ElizabethEsther.com

You found God in Catholicism?!

Prayer conducted primarily in public becomes a matter of making announcements to God or to the group or to your own self-image...When we emphasize public, verbal and social prayer forms, along with group rituals, while not giving people any inner experience of their own inner aliveness...it tends to keep religion on the level of a social contract; this is often what we call cultural Christianity or civil religion...Social and public prayers hold groups and religions together, but they do not necessarily transform people at any deep level. In fact, group certitude and solidarity often becomes a substitute for any real journey of our own. 
--Richard Rohr, "The Naked Now"

One of the main criticisms of Catholicism is that it produces a "form of godliness" without the inner reality. The idea here is that instead of developing a personal relationship with God, Catholics emphasize performing formulaic rituals.

Religion without relationship, then, is akin to marriage without love. 

I think this is a valid criticism of Catholicism insofar as it refers to a Catholicism that emphasizes rote imitation and not inner transformation. But it's important to remember that this "form of godliness" can happen in any church or denomination. My guess is that the lack of inner reality is probably the fault of poor discipleship and bad Christian example than Catholicism itself.

As humans we seem to have this inherent need to systematize everything. We want it all codified and organized. But what is so scandalous about the grace of God is that it's not limited to our ability to organize it.

The grace of God breaks out and goes rogue just when we think we've tamped it down.

Catholics are not the only ones who have seemingly codified the approach to God. 

If, as fundamentalists often told me, I would only come to know God through reading my Bible--I would probably be an atheist by now. Reading the Bible was simply not an option since it had often been used as a weapon against me. 

As blasphemous as it sounds, God was going to have to be bigger than the Bible, bigger than a Sunday sermon, bigger than a Church.

I needed to know one thing: did God love me unconditionally? 

The problem with a question like that is that it's completely irrational. First of all, it presumes there is a God and secondly it presumes that He's capable of loving and thirdly, it asks if that love is unconditional. 

Apparently, I like to ask the questions that have no answer.

At least, no systematic, theological, rational answer. 

I probably wouldn't even ask this question if I wasn't first brought to a place of complete and utter lowness. This is where I found myself after the twins were born. I was desperate. And in that desperation was a kind of grace because I was open to the possibility of finding God in an unexpected place: Catholicism.

This is not to say that God was/is limited to the Catholic Church. But it is to say that it's not really up to me to tell God where to reveal Himself and for reasons that are entirely beyond my ability to understand them, I first began to experience the unconditional love of God in that ancient form of liturgical worship.

There are, of course, many Catholics who grew up in the Church and say they were never "saved" or ever had a personal encounter with God. I understand this frustration and to be honest, there are things about the Catholic Church--or, perhaps more precisely, their way of doing things--that truly perplex me as well.

I think what gives me hope is that the Church is an organic, tangible body that is still developing, growing, changing, adapting. Yes, it moves too slowly for many. 

But it is moving.

In the end, all I really needed was an experience of my "own inner aliveness" as found in the unconditional love of God. I found that in Catholicism. 

And yet, I still hold a deeply embedded fondness and debt of gratitude to my Protestant upbringing. If anything, I see myself as a spiritual pilgrim--caught between two worlds.

It's a fairly lonely pilgrimage--nobody on either side of my family is Catholic. There are times when the loneliness of it is just totally overwhelming, especially when I hear the muttered jokes, the mocking comments, the misinformed prejudice.

I don't know how to answer that. I really don't. So, I keep quiet.

There's no way to have that conversation because there's no way of explaining it in coldly rational, intellectual, systemized terms. Sometimes I wish God could have revealed Himself to me in, say, Presbyterianism--I really didn't want to end up Catholic.

But that wasn't my choice to make.

All I know is that once I was lost, but now I'm found.

And most of all, there is no fear in love for perfect love casts out fear.

Love is my only hope, my only certainty.

How Mary brought me back to Jesus, part 1

If there was one thing about Catholicism that totally freaked me out, it was Mary. I just didn't get it. Why did the Catholics make such a big deal out of her? After all, she was just a human being who needed salvation like everyone else. So far as I could tell, there wasn't anything special about her.

God could have chosen anyone to be the mother of Jesus. Catholics, I believed, had falsely elevated a human woman--a glorification that would have probably horrified Mary herself. Indeed, it was a glorification that flew too closely to goddess worship and plain ol' idolatry.

When I saw those Catholic bumper stickers that said: "If you can't find Jesus, look for His Mother," I was astounded and offended. How could Catholics be so blatant about their blasphemy? By giving Mary such a place of preeminence, weren't they diminishing the centrality of the cross and work of Christ? 

I never really stopped to think about the ways we, as fundamentalists, elevated other heroes of our faith. For some reason it never seemed to bother me how much we loved and exalted the apostle Paul or John the Revelator. We were forever quoting Romans and pondering the Apocalypse, but I can honestly say that I never ONCE heard a sermon that reflected on Mary.

Mary, you see, was just not that important.

God was male. Jesus was male. Paul was male. Luther was male. All the important heroes of the Christian faith were male. I cannot emphasize enough how the fundamentalist faith of my childhood was predominantly and emphatically masculine.

Women were God's afterthought--created for the sole purpose of serving men.

Looking back, I can begin to understand why we didn't give Mary much thought. In fundamentalism, women are second-class citizens. No wonder we treated Mary the same way.

The problem with being raised with an emphatically masculine faith was that it gave me a very distorted image of God. I'd often heard that we were created in God's image. But if God were male, what part of God's image did I reflect as a woman?

Additionally, the God of my childhood was a roaring, Almighty, vengeful God. I was terrified of Him. I often imagined him as a stern-faced judge just waiting to strike me down should I make a mistake.

When my childhood church imploded because of massive moral failure on the part of the male leadership, the engine of my belief just started shutting down involuntarily. 

I didn't know how to talk to God anymore. My twisted image of God prevented me from being able to come back to Him.

To my dismay, I discovered that all paths back to God were blocked.

I couldn't see God except through the lens of fundamentalism. If my relationship with God was going to be restored, I needed to see Him from a different point of view.

The first time I ever began to appreciate Mary happened during a moment of sheer desperation.

I had just given birth to premature twins and was standing in the NICU watching the nurses try to find a vein in one of my twins' arms. They couldn't find a vein and my fragile, underweight baby was screaming in agony as they prodded and pricked. 

They wouldn't let me hold her or touch her. I could do nothing to ease my child's pain. I had no choice but to watch her suffer.

"We're going to need to find a vein in her head," one of the nurses said. At that moment, I thought I would pass out. I could not BEAR to watch my child in physical anguish. I felt so helpless and alone. I thought I would vomit.

I leaned against the incubator to steady myself and at that moment, I was struck with a thought: this is a small taste of what Mary felt like while watching her Son suffer.

I'd never once felt a kinship with Mary. But in that moment it was like a firmly closed door opened just the tiniest bit. A crack of light appeared in my consciousness.

Mary understands. Mary watched her child suffer and there was nothing she could do about it. Mary understands.

I broke down sobbing right there in the NICU. I'd felt so abandoned by God and betrayed by church and Christians. I'd felt so alone.

But in that moment, I realized Jesus hadn't forsaken me. 

Because He'd sent His Mother to comfort me.

Part 2 next week!

**Comments that are disparaging to Catholics and/or Mary will not be published. There is so much misinformation and misunderstanding among Protestants regarding Mary that I have chosen not to perpetuate that on my blog. Thank you for understanding.**

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Subscribe to this blog: 

When you can't make sense of it all, make pizza. At the very least, dance in the kitchen with your rolling pin.

When I make pizza, I turn on the music and dance unabashedly with my rolling pin. Rolling pins are very obliging partners.

Scandalous as it may sound to my proper fundamentalist upbringing, I really like to have fun. I can't help it. I've tried to squelch that unholy urge for years. Then I discovered Catholicism.

Now I eat, drink and am merry. For tomorrow I go to Confession. 

KIDDING!

Let's just put it this way: Catholicism has given me the long-awaited permission to enjoy my life. Now I attack life with WILD ABANDON and without one tiny scintilla of guilt. I love making pizza, I love making sex, I love making a bajillion kids, I love a bustling, bright kitchen where food and drink and laughter, debate, discussion and dancing with rolling pins are not only allowed...they are CELEBRATED!

Speaking of pizza, look at this beauty I whipped up the other night:

 
I call it Greek Pizza. I don't know if there IS such a thing as Greek Pizza, but eh. I threw some Kalamata olives on there and called it Greek. OPA!

After all, I am Greek and we Greeks like to take credit for everything in Western civilization. Including Pizza. Which may or may not be Greek. But who's quibbling?

Is it Italy or Greece? Is it Rome or Constantinople? Is it the Pope or the Patriarch?

See, did you ever suspect that making pizza was so pregnant with such potential controversy?!

We Greeks also like to say the Greek Orthodox church was the official, original Church. To which I say: TYPICAL GREEK. Then again, I do love the Greek Orthodox Church and am sorely ticked off at my Grandfather for abandoning it and thinking he knew better and could start his own, new and improved church. WE ALL KNOW HOW THAT ENDED. Typical Greek.

So, here I am. And I hate picking sides.

Why should I? Anyone can see Italian pizza does just fine with Greek olives on top.

Can't the Orthodox and Catholic churches just make up already?

Everybody kiss and eat pizza!

OPA!

 

would you like to subscribe to the unabashed lunacy that is my bloggity blog? Of course you would!

God hates me.

From where we hid under the bed, we could hear glass shattering in the kitchen and my uncle's roar making even the floor-boards tremble. We trembled, too. 

I wanted to vomit out the fear choking my throat, but when I looked at my cousin, hiding in his room across the hall--he gave me a smile and a jaunty little wave. He seemed to be saying: Hang tight. This is just a storm. It will pass.

And it did pass. We waited until it was safe and then we emerged, poking our heads out tentatively. We ate snacks on the back deck and on Sunday, my uncle got up to preach as usual.

That's what I learned of God. I learned that He spoke through raging men like my uncle, philandering men like my grandfather and men who didn't do much about it like my Dad.

Once I tasted God and found Him to be sweet. But that taste was soured by what I learned He would do to me if I walked away. He would burn me in Hell.

To this day, I battle with God. I was addicted to Him once--because one hit of the loving God is instantly addictive. But there is so much pain that follows close behind that I used to think He hated me.

I look at my children and see such unadulterated, unsullied love for God. In their minds and hearts, He is only good. All loving. All merciful. My children are better Christians than I am. And I'm grateful for that.

It gives me hope that the God of my childhood wasn't the real God. That the God my children are experiencing is the real one. Except I can't find Him where they find Him.

The God the Protestants talk about is, for me, terrifying. He's schizophrenic and unpredictable, schismatic and divisive. He protesteth too much.

I have to go further back to find Him. I have to travel back past Revolutions and Reformations. Sometimes I get weary of traveling.

But if I ever hope to meet Him again, I must continue this journey.

Even if it is a path of tears.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
comments off 

As we forgive those who trespass against us...

Today I'm writing for Faith&Family about how learning to forgive others has brought the bright sunshine of Hope back into my life:

Part of the difficulty for me was that I’d been hurt by people who should have known better—other Christians in positions of authority. Their actions not only hurt me, but also (because I was young), gave me a very warped idea of God. And even though I’d grown up and moved on in many ways, I guess a part of me was still waiting around for them to acknowledge their sin and apologize to me.

To read more go here: To Forgive and Be Forgiven.

Why I go to Confession

I don't know how it works exactly, but something about opening my mouth and admitting what I've done wrong is a crucial step toward healing and reconciliation. It helps me see myself clearly. 

In this way, Confession isn't something I do for God. It's something God does for me.

In other words, the secret only has power over you so long as it's a secret.

As a fundamentalist, I adamantly disagreed with the idea of Confession because I thought it meant the priest--not God--forgave sins. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Catholics don't believe this. Only God can forgive sins. [I'm not a theologian, so for a more detailed doctrinal explanation, read this]

"But what if I don't get a chance to go to Confession?" I once asked a priest. "What if I just pray and ask for the Lord's forgiveness? Would I be forgiven?"

"Yes," answered the priest. "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us."

So, why go to Confession? I think one of the main reasons has to do with preparing ourselves to receive the Eucharist. If the Eucharist really is the literal body and blood of Christ, then getting ourselves right with God seems like the least we can do.

And that is part of it for me. But also, there's something deeply personal about my experience with Confession. For one thing, it keeps me honest. It requires me to examine myself, to take a moral inventory of what I have done and what I have failed to do.

This helps me move closer toward what God desires for me: "truth in the innermost being" (Ps. 51:6). The thing is, it's just too easy for me think I can keep myself honest by myself. I have an alarming propensity to lie to myself about my shortcomings. (But I have very little trouble seeing all the shortcomings in others!).

Additionally, audibly confessing my sin acts as a deterrent against future sin. Sometimes just knowing I'm gonna have to have to confess that sin again is enough to keep me from doing it. 

Confession also keeps me humble. It is my way of demonstrating that I am powerless to change myself. I cannot become a kinder, more compassionate, just and loving person through my own effort. I need divine intervention.

Confession helps me move beyond myself and into a place of humility. Humility is me saying "I am powerless to change without God's help." The act of confessing my shortcomings makes me feel very small--not in a degrading way--but sorta like putting on glasses and getting the proper perspective about who I am and who God is.

There is much relief in smacking up against the bigness of God. It makes me realize, with a sort of sheepish chuckle, how foolish it is for me to think and act like I'm in control of everything. He's God. It's OK to let Him do His job.

The strange thing is, I don't even really know Who God Is. I grew up with a very distorted view of Him and I still haven't put all the pieces in place. My view of God is partial, at best. Still, it seems that receiving His grace is not dependent on my having all the answers. 

Which is to say, I don't know why Confession works. And I guess I don't even really need to know (which is a far cry from my You-Must-Have-All-The-Answers fundamentalist background). It's kinda like driving a car. You might not know anything about how it works, but you press the gas pedal and it goes. 

It took a long time for me to get over the mortification I felt upon entering the confessional. Part of me was like: "Why do I need to confess my sins to another person? He's just a sinful human like me!" 

I mean, I still get all mortified and embarrassed but I think I'm also beginning to understand that my sin isn't just between me and God. My sin hurts me and it hurts others. And since I've hurt others with my sin, I need others to aid me in my healing. 

I used to be worried that the priest would be shocked upon hearing my list of sins. But someone once told me: "Uh. No. They've heard it all." 

Again, relief! I'm not some super special sinner. I'm just an average, worn out housewife who needs someone to tell her: "Woman, you are forgiven."

And that's what I hear every single time.

Aridity of spirit

I walked out of church today. The Presbyterian pastor made a derogatory remark about Catholics and his sword of spiritual elitism sliced me open. Everyone else laughed but I bled all the way up the aisle, stumbled out into the sunny courtyard and blinked back tears.

Most Sundays I feel far too broken and weak to brave the sermon. I'm not strong in the face of the booming male voice of Biblical authority. I bleed too easily. 

But still, every Sunday morning I get up and put on my church clothes. I put on my church face. I put on my church talk. It's my armor. It hides my aching, bruised soul. Every Sunday morning I hope for just one taste, just one tiny draught of grace.

We attend a Presbyterian church as a family and later, I go to Mass alone.

What this usually means is that on Sunday morning I get torn apart and on Sunday evening I get sewn back together.

It's a cobbled-together faith that matches my cobbled-together life. 

Today, sitting alone in the sunny courtyard, I really felt the schisms that divide Christians. I've inherited the centuries' old grudge of Protestant v. Catholic. Sometimes it feels like I'm being asked to pick between two equally beloved parents. How do I pick? I love them both.

And so I wept for the divorce. I wept for everything that Protestants threw away during the Reformation and I wept for the sex scandals that are rocking the Catholic Church. I wept for the misunderstandings and the misconceptions, the prideful one-upmanship, the false dichotomies and the pitting of brother against brother.

Mostly, I wept because I don't know how to fix it.

Sometimes I think God is asking me to live in the place of brokenness. In fact, I know this is what He's asking me to do. And frankly, I hate it. I accept it. I don't resent it. But it's painful and, well, I don't like pain.

So, every Sunday morning I get up and put on my church clothes. I put on my church face. I don't have zealous feelings or passion. 

I don't have the answers for repairing the breach or mending the centuries' old divorce.

But I do have love. And I can choose to obey. I can give my broken, paltry offering.

By God's grace, perhaps it will be enough.

One single act done with aridity of spirit is worth more than many done with feelings of devotion. --St. Francis de Sales

Why believe?

"And then I found I could not reject God. I could not. I cannot explain this. One discovers one cannot move a boulder by trying with all one's strength to do it. I discovered--without any sudden influx of love or faith--that I could not reject Christianity. Why I don't know. There it was. I could not. That was an end to it."                                                  --Sheldon Vanauken, A Severe Mercy

"I've never really had the crisis of faith you've had in these last few years," my husband remarked recently. "I never doubted I was saved or that God loved me. But then again, I wasn't raised how you were."

Perhaps that's why belief is such a struggle for me. I was raised from birth in an abusive fundamentalist church. He joined as a believing adult. His faith was a pre-existing condition. Mine wasn't.

He didn't have a lot to undo when we left. I had everything to undo.

And then I've had to rebuild.  

The result is not very pretty. In fact, it's really sorta a mess.

I don't make for a good Christian, see. I cuss. I gripe about having to go to church. I fail. I end up in the confessional, choking on my pride, barely able to admit to those failures. I hedge those mea culpas with rationalizations. I despise tithing.

Most days I don't even know why I believe. I've tried rejecting God and walking away from Christianity. But I can't. It's just there--an ever fixed mark.

God is stitched into the very fabric of my DNA. I believe because I can't not believe. 

This frustrates me. I would like to be master of my own fate, Captain of my destiny. And yet, that strikes me as a peculiarly narcissistic endeavor. I can scarcely control my own self, let alone the forces outside myself.

Still, belief doesn't come easily. I'm afraid it might always be this way. And what a ridiculously meager offering to give back to God. I am not exactly the most cheerful giver. My offerings of praise are fraught with caveats and complications, wrenched from cloying fingertips.

Ichabod, the glory has departed. I am lukewarm.

I can only imagine having my husband's constancy, his fortitude of faith. The storms and trials of life beat down on him and he just digs in deeper, shoulders the load and presses onward, believing. Singing, even!

Meanwhile, I flail and flounder, collapse and resurrect. "Am I tiresome?" I ask. After all, I'm tiresome to myself.

"No," he says. "I just want you to have sustainable expectations for yourself. Don't overdo it."

Maybe that's where I need to start. I overdo almost everything.

Maybe my ugly, lukewarm offering is enough. For now.

A Moment of Silence

In honor of Holy Week, I'm consecrating my time to family and prayer. This also means I will not be hosting The Saturday Evening Blog Post this weekend. May you have a joyous and meaningful Easter! 

Understanding is the reward given by faith.
Do not try to understand in order to believe,
but believe in order to understand.
--St. Augustine

Beginning the Lenten journey...

For me, fasting is a vital spiritual practice. It reminds me in a particularly physical way that I am not merely flesh. I am spirit and soul. 

In many ways, fasting is my teacher. It reveals the emotional attachments I have to food. Abstaining from my favorite foods re-calibrates my palate. I find that I can be content with simple fare. 

Yes, it's uncomfortable. But that's the point, really. It's an opportunity to identify myself in some small measure with the sufferings of Christ.

In Evangelical is Not Enough, Thomas Howard explains Lent as "a time of penitence. Here we identify ourselves with the Lord's fast and ordeal in the wilderness, which He bore for us...the gospel teaches us that Christians are more than mere followers of Christ. We are His Body and are drawn, somehow, into His own sufferings."

I think it's important to note that fasting is not a means by which we accrue merit with God. It is simply a means by which we move, with other Christians, through a season of self-examination and prayer.

Last year I heard someone describe Lent as a three-legged stool. The stool is supported by three practices: prayer, fasting and alms-giving. 

Prayer and fasting should turn our focus outward. I've discovered that prayer and fasting free me to pay closer attention to the needs of others. 

This year, my Lenten fast is primarily about food. Ever since the twins were born I've been pretty undisciplined about my eating habits.

I am an emotional eater. I soothe myself with food. I eat when I'm happy, I eat when I'm sad. I eat in celebration, I eat in despair. I was raised to be a very disciplined eater which is probably why I don't have a significant weight problem. However, I've let myself slide.

But I'm not going to be harsh with myself. This Lent I'm fasting by eating in a structured, mindful way. I'm also giving up my favorite cookies (oh, dear, precious Mint Milanos!) and my favorite wine (pinot noir).

I'm expectant to see what this season of fasting teaches me.

Do you observe Lent? What does it mean to you?
 What does it teach you?