The Knitting Theologian

I was poking around the blogosphere yesterday, something I hardly ever have time to do, and I stopped in at "Et tu": The Diary of a Former Atheist. I like this blog because the author (Jennifer F.) has a natural and accessible writing style, and because I learn things from her every time I stop by. Yesterday I found a post that referenced a saint I’d never heard of, St. Frances of Rome.

I could identify completely with the story in the post ("quit bugging me! I’m trying to pray, here! oh, uh, that was you, God? oops.") but I was even more interested in the story of St. Frances, who learned that sometimes the path to sanctification is not obvious, and who also learned to submit her own strong will to God’s. Go ahead and read her story; I’ll wait.

I’ve been struggling to learn both of those lessons. For as much as I harbor this secret desire to be a contemplative and live a life of silence, I am also pretty darn sure that God is calling me to be here right now, in this world, living with these people who talk while I’m trying to read, interrupt me at prayer, and challenge my beliefs every day.

And I also have a strong will. It was only  last summer that I finally said to God, through gritted teeth, "OK–I can’t do it my way any more. I’m tired of making up my own rules. Your will, not mine." For several weeks I wrote the word "submit" on the inside of my left wrist with a Sharpie, where I could see it several times a day, to remind myself, and I still pray almost every day for the grace to do God’s will.

So it was inspiring to read St. Frances’s story, to see that she was finally brought to a point where she could say,

God’s will is mine.

and then to see the effects that simple statement wrought in her life. Thanks to Jennifer (no, you don’t know me) for pointing me to a story I needed to read.

Oh yeah, about the poem. I’m reading a little book my spiritual director gave me about vocation. The book is about the idea of examining your life to decode the clues it gives you to your true self, and when you understand those, you also know what your true vocation is.

This year seems to be a year where I am thinking about my vocation a lot, because I’m in graduate school, studying something completely different from my day job, and I’m wondering what I’ll do with my degree after I earn it. Will I work in a parish? Will I have a spiritual direction practice?  Will I do both? Or will I continue in my ministry as a manager?

The first chapter of the book starts out with a poem that speaks to this idea of discerning vocation by looking at your life, and I like it so much I want to share it. The poem is called "Ask Me," by William Stafford. Here’s a link to an online version.

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

"Ask me whether what I have done is my life." It is a haunting question, isn’t it?

This morning’s meditation in Magnificat describes exactly why I have, at long last, fully embraced the totality of my Catholic faith.

Turn, then, once more to the Catholic Church and see how in the Life which she offers, as in none other, there is presented to us a means of fulfilling our end. For it is she alone who even demands in the spiritual sphere a complete and entire abnegation of self. From every other Christian body comes the cry, Save your soul, assert your individuality, follow your conscience, form your opinions; while she, and she alone, demands from her children the sacrifice of their intellect, the submitting of their judgment, the informing of their conscience by hers, and the obedience of their will to her lightest command. For she, and she alone, is conscious of possessing that divinity, in complete submission to which lies the salvation of humanity. For she, as the coherent and organic mystical Body of Christ, calls upon those who look to her to become, not merely her children, but her very members; not to obey her as soldiers obey a leader or citizens a government, but as the hands and eyes and feet obey a brain. Once, therefore, I understand this, I understand too how it is that by being lost in her I save myself; that I lose only that which hinders my activity, not that which fosters it. For when is my hand most itself? When separated from the body, by paralysis or amputation? Or when, in vital union with the brain, with every fiber alert and every nerve alive, it obeys in every gesture and receives in every sensation a life infinitely vaster and higher than any which it might, temporarily, enjoy in independence? It is true that its capacity for pain is the greater when it is so united, and that it would cease to suffer if once its separation were accomplished; yet, simultaneously, it would lose all that for which God made it and, saving itself, would be lost indeed…In losing my Individualism I have won my Individuality, for I have found my true place at last. I have lost the whole world? Yes, so far as that world is separate from or antagonistic to God’s will; but I have gained my own soul and attained immortality. For it is not I that live, but Christ that lives in me.

Monsignor Robert Hugh Benson, in Magnificat, vol. 9, no. 13, February 2008, p. 320.

As I might have mentioned previously, I am a musician–more specifically, a singer. I sing both in a community chorus and in my parish choir; I also work as a cantor at my parish. This Lent I want to write a series of posts about the music we are doing for Easter Vigil. I hope that these posts will give me practice in the art of theological reflection.

I also think of these posts as what I would tell the choir about each piece we’re doing, if I only had the chance. Rehearsal time is precious, so the music is passed out and we rehearse it. Time to discuss why a piece was chosen, or what to think about in terms of the piece’s placement and meaning in the context of the liturgy, is often not available.

Here’s what we’re singing:

1. Exultet (traditional chant).
2. Genesis Reading for the Great Vigil by Rory Cooney (GIA Publications, 1999)
3. Psalm 104: Lord, Send Out Your Spirit by Jeanne Cotter (GIA Publications, 1995)
4. Exodus 15: Song at the Sea by Niamh O’Kelly-Fischer (GIA Publications, 1992)
5. Isaiah 12: We Shall Draw Water by Paul Inwood (OCP Publications, 1986).
6. Psalm 42: Like a Deer by Paul A. Tate (World Library Publications, 2001).
7. Gloria: Missa del Mundo by Jesse Manibusan (OCP Publications, 1995).
8. Gospel Acclamation: Halle, Halle, Halle arranged by John L. Bell, verses and accompaniment by Marty Haugen (GIA Publications, 1993)
9. Litany of the Saints by John D. Becker (OCP Publications, 1987)
10. Blessing over the Water: At the Dawn of Creation by Marty Haugen (GIA Publications, 1998)
11. Baptism Acclamation: Celtic Alleluia by  Finian O’Carroll and Christopher Walker (OCP Publications, 1985)
12. Renewal: Sweet Refreshment by Bob Moore (GIA Publications, 1999)
13. Confirmation: Veni Sancte Spiritus by Les Presses de Taize (GIA Publications, 1979)
14. Preparation of the Gifts: Sing to the Mountains by Bob Dufford (New Dawn Music, 1975).
15. Eucharistic Acclamations: Mass of Light by David Haas (GIA Publications, 1987)
16. Communion I: Worthy is the Lamb by Ricky Manalo (OCP Publications, 1997)
17. Communion II: I Am the Bread of Life by Sr. Suzanne Toolan (GIA Publications, 1966, 1970, 1986, 1993)
18. Closing: Jesus Christ is Risen Today

I don’t know whether I’ll have something to say about each of these, but I plan to create a series of posts at least about the ones I think are most interesting.

The idea of this post is to review some of the thoughts and images that have struck me in prayer over the past week. I don’t know that I’ll post these every week. Probably not; some weeks nothing much strikes me. But this past week quite a bit reached out to me.

Tuesday, February 5, St. Agatha

On the gospel reading for today (Mark 5:21-43)

I have always been struck by the faith of the woman with hemorrhages, who believes that if she just touches Jesus’s clothes, she will be cured. I’ve also wondered why she doesn’t just go right up to him and ask. Perhaps she doesn’t want to bother him, or doesn’t think she is worth his attention? I think I might feel that way. But his reaction to her touch and his insistence on knowing who she was and speaking to her seems to show that Jesus’s cure requires personal contact, too. That reinforces, for me, the idea that God desires a deeply intimate and personal relationship with each one of us.

Wednesday, February 6, Ash Wednesday

Teach us to be loving not only in great and exceptional moments, but above all in the ordinary events of daily life.

I can’t find the source of this, which I noted in my prayer journal last Wednesday, but I know it spoke to me because I sometimes think that being loving in ordinary life is one of the most difficult challenges for me. The people who are closest to me are sometimes the ones who are the hardest to love. Lent helps me to focus on spiritual renewal and healing, but it isn’t only about great changes. It’s also about the little ones. Charity (and love, for that matter) do begin at home. God challenges me to start there, in ordinary life.

Thursday, February 7, Thursday after Ash Wednesday

Choose life, then, that you and your descendants may live, by loving the Lord, your God, heeding his voice, and holding fast to him. (Deuteronomy 30:19-20)

If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. (Luke 9:23)

Oh, God–show me my cross.
Gently peel my hands from my eyes.
And when I recoil–not that one, oh God–
Gently put my hands on it and help me lift.

Later, in Sacred Space, I came across the idea that my cross is myself. Yes. I can understand that. I am so impatient with my mistakes, my fumbling, my awkwardness, my inability to do what is right, as St. Paul cries out in frustration in Romans 7:19:

For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.

My cross, then, is to recognize this and to move forward in spite of it, rather than succumbing to despair.

Friday, February 8, Friday after Ash Wednesday

Lent is not a season of punishment so much as one of healing. (Thomas Merton, in Magnificat, vol. 9, no. 13, February 2008)

Oh, God–heal me. From the sickness of sin, from the disease of distance from you. Rend my heart–or help me to rend it, to crack it open, to be fully aware of your deep love for me, so that I in turn might pass that love on to others.

Saturday, February 9, Saturday after Ash Wednesday

Jesus said to him, "Follow me" And leaving everything behind, he got up and followed him. (Luke 5:27-28)

How could two simple words change everything? That’s what I wonder, looking at this.

How many times, oh Lord, have you said those same two words to me?

And how many times have I stayed behind?

For all of those times, forgive me.

I like wine. In particular, I like sharing a bottle of wine with my husband over dinner. Wine helps me to relax, to linger at the table in conversation, to tolerate the antics of the boys. But for Lent I gave up wine, except for Sundays and my birthday.

By last Saturday evening, after a long day in class, which was exhausting in its own way, I really wanted a glass of wine. My husband was planning to have one. The bottle sat out on the counter, tempting me.

I reminded myself that it was chardonnay, and that lately I’ve been having trouble with headaches after drinking white wine. I tried reminding myself that I could have a glass the next night, according to the rules I’d set for myself. I tried reminding myself that it was just embarrassing to fail at a Lenten resolution so early, even before the 1st Sunday of Lent.

My husband uncorked the bottle. I waffled. It would be pastoral, I told myself, to join my husband in a glass of wine. Otherwise I would just sit at the table, mute with exhaustion, and focus on my knitting. I asked for a glass. My husband paused. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Yes," I said recklessly. "Really sure?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "Oh, heck, I mean…No." I drank water instead.

It bothers me greatly that I should have such a hard time with such little, tiny temptations. When I prayed about it, what I heard back was the need to recognize that I start by overcoming small temptations, to give me practice and techniques so that I can overcome greater ones.

Bet you thought I wasn’t ever going to write anything about knitting. But I finally finished a pair of socks over the weekend, thanks to a weekend class in a format that allowed for knitting during class. It really is true that, for me, I contribute more to class discussions when I knit.

What I finished was my first pair of socks knit from the toe up, as opposed from the cuff down. I followed a pattern (On-Your-Toes Socks; sorry, it doesn’t appear to be available online for free) in the summer 2007 issue of Interweave Knits (Volume XII, Number 2), using Lorna’s Laces Shepherd Sock in the Tahoe colorway. I have enough yarn to make another pair. I will have to post a photo later (yeah, when I figure out how).

I started these socks last summer when I decided I wanted to learn some new knitting techniques. In the making of them, I learned a new cast-on (Eastern), a new way of making heels (short-row), and a new bind-off (sewn).

I wanted to learn to make toe-up socks because I had some wonderful Socks That Rock yarn in a colorway (Seastone) that I think is discontinued (at any rate, I can’t find it anywhere), and I’ve never been sure I had enough yardage to make a traditional pair of cuff-down socks. But that problem is now solved, and in fact, I’ve started another pair of toe-up socks using that yarn. My husband hinted that he liked the colorway, but I told him I didn’t think I had enough yarn to make man-size socks, and that’s the truth.

When I’m in school, I just don’t have much knitting time, despite having taught myself to knit and read at the same time. Most of the reading I do for school requires me to work with a pen or pencil in hand, underlining, writing notes in the margin, or responding to something I read in my journal. But I certainly haven’t stopped knitting, and I don’t intend to.

Want to know what’s hard? Sitting in an all day meeting with a plate of pastries right across from you, on a Friday when you’re trying to fast and you gave up all foods that could be defined as treats for Lent.

That was my situation yesterday. There I was, in an all day meeting, which had been on my calendar for weeks, thinking about how maybe I should have chosen a different day for fasting for this week. I don’t even like pastries that much, and on any normal day I don’t find them in the least bit tempting. But yesterday they smelled really appetizing and I wanted one.

Lunch arrived, and I donated my potato chips and cookie to the pile of food, which all accumulated at my end of the table. There was even a cookie tray for "later." Very generous, and I didn’t want to eat any of it. Two days into Lent I really didn’t want to backslide. I’m happy to report that I didn’t. It was a struggle, though, and on some level I felt it was a ridiculous struggle. It just doesn’t compare to anything that Jesus suffered at all, and even if I think I’m choosing to go hungry in solidarity with the hungry of this world, I wonder what they would really think about that gesture, sitting in front of all that food and deliberately choosing to avoid it.

At least the food wasn’t wasted. I took it over to school last night–I’m in class all weekend–and left it in the commons, where it was happily consumed during break. And I suppose I gained some small measure of mastery over my desires, by denying myself something that I didn’t really even need to eat. But I still feel faintly ridiculous that I had to struggle so hard to avoid something that, under normal circumstances, I don’t even like.

Here is another meditation for the day from Magnificat:

 The Word of God becomes flesh during the day, during meditation, during Holy Communion, during contemplation, during adoration, during silence. That Word in you, you give to others. It is necessary that the Word live in you, that you understand the Word, that you love the Word, that you live the Word. You will not be able to live that Word unless you give it to others.

Total surrender to God must come in small details as it comes in big details. It’s nothing but that single word, “Yes, I accept whatever you give, and I give whatever you take.” And this is just a simple way for us to be holy. We must not create difficulties in our own minds. To be holy doesn’t mean to do extraordinary things, to understand big things, but it is a simple acceptance, because I have given myself to God, because I belong to him — my total surrender. He could put me here. He could put me there. He can use me. He cannot use me. It doesn’t matter because I belong so totally to him that he can do just what he wants to do with me.

Lent is a time when we relive the passion of Christ. Let it not be just a time when our feelings are roused, but let it be a change that comes through cooperation with God’s grace in real sacrifices of self. Sacrifice, to be real, must cost; it must hurt; it must empty us of self. Let us go through the passion of Christ day by day.

Blessed Teresa of Calcutta, in Magnificat, volume 9, no. 13, February 2008. 

 Which, when you think of it, is kind of an odd-sounding title. I mean, yeah, we talk about the fruits of prayer, but we don’t usually talk about the fruit (singular) of prayer. And yet what I experienced this morning was a single insight, and that doesn’t seem to rate a plural construction. (Yes, I majored in English Literature, and yes, my career is in technical writing. It comes out sometimes.)This morning’s first reading is from Deuteronomy 30:15-20, and the verses that I noted down were 19:20:

Choose life, then, that you and your descendants may live, by loving the LORD your God, heeding his voice, and holding fast to him.   

 The gospel for today is from Luke 9:22-25, and the verse that struck me here was:

If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.   

 I prayed to God to show me my cross, and, when I recoiled from it–not *that* one, God, can’t I have a different one–to gently put my hands on it and help me lift.I moved onto Sacred Space, the book I work in for 20 minutes of mental prayer each morning, and one of their inspiration points for the gospel reading was the idea that the cross is myself. I knew, reading that sentence, that God was fulfilling what I had just asked for: showing me my cross.

My ego, my awkwardnesses, my mistakes. My pride, my need to appear super-competent so no one will guess that I’m not. My self-protection, the walls I construct around my heart to keep from getting hurt. In short, my sins. And I sat with Jesus and wept.

Jesus reminded me that his love for me doesn’t slacken or diminish, no matter how many times I put my cross down and indulge in a temper tantrum. No matter how many times I say, “not this one, God–I know I asked for something difficult, but give me something else,” Jesus simply supports me, lovingly, until I pick up the cross again, and take another step forward. He reminded me that it doesn’t matter how many times, how many years I turned away from him, pretended he wasn’t there, ignored his voice. What matters is that he loves me, that I returned to him, that I am wiling–only with his help–to pick up the burden and take another step on the path to sanctity. 

In the interest of being held somewhat publicly accountable for my Lenten practices this year, I discussed what I was doing with a good friend and I’m posting them here. Because this is my first Lent fully out of the cafeteria, as it were, I found myself wanting to indulge in many practices to an extreme degree. I mean, wearing sackcloth and ashes for the full period of Lent is out; it would draw too much attention to me, which isn’t what I want. But I was certainly flirting with fasting every weekday, going to Daily Mass every day, and selling almost everything I had. I asked God what to do, and I got back an answer that shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me well: don’t be an overachiever with your Lenten practices.

OK, then. I got the message. So here’s what I’m doing.

1.  Fasting. Of course for Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, and for most of the Fridays in between. I actually have a couple of lunch meetings already on the calendar, as well as a team lunch, and I’ve always found it awkward not to eat when everyone else is. Perhaps those weeks I’ll just move my fast day to a different day. I am also giving up any food that I construe as a treat: no more potato chips, no more Lucky Charms for breakfast, no more squares of dark chocolate in the afternoon. The focus is on what I need for nourishment, but not more than that. I gave up my afternoon lattes. I even gave up alcohol, except for on my birthday. I just want to see if I can.
2. Prayer. I found a great book, The Essential Lenten Companion, and I’m adding a specific Lenten daily prayer to my morning routine, a Lenten meditation at noon when I say the Angelus, and some additional prayers before I go to sleep at night. I will also examine my conscience nightly. I have had trouble with night prayer in the past, since I tend to fall asleep very quickly, but perhaps avoiding half a bottle of wine before I go to bed will help with that.
3. Almsgiving. This is the one I’m still struggling with a little. I thought of making sure to shop for the St. Vincent de Paul pantry when I go to the grocery store. They list what they need in the bulletin every week. Another thing I thought of was giving up shopping on Sundays, so that I at least am not a cause for people having to work on Sundays and not have time with their families. I thought of giving up shopping entirely for Lent, in one of those anti-consumerism moves I’ve read about on the Internet, but I know I’d have to buy at least toothpaste or contact lens solution or dog food sometime during the next seven weeks, so I couldn’t give it up entirely. I want to think about this one a little more.

So I’m all fired up now. Ash Wednesday is easy. Let’s see how I’m doing later in the week, though. But I will say that I’m very happy to be in Lent. I have been looking forward to this liturgical season for weeks, and I’m happy it’s so early this year. It seems odd to say “Happy Lent,” almost an oxymoron, but in a way that’s what I think.