for that night and the eight nights that followed.

I suppose it could be rationalized or explained in other ways. I expect that medical tests could be ordered to confirm what I already suspect to be true. But I don't need any blood work or doctor's chart to tell me that I feel the best I've felt in two years. I have managed to gain back a healthy amount of weight; this is no small feat considering I have only lost weight over the past two years. Even the mildest of symptoms have disappeared. I have even more energy than before and not the slightest twinge of pain. My body -- as far as I can tell -- is functioning in a completely normal, healthy way.

I praise God for the healing, and offer humblest thanks to the archangel Saint Raphael for interceding for me!

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.

Faith. Reason. Feeling. Hope.

This week has been a difficult one. My work has demanded much of me, both in terms of the number of hours I've worked and what has been required of me while there. I had a considerable relapse in terms of my stomach condition and also experienced other increased physical discomforts that are part and parcel with being a woman. Parts of my life feel as though they are in limbo, and I know that I cannot force or expedite a resolution.

But I am more committed to this journey than ever.

I've been reading through the recently published private writings of Mother Teresa which reveal the deep interior darkness she lived with for the bulk of her life as a Missionary of Charity. Come Be My Light describes a woman who, though she felt completely deprived of and abandoned by God, remained faithful to the work He had called her to in the slums of Calcutta to the poorest of the poor. In letters to her confessors, she describes the feeling as one of "terrible torture" and being "empty -- excluded -- just not wanted" (p. 222).

Her confessors, the only ones familiar with her deep spiritual pain, knew she was living through the dark night of the soul as described by St. John of the Cross. The spiritual dark night (as described in Come Be My Light) consists of a night of the senses and a night of the spirit. The night of the senses is where "one is freed from attachment to sensory satisfactions and drawn into the prayer of contemplation. While God communicates His light and love, the soul, imperfect as it is, is incapable of receiving them, and experiences them as darkness, pain, dryness, and emptiness. Although the emptiness and absence of God are only apparent, they are a great source of suffering" (p. 22).

While I really don't think I'm experiencing any profound kind of dark night, I do know that at the very least, I'm in a valley. A dimly lit and thickly wooded one. When I began walking this path, it was new and exciting in both an intellectual and a spiritual sense. Despite facing challenges and encountering the occasional obstacles, I felt as I was being carried to new heights in my faith. I was stimulated, excited, my cup filled to overflowing.

The past week or two has been different for many reasons. I see my faith as I know it expanding in a way I could not have imagined possible, and now it is being put to the test. This is nothing new or unexpected where spiritual matters are concerned, but difficult to traverse nonetheless. My prayers are dry; my heart feels little. My obedience comes without any or with little joy. God promises His presence, but I do not sense it.

It is easy to assent intellectually that faith and emotion, while not mutually exclusive, do not depend upon one another. It is a blessed experience to taste, see, feel, and hear God. Who among the faithful does not crave it? But when for a time our senses are deprived of experiencing God, what happens to our faith? I know that in the past, once I no longer "felt" God to be near, my faith and its practice waned. Prayer became a few mumbled lines of obligation at bedtime. I wouldn't go to church unless I felt like it. I rationalized my way out of obedience; since God felt so distant, what did it matter anyway? I would not have articulated it this way at the time, but I understand better now my response to God's silence then.

Reading of Mother Teresa's profound dark night is encouraging to me. Her darkness was infinitely darker and more abiding than what I currently experience, this woman who is easily recognized worldwide not only as a saint, but a woman of deep faith. She never waned in her obedience, trusting in God's closeness rather than relying upon a sensation of it. This was not achieved by cold intellectual assent, but a deep and abiding trust in Him who called her to leave the comfort of the familiar to identify with the poorest of the world's poor in the dark holes and slums of Calcutta. Had she relied more upon a sensed presence of God rather than upon God Himself, we would not know her as we do today; the poor of Calcutta might have been much less loved; none of us would have heard of the Missionaries of Charity. No one would know her name (which, I am sure, is exactly as she would want it), nor would they know her reputation for loving the poor, the diseased, the marginalized, the unlovable.

So while God is decidedly silent with me, I choose to know that He is not absent. I do not feel Him near, but I trust that He is. I did not feel anything particular or profound in attendance at Mass today, but I believe He was present. I feel this week like no one is at the listening end of my prayers, but I rely upon the promise that He hears. Where reason and truth are concerned, I have no reason to doubt Him. I need look no further than my past to see demonstrated evidence of His faithfulness. He has led me to this place and being deprived of a sensory experience of Him does not mean He is any less present and active.

I trust that Christ does not ask of us anything He did not give of Himself. His life on earth was thirty-three years of fleshbound kenosis, a continual emptying out, of learning obedience (Heb. 5), the fullness of which was accomplished on the cross. It struck me recently that Jesus did not feel like being here. In Hebrews, the writer tells us that during Christ's life, "he offered up prayers and petitions with loud cries and tears" (Heb. 5:8). His sacrifice on our behalf was not limited to His crucifixion and the torture that preceded it. His sacrifice for us began the moment He entered the womb of one of His created. He continually emptied Himself for our sakes. He not only took on our sins, but our stomachaches, our splinters, the dirt under our fingernails. And when He took on our sin, God turned His face away; so Jesus too knew what it was for God to be absent. I am deeply humbled to think of it -- I who feel at a loss as He begins the work of stripping me of my old self, I who have barely begun to learn what it means to be emptied.

And come to think of it, isn't that the point? If, after all, I am to be like Him, I must step aside. There must be less of me to make way for Him. Perhaps this is part of what this privation of the senses is meant to accomplish. It is all well and good to feel warm and gooey about God (and I certainly don't think it wrong to be emotional where God is concerned), but I think sometimes it gets in the way of what He really wants to accomplish in and through me. He wants my obedience. He wants my faithfulness. And based on His life, I have to believe that it is never dependent upon my comfort, my convenience, or my feeling like doing it. He has called the faithful to take up crosses daily and follow Him (Luke 9:23), not bread baskets or bouquets.

So I thank God the Father that in His wisdom, He has given us the Church as our Mother to instruct us toward obedience, even when we least feel like being faithful. I am thankful for priests, the rosary, prayers, and liturgy. I am thankful for fasting days, for confession and penance, for kneeling in worship. Already I am beginning to see how following the Church's commandments are for my benefit, and for the benefit of the entire Body. Through the Church, God is pouring into my soul sanctifying grace; He is purging me of old ways that I've held onto for far too long. I still feel my flesh rise up in resistance to what is required of me, but find that Christ has begun the work of excavation, tearing out the dead and decaying remnants of self so that He may expand His residence in me little by little.

And so my continual prayer is, grant me the grace to do Your will, Lord.

In every Catholic church, the fourteen Stations of the Cross are depicted. Today, I attended Mass alone and took my seat at the outside end of a pew near the back. Directly to my left was the tenth station with the description: Jesus is stripped of His garments. How appropriate this was today as He begins to strip layers off of me, as He begins to purge me of the terribly selfish, fleshy me-ness that stands in His way. I'm certainly not enjoying it. But because God is in it, I trust something more wonderful and substantial than I can know is waiting for me on the other side.

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.