Principled Beauty

The following entry appeared originally on Live Questions.  Never heard of it?  It's a project started by some friends of mine that looks at questions of vocation, community, solidarity, and beauty. It is an outstanding project that I couldn't be happier to be able to contribute to from time to time.

“Kansas is an attitude” our instructor remarked with a wry smile on her face.  These were the first words out of her mouth… and they were true.

Kansas is an attitude. There’s no way around it. Kansas in the middle of January, however, is an extreme expression of that attitude. I and four other novices had come to Kansas to explore our congregational roots. Our instructor was a sister in her seventies; a woman born of the prairie, stubbornly independent, stunningly simple, and simply brilliant. Suffice it to say we met that attitude head on.

The lessons we had come to learn were on vocation, but surprisingly lessons on beauty came hand-in-hand with those about our call as religious sisters today, tomorrow, and yesterday. 

Kansas in January is desolate. The fields of wheat, milo, and corn that tantalize the American imagination with shades of gold are cut down to the ground. In their place are vast expanses of barrenness, the common vision of heartland mowed down.  It is a land recuperating, silently fostering the signs of life for spring. 

I and four other sisters were there to explore 100 maxims from seventeenth century France.  Written by the Jesuit who helped found our religious congregation, these maxims are guides for life; whether you are a religious or not, they are principles to live by.

Some make common sense: “Strive to be kind always to everyone and unkind to no one.” (Maxim 64) “Never think about tomorrow unless it has some necessary link with today, but entrust it to Providence.” (Maxim 69) or “Live out your life with one desire only: to be always what God wants you to be, in nature, grace, and glory.” (Maxim 73)

Others challenge our modern sensibilities and defy human nature: “Give all the happiness you can to those who give you a great deal of unhappiness, and give it willingly.” (Maxim 51) “Interpret all things from the best possible point of view” (Maxim 52) or “Advance all good works until they are almost finished; and then, whenever possible, let them be completed by someone else who will receive the honor.” (Maxim 85)

But the maxim we started with, Maxim 1, is the maxim that the ninety-nine proceeding maxims seek to elaborate on:

“Keep always in mind the aim of your vocation which is sublime; and never do anything which contradicts the commitment to a life full of modesty, gentleness, and holiness.” 

-Maxim 1-

 You can take this to mean anything you want, but for me, the aim of my vocation is union with God and neighbor without distinction.

This is the vocation I feel called to and it is the aim of the Christian life in general. Yet, as we moved our way deeper into this maxim, something struck me about the manner of achieving that aim.  It was hidden in the translation.

Modestie and douceur are most commonly translated from French literally as modesty and gentleness. But really, in practical terms, our call as Christians isn’t to a hackneyed expression of modesty and gentleness- you know, covering up and remaining docile. In all actuality, though, those words are much deeper. Respectively they mean a call to an awareness that is prudent, i.e. constantly discerning, (modestie) and a manner of being in touch with and seeking beauty (douceur). In older translations, the word douceur was taken to mean gentleness, but its true meaning (literally “sweetness”) is more akin to beauty.

And so, with this in mind, the second half of this key maxim essentially says:

Always keep in mind the aim of you life and…do nothing that contradicts the commitment you make to living a life that is constantly discerning, seeking beauty, and bound by holiness.

There, wedged in between the call to be constantly discerning and ever in pursuit of wholeness/holiness, was Beauty- douceur.

This beauty though isn’t just happiness and loveliness. No, it is something much more principled.

Such beauty, the Beauty in pursuit of union with God and with neighbor without distinction, has four characteristics:  order, symmetry, harmony, and right relationship.

Looking up at the same sister who’d told us that Kansas was an attitude, I stared quizzically, my aesthetic mind reeling.  These were principles of beauty I had not encountered before. As I played various “beautiful” scenarios through my head, my mind and heart whirled. I had never considered beauty this way.  In essence, as I seriously considered this definition, the drive of my vocation hung in the balance.

Could the beauty I cherish in the world, in fact, be a function of my vocation? I wondered.

Is what we find beautiful defined by the presence of these characteristics at the very core of its being?

Harmony, order, symmetry, and right relationship flooded my mind. Not only do these lie at the heart of the Gospel, they also speak to the sometimes indescribable and yet principled beauty of our world. 

Surely even grace operates within this basic framework; liberated not tamed by these broad categories. The harmony, symmetry, and order of life (and beauty) are God’s not ours. The right relationships we are called to flow out of our right relationship with our Creator.

And as I considered all of this- my life, my call, this world- I also drew into mind the principled beauty I encountered on the wind-swept plains of northern Kansas. There, even in desolation, poverty, and expansiveness, there was Beauty. It was a beauty bound up in harmony, symmetry, order, and right relationship.

It is what I considered as I tried to capture the principled beauty of the area on film and it is what I delved into as I plunged the depths of my being in a place stripped of all else. And what did I find?

I found a beauty given and graced. It is an attitude. And it is something that goes far beyond the Plains into the depths of our very being- the aims of our vocations- the principles of our lives.

And in that, there is something beautiful just waiting to be discovered. 

Take My Hand

As many of you know, in addition to writing here on the blog, I also put my pen to real paper from time to time.  You can find some of the publications that I've written for on the right hand side of this page, but today is a special day.

Today, my reflection "Take My Hand"  was published in Give Us This Day, the fabulous worship & prayer aid from Liturgical Press. Usually these reflections are subscription-only, but today's was re-published on Pray Tell, a wonderful blog of worship, wit, & wisdom. So, in case you missed it, click on the link and check it out!

I lit myself on fire once.

Written during (not for) the opening of Chapter 2014, Philadelphia via Concordia, KS
I lit myself on fire once.

Not on purpose, but still.

The match I intended to blow out

consumed my hair and eye lashes.

All around me was a flash

of light and heat

and in my heart

was panic.

The mystics speak of being set

on fire

by the Love of God,

in a Love all-consuming.

I'm sure it comes like a flash

and I'm sure fear must be

extinguished first

or it won't burn bright for long.

I feared I'd be disfigured

that my whole self might go up

in a cloud of smoke.

Singed and shaken I emerged.

But I imagine when God sets a fire

it is a controlled burn

it gives life even as it takes it

and only singes what resists.

The blaze is set deep within

no puff of smoke or putrid smell

only life,

the most combustible fuel of all.

You can't set that type of fire yourself

No, it is a flame beyond

your control

If you try, you're bound to get burned.

As a child, they told me

not to play with matches.

You'll set yourself on fire.

How right they were.

I was set on fire once

through no fault of my own

I consented to being consumed.

I could not hold the flames at bay.

Let go and let it burn my Love

whispered in my ear.

A flash of tongues about my head,

White hot passion in my soul.

Engulfed but not afraid I stood

A box of matches at my side

The emptiness inside was full

A flame that wouldn't die. 

Love in the Walls

I found myself today in a church on the banks of the Mississippi River. There after passing under the St. Louis Arch and escaping the smoke stacks of East St. Louis, Illinois, I settled into the silence of Holy Family Church.

From the outside, the church appears as if it is falling down. The walls slant inward- large, dark timber boards set to stand vertically and patched in-between with a plaster made of mud, hay, hair, and anything that will bind.  The sight of it is arresting.

This is a building from a different age- a building out of place. And yet, it stands.

It is here that my sisters were sent in 1836 after they arrived in St. Louis. After a long journey from France, three of the six Sisters of St. Joseph sent to the New World found themselves across the river in Cahokia, Illinois.  After a treacherous journey up and across the river, I can only imagine that they fell gently into the silence of Holy Family Church.  The log church has stood since 1799 and so as I sat in its silence today, I could only imagine that my sisters, centuries removed, sat there with me.

The feeling of connection is hard to describe. Running my hands over the Black Walnut timbers, I could feel the marks of settlers' axes. The wood, they say, is now petrified. The logs probably wouldn't burn if you tried to light them; they simply stand still and silent, pillars solid as stone.  And my hands run over what I imagine our founding mothers' hands ran over- beams that signified something solid after months of travel.  It was here that they were called to serve. Here that they could begin the life they had left France to pursue.  Here that the unknown became a little bit more knowable.

Sitting in that church today, I could only imagine all that they went through. Soaking in the silence, I could sense their prayers, their devotion, their love... it was right there in the walls... walls that should have fallen down in the great New Madrid earthquake in 1812, but didn't. Walls that sustained themselves by their very slant inward; leaning in, they buttress one another.  When one portion of the structure gives, the rest moves to support it. And so, it is with love.

"I have grasped you by the hand; I formed you, and set you as a covenant of the people, a light for the nations." Today's first reading from Isaiah proclaims, "bring forth justice to the nations, not crying out, not shouting, not making [your] voice heard in the street." No, by none of that do you bring justice. Only by your love will justice come, a love that ultimately is God's love in you.

As our tour of the old log church came to an end, our guide brought us over to the new stone church to return precious artifacts to the parish safe. The church was in the midst of the frantic transition out of Christmas. Poinsettia leaves were scattered across the carpeted floor, crunching beneath our feet. A few women from the parish buzzed about with brooms and carts. Here, amid the energy, I was struck by far less historic stained glass windows. As I pulled my camera out, to take some pictures of Christ the Sower and Christ the Giver, my group slowly exited the church.

By the time I looked up, I was alone in the sanctuary with one woman working away.  I thanked her for having us and complimented her on the beauty of the Church and the windows. "You're very welcome" she replied, "I only wish you could see the full effect without this mess."

I smiled politely and excused the leaves as par for the course. "Really" she responded moving toward me behind the altar, "I wish you could see this."

She reached up to shift a curtain on the stone wall. "There's Love in the wall." she said.  Moving the curtain to the side, she pointed up, "Don't you see it?"

Sure enough, I could make out a rudimentary "L" in the line of the stone. "It's Love" she said, "This isn't the best view, but it's there."

"It sure is." I replied with a smile.

It was there in that wall and in the heavy wood walls of the log church, a love that buttresses itself, that stands tall even when it seems like it should fall over.  It doesn't shout, it simply is. I thanked her again for her service and for taking the time to talk with me.

Walking up the center aisle of the church, my heart paused for a moment in all that the day had been. And as I joined my group again, my heart simply said, "There's love in these walls."

Adventing Christ

Part of the blessing of being in Chicago is the opportunity to be with wonderful sisters from throughout the country. Every few weeks a different presenter joins us for a specific topic, be it charism, congregational history, Ignatian spirituality, or any number of other things.  These classes are more like workshops than formal presentations; they encourage reflection and bring one's life to bear on the subject matter. 

In early December, we were blessed to be led by Kathy Sherman, CSJ and Pat Bergen, CSJ through a day of reflection on Advent and new cosmology.  The result was a day filled with song and sharing.  As I reflected through the day on the topic of Adventing Christ- transformation in my own life and a deep experience of silence/ stillness rose within me. The result is the poem that follows. May it speak to the work of Advent in each of us- the anticipation within and the becoming that is constantly drawing us forth to a world filled with Emmanuel. 

Peace and Advent blessings to you all.

____________

In the becoming...in the becoming is everything.

They took the Light and hung it upon a tree.
In the becoming, in the becoming is everything

As I waited in the stillness
of that house it began
through the slats of the wooden walls
and rising through the floor boards
transformation oozed forth.

It was not quick
it gave moment for pause
for panic if you so desired.
You could see it coming
You could choose to stop it.

Instead I feel my hands reach
I run my fingers through it
It sticks.
The tacky touch of what transforms.
What binds us together.

It surrounds the building I am in
it must
to enter as it does

Did I build this hideaway
or was it built for me?
No matter,
It is here that transformation seeps in.

It is sticky like glue
It coats me and
makes me take notice

In the becoming is everything.
    Christ is in who and how I am becoming
He binds me up; we run together
    His being and mine.

That cold chapel in Plainsboro.
Its choir stalls and pitched ceiling.
My belly on the hard stone floor
I look up.

I can not remember what I saw
but I remember how I felt.
The Stillness
The silence
The union.

We muttered aloud
that we wished we could stay there
forever.

My soul seized.
Caught by the very act of being.
This One I knew, I knew knew me
and in that knowing new love.
Ever ancient, ever new

Perhaps it's in that moment
I knew I'd never be the same

That I knew that I'd never leave that place
Even though my feet traveled down
the long empty hallways
I was filled.

With something unknown
and yet known
Trusting the mystery
Knowing I was sticking to it, but never stuck.

Transformation doesn't allow for stuck.
It is motion
emotion.
in the becoming.
It infiltrates, pervades
and before caution can rise
you find yourself captured-coated-changed.

You have become.
You are becoming.
And that, that is everything.

Wanderings Beyond the Blog

I am happy to report that I am back in Philadelphia for a little Christmas break after my first four months at the Federation Novitiate Program of the Sisters of Saint Joseph in Chicago.  The next few weeks will be filled with time to catch up with friends, family, and community before I journey back to the Windy City. In the meantime, I hope that I'll be able to post some pieces that have been ruminating in me over the last few months, but for now I wanted to clue you all into two pieces that I've written in other places:

1) The Beauty of the Human Spirit at LiveQuestions...  LQ is a project of a few friends of mine here in Philadelphia (and beyond) that looks at key questions around the topics of vocation, community, solidarity, and beauty. It's a wonderful project and I'm excited to be able to offer what I can to it.  This post features my own photographs and reflections from my time in the Philippines and what the Filipino people taught me over five years ago as a college student doing service/immersion work and continue to teach me now in the wake of Typhoon Haiyan.  The human spirit is a beautiful thing and it is my hope that this musing speaks to a beauty inherent in each of us and our humanity.

2) 'A Faith that Could Be Our Own' for Commonweal Magazine... This is my response to Commonweal's series on raising kids Catholic- the how and why (or why not) of passing on the faith to the next generation.  The truth is I speak from my own experience and upbringing; passing on the faith is a process steeped more in mystery and grace than standard practice and easy answers- the best we can do, not only parents but all people of faith, is live a life that reeks of faith- real, live faith, not beyond questions or doubts, but full of life and the challenge of living one's beliefs and truth authentically.

OK all, that's it for now and for my random wanderings... happy reading & blessed Advent!

The Lesson of We

I never wanted to be a teacher. In fact, when I came to the sisters, I pretty explicitly stated that being in a formal classroom wasn't where I thought I was meant to be. It wasn't my desire to be a classroom teacher; I know that that is neither my skill nor my gift.  Don't get me wrong, I have the utmost respect for teachers; I just know that I am not meant to be one... or at least that's what I thought.

Traditionally (we're talking over the last 165 years), Sisters of Saint Joseph of Philadelphia have been teachers.  If you entered the order in the 1960s, you were going to be a teacher. Maybe you would move on to being an administrator, but nevertheless every sister began in the same place: the classroom.

Whether you wanted to or not, this is where you were headed. It was just what we did. And we were (and still are) good at it. Yet, the last 50 years have marked a transformation in the ministries that we do. Sisters today minister in ways unimaginable just a few generations ago.  We are lawyers, doctors, nurses, professors, consultants, social workers, pastoral ministers, artists, and social justice advocates (just to name a few ministries in which our sisters take part.)

So, when I began seriously discerning religious life a few years ago, I felt free enough to speak my truth about not wanting to be a teacher.

Unlike dear friends of mine, I hadn't ever really considered teaching. They yearned to be teachers, I did not. I yearned to make a difference in the world, to serve those most in need and to reveal the truth and beauty of our loving God to those I ministered to and with.  I loved story- telling stories, sharing stories, and being present to others' stories. (And, I still do.)

Thus, it came as a surprise to me when last year, during my first year of novitiate, I was asked to go into the classroom.

The discernment was mutual. I knew that novitiate is about stretching (and the ensuing growth) and what better way to do that than to be put in an unfamiliar place and situation?  The thought of teaching was both frightening and exciting to me; it was also, for the most part, unknown.

Meanwhile, my director believed that being in the classroom would give me a chance to understand our history as a congregation.  Teaching is a part of who we are and so, to better understand this group that I am in the process of joining, why not experience a core (though not explicit (and now not expected))  element of our being by entering into the classroom? Thus, the decision was made.

Last year, this meant working with "Junior Level" (Grades 1-3) Montessori students, teaching our congregational history to fourth graders, and assisting in a high school theology classroom.  In all of these adventures, I was mentored and guided by our sisters and those imbued with the SSJ charism at our sponsored works.  The experience was challenging and enlightening. I learned a lot. And, by the time I was done, I breathed a sigh of relief- grateful for all that had been shared with me and relieved that I had made it through the experience.

After finishing that experience, I looked forward to my time in Chicago. It seemed like a time where I could continue the growth from my first year of novitiate and where I could again branch out in ministry.  Right and wrong.  Growth is certainly taking place-there is no doubt about that- yet, after discerning the many options available for ministry here, I again find myself in the place I thought I'd escaped: the classroom.

Now, I join the company of twenty-four little balls of love (ages 3-5) in a Montessori classroom at the Cardinal Bernardin Early Childhood Center on the North Side of Chicago one day a week.  These students have taught me many things since I first arrived a few months ago. Hopefully, I will get a chance to share some of those lessons as time goes on, but for now, -without further ado- I share the story of one little boy and a lesson learned... the lesson of "We".

This lesson cryptic as it might sound literally came in the form of a puzzle.

One morning after the typical game of "ask Miss Colleen one hundred questions" and after helping individual children with reading I found myself with Patrick* working on a multi-layered puzzle.

 These puzzles serve dual purposes in a Montessori classroom, they help children practice spacial relations like a traditional puzzle, while also revealing the steps of a process as each layer is completed. Each consecutive layer has more pieces than the last and explains the next step in the process (see: egg-chick-little chicked- big chicken).

So, when I joined Patrick he had already completed the first four-piece level that showed a bunch of sunflower seeds in soil. We then moved on to six pieces showing sprouting seeds and so on and so forth until we reached the twelve pieces that showed fully grown sunflowers. Getting to that point took some time though.

You see, Patrick is one of the slower learners in the class. At age 5, the oldest age group in the room, puzzles are not his forte and in general, he is often doing something other than the work prescribed for a specific learning material. (see: shooting marbles meant for counting across the room)

Sitting down on the floor with Patrick, I soon recognized the challenge ahead. For him, the challenge would be the puzzle itself; for me, the challenge would be being patient enough to allow him to learn at his own pace. This is part of Montessori- allowing children to problem solve on their own and give minimal guidance in the process.  Thus, I needed to stop my hands from "doing" and give hints and nudges along the way instead.  This was hard for me to do. I could see what needed to be done; I've learned to match sides and colors- the basics of puzzle assembly- but this wasn't about me.

Patrick had none of these skills. I would suggest looking for a specific color or shape of piece, but to no avail. I watched as correct pieces were spun and handled, pressed and mangled without ever finding their proper resting place.  The pieces wouldn't come together in his mind or on the board.

After limping through layers two and three of the puzzle, we arrived at the twelve-piece sunflower in full bloom.  By this time, Patrick could see the pedals and tried to get that portion of the picture together.  With time and effort, we assembled the puzzle outside of the frame of the already assembled puzzle and so, all we needed to do was transfer it.  No problem, right?

Think again.

Despite having the whole picture together, Patrick couldn't do the transfer. One piece would go into place then the next piece would be spun about- rotating ninety degrees or coming to a resting place other than where it should be.

Try as I may, I couldn't get Patrick to get the concept. In watching the process and being unable to guide, I felt helpless. All I wanted to do was teach Patrick but there was only so much I could do. After all, to do more would be to do it for him...an injustice to him and to this style of learning/teaching.

Eventually, we got the pieces into place, completing the puzzle.  Upon completion, (about forty-five minutes later) Patrick was less triumphant than relieved to have the puzzle over with. I then watched him do a number of layer puzzles that were divided by size not by pieces, similar to Russian dolls. He had done these puzzles before and whipped through them. Every now and then, he would turn a piece the wrong way and struggle for a moment, making the proper correction after ample pressing to try to force the piece.

After two or three of these puzzles, I got it... he was showing me he could do it. He could do puzzles fast and he could do these familiar puzzles well. I gave the requisite "oh's" and "ah's", hoping it would continue to encourage him to keep trying the harder puzzles. As he went to grab another familiar puzzle, I suggested maybe doing the sunflower puzzle again- that suggestion was clearly rejected.  Instead, I tried suggesting regular wood block puzzles, designed for smaller children, thinking it might give him the chance to practice his matching and puzzle-solving skills. Rejection again, at which point Patrick rolled up his work rug and went to have snack.

Really, we'd both had enough.  I sighed a breath of mixed relief, impatience, disappointment, and frustration. What more could I do?

About a half hour later, as I worked with another child, I watched as Patrick made his way over to the regular wood block puzzles I'd suggested earlier.  He brought with him one of the youngest children in the class.  Watching the two of them, I had to smile. I was happy to see Patrick practicing something that wasn't his strong suit, striving to learn and grow.  As I looked closer though, I realized that he was not only practicing the puzzle skills we had worked on, he was also guiding the younger child in completing the puzzle.  He watched as the child struggled here and there and gave little hints and nudges. Suddenly I realized Patrick had learned more than a puzzle lesson, he'd learned the lesson of we.

We had done the multi-layer puzzle together. We had practiced patience with what we were both learning to do. We faced the challenge of each new piece together. And neither one of us was going to leave until all the layers of that puzzle were complete. We were in this together.

That was the true lesson of the day: We are in this together.  It is the way we're called to live- for and with one another.

We believe together, too.  We believe in each other and so give value; we show love in patience and compassion towards one another and so we come to believe in the love we profess and practice.  We are in this together and so, we can believe in the goodness of God offered to us in the love of others. And only then can we understand that our God is We with us and for us, calling us to community and to love... and ultimately, helping us to put the puzzle that is our lives together one piece at a time.