I just watched Colbert interview Joe Biden and I am horrified

Ever since Stephen Colbert interviewed Vice President Joe Biden last week, my boyfriend has been telling me to watch the interview on YouTube. And I've been meaning to, but I've been busy.

I finally watched it today, and I was horrified. I am horrified.

Colbert asked Vice President Biden hard questions about his recently deceased son, about his faith, and about staying hopeful in the face of tragedy. The Vice President serenely shared stories of his son, explaining that he was a better man than he is, and spoke of how he has such a great support from his family. He spoke of his faith as an essential element of his life, how he prays the Rosary, goes to Mass, and, though he struggles at times to hold on to it when life is hard, he treasures his religion deeply.

And I am horrified. I am horrified at myself for how many times I have judged this man. I am horrified at how many of those times I've felt I was in the right to do so.

I am sure we have all heard what a bad Catholic Joe Biden is as a result of his being pro-choice and supportive of same-sex marriage. And we could talk about what the Church expects of public officials as it regards these particulars.

Or we could talk about my sin. Or yours. The reasons I'm a bad Catholic, or perhaps the reasons you might be. Or, you know, maybe not.

Often when celebrities have their dirty laundry brought out and hammered against the loft of mainstream media for all to see, somewhere inside I am thankful that my sins are not known to the public; I sympathize. But I can't recall a time I've extended that mercy to Joe Biden. And shame on me for that.

Shame on me because while he may sidestep the non-negotiable instruction of the Church, he holds the faith of the Church very dear to his heart. I've been there. I am there, often -- I need a Savior because I'm imperfect, because of how routinely I choose the world over Jesus. So Joe Biden's love for Jesus and His Mother finds itself in conflict with other beliefs he holds; that doesn't make him different from me. If anything, it makes him more like me; I often remind myself of St. Paul, and not the glorious, wonderful St. Paul, rather, the 'why do I do what I don't want to do?' St. Paul. I sin. Joe Biden sins. And our Mother the Church is equally concerned for the both of us.

We're all trying to figure this world out, and we're all stretching for the hand simultaneously nailed to a cross for us and extended in love and hope to us. There is no great chasm between Joe Biden and myself. There is, rather, a chasm between my sinfulness and God's glory; and the Vice President finds himself there with me, not apart from me, or below me.

He and I are both travelers on a journey through a scattered and fallen world. And, sure, maybe he is a bad Catholic. But how dare I ever speak of him as if he is a bad Catholic compared to me. God help me.

I appreciate Stephen Colbert's interview with Vice President Biden, and while I would never vote for the man for a multitude of reasons, I am desperately thankful for the humanity I witnessed in a simple recording of a simple late night interview. He is humble, generous with praise, and willing to admit he doesn't have it all together. In at very least those three respects, he is a better Catholic, and better person, than I.

But, I don't think he would think so. As he said in the interview, quoting a lesson his mother strived to teach him: "No one is better than you; but you're better than no one."

In Defense of Extravagant Liturgy

I would not consider myself a radical traditionalist. I am an avid fan of Vatican II, Pope Francis, and, quite honestly, 'the Francis effect.' I would, also, not call myself a traditionalist, because doing so might offend my traditionalist friends who so devoutly and admirably attend with great zeal the extraordinary form of the Mass to receive Communion on the tongue while kneeling. I think these are beautiful gestures, and that this devotion is particularly beautiful and rich with grace and love for God and fervor for His Church. I am simply content not veiling while attending the Novus Ordo form of the Mass to receive Communion in the hand (for reasons related to my anxiety -- I understand that even the Church would prefer I receive on the tongue, and I would if it were not for my anxious sensibilities). I am not a traditionalist, to the understandable dismay of many.

That said, I must with great urgency admit that something is severely lacking in contemporary churches.

I love visiting beautiful, old Catholic Churches. I especially love visiting cathedrals. They tend to be incredibly ornate, which is a special treat in the 21st century post-70's-church-building era. In fact, very recently my boyfriend and I found ourselves on an adventure in the countryside, and the only thing which kept us from breaking into a closed down old Catholic Church was the fact that my conscience would not allow me to break into God's house, even if at present it is more of a retirement home for Him. We peered through the windows into an exquisite temple, though the outside appeared a very simple white-painted dusty country chapel. It was small, but extraordinary -- the stained glass windows, the elegance of the architecture, even down to the plain wooden pews. Everything in this building was obviously something turned toward the glory of God -- even though everything was simple.

And that's the thing: even simple can glorify God. But simple does not mean mediocre.

Take a trip with me, if you will, to the Old Testament. Specifically, the time of Solomon, whom God ordered to build a Temple for His honor. God gave instructions for the construction of the Temple, and Solomon built it accordingly. Solomon decorated the interior of the sanctuary with gold, gold, and more gold; with huge (15 feet tall) statues of cherubim, also covered in gold; with massive doors and tall windows; with beautiful walls and even beautiful floors. (1 Kings 6)

No one who entered would think this a mediocre place with mediocre purpose. Everyone would be struck with awe. This place was extraordinary. It was the house of God, and there were no doubts about the worthiness of God for all attempts at splendor.

This is not to say that God requires complicated, necessarily expensive homage. But His house should be beautiful.

His Temple was beautiful because people had reverence for the presence of God. And, as Catholics, as "completed Jews," so to speak, I very firmly believe our churches should be beautiful, too. And I want to be clear: simple can be beautiful. Remember the simple white country chapel from earlier? There was nary an icon, but simply the visual of the interior design drew the heart to something greater than the mediocrity of life, something more beautiful than the world in which we find ourselves.

The local Newman Center in my city has a beautiful chapel; its walls are plain white, yet lined with reminders of Whose house we find ourselves in. There are no attempts to modernize the Gospel. The focus is God.

And I think that might be something that's missing in several contemporary churches. And this is not restricted to the visual aspects of the church; it extends even moreso to the attitude of the liturgy. I have attended reverent liturgies in the middle of the woods, and I have attended confusing and distracted liturgies in beautiful cathedrals.

Perhaps we have forgotten, in our attempts to make the liturgy more welcoming and human (both of which are very good things!), what the liturgy -- rather, Who the liturgy -- is about.

Sacrosanctum Concilium puts it this way:

"Rightly, then, the liturgy is considered as an exercise of the priestly office of Jesus Christ. In the liturgy the sanctification of the man is signified by signs perceptible to the senses, and is effected in a way which corresponds with each of these signs; in the liturgy the whole public worship is performed by the Mystical Body of Jesus Christ, that is, by the Head and His members.

From this it follows that every liturgical celebration, because it is an action of Christ the priest and of His Body which is the Church, is a sacred action surpassing all others; no other action of the Church can equal its efficacy by the same title and to the same degree."

(http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_const_19631204_sacrosanctum-concilium_en.html)

Because the liturgy is above and beyond the normal practice of life, shouldn't it follow that the way it happens, and our behavior within, go above and beyond what ordinary life demands?

As completed Jews, we no longer have the bread of the presence -- we have the presence of the Bread of God. The reverence shown by the Israelites for the Temple and the Presence therein should not diminish with us, but grow. Jesus, God Incarnate, dwells physically and spiritually in our midst. This should be the whole focus and goal of our churches and our behavior and attitudes within them.

I must add a note that there is a fair criticism to this line of thinking. If the Mass is truly about God, why am I so bothered by how it happens, or what liturgical abuses occur? And the answer is that I'm bothered because I'm weak. I'm human. I can't focus on God if the very place and event I'm attending isn't itself focussed on God. I try. And I try to remember it isn't about me.

But that is hard when everything around me is about me. What I can win in a raffle. What my community is proud of this week. And these aren't bad things. But they also aren't the focus of the liturgy.

Now, I don't want to step on any toes. If you are offended by something I've said here, please point out any flaw you perceive in my thought process. I'd love to talk about it, and if I need to be corrected, for the love of God (literally) please feel free.

But, all I'm saying is that God is beautiful, and His house and the manner of worship directed toward Him should be, too.

The Sacrament of Reconciliation (Alternatively Titled: I Am the Literal Worst, but Jesus is the Literal Best)

I know several people who go to confession at least once a month. I know others who go once a week. I even know someone who goes semi-weekly.

When I learned this about each of them, I immediately felt inferior. Not because they said or did anything to make me feel inferior, but because I know them. I know they're good, holy people. I know they strive every moment of everyday to live for the Lord Jesus and the mental image I have of each of them is one of someone holy to the core.

And I am just the worst.

Granted, I also go to confession at least once a month. Sometimes, I go every week. And sometimes, I go more than once a week. But, and I'm sure if I asked my friends I mentioned above why they go so often, they might say the same thing: I don't go because I'm holy, I go because I'm a sinner.

I am an awkward person, and I have an anxiety disorder. I thrive in organized, categorized efficiency, but the awkwardness of confession usually throws me for a crazy turn. I tend to forget the formulas and proper rituals. I almost always forget to begin "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned." And I kick myself when I'm saying my penance after confession and realize I forgot to say I was sorry for all my sins.

But here lately, it's been really easy to remember to say how long it's been since my last confession.

Because I'm usually saying "My last confession was a week ago," or, once this month, "My last confession was four days ago." And I need the priest to know how much I am the worst.

Now, you may say, "Oh, it can't be that bad. Most people commit the same sins all the time, or whatever. You know? Like... Also, haven't you heard that old cliche? There's nothing you're going to tell a priest that he hasn't heard before? There's nothing you're going to say that's going to be the worst thing he's ever heard?"

But, allow me to extend a great big jolly "You're welcome!" to you all, dear readers, because I am that person. I am the person the priest has gawked at and said, "You did what? Could you...um...tell me what that means?" Because he had literally never heard it before and literally had no idea what the words coming out of my face meant. I am the person to whom the priest has said, "Come closer, I want you to hear this," as he leaned in closer before adding, "This is very, very bad. I want you to be aware of how particularly serious what you just confessed was." Two different times, with two different priests. I'm telling you; I am that person.

So, naturally, when I know my super holy friends go to confession so often, it makes me feel kind of small and stupid and horrible. Because, as a theology student, I know that the graces of confession are what help us become holy. They're probably so holy because they frequent the sacrament so often, not in spite of that fact. Meanwhile, I'm over here violently flopping all over the floor of Catholicism frustratedly trying to pull myself up to my feet and wipe the dirt off my face so Jesus won't be embarrassed.

You can understand why this might be intimidating.

BUT! I actually love going to confession. I've come a long, long way since those first few confessions several years ago when priests were probably scarred for life by my teenaged antics. I'm at that comfortable point in my life where, like every average Catholic, I'm just confessing the same things over and over again, while the priest nods and pretends it isn't totally frustrating to have me back, again, to say the same thing I said last time. I tell him I've been so angry. He nods. I tell him I've been so hateful in my heart. He nods. I tell him I've been gossipy and rude and downright malicious. I rattle off about how I'm impatient and stubborn and lazy and whatever else I've been since four days ago. He nods. He encourages me to pray for people instead of being mean. And then, every time, the most amazing thing happens.

It hits me, hard, every time I go to confession. The Gospel is preached privately, to me, personally, from the heart of Jesus Christ Himself through His minister the priest.

"God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins."

Whoa. That is, seriously, the entire Gospel. That is Genesis to Revelation. That is the epitome of the Church's teaching, study, and concern, for 2,000 years. That is the Gospel, and that is Jesus speaking those words through His priest. That is grace. That is what it means to be Catholic. That is what it means to be loved by God.

If you've been to confession lately, you've probably heard it. Maybe it registered with you, and maybe it didn't. It gets me every time, though, and the words alone are enough to flood my soul with peace. The first time I went to confession after coming back to the Church, and heard -- really heard -- those words for the first time since what seemed like forever before, I was overjoyed. I was also crying, because of that line in the standard Act of Contrition that finds its way into every confessional: "I have sinned against You whom I should love above all things." But, that's a whole different story. It was those words of that priest that day that shook me to the core. "God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins."

And, as if that isn't amazing enough, it's followed up immediately with: "Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Sometimes, a priest will follow that much up with, "Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His mercy endures forever. The Lord has freed you from your sins. Go in peace."

This is such a personal, intimate sacrament of healing and embracing Jesus.

It is so difficult to explain to our Christian brothers and sisters who are not Catholic the joy and intimacy with Jesus that comes from confession. It is so difficult to explain to them that the priest is there because Jesus is there, and that Jesus is there because the priest is there. And it is impossible to truly put into words the overflow of grace which accompanies one as they leave the confessional.

If you haven't been to confession in a while, or if you just haven't been in four days, I highly encourage you to go tomorrow evening. Tomorrow is Saturday, and most parishes offer the sacrament of penance on Saturday evenings.

To find parishes and times for the sacrament near you, go to:
http://masstimes.org/

The Word "Gay"

I'm not sure exactly how to approach this issue, but it is something I am deeply concerned about. Please bear with me as I think out loud.

I have noticed something troubling over the last year or so, and I've seen it bubble up in a more pointed way recently in regards to events which took place over the last week or so. Maybe you've noticed it, too, or maybe you haven't. Regardless, I've decided to talk about it, recognizing that some people may not like me for it in turn. That's okay. I still want to say something.

Why is it that every time someone dares to say, "God loves gay people," or "Here are some ideas on how we can better understand and minister to gay people," five thousand Catholic SJW's descend upon the comment section, the blogosphere, the whatever, to remind us all that we shouldn't stake our identity on who we are attracted to?

Now, let me say, very quickly, before anyone accuses me of thinking otherwise, that I don't believe anyone should stake their identity on who they're attracted to. (Point of note: I don't believe anyone should stake their identity on, really, anything besides the love of God which is the source of our identity.) And yet, sometimes, I call myself "gay."

I try to use it sparingly, when relevant and appropriate. I don't go around meeting new people and saying, "Hi! I'm Tori, and I'm gay." I find that my state of life causes the word to confuse many people, and to open up conversations I don't necessarily want to have with people I don't know very well -- I have a boyfriend, and when that's combined with "I'm gay," you can bet people are confused. I get that. Sometimes it confuses me, too. In fact, I've made a point of not mentioning it much on my own blog, because I don't want to be pigeonholed or questioned relentlessly.

But, that's okay. I'll say something today. I don't know how much more I'll say after this post, how often I'll bring it up, or if I'll ever bring it up again. But today, I'll talk. Because I'm worried.

There are -- it seems, many -- people in the Catholic internet world who believe that referring to myself as "gay" is the same as declaring that at the very core of my identity being attracted to women is who I am. I cannot even begin to fathom the connection here; it is such a mighty leap. Adjectives don't necessarily denote identity. No one would say, "Oh, you call yourself blonde? That's horrible; you should think more of yourself than your hair color." No one would say, "Oh, you call yourself left-handed? That isn't a healthy way to view your identity." Yet the responses to someone calling himself or herself "gay" are all but identical.

Why are we so uncomfortable with this adjective? What do people think it means?

Well, I have some ideas. I know some people have expressed concern to me that for people who experience same-sex attractions to refer to ourselves as "gay" means identifying ourselves by our sin. This is, very simply, not true (or fair). It is a long-held Catholic position that being attracted to the same sex is not a sin -- and even if it's acted upon, the sin is in the action, not the attraction. "Well, okay," some people say, "but calling yourself gay is associating yourself with a gay lifestyle." How? In what way? In what way is a description of who a person is attracted to connected to their individual activities? I don't understand.

And in what way, dare I ask, is "same-sex attracted" any different?

I have, actually, a suggestion: why not ask these people what they mean when they say "I'm gay"? It is simply imprudent to assume every gay Catholic living a chaste life who calls themselves "gay" does so for some heinous or unhealthy reason.

In the world we live in today, to be "gay," if you ask most people, very simply means to be "attracted to the same sex."

And as someone attracted to the same sex, let me share with you my experience of seeing this constant debate regurgitated over and over again:

It is exhausting. And I worry that we're losing opportunities to win souls as a result.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I know many of my friends who are also attracted to the same sex feel the same way:

Every time I see something about stepping up our game in ministering to and being compassionate to and understanding the LGBT community, I experience a serious overdose of hope! People suffer, many through their entire lives, for fear of what their family, friends, and Jesus would think of their secret attraction to others of the same sex. And here comes a message of hope! Jesus LOVES you! Jesus WANTS you! Jesus is not disgusted by or afraid of you!

And then, almost immediately every time, that hope is crushed, or at least, forgotten -- because I become irritated that yet again a conversation about helping people has turned into a conversation about what the people we are supposed to be helping should call themselves.

Why are we so worried about it? I know it sounds rhetorical, but I'm serious. Why are so many Catholics so worried about the word "gay"? What is it about an adjective that concerns you so much about people, about the future?

Help me understand. Because I don't.

And if you'll help me understand how you're thinking about this, it may help me better communicate to others who feel the same way as you what my experiences are and my perspective on them.

He sings to me

I'm a sucker for old hymns. I think they're beautiful, and cut straight to he heart of theology and salvation and the richness of a relationship with Jesus Christ.

I love old hymns because I can't put into words how much Jesus really means to me. I love Him so much, guys. I wish I could love Him more. I hurt Him, I break His heart, I insult Him, I spit in His face, I pierce His heart; but every time, just as He did 2,000 years ago at Calvary, He submits Himself to it all in order to claim me for His own and redeem me from my brokenness. He takes everything I am, everything I have, and turns it toward my good, toward Himself, toward the endless aching yearning restlessness which is His desire for my affection.

I can stumble over these words all I want, but they'll never be as beautiful as:

"Heart of my own heart, whatever befall, still be my Vision, O Ruler of all."

"Perverse and foolish, oft I strayed. But yet, in love, He sought me, and on His shoulder gently laid, and home rejoicing brought me."

"Jesus sought me when a stranger, wand'ring from the fold of God; He to reacue me from danger interposed His precious blood."

*melts*

I fully realize that these lyrics hold a special significance for me that they may not hold for you. God speaks to each of us in our own "language," so to speak, and my language is beautiful music.

And God's language is Jesus Christ. His Living Word. He sings to me because speaking isn't exactly my forte. He sang to me in the dawn of creation, in the Incarnation within Mary's womb, in the life He lived and the love He bore, from the pillar as the whips and claws of my sin and wretchedness left Him shredded and torn, and He sang to me from the cross, from the grave, and in the Resurrection.

And sometimes, there are no words -- just music. Just the beautiful rhythm of His concern and care for me.

And I really just can't get over it.

For The People Who Pray For Me

This is going to be one of those annoying, personal, intimate, mushy posts, so, fair warning.

The other night, as I got all snugly cozy in my bed, I realized for the first time in a long time that I'm actually happy with where I am in life right now. It's been a long, long time since I've felt overall content with everything in my life; in fact, I'm not sure I've ever felt this way before.

I know a lot of it has to do with my new med combination. I know a lot of it has to do with so many things working out for me lately (I say that and remember a thousand errands I need to run immediately lest things cease working in my favor). I know a lot of it can be contributed to a lot of things. But I know, more than anything, this victory belongs to Jesus and His grace.

And I know a lot of the grace in my life is the direct result of the intercession of so many friends whose prayers for me are known and unknown. And for that, I am so, so thankful.

Several years ago, as I've briefly alluded to on this blog in previous posts, I was in a very dark and scary place mentally, emotionally, and especially spiritually. And I know several people were praying for me. And I know those prayers were what assured me the grace to overcome that period in my life.

Even more recently, in these past two years my anxiety became all but unmanageable, and while I deeply appreciate the friends who held tight and stayed close during some pretty crazy stuff, I even more deeply appreciate their prayers and encouragement in Christ.

My life is good, and my God is a good God to me. I've said that on occasion through the years, but it's rare that I've been able to say it and genuinely mean it, like I do right now.

Satan has been after me lately. I know this. Perhaps I sound crazy, and that's okay, but I'm familiar with spiritual warfare and I know that's what is happening in my life right now. And I know I'll be okay, because I have Jesus and His Holy Spirit providing me the grace and protection I need whenever I desire it and ask for it with a humble heart ready to receive. And so much of that is due to the graces of what I'm sure have been thousands if not millions of prayers for me.

When I've been weak (which is always), when I've been afraid (which is always), when I've been unable (which is always), and even when I've been unwilling, people have prayed for me. And I've needed that and I still need that. It is refreshing and a great blessing when I ask people to pray for me and many of them say, "I already do everyday." I'm glad to have friends who know how weak I am so they know how desperately in need of God I am.

I'm embarrassed I haven't thought of this before, but I'm going to commit to making it a daily priority to say a special prayer "for the people who pray for me." I can never repay you all for the great gift you've given me, but God can, and He will, a thousand times over. May your cup overflow and your days be filled with the radiance of His tender love and mercy.

Thank you so much for being my friends.

5 Things I Don't Mind To Be Called As A Pro-Life Activist

There's a lot of talk of us dirty, horrible, #theliteralworst pro-lifers these days, and people are coming up with all kinds of fun names for us! I think they're supposed to be insulting, but nonetheless, here are five "alternatives" to "pro-life" I really don't mind being called (not to mention, have trouble finding 'offensive'):

1. Pro-Birth

This one's a favorite of mine, because I am pro-birth. I think everyone should have a birthday. I freakin' love birthdays. They're the best!

I am a firm believer that every human being should experience this "right of passage" from life in the womb to life as a member of society, so to speak. This passage from special, singular care to being snuggled and pinched and adored for our chubby little cheeks and ten little toes. Birth is amazing. I am very pro-birth.

2. Anti-choice

Let's be honest and just admit that this means "against the choice to have an abortion." I am against that choice.

Now, you could say "Oh, but it gives the impression that we're against ALL choices." No it doesn't. Literally everyone who hears this term in context knows exactly what it means. We are against the choice to kill little humans. Duh.

3. Pro-fetus

I am undoubtedly pro-fetus, if by this you mean I think they're amazing, awe-inspiring, beautiful, and deserve to live and exist. I am very pro-fetus, pro-baby, pro-child, pro-adolescent, pro-woman, and pro-man, not to mention pro-the-elderly. People are fantastic. Humans are great. Yay for humans at all stages of development!

4. Anti-abortion

Uh-derrrrrrrr. I'm pro-life. I'm against abortion. Alternatively, you could say I am anti-abortion. Duh.

5. Extremist

As the fabulous folks at Secular Pro-Life would say, "Call me an extremist, but I think dismemberment is wrong."

To be completely honest, I think we need more extremists, and I'm not talking about the kind who kill abortionists in their churches or bomb abortion facilities. That's not activism; that's using an ideology you don't personally hold (um, it's called pro-life; that kind of prohibits intentional killing) to carry out violent fantasies. Nothing about that is healthy or sane, or pro-life.

What I'm talking about is our desperate need for more people to take the issue of pro-life activism seriously. Talk about abortion. Don't hide from the fact that it kills humans. Don't make exceptions as if some babies are more worthy of life than others. Be brave enough to engage others in rational, charitable discussion. Don't let it consume your life, but do let it become a priority.

Babies are dying. And if abortion is ever going to be made illegal, it's peaceful extremists who are going to get the job done. I would be honored to be counted among them.