Full House at Confession

It's the Christmas season and being the ever-fallen but newly devout Catholic that I am, I went to confession to confess my sins and be closer to God. I had been crying all day and my eyes were swollen and my heart was heavy. It was supposed to be a contemplative time....but God was having none of that.

There are two priests in my parish and I had hoped (prayed even) that I could confess in relatively anonymity to Father B, a new priest whom I barely know. Being active in the parish, (however wrong or right) I'd like to keep my errant ways as private as possible.

Usually, the church is solemn during confession. But last night the place was bustling!!!! The choir had begun warming up for a performance later that evening. The organist was atonally tuning her organ. The organizers were busy taking care of last minute preparations. Early birds were wandering in to secure good seats. All the lights were on. One organizer, who understood the need for quiet during this time, was running around trying to quiet everyone down but without much success.

Ah ouie. It gets worse. Typically, for an hour period of confession, only 3 or 4 people show up. It's usually me and a couple of guilt-wracked young men ages 18-25 (whom I don't know) and who believe they've done something horrible. It's a lovely contemplative, anonymous and sparsely populated environment.

But no...such austerity was not to be last night! The confessionees numbered more than a dozen. We were squeezed together into the pews in back where we could see the whites of one another's eyes if we chose to look up from kneeling....In this crowded space were several good friends. And not just any friends, but pillars of the parish in honest accomplishment and goodness. I tried not to look around.

And, now for the pinnacle of the evening. Father B, the new priest was nowhere to be found. So instead, I had get up and walk in front of my friends with my swollen eyes to the confessional and confess my sins to....Father A, a good friend and the priest who reconditionally baptized me in September of this year....so much for anonymity.

The moral of story? Apparently God believes that a little humor and humility are nice accompaniments to absolution...

Thanks be to God.

Risk and the modern Catholic

To trust is to risk.

Risk disappointment. Risk failure. Risk falling prey to the ultimate cosmic charade. Risk the unforeseen consequences of allowing God to work in our lives.

Yet, without risk trust cannot flourish.

At Communion and Liberation this week, we discussed the risks of openly living a Christ-like life in modern society. Most obviously, we risk ridicule and disenfranchisement. Let's assume we live our faith humbly, authentically and not aggressively evangelical. Even so, we're excited by the Gospel. We live it as much as we can, however imperfectly. Our enthusiasm naturally spills over into everyday actions and conversations. We may, in turn, infect others with our enthusiasm. But some people, maybe people we respect or care for deeply, will reject us out of discomfort, arrogance or annoyance.

Whether this rejection is subtle or overt, we'll know it and it won't feel good.

It is at this point where trust in God is paramount....and such trust presents a profound risk.

Americanism, by definition, tests faith. We are Darwinian rationalists. (Where's the proof?) We are self-made. (I can do it all by myself.) We are independent. ("Live free or die!") And we are individuals. (Conform and be dull.)

Faith requires us to subordinate our cultural proclivities to God's will -- a God that we cannot measure, a God that subsumes our independence, a God that asks us to live beyond ourselves.

Like Abraham before us, we cannot know our destiny, we cannot predict the trials or beauty that lies ahead. Instead, we trust in God. Through faith, we allow God to work through us, even our Americanism, toward a purpose that is neither easy to discern nor easily defined -- but a purpose that is nonetheless real and right.

To trust so fully is to risk that we are not the makers of our destiny. Ever since Adam ate the apple, this is the hardest risk for humans to accept.

Heroic Death

In Sunday school this week, we discussed "dying well."

An insightful comment was provided by Tim, a fellow parishioner, who described dying well as being a "heroic death." He meant this dually: the classic image of the courageous Soldier who jumps on a landmine to save his buddies and ALSO the everyday acts of generosity for others (and the death of filling only our personal desires.)

What a powerful way to think of life and death intertwined this Easter season.

Beguiling Utopia

Humans are drawn to Utopia.

From our earliest days, as children, we search for Utopia. We search as a reaction to unfairness, injustice, discomfort, loneliness, misery.

Political systems, philosophies, ethics, even religions evolve with Utopia as the desired endstate. Writers, artists, poets, dreamers wax endless poetic about it. Talk show hosts and pundits build their empires on the longings for it.

The Utopian ideal is an escape from the suffering that characterizes human life. We seemed hard-wired to pursue it and we pursue ad infinitum.

But might there be meaning beyond the elimination of suffering? Might the constant pursuit of Utopia distract us from experiencing a whole life? Might not the centrality of struggle elude us altogether?

Jesus Christ teaches us - in body, mind and spirit - that suffering is an essential part of life's journey. My experiences confirm this. And, as I journey toward my destiny, I am less inclined to consider Utopian ideals and drawn instead towards the fruit of Christ's life - freely given charity, generosity and works -within the framework of life's inevitable inequities.

Calling

I've been reading and discussing a lot about faith lately. Namely, with my friends at Utah's Communion and Liberation group, Fr. James Martin's "My Life with the Saints" and the late Fr. Luigi Giusanni's "It is Possible to Live the Way: Vol 3 - Charity."

Readings and discussions on faith invariably evoke thoughts about a "calling." As one wends through all of this, it seems that callings are rarely revealed through an overt experience with God....but rather discerned overtime, through a series of experiments, experiences (often bumpy ones), contemplation followed by more of the same (albeit more refined, more inspired.) The identification of one's calling seems to arise from a deep awareness of these events and the motivation to act upon what "feels" right spiritually. No recipe, no formula, no graded results, no absolute certainty.

It's just ourselves, together with the subtle steadiness of God, journeying towards the highest-and-best use of our person in this lifetime.

Seem too abstract, t00 "1990s" to be useful?

Not in my life. Since my return to the Church (and from Iraq), my sense of duty, meaning and passion has been redirected towards certain acts of service. The things that satisfied me formerly (such as working on "important" policy issues with "important" people) have completely given way to a determination to work directly in my community and parish to help alleviate suffering, build human connections, and foster faith. These are not big or bold initiatives by any measure. And I share each building block with many others. Yet, I'm surprised at the intensity of my passion for this work and my sense of rightness with each step forward.

Does this mean my calling is clear? Not exactly. Instead, however, a rewarding path is unfolding in front of me that (I'm confident) will guide me to a clearer definition of my life's purpose.

And so it goes for us all, I believe.