Our Lady of Sorrows

Today is the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows, and I've been wanting to sit down and map some thoughts out for myself that connect here. It's been a hairy day, so I'm not coming to this from some great place of recollection. I'm going to dive in and swim through it.

Yesterday I wrote about the Triumph of the Cross and all those anniversarial thoughts. Today's feast has an obvious connection to yesterday's. Mary is the model of the Church -- whatever we see in her is what God intends, generally, for the Church. Of course her personal role is unique, because no one else carried the Son of God in her womb. But we are all called to bring Christ into the world. And we do it through participation in grace, just as she did, although in the way specific to us, and general to the Church. 

And Mary at the foot of the cross is of course unique. And yet she means something for all of us there. 

She means something for me there.

The homily I heard this morning made me aware that not everyone pulls out exact the thing from this feast that I cannot help but pull out. I feel like, for whatever reason, the Lord has formed me in a certain way where this is concerned. The homily focused on how Mary is with us to comfort us in our sorrow. In a way I guess she was there to comfort Jesus -- I mean, where else would she have been right then?

But that's not what stays with me here. Somewhere in this blog I have probably written about a dream I had when I lived in Japan that stayed with me in a way only a few dreams have in my life. It stayed in a deeply instructive way that I've returned to again and again. Ah yes, here it is. It was just this April when I wrote about this. It didn't completely register with me that this dream is specifically about Our Lady of Sorrows. There has definitely been an invitation for me in this for decades: this call that she seemed to extend to me was to enter into this mysterious work, specifically of Our Lady of Sorrows. And it is about calling people to the deeper conversion of life specifically through no longer ignoring the reality of their own pain (shades of yesterday's post). The vice we tend to go for when we want to ignore the reality of our own pain in something akin to intemperance: gluttony, lust, excess. Addictions come in to play here, and numbing. All the various ways we voluntarily or involuntarily reach for the off switch for our pain.

Now, about a year before I began even thinking about the spiritual direction formation program I have just finished, I had an encounter with Our Lady of Sorrows and the seven sorrows rosary. I wrote about that here, which links to several other pieces of the story as well. The kicker there was that as I started praying the seven sorrows rosary, I got the distinct impression that the Blessed Mother was teaching me that the sorrows of life are not a place to camp out; they are a place to move through, towards the glory, Granted, life is full of sorrows. We are never free from sorrow while we are on this earth. That's a true, general principle. But the particular principle, the personal lesson, seemed to be a nudge from her that I had set my camp -- my mind -- in sorrow, and that it was time for an identity shift. 

Now the absolute kicker of all kickers dawned on me the other day. Two years ago this evening, I was winding up the last piece of my very first in person Intensive of the SDFP. I encountered a line in a meditation that knocked me on my butt so hard that it also became a benchmark moment for me. And I just realized that, although it was Sunday and not observed that year, it was the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows when this happened. I suppose I wrote about it several times, but this is the first time the story appears. On this blog, at least. And I realized then that Jesus was calling to me to follow Him. That if I had thought I knew before what it was to follow Him, I was about to have quite a different experience. 

And I was to get extricated from an identity rooted in sorrow.

And I was to learn authenticity in following Christ. Christ is Aslan, not a lapdog. He is Lord and King, not my accessory.

And I hear and feel the searing heat coming through those words. 

There has been a work going on. I've had to just look at a lot of very painful realities in my history. Some of these I tried to look away from for years. Some had to tear through feelings older than words in me, and it felt like my psyche itself was rending apart. And just look has also turned into just act, and I'm still working on that. So much reality to contend with. 

So I came here to look at how Our Lady of Sorrows weaves through this. One of the things that was impressed on me that day that I was praying the seven sorrows rosary and walking through the park was that now, Mary lives in glory. Yes, she accompanies us in our sorrow, but she herself lives in glory. I can go way, way back to my days when I was on my way into the Catholic Church and recall another day that I was walking and praying and struggling with the issues of conversion. The Lord gave me a lot of graced helps in those days. I didn't actually have any human beings present in my life at the time who were helping me on my conversion road (only friends I wrote to -- back in the days before computers!). So the Lord came to help me very generously. And that day as I walked, He impressed on me these words: I want the glorious to become commonplace in your life. I don't know that I'm there yet, or that I've ever been close. Oh, wait of course it is true. It simply rarely feels like it in the moment. But that's a poor measure of reality. For one, I've been going to daily Mass (with a few chunks of exception) since 1992. That's glorious. But when I think of that, I think of my interior experience. I would love to feel glorious. Maybe that's not how this works. But I know that camping out in sorrow (and the anxiety and etc that goes with it) does not help matters. Again, it's the personal call. I've been experiencing God re-rooting my identity to align with Him, to align with reality. 

I don't know exactly where we go next, but it is fascinating to put all these things together and ponder them. 

The cross of Christ is the most horrible and horrifying, absurd event in human history. It is also the catalyst that changes everything, conquers death, unleashes divine mercy, and ushers human kind into eternal life. That's some awesome, glorious thing to be standing near.  

Ave Crux, Spes Unica!

I hesitate to describe my penchant for noting anniversary dates of my life as compulsive, but perhaps ingrained is fair. It is part of my liturgical sense, I think. Repeating annual observances gives space for reflecting on what has changed and how I've grown over the years. The one constant in my life is change. That is certain. 

Thirty-two years ago today was my first day in Japan. The first of 924 days when Japan was my address (although I did spend about a month each in the Philippines and Stateside during that stretch). It is also the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, and yes I did choose this date to be my arrival date, just like I chose the Annunciation to be the day I left. 

This year has given me a fresh perspective on today's feast day. And that is the lamest possible way I could make that statement. Let me try to get a running start into unpacking this.

This morning at Mass, with all this date and feast day business humming quietly in the background, I had a strong related memory surface, one that I have turned over and over in my mind over the last three decades. It took me a moment to realize how it is this year's connecting piece. And here it is: when I lived in Japan, I was connected to an order of Sisters as a volunteer. The Sisters lived in two small convents in the immediate area. One of these was connected directly to the school where I taught, and occasionally I stopped by to visit their kitchen, especially in the early days. The one Sister who spoke English fluently lived there. One day when I was there, I noticed she had written on their pen board four words, which I felt were a direct message to me (because they were in English): God lives in Reality. 

If you've ever moved thousands of miles away from home to a place where you know no one, cannot communicate with anyone, and feel completely vulnerable and helpless, you might appreciate how words in your native language can pierce your heart and stay with you forever, like those did that day. And if you haven't, trust me on this. They did.

When human beings experience discomfort, conflict, pain, confusion, demoralization, scandal, injustice, etc, we tend to cope through some type of escape or retaliation. Or both. Escape says this reality is painful, and I want out. Retaliation says this reality needs to be fixed, and I'm going to create my own battleground to fix it. These are understandable human reactions. I think you could say that escape is often its own form of retaliation. These are not indicative of human flourishing, though: this is about survival. 

Human flourishing comes in Christ. Christ comes through His cross. His cross is our only hope (Ave cruz, spes unica!). And here we have the truth: God lives in Reality.

The reality of our lives is full of discomfort, conflict, pain, confusion, etc. The Christian revelation is that God is not sitting in a cloud somewhere, demanding our obesiance, handing down rules, or generally accepting everything that happens and tut-tutting it away, and throwing us candy to make us feel better. The Christian revelation is that God enters our pain. He does not remove it; he comes close to us in it. He conquers it, but appearances show that it conquers Him. His embracing of the ultimate in discomfort, conflict, pain, confusion, demoralization, scandal, injustice, etc, is what swallows death, conquers death, and reveals life and immortality. He calls people to faith in this. He calls people to receive this power and live in it. He calls people to live in reality -- all of it -- by the power of grace, which is His life in us. 

Sin is avoidance. Sin is turning a blind eye to suffering -- that of others, or our own. Sin is refusing God. Sin is turning away from Him and choosing not-God. Unreality. 

Here's the thing: this is the lot we are born into. We have an inclination to this sin. The grace of baptism frees us from being chained into it, but we have to be formed in such a way that we learn to choose good. We need to learn that we are loved by a self-giving God to such an extent that we love Him in return, follow Him, and learn from Him to lay down our lives (that is, enter discomfort et al.) for our brothers. 

Here's another thing: there's a point at which every person is formed by pain and not by love, and we carry our desire to escape reality forward with us. Sometimes we carry it forward in highly complex and sophisticated ways that shape our relationships, our work, and our very sense of self so that, even as Christians, we make a fine art out of avoiding reality. 

I feel like the entire focus of my life comes down to this point of learning for myself, and to help others, to look upon the Pierced One, the Man on the cross, and to embrace -- in the drops that are bearable, as God measures out -- the reality of His love meeting our pain. I'd like to say that in that moment in looking upon the Crucified, our pain is undone. I do believe God lifts certain things from us, granting immediate relief. But often that meeting entails being met in great grief the pain we have tried to silence and stuff down. It is not neat, easy, or quick, but it does heal. The resurrection power of God is real. But God does not do magic. He redeems and restores, and it is a process. It takes our cooperation, our trust, our perseverence, and we need community support through it, so we don't cut and run.  

God lives in reality. If we find reality too much to face, it means we need Mercy. Mercy is God's love meeting us in our pain. It is infinite. The ocean of mercy opened up for the whole world through the crucifixion of Christ, and if we call out for mercy, God will draw us to this whole process of healing. When we cry out for mercy, we must come with open hands, clutching nothing, or at least willing to let go of the things we clutch, trusting that God brings life and not death. Or at least willing to trust. Willing to receive life. Willing to believe that there is more to life than death. God will meet you wherever you are at and will gently guide you forward. His great desire is to give us Himself. 

He can make sense out of everything.

Not Pridefully Nor Begrudgingly

I went to Mass today at the hospital where I am now employed. It's a very small congregation that shows up for that, and at the beginning of his homily, the priest decided to ask everyone what their job is, or was. He is one of the Nigerian Franciscan University students, so he didn't personally know anyone there. He was applying this information to the reading from 1 Corinthians, so it really didn't come completely from left field.

But it sent me for a loop. I was the third person in order of answering as his eyes went around the room, and the question left me mentally scrambling. I believe I actually said I don't know out loud before I answered: A Mom. 

There's some irony in my fumbling, because in part it brought me back two years to the day, to the beginning of my Spiritual Direction program. There, as I shared meals with my new associates, the topic often gravitated towards "What do you do?". I wrote a few blog posts or reflections on this very experience of suddenly needing to pull my identity into a neat descriptor.

Today, though, I could have said I'm a chaplain, because I am. But my mind fumbled through how I'm on-call though, so maybe my job is waiting for the phone to ring. But I also sell books. I also drive for Wingz. I'm also a spiritual director. Do I pick the one that earns me the most money? Which one has my identity? 

Perhaps because the people in front of me were retired, my mind raced towards what I used to do full time. So it came out, I'm a Mom. 

I could have said, "This question is too complicated," because that's what I felt. 

But I listened to his homily unfold. He spoke of a job as an obligation God gives us, to be carried out willingly and not pridefully. Able to listen to others. Able to receive correction or suggestions from others. Not wishing you could just check out and go home. 

And at the same time, what was unfolding in my head is how I have defined my sense of "job" since I started looking for one in my early 20s: Being Me. 

It's not about being paid a lot for this task (I never have). It is really about my deepest desire, and something I am really only beginning to own. 

And then what was forming in my head met his homily, and my eyes got a bit watery. 

[Being Me] is an obligation God gives me. I am not to carry this out pridefully (and I've done that -- pride is really about masking pain). And I am not to carry this out begrudingly, or unwillingly as St. Paul puts it. 

You know, I'd been asking the Lord to help me get ready for a good confession, and I think this spears it right in the heart.  

There have been times I've thought about how I would be willing to give a kidney to a person I know who actively hates me. Absolutely, I'd be first in line to be tested. But to willingly and ungrudgingly embrace all that is entailed with being me? To refuse to muffle, silence, oppress, reject, deny the creation of God that is me.... ooh. Wow. An obligation God gives me, huh? That's pretty intense.  

Yeah, I'm gonna have to think about that one some more. 

So, This Finally Made Some Sense...

I'm going to share about something now that I've hardly thought about for ages, and I don't know that I have ever discussed with anyone in my life. But I thought about it this morning. Because it is no longer the 1970s and 80s and I can pull up any bit of information with my interwebs box, I was able to reclassify a bit of my life's experience in a way that was both a bit surprising, and very not surprising at all.  

Maybe you have experienced the same thing. 

I'm literally reorganizing this information in my brain as I write, so please track with me as I move these boxes around a bit.

From the time I was a child of at least ten (I really have no memory of a "first time" of this) I rather frequently experienced a kind of electric sensation that would seem to radiate from my core, through my body. It registered as pleasant and restful -- a sort of momentary rejuvenation. Sometimes it would accompany someone saying something to me, or perhaps a nice song, or a thought. But sometimes it would happen more or less unaccompanied. 

Because I am me, my mind set to to try to figure out what was happening. I was a child; I had no interwebs, and (this is significant) never in a million years would I have told anyone about this type of experience happening in my body. Never, ever. I concluded at one point that this happened because it was how God was speaking to me. This is definitely a moment where adult spiritual director me steps in and says No, that is not how God communicates. But it felt good, and, like I said, it was often connected to a response to something happening outside me. So I thought it was what God did when He wanted to clear His throat and make me pay attention. 

I also had some issues with deception in my younger days, precisely because of my mind working like this. I remember saying to God, "So, if we get five pieces of mail today, I'll take it as a sign that you want xyz." Lo and behold, we did get five pieces of mail. How I approached this was a bit like divination, and I heartily don't recommend it. We need good formation. But I'm getting a little ahead of my story.

At some later date, I thought better of considering my electric shudders to be God's voice, and I set that idea aside. I just sort of vacated the need to understand what was happening, and just let it happen when it did without giving any thought to it at all. But it also didn't happen quite as often in later years.

This morning at Mass it happened, though.

And it dawned on me that I could hop on Google and ask it several probing questions and maybe I could learn something about what this actually is. Like, maybe this is simply a normal human phenomenon. 

And it is, more or less.

According to Dr. Peter Levine, it is the discharge of left over "fight or flight" energy in the body that never got used. It happens when you enter a moment of safety after being on high arousal, and the nervous system essentially sends this spontaneous rush of pleasant energy through the arms or neck or wherever. It is the body discharging stress or trauma. When stuck for a good long time in hyperarousal, the nervous system sometimes down regulates, and this little energy burst happens. And when it doesn't, well, you end up in trauma therapy in your 50s, and then you deal with it. 😬

So, I understand now why I felt this feeling was a divine intervention. In a way it is, as a natural stress reset. But even as a child I could not fathom that God created the human body with a means to simply feel good. I figured it had to be a secret, cryptic message, and one that I apparently had to work really hard to comprehend. But I also have to realize that even as a child I was under a considerable amount of chronic stress. And this was clearly compounded by a decision that was rock solid long before age ten, that I would not go to any adult in my life and talk to them about something happening inside me, or in my thoughts. I feel like I had that decided probably by age five. I realize that my childhood conversion to embrace faith in God came in part because I desperately needed to know that there was something bigger than myself that I could turn to. It was confusing for awhile, though, and so I did things like reading the tea leaves of my shivers. 

One of the things I've been working on in my therapy is to learn to accompany by own frightened little self as she still turns up. And to make sure she knows the real Jesus (ooh, must share my picture). And now I realize she also needs to understand some real science, too. It's ok little one. You can rest now. God is good, and you can shudder and shake and rest in His arms.

I bought this painting in March of this year, 
and not a moment too soon. It has been a well-timed
focal point of meditation for me.