The Knitting Theologian

I was far too old before I learned that freedom is not doing whatever you want but freely choosing those things that make you most completely who you are. I’m reading a book of reflections called What is the Point of Being a Christian, by Timothy Radcliffe, OP. I can’t quite remember how I heard about Fr. Radcliffe. It might have been a link on a blog somewhere a few months ago. I followed the link and read an article by Fr. Radcliffe that interested me enough to hunt down the book.

In chapter 2 of the book, "Learning Spontaneity," Fr. Radcliffe discusses the freedom that we, as Christians are invited to, which is "a share in God’s own vitality." He asserts that spontaneity "is acting from the core of one’s being, where God is, sustaining one in existence." He also quotes a poem by another Dominican, Paul Murray OP, called "The Space Between":

What happened was for me
A kind of miracle

Like being suddenly able
To breathe under water

The astonishment at finding
It possible again to believe

And at finding the space
To breathe and breathe deep

Between the word "freedom"
And the word "God."

This remarkable poem captures, for me, something of what happened to me last summer when I realized that I was tired of making up my own rules and not only willing but even eager to return all the way, to fully accept the teachings of the Catholic church.

Sideline: Fr. Murray wrote an interesting article on the role of poetry in times of affliction, which, if you have time, might be worth your while.

Me? I’m going back to work on that final paper for my Fostering Communities of Faith class.

I first learned about this poem last year. The poem still resonates for me, so I’m posting it here for Mother’s Day.

The Lanyard, by Billy Collins

The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the pale blue walls of this room,
bouncing from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past–
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sickroom,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift–not the archaic truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

from The Trouble with Poetry and Other Poems by Billy Collins, New York: Random House Trade Paperbacks, 2005, pp. 45-46.

It’s true: I lead an over-scheduled life. I work full-time (more than full-time, to be honest). I go to graduate school in theology part-time, which realistically can be up to 15 hours a week of work, including class. I sing in a choir at my church (and as a cantor a couple of Sundays a month), and I sing in a community chorus.

People have asked me whether I am going to give up singing in either the church choir, the community chorus, or both. It’s true that sometimes I have weeks–like next week–where I will have four nights of rehearsals in a row. But no, I am not going to give up singing. I can’t.

Wednesday night’s rehearsal might explain why. That was a great rehearsal. Everything came together. We are preparing for a performance of Bach’s Mass in B Minor in a little more than a week. We’ve been rehearsing this admittedly difficult but unbelievably beautiful music since January. For me, Wednesday night I had the kind of experience that helps me understand what life-giving really means.

I was embodied in the music, for one thing. I mean that yes, I was singing and moving with the music. Not too much, I hope–this is Bach, not gospel. But I could feel the music flowing through me and I was intensely participating in it, bodily.

My mind was fully engaged. Part of it was deciphering the symbols in the score; part of it was deciphering the conductor’s gestures, and sending signals to my body so that I could embody both of those sources. Because, you know, the music is both what is printed in the score and how the conductor interprets it, and that’s why every performance of a piece of music is a little different.

Finally, my soul was engaged. This is a Mass, after all. The text is the parts of the Mass: Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus, Agnus Dei–prayers that I know well in both English and in Latin. These are not just prayers. They are statements of my faith.  So I was able to express my faith, in music, fully engaged with body, mind, and soul. That’s what life-giving means.

There is this, from today’s Gospel:

He said to him the third time, "Simon, son of John, do you love me?" Peter was distressed that he had said to him a third time, "Do you love me?" and he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep. Amen, amen, I say to you, when you were younger, you used to dress yourself and go where you wanted; but when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go."

And there is this, from today’s meditation in Magnificat:

This answer indicates that he [Simon Peter] acknowledges that he belongs: "Lord, I belong to you." "Yes, Lord, I belong to you, I am yours, I am yours; I, a sinner, I can say, I am yours, and I am a sinner; there is no sin that can prevent it. I am yours." This is the key to a deep transformation, which on a faithful journey becomes what God wants.

And there is this, from Ron Rolheiser’s The Holy Longing:

The church is the people, but it is also the rope that consecrates us and takes us where we would rather not go. To be baptized in a Christian church is to be a consecrated, displaced person….Baptism consecrates us and consecration is a conscriptive rope that takes us to where we would rather not go, namely, into that suffering that produces maturity.

For me all three of those threads came together in my prayer this morning. Jesus does indeed ask me whether I love him. For every time that I have denied Him by sin, He invites me back and after I return He asks me whether I love Him. I am coming to see that this love is not an easy love. It is not a pie-in-the-sky, my sins are forgiven so I don’t have to think about them again kind of love. It is not like that unbearably smug bumper sticker I remember seeing: Christians aren’t perfect; just forgiven.

No. This is honest, hard love. This is turning to Jesus with my hands full of my sins, all that I have to offer, and saying, "Yes, Lord; you know everything; you know that I love you." This is understanding and accepting that Jesus has asked me to be present and in relationship with people when I would rather not. This is understanding  that by my own baptism and acceptance of what that baptism means I am called to do Jesus’s work in the world, regardless of my own assessment of my ability (or lack thereof) to do so.

This is acknowledging that my sins and failings are not to be ignored but rather to be fully understood as injuries to Jesus, who continues to love me despite those injuries. This is understanding that yes, those sins are forgiven, but that doesn’t mean I won’t commit any more. This is accepting that, as much as I try to avoid sin, in my own humanness I will not succeed entirely, and rather than turn away from Jesus in despair, I must go back to Him again and again, for healing, forgiveness, love, and the challenge that goes along with that love.

This weekend was First Communion at my parish. I spent the weekend in class and figured I’d miss out on the opportunity to see kids receive their First Communion, but I forgot about how many young families go to LifeTeen Mass. I was privileged to see 8 children receive Communion for the first time at that mass tonight.

It was bittersweet, because of course I remembered when my son had been one of those kids. And I remembered even earlier, the first time he had seen kids all dressed up for their First Communion. This was the spring after we’d moved up to Washington, and shortly after I’d completed the Returning Catholics program. One spring Sunday we came into the church to be confronted with an unusually high number of well-dressed people, including many kids.

"Mom," he said, "why are all those kids dressed up like brides and grooms?" You couldn’t mistake the horror in his voice.

"Oh," I replied. "They must be getting their First Communion!" And, sensing an opportunity to impart a lesson–always a danger sign for parents–I continued, "It’s a really special day for them. They get to receive Jesus."

My son stared at me, clearly perplexed. "They get to eat cheese?" he asked, remembering to whisper because we were now seated in a pew.

"No," I hissed back. "They get to receive JESUS! Into their hearts."

He thought about this for a few minutes, wrinkling his brow. "They get Cheez-Its?" he finally asked.

"No!" I whispered back, exasperated. Then I saw the twinkle in his eye and knew he’d been playing me. "Never mind. I’ll explain it LATER." Right then I resolved that whatever else happened, he would attend Faith Formation classes starting in the fall and he would receive his First Holy Communion.