A Love Letter, and A Goodbye

I had plans to write my own weekly commentary on the readings at Sunday mass. It would be a way to be accountable for returning to church more regularly, and a way to engage that just isn’t possible in the pews. But fast forward a few weeks, and the habit is gone. 

I’m going to go out on a limb and do something I haven’t ever really done and blame God. I am tired of dull masses, of parishes unconcerned with the wider world, with the absolute evil of sexual abuse that we can’t seem to confront honestly and meaningfully. I am so tired of the homophobia, the hypocrisy, and the self-congratulatory attitudes I’m surrounded by at mass. The certainty and false authority with which so many of the faithful speak and act turns me off. 

And I’m late to this, I know. Scores of others have already left, either jumping to more open denominations and abandoning church-going altogether. For a long time I resisted because to me is to be Catholic. True, genuine, faithful Catholicism is joyful and abundant and countercultural. It’s my family’s history, their hospitality and ability to feed whoever came their way. It’s my heroes – Merton and St. Therese and Dorothy Day and their radical love. It’s my grandmother’s prayer cards and my parents’ rituals of post-church donuts. 

I am mourning my church. This place that has brought me joy and taught me the beauty of life feels only stagnant and sad. I cannot sit quietly and think of Jesus during meaningless homilies and half-hearted community. I cannot kneel to ignorant priests who don’t look beyond their parish borders. I know that I, too, am part of the community and so bear some of the blame. But I’m going to pass the buck to God because I think God can handle it. 

“Our hearts are restless until they rest in you,” said Saint Augustine. My heart doesn’t rest at mass anymore, only breaks. I once spent a few weeks attending services at a different denomination and the priest made some comments about Catholic-transplants that only enraged me. “This isn’t easy!” I wanted to yell. “There is only room for mourning here!” I’ve attended adoration, rosary groups, Scripture-study, reflection services, Taize, music services – you name it, I prayed it. But now in those pews I only notice the sadness on Christ’s face as he hangs heavy on the crucifix, and am driven mad by his empathy. 

I can’t do it. I can’t pray in these tombs they call churches. I know it doesn’t matter to God – who puts prayers in mint chocolate chip ice cream, and cucumbers, and small blue flowers – but it hurts nonetheless. I can only hope for a resurrection. I know it’s there – small children playing in dirt, poems written and shared, gardens planted. 

In this week’s Gospel, Jesus tells some would-be followers to “let the dead bury their dead” and not to look to what was left behind. The kingdom of God is urgent. Painfully so. There is no time to look back, only forward to the beloved community. So forward I go; I just wish it weren’t so painful.

5 Simple Tips for Glowing Skin

In case you didn’t know, skin care is officially The Thing. Who needs layers of finicky makeup or overdone hair? Be your most natural self and avoid all that by learning some simple tips for keeping your skin clear, fresh, and youthful. And since skin care can be a huge part of self-care, get ready to cancel that therapy appointment! 

Tip #1:

Try acid. No, not the drug! (Though, you might see others’ skin glowing, so…) Acids in skin care help break down the tough layers on the skin of the face, and they can reduce some of the most common skin problems. Acne, wrinkles, freckles – you name it, there’s an acid for it. Who needs signs of being human? Try multiple acids, girl, take off those layers of skin!! Who needs #bareskin selfies when you can have #noskin selfies?

Tip #2:

Drink lots of water. This is the #1 way that rich, connected, youth-hungry celebrities keep up their glowing appearance. You don’t need medicines, plastic surgery, professional chefs, assistants to tackle stressful tasks, housekeepers, or any of that nonsense. Just 8+ glasses a day of H20. Bonus: you’ll be running to the bathroom so often to pee that you’ll be sure to drop a dress size! 

Tip #3:

Get a good night’s sleep! Did you know Penelope Cruz sleeps 10-12 hours a night, and it’s not because she’s actually 3 tiny babies in a trenchcoat? (It’s true: she’s a human woman!) If you work a traditional 9-5, you can easily sleep from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m., leaving you with 4 hours free to yourself, for what you want to do. 

Tip #4: 

Exercise! (Duh). There is literally nothing exercise cannot fix if you are a young woman looking to improve your life. It is truly a magic wand that will make everything easier, including caring for your skin. Exercise actually helps the skin stay bouncy and elastic for that youthful, Bratz doll look. And with your 4 hours a day to yourself, you’ve got the time. 

Tip #5: 

Avoid stress. Not only does stress physically cause the skin to sag and wrinkle, but the physiological reactions in your body create chemicals that age you (ew). Consider not working, that way stress is reduced. If you simply must work (#GirlBoss), try getting a high powered job that allows you access to a salary of $100,000 or more and good insurance so you can see surgeons, dermatologists, and other professionals. Not to mention, with all that money you can perfect the lighting at home and at the office, so no one will ever have to know that you’re actually a witch. 

summer in new england

Winter season ends and salt is washed away

Wind and rain and bare feet on pavement do this

Soon  lemonade flows through wide open streets

Sweet and sour and sticky kids do this

Blackened feet kick clovers and cans

Soil and asphalt and hot rocks do this

Sun freckles skin and dappled shade peaks through

Heat and light and quiet fires do this

Washing and flowing

Kicking and freckling

Without knowing why

Fire is unpredictable, and so is Love.

The world right now is full of fires, and not the Pentecostal kind. It certainly feels that way, at least. We’ve got families and children torn apart and tormented at the border, an endless stream of plastic and carbon threatening to smother us, and a fuzzy global economic future. It’s almost impossible to keep track of it all.

Yet I am intrigued by the choice of God (or the writers, or God through the Gospel writers, or whatever suits you) to use fire on Pentecost. Fire is scary. It has helped us survive and thrive; it helps feed us and regenerate lands. It also destroys – and not in a serene, “circle-of-life” way. Fire jumps, dances, moves; it’s unpredictable and disorderly and violent.

A quick Google search will yield plenty of answers about why fire is used to symbolize God and the Holy Spirit: it is a symbol of strength, of force, of transformation. Which, okay – yes, are true.

But what if it’s that, like fire, God’s spirit is unpredictable? To love the Divine is to open yourself up to terror, to risk a life that is disorderly and dancing and moving in directions you cannot fathom. John writes in his Gospel that the disciples had locked themselves in a room out of fear those who had executed Jesus. And while this may be true in the historical narrative of the early Church, I imagine that the disciples were frankly scared of God. Where was this God leading them? And could they stay open to being led?

We don’t know where the fire will lead us, which paths love will wrestle us down. But locked doors cannot keep it out. There are tongues to speak in, visions to have, mercies to find. We might as well look at the fires around us and walk into them.

81 grams of strawberries

81 grams of strawberries are three in the hand.

Lay your palm flat and they roll loose and wild and make no sense for breakfast.

Cup them and place them, though, and you get 81 grams.

An orderly and altogether boundaried breakfast.

The sky outside is cloudy and the wind is blowing like a fly caught between the window panes.

Why?

81 grams of strawberries make sense for breakfast and won’t be blown away.

I Ignored the Homily, and Wrote This Instead.

The painted-white columns at church look like bones to me. That’s all I can think about during a Sunday with dull readings and an even duller homily. Stephen was martyred, John is putting forth a call for Christian unity, and here I am thinking about bones.

I’ve seen an actual chapel made from bones – pelvises and skulls and femurs – and it’s stunning: solemn, and holy, and creepy. That is to say, very on-brand for Catholicism.

Despite being a 5 minute walk from a church, I’ve probably gone only a handful of times since Christmas. The quiet ritual of the Mass has always held meaning for me, even if I am continually re-making that meaning. Sometimes it’s the Eucharist, other times the pressure of knee on pew. But there is meaning there.

Except for this past year. I’m late to this party, but the Church has been acting badly. They are bad at handling the sexual abuse crisis, bad at responding to the changing realities of sex and gender, bad at showing up powerfully and prayerfully in people’s lives. I can’t bring myself to worship in other denominations, though. Plenty have jumped to Episcopal parishes, getting their Catholic-lite fix without the shame and judgment. I haven’t been able to, though.

Nor have I been able to walk away. I wish I could – it would be easier and less painful than my on-again, off-again relationship with the Catholic Church.

So I’m trying to stay. Trying to re-make meaning in whatever small ways I can. And as I stare at the bones of this church, its arches like ribs carefully protecting something tender, all I see is something that’s dying. But then again, there’s a giant crucifix at the head of the altar, and maybe death isn’t so bad sometimes.

somebody told me

somebody told me my garden was bad, and it’s true. it could use more sun.

my beans went too wild and the tomatoes nearly toppled and i used spoons instead of spades.

some plants withered, uninterested in my vain attempts to control life. what do i know?

but i ate from that bad garden. snapped dirt-dotted beans and busted tomatoes.

a delicious failure.