Ash Wednesday
I'm sitting in my office; in a few hours, I'm going to meet a friend for services at my parish -- although I'll admit that I got Ash Wednesday started a little early by crashing the Catholic Student Association's Mass at school. (I know, I know. I'm a weirdo. This is the goth-est holiday of the liturgical calendar, y'all. I'm all about it.)
This year, the Lenten season feels especially dynamic, from where I sit. Unsettling, even. It's hard to describe this sense to someone outside my own head; I'm not unhappy or restless in my faith, or even in the more mundane facets of my life, like work. There's a quickening in my soul, though.
One of the recurring themes of my life, over the past twenty years or so, has been prophetic witness. I have repeatedly felt a calling toward this sort of spiritual vocation. While I am not, by nature, a confrontational person, I do feel moved to speak uncomfortable truths, to bear witness to topics and events that many people shy away from, to temper the feel-good parts of grace with real, meaningful accountability. This calling has shown up everywhere from my academic writing and teaching to my personal life.
It doesn't come from a sense of my own perfection -- far from it. It comes from the hope that people can do better. The institutions we build can do better.
I can do better, too.
That's part of the point of Lent: Renewal. A challenge to pursue justice -- toward God, toward self, toward the world at large -- with increased devotion and steadfastness.
* * *
So, what happens when a rabble-rousing reformer falls in love with a cautious traditionalist?
No, really. That's not the tagline for a rom-com or mismatched-buddy cop flick; it's what happened to me last year. It started during Lent, too, of all times.
First of all, there is absolutely nothing romantic about fasting and penitence. People who use church stuff (or worse yet, invoke "God's will" or "voice") in order to scam on other single Christians have always struck me as inordinately creepy. What actually happened was: I had a Catholic friend from a gaming group who I had had lunch/dinner with, a number of times. During Lent -- as a way of supporting each other -- we had planned to fast all day on Friday and break the fast at sundown together. There was something about creating that ritual that was meaningful; coupled with shared work/recreational interests and some complementary personality traits, it wound up laying the groundwork for a different kind of relationship than the one I'd anticipated us having.
This was fantastic, especially since I'm basically the pre-2016 Chicago Cubs of love, historically speaking.
However, it does create a new sort of tension. Our life experiences and personalities have resulted in different approaches to a shared faith: one which we're both passionate about and have spent decades pursuing. (Fun fact: We both attend a "St. Francis." His is Catholic, and mine is Episcopal.) Discernment -- and a healthy sense of humor and flexibility -- is probably needed here. That's one part of my Lenten task, I think, as the relationship progresses.
* * *
I also find myself wrestling with discernment in a more formal sense. In a few days, I'm going to begin a required three-month discernment process before taking vows with a women's lay order. (No celibacy jokes, please. That's ... not part of this order's rule. Thank God.) It's primarily an Episcopal/Anglican order, although there are Lutheran and Catholic chapters. One of my close friends from my former parish in the Houston area is involved with the organization, and she's been equal parts frank and encouraging about my starting this journey.
I may devote some later posts to reflect on those matters. For tonight, I'm looking forward to meeting up with my friend Jackie and reflecting in the hushed space of St. Francis' sanctuary by evening -- then breaking today's fast over pho and spring rolls.
Friendship can also be a sort of holy vocation. And its work is often accomplished via small things: shared stories, shared smiles, shared meals ... sustenance, both literal and symbolic.
This year, the Lenten season feels especially dynamic, from where I sit. Unsettling, even. It's hard to describe this sense to someone outside my own head; I'm not unhappy or restless in my faith, or even in the more mundane facets of my life, like work. There's a quickening in my soul, though.
One of the recurring themes of my life, over the past twenty years or so, has been prophetic witness. I have repeatedly felt a calling toward this sort of spiritual vocation. While I am not, by nature, a confrontational person, I do feel moved to speak uncomfortable truths, to bear witness to topics and events that many people shy away from, to temper the feel-good parts of grace with real, meaningful accountability. This calling has shown up everywhere from my academic writing and teaching to my personal life.
It doesn't come from a sense of my own perfection -- far from it. It comes from the hope that people can do better. The institutions we build can do better.
I can do better, too.
That's part of the point of Lent: Renewal. A challenge to pursue justice -- toward God, toward self, toward the world at large -- with increased devotion and steadfastness.
* * *
So, what happens when a rabble-rousing reformer falls in love with a cautious traditionalist?
No, really. That's not the tagline for a rom-com or mismatched-buddy cop flick; it's what happened to me last year. It started during Lent, too, of all times.
First of all, there is absolutely nothing romantic about fasting and penitence. People who use church stuff (or worse yet, invoke "God's will" or "voice") in order to scam on other single Christians have always struck me as inordinately creepy. What actually happened was: I had a Catholic friend from a gaming group who I had had lunch/dinner with, a number of times. During Lent -- as a way of supporting each other -- we had planned to fast all day on Friday and break the fast at sundown together. There was something about creating that ritual that was meaningful; coupled with shared work/recreational interests and some complementary personality traits, it wound up laying the groundwork for a different kind of relationship than the one I'd anticipated us having.
This was fantastic, especially since I'm basically the pre-2016 Chicago Cubs of love, historically speaking.
However, it does create a new sort of tension. Our life experiences and personalities have resulted in different approaches to a shared faith: one which we're both passionate about and have spent decades pursuing. (Fun fact: We both attend a "St. Francis." His is Catholic, and mine is Episcopal.) Discernment -- and a healthy sense of humor and flexibility -- is probably needed here. That's one part of my Lenten task, I think, as the relationship progresses.
* * *
I also find myself wrestling with discernment in a more formal sense. In a few days, I'm going to begin a required three-month discernment process before taking vows with a women's lay order. (No celibacy jokes, please. That's ... not part of this order's rule. Thank God.) It's primarily an Episcopal/Anglican order, although there are Lutheran and Catholic chapters. One of my close friends from my former parish in the Houston area is involved with the organization, and she's been equal parts frank and encouraging about my starting this journey.
I may devote some later posts to reflect on those matters. For tonight, I'm looking forward to meeting up with my friend Jackie and reflecting in the hushed space of St. Francis' sanctuary by evening -- then breaking today's fast over pho and spring rolls.
Friendship can also be a sort of holy vocation. And its work is often accomplished via small things: shared stories, shared smiles, shared meals ... sustenance, both literal and symbolic.
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