Tag: humanity

To Embrace Life

To Embrace Life

I’ve been doing prison ministry for several years now, but I have found myself entering into it in a new way over these recent weeks. Washing dishes at a Christmas celebration, I found myself thinking, “I bet some of the guys would really love to be washing dishes with their families right now.” The simple, mundane act of driving to work caused me to wonder, “How many of the guys really missing just driving a car?” As a break from school found me randomly sick, which it often seems to do, I gracefully vomited into the toilet and thought, “I’m glad I have a bathroom where I can throw up by myself and not have an auditory audience of dozens of people.” Numerous other scenarios have come up, too, as I have lit the candles for the Advent wreath, wrapped beautiful presents to gift to family members, had the ‘opportunity’ to shovel snow, and wanted a book so I ordered it online–throughout it all being prompted to remember that these are all things I would feel more grateful for if my life looked a little different.

It isn’t that I believe prisons shouldn’t exist or even that most people are there unjustly or undeservedly. Instead, I have been prompted to recall how the incarcerated are persons and even if the punishment fits the crime, there is a lived experience of it which might make us more compassionate if we were aware. It has caused me to feel a real grief for some of the men and to mourn a bit for what their lives could have been and yet see them try to embrace the life that is now offered to them. There is a strength that is involved in spending year after year in prison, a heartache that is real when you know that you will never get out of prison alive or that your kids will be completely grown by the time you are released. In no way do I understand this, but I have felt a sliver of this grief as I have gotten to know some of the men and I feel like this melancholy has grown a bit in these recent days.

Yet my life is not in prison.

Perhaps oddly, this has been my reflection as we move into the new year. I am not in prison so I should seek to soak up the things that these guys want to do but cannot. (Like, obviously, within reason.) There are many aspects of my life which, like the men in prison, I cannot control or make happen. Honestly, the Lord’s will seems as inscrutable to them as to me. And yet there are things I can do to not just pass the time, to not just look forward to the next weekend or the next break from school. For me, it can be easy to be trapped in moving from one day to the next, wishing for something different and yet seeing the same thing sprawling endlessly into the future. I don’t want to live like that, especially when I sometimes try to encourage the men in prison not to do that.

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It Will Not Delay

It Will Not Delay

The wallpaper of my phone is a picture of a quote which says, “It will surely come, it will not delay.” Next to the plastic, rose-bespeckled skull on my desk at school is another quote which says, “The Lord is not slow about his promise.” I think I feel compelled to post these passages of Scripture around my life because I feel like I’m inclined to not believe them and I know that I must.

I find myself doing similar things in other situations, too. There is a massive paper I need to write (yet which I have done essentially nothing on) and I have a desire to write about the role of hope in suffering as a Christian. This is not because I feel particularly hopeful or because I view myself as a very good suffer-er. And yet there is an attraction to this tension between suffering and hope. Or, as another example, recently, I read the description of a fictional story and it repelled and annoyed me, sounding far too similar in some ways to my own life, and so I bought it.

I’m not sure I love the tension that life offers to me and yet there is something intriguing about it. At times I run from it, not wanting to parse the particular stresses and contradictions in life. Other times, I sprint towards it, wanting one strain of my heart to engage in a head-on collision with another. Or for the misconceptions or untruths I believe to smash brilliantly into the truth or clarity which they don’t want to encounter.

Perhaps it is simply reflected in how I feel about Advent. I love the time of anticipation, the preparations, the slow moving from darkness to light, the delayed gratification. However, I also feel the tension in the season and am quick to see how I also greatly dislike that same tension in my own life, when the end of the journey is not quite so clear-cut and the conclusion unknown. The season of Advent continually calls this tension to mind as we prepare both for Christmas (clearly marked out for December 25th) and the end of our lives (very unclear and uncertain for most of us). It is a delight and a sorrow, a thing of great pleasure and one of profound suffering. Yet it is a tension in which we all must live.

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Surprised by Grief

Surprised by Grief

Grief is a tricky thing.

I keep thinking this as the days and weeks have gently rolled by and yet I keep being surprised by it.

Several weeks ago, a man I knew from prison died.

Were we friends? Yes, in a way that I feel inclined to categorize in my head as “prison friends.”

There is almost no chance we would have known each other except for meeting in prison, life and circumstances being so entirely different for each of us. I never quite knew how many of his stories to believe or how to wrap my brain around his understanding of Scripture. I was often unsure what transpired inside his mind, as he would silently survey all and thoughtfully form an opinion which, if asked, would take several minutes to unfurl. How did all of his stories mesh together? What happened in the years he was silent about? How exactly did he end up where he did?

A mystery.

He was very much a mystery to me.

It was in prison that he chose to enter the Catholic Church. At a Saturday evening Mass, he was baptized and confirmed. In a place where touching between inmate and visitor is frowned upon, it was memorable to step up behind him and place my hand on his shoulder as he was confirmed. I prayed for the Holy Spirit to descend powerfully upon him and remain with him even while I also wondered why he picked me as his sponsor.

Over the years, we spent hours talking. He spoke more than I did, but he would remember to follow up about different things in my life about which I had shared. What I was teaching, what I was learning, the paper I was supposed to be writing. He’d share fantastic stories about his youth, about his thoughts on a passage of Scripture, about advice other guys would ask for, about observations about staff and inmates. There was always something formulating, fermenting, bubbling up inside of him.

So it is a bit striking for all of it to stop.

Suddenly.

A surprise death. One which lingered suspensefully for a few days as we sat in the “is he dead or isn’t he?” And even when it was revealed that, yes, he was dead, it was still unbelievable. A memorial Mass was offered and a visit to the gravesite occurred and yet it still seems unresolved. There was a statement from the DOC, a smattering of news reports, and an oversized pile of dirt in a small rural cemetery. But there was no body that I saw, no funeral pictures, no casket, no obituary, no headstone. Just enough to show that he was gone and little enough to force my brain to recognize how absolute it is.

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God is Not Overwhelmed

God is Not Overwhelmed

God is not overwhelmed.

With the myopia natural to humanity, it can be easy to view the present time as the worst time. Or, depending on your temperament and inclinations, to view the present moment as the very best in history. It is very likely that neither is true and that the present age lies somewhere between those two extremes. The perfect vantage point comes, naturally, from God, who sees what would both heartily encourage us and completely devast us.

God sees and knows all. The innumerable pains which are suffered silently within the hearts of humanity are known utterly by God. Yet He also knows the selfless acts of charity, the hidden conquering of vices, and the small but real ways people chose to love Him and each other. He sees the best and the worst of humanity, the pouring out of the hearts’ treasures and the outpouring of blood, the heroic and the demonic, the veiled humility and the brash pride of the world. I would not want to be Him, even with the ability to see how all of this works for the greatest good of each individual and the world.

And yet, God is not overwhelmed. He is not struck down by the flaws and horrors of humanity. What we did not see coming, He knew before the foundations of the world. What causes us to be overly elated, He takes with a peace which surpasses understanding. There is no plot twist, surprise, or cliffhanger for God. He knows everything and everyone completely.

It is not that He is passive or stoic or even distantly removed from our human drama. No, He is intimately involved with the very flutters of our heart, the little moments which cause a burst of joy or a piercing sorrow. He is not indifferent or unable to be moved by our plight. Rather, He is unable to be overwhelmed. The world He embraced and entered into, He has also conquered. It is sustained by His constant will and we exist through a persistent overflow of love which does not question if we are worthy. The Lord is very near and yet, thankfully, He does not get swept away in a million soundbites or the raging of violence or the bitter divisions which wend their way through the human race. He is a firm foundation, a rock, a fortress, a refuge.

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Windows to the Soul

Windows to the Soul

I was struck by their eyes.

Glancing around the table for a moment, I saw several pairs of gentle, thoughtful eyes. Creases radiated from the corners, shooting outward toward countenances which had faced much sorrow, misery, and difficulty. Yet, here, in this moment, these eyes were content, hopeful, seeking a fulfillment which had seemed elusive in the past.

I commented with a laugh that one of them looked incredibly intense as he carefully outlined a design on a poster, adding flourishes and details, colorful letters unfolding in a practiced artistic script. Another had kind eyes as he shared a gratitude for life which was a hard-fought accomplishment, a thankfulness borne of recognizing he could easily be dead if circumstances had transpired differently. Yet another had brilliantly dark and quiet eyes, settled into a fiery calm and carrying tremendous depth and treasured secrets.

One after the other, I am peering into pairs of eyes which have seen things I hope to never witness and have sought a hope I, too, fervently desire. Soaking up the moments, the snatches of conversation between sips of coffee and theological ponderings between deft strokes of a marker on posterboard, I found myself incredibly grateful for this glimpse of humanity. I think people wouldn’t believe what we talk about or what these men are like, I thought to myself as I heard them share their stories and answer questions.

The human person is a many layered being. I am not proposing that at this prison retreat there were only men who have completely repented of their wrongdoing or who will live lives on the straight and narrow forevermore. However, where can we look and see such a group of people? Instead, I am continually amazed at how they are taking their situations, brought on by their own choices as well as circumstances outside of their control, and seeking to grow. For some, this means striving for sobriety and personal betterment during their remaining prison sentence before concluding their time or being released on parole. For others, this means wrestling with a life sentence and how they can be involved in their families while incarcerated or seek personal fulfillment within the prison walls.

From the outside, flipping through tv news reports or online articles, it can be easy to simplify humanity. We hear about horrifying and shocking crimes, quickly bemoan the state of society, and want people locked away forever. Yet sitting at a table with them drinking cups of coffee, handing them slices of toast which are only offered on this retreat, watching their eyes fill up with tears as they speak of how they are seeking to be good fathers despite facing a life sentence in prison, and hearing them push themselves to share a story with the group regardless of their nervousness all makes it much harder to categorize them all as “bad” and slam the door shut on them.

Humans are complex and, thankfully, have the capacity for growth and change.

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A Mountain of Meaning

A Mountain of Meaning

Writing a story or a novel is one way of discovering sequence in experience, of stumbling upon cause and effect in the happenings of a writer’s own life. This has been the case with me. Connections slowly emerge. Like distant landmarks you are approaching, cause and effect begin to align themselves, draw closer together. Experiences too indefinite of outline in themselves to be recognized for themselves connect and are identified as a larger shape. And suddenly a light is thrown back, as when you train makes a curve, showing that there has been a mountain of meaning rising behind you on the way you’ve come, is rising there still, proven now through retrospect.
-“One Writer’s Beginnings” by Eudora Welty

I had an experience which relates to this quote from Eudora Welty but which is perhaps true in the reverse. In a conversation with someone I don’t know very well, I was posed the question about why I’ve remained Catholic and faithful to the way I was raised. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this question, but I think I’m never quite equipped to answer the question well. There are so many things to say and yet I am uncertain what to peg as the reason I am still Catholic.

The short answer, I suppose, is the mysterious working of grace. How can I account for that which is unquantifiable, incalculable, and unknown? The prayers which have been prayed for me, the sacrifices offered on my behalf, the ways I’ve unknowingly responded to grace, the particularities of my personality, the effect of others’ words or actions, and far more have all had an impact on my heart and my life of faith. How can I offer a quick response? How can I even fully know why I still adhere to the sacramental life, why I find the lives of saints so fascinating, why I continue to follow Jesus when many people in similar situations or with relative experiences have not?

And yet here was someone asking a question and since he had not exactly remained in the faith of his childhood, it seemed more important to offer some sort of authentic response instead of just shrugging my shoulders and saying, “God is mysterious.”

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What it says about me

What it says about me

The inner response I have to the actions of another has more to say about me than the other person. I think I came to this realization over the past couple of days and, like many realizations, was a bit disappointing to me even as it was illuminating. It would be far more preferable for the poor behavior or actions of the other to simply be an indictment of their own wavering character or their imperfections. I would feel far better if my students attitudes were able to remain just that and entirely removed from me.

However, in the course of wrestling with the rather petty and immature responses of teens this week, I have come to see that what is awakened in me is, unfortunately, saying something about me and is, generally, the only thing I can deal with in the present. Sure, this student was being intentionally disrespectful, but the disproportionate anger I felt inside was something which surprised me. And it is the only thing I can really, authentically engage with, despite the fact that as a teacher a list of corrections or punishments towards the student could be utilized.

With this realization in mind, I looked at how I had internally responded to the situation. It wasn’t necessarily what I did, but there is a certain truth in our private knee-jerk reactions or what rolls around in our heads when dealing with a troublesome issue. It made me a bit uncomfortable to see what arose when I was challenged, provoked, and dismissed. Then recently in class, I found myself projecting a Scripture passage on the screen for prayer time and my eyes and heart kept catching on, “When he was insulted, he returned no insult. When he was made to suffer, he did not counter with threats.” (1 Peter 2)

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Answering Prayers We Didn’t Pray

Answering Prayers We Didn’t Pray

Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said to him, ‘You are lacking one thing. Go, sell what you have, and give to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.’

The rich man in today’s Gospel received a beautiful, difficult blessing. He was able to ask Jesus how he could inherit eternal life and then he was told the answer.

It seems, however, that the rich man was hoping for a different response. Perhaps he wanted Jesus to say, “You don’t need to do anything else–you will inherit eternal life.” Or maybe he wanted Jesus to have some small request or some additional rule to follow. Instead, he is invited to follow Jesus after selling his possessions. This does not seem to be what the man had anticipated or he might not have asked Jesus the question. This good news, this call to discipleship which others received with wild abandon, is met with sadness and a disheartened turning away. The rich man asks a question, receives an answer, and then sulks away. How difficult it is to seek and then find that the cost is higher than you are willing to pay!

This is often true for us, too. We want the Lord to provide an answer to a present difficulty. Hoping for guidance and direction, we implore Jesus to show us the way. Yet when an answer, a path, or a gift is offered, we quickly realize it isn’t what we hoped we would receive. His ways and thoughts are far above our ways, yes, but we keep hoping, over and over again, that they will match up. We find ourselves desiring that just once our meticulously crafted and very comfortable plan will be the one the Lord has also been preparing for us. Many times we, like the rich man, ask questions with specific answers in mind or ask for grace but are focused on very particular graces.

Jesus sees this man wholly. He knows him through and through. The deep desires of his heart and the secret dreams and imaginings are known perfectly to the Lord. It is in light of this knowledge that Jesus offers the answer of sell what you have, give to the poor, and follow Me. Jesus doesn’t need more information to offer a better response. He offers the answer which is perfectly crafted for this man’s heart. Jesus looked at him, loved him, and then placed His finger on the very point which needed His attention right then. The Lord invites him to eliminate what separates them and to become His disciple.

Perhaps before every hard thing that enters our life, the same situation unfolds. Jesus looks at us, loves us, and then points to a lack in our hearts. He does this not to hurt us or to unnecessarily grieve us or to cause us to turn away from Him. Instead, it is this abundant love and great knowledge of our innermost being which causes Him to offer us a grace we didn’t ask for and mercies we didn’t expect. They often come wrapped in problems, accompanied by heartache, and bathed in tears. We don’t want them. We generally desire to resist them. And yet they come, through various means and different channels, from the hand of the Lord.

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He understood it well

He understood it well

But Jesus would not trust himself to them because he knew them all, and did not need anyone to testify about human nature. He himself understood it well.

John 2:24

I keep thinking of those rocks that are rough, with edges that snag on anything softer which passes by it. Any sort of fabric which flutters nearby is caught in the crevices of the rock, pulling and tearing with an immovable stoicism. Like when you sit on a wooden bench and the sneaky slivers of wood grasp the fabric of your skirt or shirt when you stand up, leaving you with clothing pierced through and a snarled bunch of threads.

This type of rock keeps coming to mind, I think, because it seems to be a fitting comparison for my heart and, hopefully not, but perhaps also, yours, too. It seems too easy for my hard little heart to find itself getting snagged on the people and things which pass by. And I’d really like to blame it on the others instead of looking at the roughness which resides within. I want to say, Maybe you shouldn’t have done this thing or You got too close to this hard edge or Why did you mercilessly punch your finger into this wound? If death and taxes are two absolutes, experience dictates that another absolute is our hearts running our own rough edges into the craggy contours of others’ hearts.

When matters appear to be going swimmingly, I find myself discovering another flaw or brokenness or wound through the oblivious words and actions of others. Even in situations where the other person is entirely to blame (which, admittedly, is quite rare), I still must reconcile with what that particular interaction has revealed. The fault may be theirs, but the roughness it has revealed is still certainly mine.

This season of Lent provides the perfect opportunity to look more realistically at these tangled threads, these areas where I find myself torn by the simple experience of living in a community of fallen humans. It creates the opening for mercy and grace, the chance to see how the Lord is inviting me to let my rough edges be smoothed by the crucible of life. I almost never run towards these chances the Lord offers. Instead, I find myself resisting with the vigor of one fighting for her life. I don’t want this roughness to be dragged along the pavement, aching until it succumbs to smooth surrender. I’m more prone to dig in, to harden my heart, to prickle at the first hint of pressure, to worm my way safely into caverns which cannot easily be reached.

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Preparing the Altar

Preparing the Altar

Since my homeward journey from work has construction, I have been obligated to seek different routes over the past few weeks. Either as a result of the construction or simply how it always is, I find myself waiting in more traffic in parts of town with which I am not as familiar. One road with a bit of traffic has a few places where people often turn and so I try very hard to watch the lights and the movement of traffic in order to not be that person who annoyingly blocks intersections. I get a bit embarrassed when we wind up in completely stopped traffic and a person who could turn cannot because I’m blocking the route.

The other day it worked perfectly. The car next to me knew what they were doing and so when the light turned red, we held back and left plenty of space for vehicles in the opposing lane to turn through and carry on their way. It was nice to be next to a car that was completely stopped, not inching forward or worried that they might be a second delayed or inconvenienced. The light turned green and no cars had yet moved forward, but the car behind me honked and, when I glanced in my side mirror, gestured impatiently for me to go.

I felt a flash of anger. The injustice of being honked at–couldn’t they see that I was letting people through? I perhaps moved my arm upwards with a fling of annoyance. Then I accelerated and was no further behind the next car than if I had been inches from their bumper the entire time.

Once the anger passed, I kept wondering why the person was so impatient. The traffic was all still there. I wasn’t mindlessly on my phone. The second the light turns green doesn’t mean that the 5th or 6th car in line should expect to be moving. Why are we so impatient?

We don’t like to wait. We don’t want to feel like we are getting left behind. We don’t want to feel like our time is wasted or that progress could be made but isn’t. We don’t want to be pointlessly sitting at a light waiting for the people around us to get their act together. And I don’t think any of that is really that deep or profound or unknown.

Today, however, I was at Mass as we commemorated the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross and I experienced a moment of waiting that I hadn’t recognized before. After the homily, I was considering the various crosses in my life and attempting to surrender them to Jesus. Or to at least acknowledge them and continue to hope that Christ’s victory would someday be found in those very places. As I was praying, I noticed what was happening as the priest received the vessels from the server, unfolded the corporal, and poured drops of wine and water into the chalice.

We were waiting.

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