Seeing Trees: To Be Visionary

As many of you know, I am columnist for the Global Sisters Report's Horizons column. It is a joy for me to be able to write and reflect on the current reality of my own life and the state of religious life as I experience it. My latest column is entitled "To Be Visionary" and looks at the call for all people of faith to see in a different light. Sometimes that mean facing uncertainty, other times it means looking long and hard to discover the beauty in your midst. Either way it is a blessing to be able to look and to discern what might be to come. We all have to be visionary, we have to see trees, see hope, and embrace the grace we're being offered here and now to see.

Here's the column:

“Look for the tree.” I would tell friends and family when they first came to visit me in Philadelphia. “It’s the only one for blocks.”

In 2010, I moved to Philadelphia to serve as a full-time volunteer, leaving a full-time job behind to serve as a parish outreach minister in the Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia. The tree in front of our volunteer house was a point of reference. It was a marker, rising above the row homes and trash-strewn streets of the neighborhood. As it came into focus, it guided others to us, while also serving as a sign of what had been and a signal of what could be.

A few weeks ago, I sat in the campus ministry office where I now work looking at a picture of that tree projected on the wall. I was preparing a presentation for a group of students who would return early from break for an urban service immersion trip to the neighborhood. A 30-minute drive from our campus, it might as well have been a different world.

Projecting images of local sights, empty factories, vacant lots and street art on my office wall, I looked at a neighborhood in which I, like the tree in in front of my house, had set my roots. It is a place I love. A neighborhood full of stories and cast in contrast. The place where I found myself called to actively pursue a call to religious life.

Scrolling through pictures, I looked up to find one of the college’s housekeepers in my office. I greeted her and we made small talk as she emptied the trash cans in the office. “Wait a second,” she paused as she saw the pictures on the wall, “Is that Kensington?” I nodded.

“That’s my neighborhood!” she exclaimed with pride. We talked about our mutual love of the neighborhood and what it means to us. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else,” she added.

“Kensington is just one of those places,” I agreed, knowing from experience it had the power to capture hearts. “Is there anything you want me to tell the students about the neighborhood?”

She nodded slowly as she stopped to think. And then she offered a statement that has sat with me for weeks. “Yeah, tell them it’s beautiful. You just have to be a visionary to see it.”

You have to be a visionary. I made sure to tell the students. You have to be a visionary – to see the beauty, to hold the truth, to see in a way others don’t.  And they did.

Yet, even after the trip was over, I couldn’t seem to shake that phrase.

You have to be a visionary.

That’s a statement bigger than one neighborhood. It’s a lesson for life; it’s a phrase that applies to our life as a church and our call as believers. We have to be visionary.  We believe in what we cannot see and, through faith, we learn to see in ways unknown and unclear.  In time, vision progresses. We cannot know what tomorrow holds, but we can learn to see the signs of the times and anticipate what may be to come.

I remember what I first saw on the streets of Kensington as a volunteer. In a place that looked to others like it was falling apart, doomed to failure, I learned to see with the eyes of my heart.  Seeing in that way taught me that there is always more to be revealed. If you look deep enough, there is always beauty to be found, faith to be built and relationships to be fostered. Those lessons led me to a life committed to seeing in a new way as a vowed woman religious. I could see and feel God working in my life, and so I saw the necessity of becoming a visionary.

We all need to become visionary. It is our call and response as believers.

Visionaries deal in mystery and mysticism, most often in the opposite order. Karl Rahner famously wrote that, “The Christian of the future will be a mystic or will not exist at all.” Mysticism by Rahner’s estimation is foundationally “a genuine experience of God emerging from the very heart of our existence.” If we can vision from our most intimate experiences of God and live out of that pure love, the love we dedicate our lives to, we will find a home where mystery is not fear-filled but gives us the opportunity to see what may not be readily apparent.  

This is what the visionary does. She sees what is already present but may not be apparent. The visionary understands the essence of our being and our call and from that looks forward to what might be.  Almost like looking at the portions of a photo that are out of focus, the visionary looks into what is unclear and tries to make out the hints of images. She gazes into a depth of field, expanding her field of vision in the process.

Ultimately, what she sees is more unclear than clear. A formless future, though, is not cause for despair; it is grounds for hope. Hope that things will come into focus in due time. All we need to do for now is keep our eyes – spiritual, institutional, and personal – fixed on Jesus (Heb 12:2). That singular point of focus will guide us and as we see all things through that view, we can’t help but see what is closest to that focal point (Jesus) as the clearest vision in our sight of what should be. We do it together, discovering in mutuality, to, in Pope Francis’s words, “live the mysticism of encounter.”

As a young woman religious, I realize more and more that this type of visioning is being engrained in me. When I and many others speak about our discernment, the notion that “we knew what we were getting ourselves into” is thrown around.  That phrase is both true and laughably untrue. I knew that I would most likely enter my congregation alone, and I knew that there would be an imbalance demographically within religious life, resulting at some point in a rapid decline in numbers. I knew these facts, yet I don’t know if I fully knew what I was getting myself into. How could I have?  I failed to grasp the mystery of it all. I could see these things would happen, but the steps beyond those inevitabilities I couldn’t see. And to be honest, I still can’t.

The only option I have is to live the reality of this life and look forward guided by what God makes clear. That is a vision held in the grasps of God – deeply experienced and gloriously mysterious.

Just like the blind man in the eighth chapter of Mark’s Gospel, we come to see gradually. Our first vision may in fact look like trees, walking. Unclear we have to trust that clarity will come.  Yet in the blur we see the rootedness of each person and the roots of our congregations and church. Our vision for the future draws from these roots and has the potential to continue growing towards the sky.

Perhaps it isn’t a bad thing to grow into our vision in this way. It helps us realize that, in fact, the vision isn’t ours; it’s God’s. We walk by faith, learning to see as God wants us to and thus, learning to live as we are authentically called to. Developing through encounter a vision of what has been, what is and what could be.

From there we can go out to the places in our world that seem unimaginably bleak. We can share hope and grow in vision both of being and of heart. There we will discover clarity that exists in what is unclear. And we will find that to be visionary we must be open to a vision far beyond our grasp. We must learn to see the trees and to be visionary enough to trust that they will reveal to us God’s forest.

With Arms Outstretched

To celebrate the New Year,  I spent some time away at the Genesis Spiritual Center in Westfield, MA to take a prayerful pause on a guided retreat led by a dear friend. The theme of our time together was Love and what a wonderful theme to meditate on as we head into the year ahead. As I reflected, images came and by retreat's end this poem had emerged. May it be a window into my time and a blessing as we wander into this year together.
  

Like a clock

each second finds its spot

beginnings and ends

made manifest by the swift swing of

a second hand

In one breath

it's all contained

"My God.." sits steady on my lips

a shimmering sign

of the One come to life in Love

In solemn stillness lays

a heart with arms outstretched

a moment that echoes through

the ages

love made manifest

with no beginning or end

only gratitude and grace

souls made to feel their worth

embraced, sustained

hearts with arms outstretched.

Behold

Behold is one of those words; it flips everything on its head.  Behold, the virgin shall be with child and bear a son... He (Joseph) decided to divorce her quietly. Such was his intention when, behold,
the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream.

Behold. All you thought was not possible is- what you perceived as the only way was not... and so God enters our lives.

I found myself shopping at a local market the other night. After a long day of work, I wandered the aisles take in the scene as I picked up the necessary goods on my list. Walking along, I passed a gentleman giving out free samples.  "It's a spreadable goat cheese" he said as he handed me a tiny cracker to taste. I gladly accepted his offer and then he looked at me an inquired, "What is your necklace?"

I looked down at the silver cross and globe around my neck. For a moment I thought of the length of the day so far and the mixed reaction my response could provoke. I pushed that all aside and responded. "Oh this? It's an insignia. I'm a Sister of St. Joseph, we all wear one."

The man paused, taking in what I had just said. "Oh. I had the Mercy nuns growing up in school" he said "but it was the Saint Joe nuns who I really loved."

He went on to tell me about how as a young cheese monger just getting his start he found himself connected with our Sisters and the joy it had been to grow in relationship with them as they valued his trade and came to know him over time.  Our conversation continued, as they often do, with discussion of faith and life and the intertwining nature of them both.  Then just as I was about to leave his table to continue my shopping, John asked me if I was going to be in the store much longer. I hadn't planned on it, but seeing the urgency in his eyes I said I thought I'd be perusing a little while longer. "Good" he replied "I'll be right back."

And with that he disappeared into the back and I continued through the aisles of the little store.  A few minutes later he came to get me and led me back to his station. And there, next to the spreadable goat cheese, he began to reading a poem to me.  Behold. A cheese monger reciting poetry, a gentle presence within such a big man seeping out like the mystery-soaked words of John of the Cross he spoke. His powerful hands gripped the paper, a poem meant to connect us on that dark night in December. Expectant waiting personified; Emmanuel between us. Behold he seemed to say.

Making my way home, I drove past an illuminated storefront. Inside a group of people gathered, seated in bright light on folding metal chairs in a circle; the light within the building made them stand out in the cold winter night. We could see in, but their seeing out was far less likely. I took in their smiles and the spirit of their gathering. Looking closer, I realized they were speaking sign language with one another.  Spirits signing in the darkness to one another, broadcasting the light out for all to see. And so, behold I did.

Behold and be held. God seemed to say, this is the time to be turned on your head...to see everything turned right side up.

New Beginnings in Old Bones

#38 is the first hymn in the song book.

As soon as the opening chords played tonight at Mass something sung down deep inside me. Welcome to a new year it seemed to say. And I took a deep breath and began to sing... to sing a song that is deep within my bones... a song that in its singing seemed like it might be inviting me to something new this year. O Come, O Come Emmanuel. 

Each word reverberated deep in my chest, flowing out over my lips like honey, the sweet feeling of harmony captivating my ears. This is where I am, I thought to myself, and this is exactly where you should be, my heart murmured as I gazed around at the church, the people, the moment I was in and sharing with the Divine. There we were together, the start of a season, full of invitation and exploration. I can only hope I take to it as it offers moments to me.

I remember the moment as a freshman in college when the word sacramentality was introduced into my vocabulary. Reading it on the page of a textbook, I swirled it around on my tongue like a fine wine, picking up hints of flavors, memories of things gone past, my own salvation history laid out before me.  Without even knowing it, I had been taught this word; this sacramentality was a part of me. I cherished knowing I had a name for it, that it was a reality beyond my being. Something instilled and shared.  Some of my greatest, dearest friends would have this same sacramental sense, be they Catholic or not.  They knew and longed for something bigger yet something so tangible and inherent that every ounce of your being contained it.

As the words poured out of my mouth tonight I knew that. I remembered. This is what I long for...what I love. A beauty deep within, requiring beauty all throughout. In the darkness is light. Keep watch and wait for all that is to come, all that has been promised, all that is already here.

"Be sure to tell the people in your life you love them" the pastor said before the Mass came to a close. Each person seemed to pause recalling those dear to them with love in warm glow of the light.

This is a season of joy I remind myself... of hope... or expectant waiting and heart-felt grasping, allowing God to come among us, to be in all places. What are the places God long to be in me? I wonder. Where do I need to let God in? Where do I need to see God in the world and how can I help to bring God-with-us to places yet unknown?

As the congregation shuffles out I feel a little less lonely. The darkness is that of a dawn not a dusk.  Joy is in this place, this space, this time. I simply need to let it roll in...let it rise up...feel it in my bones.

And that is where I leave it. No more, no less. It simply is and among everything else I could expound upon, the still silence of those opening lines settle deep.  O Come, O Come Emmanuel. 

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Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow...

Last week, my latest column on the Global Sisters Report was published. The piece entitled "Tomorrow's Leadership Today" looks at the leadership that is being called forth in our church and the idea that leadership is part of each and every person's vocation. "Who we are" is leaders, each of us in our own way.  Coming to that realization takes time but it is a call each of us must answer.

As we come to that realization, we also come to see that the people we interact with... each and every person offers us the gift and lessons of their own leadership and being. It's only when we come into dialogue with one another that we can truly appreciate this and reap the fuller benefits of relationship.  Together we grow and learn and lead together.

The article comes from my time at Georgetown on which I continue to reflect.  Leadership was a key component of that talk and in it the call to everyday leadership as each of us encounter and must rise to the call of it. May we be blessed in each moment to lead, whether we realize it or not. May we recognize the leadership offered to us by others. And may we always pause to reflect on the moments, relationships, and experiences that reveal to us who we truly are and who we are called to be.

Q&A

Monday night, I had the great pleasure and honor of being able to speak at Georgetown University. The talk I delivered was entitled "Being Your Vocation: A Young Nun/Sister's Perspective on Life, Love, and the Call to Leadership in the Church Today." And over the span of forty-five minutes, I spoke to just that- the call in our world today not just to be people of faith, but people engaged with God, true to ourselves and seeking evermore to deepen our relationships with the world around us. This means being true to who God has made us to be. It also means being honest enough to ask big questions and courageous enough to listen for the answers in whatever form they take.

Being at Georgetown was a blessed opportunity to look at those big questions. Yet as I reflect on my time there, I am struck by something far beyond the talk I gave or the questions it posed.  It is the time for questions and answers that sticks out to me as I reminisce about this time of deep engagement and sharing. I don't think I ever imagined that the Q&A portion of talks would be my favorite, but there is something daring about these moments that sticks with me long after a talk is given.  I am always surprised by the way in which these moments go. There is a sense of mystery mixed with tension and slight anxiety whenever the floor is opened up to questions. What will people ask?  Sure, I know what I have said in my talk, but really there is no telling what individuals have heard or what this hearing may have stirred within them. 

There is something exhilarating about the moment a question is placed on the floor. I don't think I ever expected this feeling but sure enough it was there Monday night. Once a question is asked it is the speaker's chance to volley.  As the one doing that volleying, I am constantly surprised by the way in which answers emerge. For someone who's craft lies in carefully spun phrases and sentiments, the opportunity to compose extemporaneously is a gift. Clips and phrases surface in ways I never could imagine. Stories from days gone by suddenly rise to the top, as if they had been waiting in queue for the opportunity to make a match.  

Listening to myself, I wish I could hold on to the words that flow forth from my mouth and in that desire to hold, to savor, to continue to learn and grasp the grace of the moment of response, I recognize the gift being given. God is responding. And so, I simply listen. 

I found myself on Monday night doing just that. There was something playful to the Q&A; students displayed genuine interest and so the scene was set for meaningful conversation.  At one point, in response to a question about the role of communities in our personal formation and human development, I found myself echoing that exact sentiment.  "The gift of community," I heard myself say "is the ability to hear one another. The communities that have helped me to grow the most are those that have given me the space to ask questions and then to listen not only to my own response but to the responses of others."

I couldn't have crafted something better (though I fully realize my retelling is, in and of itself, a crafting.)  That is the gift. To hear one's self in the moment and to learn from how you respond.  Sure there are difficult questions at times, it is then that you find you way in navigating the minefield.  There is no shortage of that when you are talking about women's roles in the Church. Still, I find a pleasure in speaking my truth, and ultimately I hope the Truth, to these questions. There, there is dialogue and what a sweet gift that is.

A few weeks ago, I moderated a panel at Saint Joseph's University here in Philadelphia about the connection between long term service and women's religious vocations. As moderator, you don't really get a chance to share your own two cents about topics, rather you guide the conversation. In preparation for the evening, I met with the three sisters who would be sharing their stories that night. As we talked, a concern arose about the prospect of the Q&A at the end of the panel. How do you field difficult/tumultuous questions? that seemed to be the anxiety-inducing question.  My response to them was one learned from enough Q&A's on the topics at hand- give an answer you are comfortable with, you have the control to offer whatever you want... answer from your heart, if that answer actually responds to the question at hand great. If not, you've still responded and whatever the other chooses to hear, a conversation deeper than what was before will have been begun within both of you.

I think that's what I love about Q&A's. You gain insight into yourself and others all at the same time. You see what is stirring within and are graced by what emerges in the process. The blessings of such an encounter can be boundless... if only you take the time to listen... not only to the question but to the response too. 

Age of Instability

The beginning of the semester has been a whirlwind. I know sometimes that can be an exaduration or a excuse but in my case, it seems to pretty much be a fact.  As a new campus minister (on a team that is completely new), I find myself flitting about trying to get things done, run activities, lead reflections, guide retreats, and somewhere in the midst of it all, find a balance of time so I can have quiet.  Often times that last one loses out. (see: no posts since the end of September)

Add to that chaos, a new local community that I am living in, a transition in formation, and various engagements besides ministry and my head is spinning. Hopefully the next few weeks though will give a glimpse into that world as I try to get more up on the blog about my exploits and try to offer some meaningful reflection on my life as I find it now.

In the meantime, as I get my act together, I offer my latest column from the Global Sisters Report, a piece entitled "Age of Instability". It looks not only at the instability of my own life currently, but also the general sense (and actuality) of instability in religious life and our world today. How does one function in the midst of such a reality?  Read the whole thing and find out:

“It kind of makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” The sweet voice of a radio producer said to me over the phone as our pre-interview conversation came to a close. A woman about my age, she was referring to part of my vocation story. It made perfect sense to her that my sense of call would increase as I neared the end of my undergraduate studies. “After all,” she said, “what could be more appealing to a college senior than a structured way of life, the promise of stability in the midst of a major life transition?”

Her words hung in the air. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. In my many considerations of my call to religious life, the prospect of stability and structure hadn’t occurred to me. As I sat with her observation, however, I had to pause to consider if, even subconsciously, this had been part of my consideration of religious life.

From the outside, it can seem like religious life offers a life free from the seismic shifts of everyday living in the world today. With its staid structures and style of forming new members, how could it not offer a sense of stability and continuity to those who come to it? Surely, the convent must be a safe haven from the ills of the world, a place one can enter to escape, an escape from hard life decisions and transitions – that’s what my reporter friend seemed to be saying.

In reality, though, religious life and the formation of young women religious is a mirror of our times. The indecision in our world and ongoing need for dialogue is not left at the doors of religious congregations. Conversations in congregations revolve around how to be prophetic in our world today and how to bring about change in a world torn by inequality, prejudice and violence. At the same time, though, these congregational conversations also focus on the realities of life – membership numbers, retirement funds, shifting demographics.

As a newer member, I find being a part of these conversations can be both invigorating and cumbersome. The call for new vision clearly echoes with courage and zeal; yet the response to that call can feel reserved, with a sense of hesitation and fear.

What is new is often scary. Setting out into the unknown requires paths never before traversed and means never before considered. Our instinct can be to return to what’s familiar, but in a time when everything is shifting, it is new ways based in keen discernment of the Spirit and the essence of truth in tradition that will lead us into the future.

There is no guarantee of stability in that. As a newer member, that can be a hard truth to grapple with. We are in an age of instability. Perhaps as a newer member I feel that instability more than others or, at least, I feel the need to actively name it as such.

My entire religious formation as a sister has been about learning to live in the unevenness of this life. As circumstances shift, so must I. These lessons have come in both theory and practice.

Over the last two and a half years, I have lived in five different places. That’s five different local communities, five rounds of packing up and moving, five chances to find myself without a place to truly call home. I have faced changes in community and shifts in formation program and personnel. I have had to learn to be flexible and also learned my own resilience in the face of adversity. My faith has been strengthened, and I’ve had to own my call. And, I don’t believe I am alone.

Newer members of religious congregations didn’t come to religious life with the expectation that everything would be alright. Our hope is in Jesus, and our intimate relationship with that hope draws us to a life rooted in Gospel living as women religious. That is why we came and that is why we stay. Living the life we feel called to requires holding firm to this hope.

Instability draws us into relationship with our God and with others. For as much as the world shifts, God still remains. In fact, it is in the instability of our age that relationship is able to flourish, not only with the Divine but among members, no matter our ages or years in religious life. There is a unity found in instability, support uncovered by the very act of mutual upheaval. To have someone else with you on the journey is a stabilizing force. For it is in the throes of change that solid bonds are forged.

Navigating the paradigm shifts of our time is no easy business for anyone living religious life today. For more seasoned members, this shift means adapting to a new way of thinking and adopting a new way of living. Some do and some don’t.

For newer members, navigating the paradigm shift means trusting a structure that is actively changing. This is no small task; it is an act of faith.

Perhaps there is no better explanation for why someone would come to religious life (and stay) than just that: faith. Call necessitates faith, and faith hedges on hope. In the face of instability, faith is the path ever ancient, ever new. It asks us to believe and calls us to persevere.

For as much as society imagines being a sister as a process dictated by stringent structures, rules and systems, religious life today is in flux. Variation in the number of new members entering congregations has necessitated new programs of formation. This shift is not something new; it has taken place over the last 30 or more years. In many ways my experience echoes that of women nearly double my age; women who were in the initial stages of formation as sisters when I was in diapers.

Instability continues as change takes place. In the midst of it all, there needs to be consideration given to what will sustain and form our future as women religious. As we strive to reform the world around us, we are also reforming ourselves. This is a process of change in which the voices, needs and desires of newer members must be taken into consideration.

As I have been told over and over in my formation, “God writes straight with crooked lines.” For all the goodwill behind that statement, I tend not to believe it. As we navigate an age of instability not only in religious life but in the entire world, it might be helpful to remember that the paths we follow in faith help us to live in hope of our destination. We travel these paths together with our God and in so doing, realize that it is not crooked lines that God makes straight, but our idea of what is straight that God sets right. So that by the time we reach the end in faith and hope we might simply hear, “It kind of makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?”