Why I Stay Catholic

I had many reasons not to be Catholic when I decided to be Catholic. I was baptized Catholic as a baby, but as I got older I didn't like what the Church taught about Mary, sex, gay marriage, contraception, the pope, and you know, like, all the rest.

I actually stumbled back into the Church very much by accident. After a tiring and determined period of atheism, I went through a series of belief exchanges trying to find "where I fit." After I realized I was more or less a deist, I quickly realized I didn't believe deism made sense. I couldn't fathom a created world not crumbling apart from the care and attention of its first cause. I examined Islam, Judaism, various sects of Protestantism, and eventually came to my own set of personal beliefs about God and the world. I wanted to be anything but Catholic. I wanted to believe in freedom and love and compassion, which was not Catholicism (or so I thought).

It was around this time that I happened across the Catechism of the Catholic Church I received as part of my Confirmation process in high school. Here was my chance, I thought, to get a sneak peak into what the Church taught so I could be more equipped to refute it and more ready to defend myself from its oppressive tyranny.

And instead, I was floored. This was poetry. This was beauty. This was intellectual. This was true. I found that Catholicism had all the answers to all the questions of my mind. But, I won't get too carried away with that story. That is why I chose to be Catholic. But, it is not why I stay Catholic.

Because, most importantly, Catholicism has all the answers to my heart's aching, burning questions. I stay Catholic for one primary reason: Jesus Christ, the God of the universe and Lord of heaven and earth, through whom I exist and in whom I live and move and have my being, wants to be one flesh with me. I have a deep yearning thirst for unshaking, eternal love. And I find that in the Eucharist.k

In many ways, I am a different person than I was three, four, five years ago. Still in many ways, though, I am very much the same. I am fickle. I am irritable. I lack patience and humility. I care deeply for humanity, and I am regularly disappointed and devastated by the lack of compassion displayed by those who claim Christ as their Lord.

Every now and then, I grow weary. I get run down. I suck. People suck. Sometimes I even ask myself why I stay Catholic.

And the answer is always just a short drive away, waiting for me in the perpetual Adoration chapel.

The Eucharist is the source of my hope, life, joy, peace, and the very meaning of my life. I stay Catholic because, if I lost the Eucharist, I would lose everything that makes my life livable. I stay Catholic because I believe this radical love story is true. God became my sustainence. He became my nourishment. He became food and drink for me. Out of love. Because He wants such a radically close intimacy with me that He dwells within me not only spiritually but physically.

I stay Catholic because this Eucharistic love enriches my life in such a powerful way that my life would be over if it were ever taken from me.

As I mentioned earlier, I received a Catechism during my Confirmation preparation. But, at my Confirmation, I received graces that would enrich my life as soon as I was willing to receive them several years later. And by the grace of God, at my confirmation, I took Peter as my Confirmation name.

And like Peter, if even the world walked away from the gift of the Eucharist, my heart, though perhaps confused and exhausted, would beat to an unchanging rhythm: Master, to whom else can I go?

Pope Francis is the Vicar of Christ did y'all's mamas ever teach you about respect

It seems like no matter what Pope Francis does, somebody somewhere has a problem with it. Whether it is his meeting with a transgendered person, or his meeting with a gay activist, or whatever, somebody FREAKS OUT about how obviously Pope Francis is going to ruin the Church.

Today I read several comments from people concerned that they "couldn't tell what side the pope is on." Because he doesn't click with their application or interpretation of how they live out their Catholic faith, he's a heretic who wants to destroy the Church from the inside...or something.

Even worse, it goes beyond questioning. Some outright call the Holy Father a heretic; some outright accuse him of abandoning orthodox principles; some outright gossip about him "liking attention too much" or "needing people to like him."

Without exaggerating in the least, this behavior from Catholics is disgusting.

Not only is Pope Francis a human being and therefore inherently owed a certain level of respect and reverence as being created in the Image of God, he is the Vicar of Christ on earth. He is permanently marked and set aside for Christ in a unique way as a priest, and he is owed due honor and respect from the entire Catholic faithful as the successor of St. Peter. This respect and reverence is due Pope Francis in a special way not because of who he is, necessarily, but Who he represents; and by the grace of his reception of Holy Orders, Who he represents is eternally knit into the fabric of who he is.

And if anyone doubts that Pope Francis is the representative of Christ on earth in a unique and special way, simply pay heed to his behavior and the responses it gets. He is a man of character, compassion, and orthodoxy, who understands that the Person of Jesus Christ is what is central to the law and not the other way around. He meets and eats with sinners, he identifies with the downtrodden, he is a beacon of hope and a voice crying out for repentance and mercy.

And people hate his behavior. He is kind, so they aren't sure if he's faithful. He is generous and unassuming, so they aren't sure if he's Catholic.

Does this remind you of anyone? Has anyone else in all of human history been met with hostility and disdain for being compassionate and identifying with the outcasts of society and those who are seen more as political issues more than human beings? The Pope is truly the Vicar of Christ on earth.

So go ahead, if you like. Run to the law to crucify his character in spite of his never having advocated for its abandonment. Openly criticize this man carefully chosen for this time in history who is bringing life back into the Church. Mock his personality. Strip away his reputation and spit in the face of all the good work he's done.

I only ask that you remember Whose he is, Who he serves, and the Man he represents as you do it.

Jesus Saves

Jesus saves.

I know; you've heard it a million times, right? It's not like you'd ever say "Who cares?" but sometimes -- even if you only admit it to yourself -- in the back of your mind you wonder: "So what?"

I think about this often. The people of Jesus' time were so amazed at Him. Some were afraid, some felt threatened, others found hope. People would travel for miles -- literally -- in the hope of touching his shirt -- literally. We hear the stories of the man whose friends tore a hole in a roof in order to lower him down to Jesus, the woman with the  hemorrhage who dreamed of only ever touching the hem of His garment, the Samaritan woman who was so astounded by His words she went and told everyone in town...the list goes on. 

Jesus transformed, Jesus terrified, Jesus uplifted, and Jesus unsettled. Jesus was so wildly loved that His Apostles were consistently frazzled trying to keep Him safe from pressing crowds; He Himself often retreated into solitude and silence to avoid crowds. He was so powerful that He stirred a deep and unshakeable fear in the hearts of the religious elite of His time, so much so that they convinced a mob to elect to kill Him. He performed miracles. He made wild claims. He boldly proclaimed a kingdom, a dawn of hope, and a coming judgment -- and onlookers hung on every word.

When He died, the sky turned black and the earth shook under the weight of His cross. When He rose again, His disciples couldn't decide between being afraid and being overjoyed.

He was shocking. He was amazing. He was groundbreaking.

Jesus was not boring.

And yet we find ourselves more bored than in awe at the sacrifice of the Mass. After we manage to survive sitting through prophecies and foreshadowings of the Incarnate Love of God and a ten minute sermon about it, Jesus Christ, God Incarnate, Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity, who was slain at Calvary, is presented to us on the altar. And we're thinking about what sounds good for lunch.

It is beyond my comprehension why God would become so small and humble that He becomes bread. Bread, of all things. Sure, bread is a staple in our lives, but it's probably one of the most simultaneously overlooked and taken for granted staples we have. We much prefer steak and potatoes and cauliflower and chicken, don't we? But bread. He chooses bread.

But then again, God is beyond my comprehension. I am learning to stop analyzing Him and to start worshipping Him. And the humility of this moment strikes me:

"This is my Body, given up for you."

The most important words ever uttered by a human being that will ever be heard by human beings met with snot bubbles and yawns. We don't care. Why don't we care? Why don't I care?

Why don't I care that the Man who has saved my life in a very real and tangible way wants to consummate a physical and spiritual union with me by giving me Himself as bread to eat in order to give me a share in His divine life? He pours Himself out in love, over and over again, and as I'm writing this I wonder if it's something like a mother and her baby.

God help me, I have the attention span of a fly (do flies have attention spans?). I go to Mass every Sunday and try -- I try, guys -- to focus and listen and take in the grace which overflows in abundance from the chalice and the host. And every. time. I'm lost, thinking about something else.

But Jesus remains wholly focused on me. He has heard my cries from the past week from heaven and He now comes down to meet me and soothe me. First, He comforts me with words. Through the opening strains of the Mass and through the readings, it's almost like He is trying to calm me; "Be still; I'm coming; I'm here now; I've got you." And all the while, perhaps I'm still screaming, at least in my mind. Itching, restless, searching, yearning. Unfulfilled. Discontent. And He meets me there. And He gives me His flesh, His life, for food. I am nourished by His body, whether I'm paying attention or not, and for a short while after Communion He holds me even while my mind wanders.

Maybe I'll never know why we're so distracted. I'll probably never know why I'm so distracted. I may never be able to fix it, but I do know one thing is for sure:

Jesus saves, even when I'm not paying attention.

Remembering Mary on Mother's Day

I'm usually annoyed by Timehop, mostly because I was annoying when I was younger (and like to pretend I'm not anymore and never was). But today, Timehop reminded me of a Facebook status I posted a year ago, before I had a blog to put it on, and I'm really glad it did. I've copied and pasted the entirety of the status here.

It is fitting that Jesus would give us His Mother from the cross. It was prophesied to Mary when Jesus was presented in the Temple that "a sword would pierce her own heart also, that the secret thoughts of many hearts may be revealed." Without a doubt, when Jesus' heart was pierced, Mary's own heart was pierced -- she who loved God totally, so totally that she conceived Him in the flesh in her very person, and bore Him into the world. He truly, as any mother would say of her son, is her heart.

There is a reason Jesus gave us His mother from the cross -- a reason that her own heart was pierced with His. The Catechism says that Jesus died, not as though He was being "punished in our place," but because, by His death into our death, He wanted to bring to us a share in His life.

And so, while giving His life for us, so that He could give His life to us, on the cross, it would only make sense that He would also give us His mother -- the woman who gave Him life, that He shared the majority of His life with. It is fitting that He who calls us to be born again, finishes His work on the cross by giving us a mother to be born to, through that work.

Giving us our Mother Mary was important to Jesus. The Scriptures say He didn't give up His life until He saw that "all had been accomplished" when He had given her to us to be our Mother.

Mary's maternity over us is a fruit of our Redemption. It is not the most important fruit, but it is a very important one. It is one we should never take for granted. After all, as my friend Joey pointed out today: Jesus got to pick His own mother. There really is something special about this woman, and I would definitely encourage every Christian who doesn't already have one to develop a relationship with her. She is the greatest treasure in my life apart from God Himself. I take her for granted so often -- but she has never, ever let me down.

Happy Mother's Day, Theotokos. Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

The Day the New York Times Saved Me From Evil, Evil Catholicism

I remember it vividly -- the day an army of grossnasty Vatican men came to force me into their grossnasty men cult. I was just finishing my daily meditation on the magnificence of the Hillary Clinton and Elizabeth Warren, daydreaming in spurts about how much I love abortion and freebleeding and stuff, when I heard three loud booms against my front door. "Who iiiis it?" I sang, with exactly none of the frilly princess nonsense of Disney damsels. "Oh, you know, just the ice cream man, here with a boatload of chocolates and unicorns, just for you!" Awesome!

I twirled to the door, not realizing it would be the last time I would see my home, my feminist utopia set apart from the rest of the patriarchal mainstream society I found myself smothered by everywhere I turned. I opened the door, but there was no ice cream man there. It was instead a bunch of old white men in dresses trying to tell me who I should and shouldn't sleep with even though they're all like virgins or something so what the hell do they know anyway.

I was terrified. Naturally, I couldn't defend myself from these scary old dudes, each of them shouting random slurs such as "Birth control is a sin!" and "Women shouldn't be priests!" I was aghast, and each exclamation shot through my heart like a martini tossed at an abortion clinic. Unable to retaliate, I was easily bound and gagged, and not in the cool way they talk about in Twilight fanfictions. In the bad way. I was thrown into the back of a big scary black van and held hostage for five years, brainwashed into accepting an ancient faith which undoubtedly holds no relevance in the world today, let alone in my life...until one day, the New York Times delivered a breathtaking and astonishing reality check on everything the Catholic Church has been wrong about for centuries. With a new surge of #womynpower coursing through my lady veins, I broke free of my shackles, kicked all those grossnasty men in the face, and crawled out into the real world again. The real world where I could change my profile picture to "Ready for Hillary" without receiving a flogging. The real world where I could receive Communion from any Catholic church I wanted while living in "serious sin" without being tackled to the ground by a bunch of grossnasty old virgin dudes who don't know the first thing about having a vagina to look after anyway.

...

I hope it didn't take too long to get your bullshit radar blazing.

Recently, the New York Times put out an article decrying the Catholic Church's alleged sexism, especially in regards to the all-male priesthood and teachings against contraception, pointing out that priests are called "father" but women religious are called "sister," and reminding everyone (except Catholics, who never forgot) that Jesus appeared first to Mary Magdelene after His Resurrection. The writer seems to easily forget -- or, if my inclination is correct, he has never actually researched anything he's talking about -- about Mother Teresa, and every woman in her same position who shares her title, and the ages-old title given to Mary Magdelene, the Apostle to the Apostles.

But, I'll try my very best to put my feverish desire to correct all of his atrocious attempts at exegesis and explaining Catholic theology aside (it comes with pursuing a degree in Theology, which I'm allowed to do, even though I'm a woman. Calm down. Control your shaking and vomiting, please.) to point out how brilliantly arrogant it is for a non-Catholic man to accuse every Catholic woman on the planet of Stockholm Syndrome.

I love being a member of the Catholic Church, the Church I ultimately chose to be a part of. The Church I chose to be a part of even after a fierce internal wrestling match with everything I held dear about religion and God and a mountainous heap of the Church's teachings. Yes, there was some discomfort with the ban on contraception, the weird obsession the Church seemed to have with sex and gay marriage, and the all-male priesthood. Yes, there was some hesitating. No, I wasn't forced into this religion against my will and no, no one coerced me into submitting to the Church's authority on these matters. I chose to for myself.

How bitterly insulting to be told by this man that I can't think for myself, that half of my personal heroes were little more than victims. Many of the intellectual, spiritual, and social giants I admire most were Catholic women, many of them now Saints. I'd like to see his feeble grasp on theology square up against the minds and writings of Teresa of Avila, Edith Stein, and Therese of Lisieux. I'd like to see him tell Mary Magdelene that her dear friends Peter and John, the latter of whom she clung to as her Lord died in agony, were out to oppress her and make her subservient to them, even though they showed her a profound respect and admiration she would not have been shown by other men during her time, let alone religious men, by regarding her as their equal. I'd like to see him tell Dorothy Day to run for the hills from the Catholic Church. I'd like to see him tell Flannery O'Connor to abandon the Eucharist in pursuit of a more century-appropriate vocation for her as a woman or something. But most of all, I'd love to see him stand before the throne of Mary Immaculate, the Queen of Heaven and Earth and the Mother of God Almighty, and tell her that the Catholic Church undervalues women and their role in society by only ordaining men and preserving spiritual symbolism which exalts men over women...somehow.

There is much more I can say. Like I said, theology students seem to all come together in the habit of wanting to defend the Church's teachings from those who haven't tried in the slightest to understand them. But, I'll leave that to someone this man might actually listen to. Why, I wonder, would he listen to me anyway? I'm just a Catholic woman, oppressed and sad and all that. What could I possibly know anyway?

"Because I have an anxiety disorder."

Sometimes (let's be real, most days) I can be pretty moody. My mood swings back and forth as freely as a porch swing you fear may never stop swinging and you'll die a horrible painful death what if you lose your thumbs oh God.

Oh? You aren't familiar with the feeling so the analogy makes no sense?

Interesting.

When I'm not in a good mood, people will ask what's wrong. Sometimes, if I'm feeling brave, I will tell them what is wrong. "I think I have a brain tumor." "I'm worried I'm going to gain 500 lbs in the next year and die on TLC." "I'm worried everyone hates me and is just acting so I won't complain. Literally everyone."

When my friends are feeling brave, or when my fresh acquaintances are feeling naive, they'll ask why I'm worried about that.

"Because I have an anxiety disorder."

That is, of course, not the answer they want. They want a rational train of thought. They want a list of actual reasons. They want details of the fear which piece it together.

Sorry. Don't have that.

Well, I guess I sort of do. I'm worried I have a brain tumor because I get stress migraines when I have multiple days in a row of high anxiety. I'm worried I'll gain 500 lbs in the next year because my weight has always gone up and down very easily until this past year when it stopped going down and I have lost all time and motivation to exercise. I'm worried I'll die on TLC because I've been watching way too much of My 600lb Life. I'm worried everyone hates me because what if they do?

Perhaps, I fear, you're annoyed by these reasons. In fact, I'm almost certain you are. Because everyone is. How do I know? One or two people have told me, so I know that means everyone is. When I die from my 500lb brain tumor, no one will come to my funeral, because I'm no more than a noisy footnote in most of my friends' lives.

Now, okay. Intellectually, I know this makes no sense. I get it. Like I said, I know my headaches (and forgetfulness! How could I forget the forgetfulness? Damn tumor!) are likely the result of stress, which causes a lot of physical aches and pains, as well as brain spacey problems, for me. I know I'm not severely overweight, but you have no idea how much I sincerely believe I am -- and it's going to kill me! I know not everyone hates me -- and in reality, I don't give two shits if someone hates me. But I worry like crazy about my friends hating me.

My assumption is that you don't care. I don't think anyone cares, and if someone does, I'm confident they're just pretending. I intellectually know they're probably sincere, but I believe they're faking.

But it doesn't seem to matter what I intellectually know. Because my brain is in constant fight-or-flight mode, over everything, whether something exists in reality or was invented in my head. And people expect me to be able to explain why this happens.

The not-so-funny thing is, it's hard to explain, because it doesn't make sense. And I know it doesn't make sense. If I wanted to explain it, I could, but not everyone wants to listen to details about why I'm afraid I'm going to stab myself in the face for no reason, and not everyone is emotionally prepared for the shock the details of my fears may inspire.

The easiest way to put it really is just "because I have an anxiety disorder." I don't say it to make you go away. No, please don't go away. I don't say it because I don't want your help. Please, don't stop trying to help.

But I may not always need your help in the way that makes the most sense. I don't usually need someone to tell me the thing I'm worried about makes no sense; I already know it's highly unlikely that I'll be verbally abused if I make a phone call to order a refill of my prescription (mostly because I make a point to call at like 2AM so I'm guaranteed to not have to speak with a real live person because #terrifying). I know my fears make no sense.

What I need to know is that I'm okay. Like, hug me or something. Tell me you love me. Hold my freakin' hand. Tell me I'm not crazy. Still be there whether I calm down or not.

Every fear is different. If you want to help, tell me you care about me and ask me what I need. When I inevitably decline your help, maybe let me know it's okay and that you want to help.

Maybe. Don't feel pressured. Don't feel like you owe me anything.

Well, here I go again...

Palm Sunday: "My soul is sorrowful even to death."

I love Holy Week, and I love Palm Sunday's readings. The Psalm and the Gospel reading for today both stir such love and gratitude in my heart and I don't quite know how to express it. Not only did Jesus take the weight of our sin and suffering on Himself, He took on our fear and our sense of aloneness and of being abandoned into His mind and heart.

Jesus' agony does not begin and end with the nails in his hands and feet; it begins with crippling fear the night before His trial. From the Last Supper, He tells His disciples His soul is weighed down with sorrow, "to the point of death," and He asks them to accompany Him to Gethsemene to pray.

In Gethsemene, He is so overcome with the anxiety of the whole of humanity He begins to sweat blood. Before He tasted the bitterness of vinegar from the cross, He tasted the bitterness of His friends' apathy as they slept through the most terrifying moments of His life, and the bitterness of betrayal at the hands of a friend.

Jesus knows how it feels to be forgotten and alone and stabbed in the back. He understands the worst of our anxiety and depression, not from observation, but from living through them with us. He carried our wounds not only in His body but in His mind, heart, and soul.

But even more touching is the fact that He takes into Himself the first-hand experience of feeling forgotten by God. He never begged the soldiers to stop beating Him; He never offered a defense of Himself at all. Even pushed to the limits of His flesh, He does not complain. But from the cross His internal misery presses Him to cry out: "My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?"

In an almost twisted way, there is cause for comfort in Christ's Passion. Our Lord not only died our death, He felt our pain to its fullest extent, even to the point that He felt cut off from His Father. How powerful that our Hope understands what it is to feel hopeless; how extraordinary that our Help understands what it is to feel helpless.

This is a God we can know for certain is not afraid or ashamed of our sinfulness, wretchedness, misery, or fear, because He carried the full weight of each in His own heart and on His own shoulders.