You know Substack; it's essentially a blog but it gets delivered to your inbox, if you so choose, and then also recommends similar Substacks (sorry about that bit, it's a blessing and a curse).
You can subscribe at two levels; a free weekly newsletter called "Hermilies" (because girls aren't allowed to give homilies), sent out somewhere between Thursday and Sundays. The paid tier gets you an additional post a week, with random updates on the book I've been writing for years, as well as other amazing benefits. Here's the link. 

Thoughts? Email me!

On Lux: the Podcast, my friend Steven Antonio and I shed light on the upcoming Sunday Gospel. With us you'll Listen, Understand, and connect scripture with personal, lived eXperience, and you will probably laugh.  Get your listening face on, whatever that means, and dive in!

Click here!

NOTE: I've moved these posts to my Substack, and see above). Please check them out there, and subscribe to have them sent directly to you!

I preach at work on Thursday mornings, at a community Communion service. Here's today's totally-not-a-homily!

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Today we celebrate another feast day, the feast of the Lateran Cathedral in Rome. The internet says “The Lateran Palace was handed over by Constantine I to the Bishop of Rome, who converted the building into a temple during the fourth century. The Basilica is the oldest church in Europe.”

As we’ve seen already just in our communion services, our Church really does love and value its buildings, churches, and the older the better.

But ironically, today’s readings point us toward a different idea of what a temple can and should be.

In our OT reading, we hear the prophet Ezekiel describing a vision of the new temple in Jerusalem, a definitive place from where only good things would come. The building he was shown stands as the source and center of everything his people believed, valued, and needed.

Still today we love our churches, and our homes; my mom missed our house for years and years after we moved out of it, because it was a container for her memories, solid evidence that this time of our family did happen, was real and true. Eventually, she had to stop looking back (which was tough, because we only moved up the street and would pass our old house often)... and remember the blessings surrounding her in her present, make new memories.

In our Gospel reading, Jesus challenges this idea, that the building is the source and center. Instead, he tells his disciples that buildings are temporary; that they can, and in some cases, must be, torn down. Jesus says what my mother learned; that memories, beliefs, values, everything we need to hold dear, is present in the temple that is Jesus. He’s a moving temple who can’t be confined by buildings, or time, or even death.

In Paul’s letter to the people of Corinth, he takes Jesus’ teaching even further. He says that we are God’s temple.

I remember seeing a t-shirt that said “my body is a temple; ancient and crumbling.” The idea that we are God’s temple might be a bit troubling to those of us who are starting to feel ancient and crumbling.

But this is the good news; Jesus, as Paul reminds us, is the foundation and the builder. Jesus can heal what is broken, rebuild what has crumbled, shore up what has been weakened.

One of my favorite names for Mary is the Greek “theotokos.” It means “god-bearer,” or, tabernacle. When we receive Jesus as we are about to do, we become tabernacles, walking out into the community literally bearing Christ. We are walking temples. 

And every time we receive Christ in the Eucharist, we who are God’s temple are being restored. Jesus promises this.  

Thoughts? Email me!

Many years ago, I visited an Episcopal pastor in my town, someone I'd never met, someone who didn't know me, because I had a secret. I wasn't sure I wanted to be Catholic anymore!

She had a southern accent and a big rocking chair in her office, and she heard me out for a bit and then said (this is all I remember her saying- please read this in a Southern accent): "Margo, what you're experiencing right now is a crisis of faith." 

I rolled those words over in my mouth for a while, but the thing was, I wasn't having a crisis of faith. I was having what would be a long-term crisis of Church. I loved my job, my ministry, my people, and I loved (and still love) the faith that was gifted to me by my family and by my home parish. And to be honest, the wounds I'd suffered at that point were nothing compared to what I would eventually suffer, for staying. 

But here I still am, however on the fringes. I am removed (have been removed!) from the parish system, and Ironically or not, feel more Catholic than ever. My work now, and my community, are beatific visions of what the Church can look like, and, I bet, what the Church will look like, sooner than we think. 

I've written a book (still in progress, I confess) about how people can stay in the Catholic Church if they want to; how Catholic teaching actually has a ton of open space for doubters and strugglers and questioners and even half-assers.  

I've watched the "deconstruction" era sweep through evangelicalism like Gelsey Kirkland looking longingly through the window at the end of the TV version of the Nutcracker, waiting for it to come to our Church doors; this idea that you can look at the faith you were given, sort through it and keep what is good, throw away what is bad, and then reconstruct something new. In Catholicism, that's been scorned as "cafeteria" stuff, and people who have tried have been un-spoken-ly out-cast by insiders in the Church. 

But cafeterias work on the sole idea that some things on the table are for us, are good for us, will appeal to us, will help us; and others won't, for whatever reason. Cafeteria lines have something for everyone, opportunities to sample and try things. No one expects us to eat everything or, on the other hand, skip the whole thing if there's something in there we don't want. 

Am I still Catholic? Oh, yes. Yes, I am. Am I the same kind of Catholic I was two years ago? No. I'm freer to choose for myself what is nurturing and what is not, I'm free from the fear of crossing some unseen and unspoken boundary line, I'm free from carefully monitoring every word so that I don't appear to be threatening to someone else's call (pastors/priests) by following mine. This Church has the power to heal the very wounds it inflicted on me, on us. My crisis of Church isn't over, but I'm in recovery. 

Thoughts? Email me!

Today I led my first weekly Communion service at the Village. I've led them before, here and there, but this is the first of what will be, I hope, many. Around 15 people came, and they were so lovely and happy. And I was so happy. 

As people were arriving I played some music; Maranatha classics, and then I put on my beautiful alb, put Jesus on the altar and sat down in the presider's chair to wait for 10:00 to come. 

I looked out at my beloved residents, some deep in prayer and some watching me closely. I closed my eyes and noted the beads of sweat coming down the back of my neck, and breathed deep. When I opened my eyes I was looking down at the alb, sleeves graced with lace from Ireland sewn in by my sister. Over it lay my Search Cross, the wooden cross on waxed string given to me in my Junior year of high school. the word SEARCH is carved into it in block letters, and I wore it for years- actual years- after that retreat, and until today had it hanging on my bedroom wall. 

When I used to wear it daily, I would run my thumbnail along the length of it, humming the words of one of my favorite church songs with the 13 lines of the word SEARCH, one syllable each: "Knowing that I love and serve you is enough reward!" Ah, young love. 

Below that still, my hands clenched to keep from fidgeting, sparkly nail polish reflecting the light of the sanctuary. It was a nearly perfect moment, a gorgeous coming together of my founding faith sources; my family and my home diocese, and my current self, sweaty from hormones and unafraid to show a little sparkle here and there. 

I'm where my young self could never have imagined I'd be, and I'm thankful. 

Thoughts? Email me!

My spiritual director had me crying in the Barnes and Noble coffee shop last weekend, and I spent the next several days in a vulnerability hangover. 

It wasn't my director's fault. It was just that when I talk about How I Really Feel with someone, which doesn't happen very often, it's not a far journey to get to some still-raw stuff. 

We talked about all the same things that I always bring to the table; my sadness at being exiled from my parish, my inability to forgive the pastor who did me so wrong, my impatience to just get over all this. 

At one point he said to me "what happened to you was very, very bad. It's bad. You were essentially shunned by your community, which is the ultimate punishment used by cult groups [we are both cult documentary fans, so I knew what he meant by that, but it was still a shock]. What you're describing is trauma."

When he mentioned the word "trauma," that pinged something in my memory of this article by Eve Ettinger, herself a cult survivor, about burnout and complex PTSD. the "complex" part is that it's not necessarily as a result of some shocking event, but rather spending a long time in a situation where you are unsafe; where you cannot be honest, where you are never able to speak your truth without fear of harm, for instance. It's something that comes from long-term toxic relationships, like I've endured with so many of the priests who were my bosses over the years. I'd read this article a good while back, and going back to read it again felt like cracking open a closet that I'd shut hard rather than cleaned out. 

As much as I am working on this new understanding of my own experience of a career in the Roman Catholic Church, I have this urge to gather the others -- and I know you're out there -- who have lived for so long with what amounts to be toxicity, smiling under the weight of trying to do it right for God, tamping down again and again your frustration and rage against the limits that your chosen career imposes on you at every turn. 

I want it to be talked about, I want us to dare to speak the truth together, even if it's not safe to do at work, or in the venue where you are ministering, just now. 

Are you out there? Reach out. Let's talk. Need a Spiritual Director? Just want to have one conversation? Schedule a time to meet with me. I want to hear your story. I think there are enough of us to be a community. You're not alone. You're not crazy. 

Thoughts? Email me!

Almost a full year after leaving parish work, I had an experience today that really struck me. I had the opportunity to host a contextual ed student from the theology program at Boston University this semester, and today was a luncheon with the other supervisors from around the Boston area. 

It was a great conversation, fascinating, as we went from talking about our experiences with our students to discussing theological education and how it's changing in the face of modern, post-covid life. I looked around the table and realized that I was among peers, professionally and educationally. I did not feel the need to justify my existence at that table, and it was really surprising to feel that way. I do feel that way at work, and it's taken me a while to get used to the feeling. I hung my Master's diploma on my office wall a few months into my time at the Village, because for the first time, I was in an environment where having one was normal. 

Today, it dawned on me that my Master's degree, bachelor's degrees, and all my certifications and courses and training... it was, in almost all the parishes where I've worked, looked at more as a cute hobby. 

It's such a relief and a new birth to be out of the parish setting, out from under pastors, out of the game of trying to prove my worth through my busy-ness, exhaustion, resilience, and the soul-crushing work of trying not to be too smart or better at something than my boss. I'm in a whole new world now, and it's better out here.  

Thoughts? Email me!

Here's how I thought every Holy Week would go for the rest of my life: planning, greeting and serving at evening liturgies on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, watching the Mass from the choir loft or the back so that I can be ready to help if anything went awry,  scrambling to grab an English muffin between rehearsals and Masses or driving through McDonald's, starving, on my way home. On Sunday, dragging myself back to church to greet again, and finally, after all of it, collapsing with Scott for a nap-filled day of recovery. Even the Covid-marred Holy Weeks included that familiar exhaustion, including the ones where we couldn't even be together in person. 

Let the reader understand, I loved Holy Week in parishes. I loved the camaraderie of slogging through it with my fellow staff members, the plans to make each piece special and beautiful. I absolutely adored helping people enter the Church, loved the beauty of the rites, the bells and smells, the chuffed feeling of getting it all done well.

But today, Holy Thursday, is the one-year anniversary of my being laid off from my former parish. It wasn't Holy Thursday on that day; it was the Wednesday before Palm Sunday. I wasn't expecting it, but I knew things were bad; my pastor/boss, with whom I'd worked closely had gone from edging me out of leadership to full-on icing me out, refusing to acknowledge my existence in the room or to make eye contact with me, etc. and I knew it was not going to get better. Still, it was a shock, and heartbreaking to leave the parish into which I'd poured so much of myself. Especially right before Holy Week.

I found myself exiled from my faith community, on top of the grief and burnout that I was already suffering from. I had no plans for marking Holy Week (well, I had plans...) and no parish to belong to. As my husband went off to his church, I cried on the couch. When Easter came, I went with him to his parish, and cried in the pew, feeling spiritually homeless. 

But this year, I'm in a community that I adore, and have put together a mostly-priest-less but Catholic, spiritual and engaging Holy Week, alongside my wonderful colleagues. I'm so happy. I miss my former parishioners a lot but I do not miss parish life. I have new parishioners who I adore, and who respect and care for me. My boss is supportive and affirming and just the best. And I work collaboratively with a priest who respects my position and gifts, and is a wonderful presider. I never could have dreamed that I'd be where I am today, or even that my Holy Weeks could be different; fun, fulfilling, fruitful... energizing. 

It's been a wild year, and I am grateful to be where I am. Grateful for every Holy Week so far, and looking forward to many Holy Weeks to come. 

Thoughts? Email me!

This week I went along to an evening of worship and Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at my husband's parish. It was lovely, well-attended, and the music was beautiful. 

But I had just finished up teaching a series on Lent with the Gospel of Matthew, and each week's themes were ringing in my head as the incense swirled. We had talked about Jesus saying that the temple would be destroyed (and that he may have meant by that, that it needed to be destroyed, because it was separating people from God). We talked about the tabernacle, which God directed Moses to have built as a tent, so that it could be movable, so that God could dwell in the midst of Their people. 

And we talked about how Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem was a mirror image to the political leaders of the day; tyrants, oppressors, parading into the same city from the opposite direction, as a show of power. Jesus, the true King, entering in true King style, sweaty from the walk and seated on a smelly donkey. The living temple, moving in among His people. 

So there was something in me that really struggled to see the Eucharist locked inside a golden throne, held at a distance, the deacon not even willing to touch the monstrance without covering his hands... and I wondered; what would Jesus think of this?

I have struggled with the idea of Adoration for a long time. The tradition, as I understand it, has its roots in times when only the priests were considered holy enough to receive; the rest of us jamokes were only qualified to gaze upon it from a distance. We've certainly come a long way (in regard to wider availability of Eucharist to jamokes), but it baffles me, the idea of assembling together in a room to stare at a host that, and don't get me started here, doesn't even look like bread. 

I just can't imagine that this is Jesus' dream. If God had chosen to be present to us in a piece of art, then staring at it would make sense; but God chose food. Food! Jesus said "eat, drink!" He didn't say "stare at this bread." Jesus, lover of meals and open tables, said "take. Eat." To me, inviting a person hungering for Christ to stare at a host in Adoration feels like inviting someone who is starving to stare at a sandwich. 

Still, people love it; I lead Adoration services once a month at the Village, and the people who come are there to be with Jesus. I know that time is meaningful to them, and precious. As far as I can tell, these people are also attending Mass and receiving Communion, so they're not eschewing receiving in favor of adoring... Still, though, it's hard for me to put the host out in a golden frame while there are consecrated hosts getting stale in the tabernacle, 15 feet away. 

On the other hand, I do understand the draw to pray in a church, especially in a church (or chapel) with a tabernacle. This setting for prayer makes so much more sense to me than displaying a single host in a monstrance. If we believe Christ is truly present in the Eucharist, then we have to admit that He's just as present in the tabernacle as in the monstrance. Being in the presence of the tabernacle should be enough, if we believe that. 

That night at my husband's parish, I asked God "do you even like this?? Is this what you want??" and then happened to glance down and see the words tattooed on my arm: "Love is the answer." Does God like Adoration? My guess is that God is pleased with any way that love is expressed; the problem is probably all mine. 

Thoughts? Email me!

My New Year's Resolution this year seems to be settling on some version of not making things harder than they have to be. Working smahtah, not hahdah, as they say here in my home state. By this, I mean not making things harder than they have to be for me. I'm not an obstacle-builder, I don't think I make things harder for others, really. But I tend to tackle things the hard way, trying to figure my way through instead of following directions, or inventing wheels that don't need inventing. 

This morning I struck out on a walk here in Biddeford Pool. It's been snowing all morning, big fluffy flakes, and I knew there is a nature preserve and trail here somewhere, so I set off to find it. But I didn't really consult the map on my phone, just glanced at it and walked off, and as it turned out, I went in the completely wrong direction. I took a dead end or two, and then when I finally really looked at the map, I could see that I was only a couple hundred feet from the trail end. Between me and the trail, though, was thickety forest, and mud. 

I could pick my way through that mess, or I could backtrack to the golf course alongside the woods and duck back in later. I took a few tenuous steps across a pile of very cool rocks, laughing at myself with each stupid step. I finally asked myself... hahdah or smahtah?

Resignedly, I hooked back out to the golf course, and found a lovely opening and pebbled road to walk. It's ironic that letting things be easy is something I'll have to work at. But I can see that there are rewards to letting go. 

Thoughts? Email me!

I've become accustomed to taking a few days of retreat around the beginning of the new year, around the feast of the epiphany. It used to be my work anniversary, too,but I don't work there anymore. It's a perfect time, though, to step away and look back and forward, to reckon with what's happened or failed to happen, and set new sights on what might happen in the year to come. 

Usually I stay at my beloved Notre Dame Spirituality Center, in Ipswich. I've been going there on this weekend for several years now. I feel very much at home there, but this year it was not available, and so I'm in Biddeford Pool, Maine, at the Marie Joseph Spiritual Center in a wonderful room next to the chapel, and overlooking the shore.

I'm not an ocean girl. I know that people assume that all Mainers are, but I MUCH prefer the woods or a lake to the ocean. The ocean never seems to settle down, never stops roaring, and the wind never stops blowing. The ocean is busy and noisy and incessant. It kind of stresses me out, if I'm honest. 

But here I am, in the middle of my first evening, trying not to try too hard. I looooove silent retreats but the first night is always the hardest for me. It takes me a bit to change gears, to let go of the idea that anyone is observing me at all, to grapple with the thoughts that I should be praying or shouldn't be checking my phone; that I should be writing my book or journaling instead of blogging... that I can just do what I want, and not worry about how rightly or wrongly I'm doing it. 

Often, when I tell people I'm going off for a silent time, react in a kind of horror. They say "you're NOT ALLOWED TO TALK??" but the truth is, I am allowed not to talk. The best part of these weekends is going to meals and not being expected to make chatter with anyone. It's such a luxury not to have to chat. 

So I'll descend into blessed silence, to the sound of the noisy ocean, and sea what happens (ha!).

Thoughts? Email me!

Ah, the end of the year post. It's required writing. 

This year, I’m thinking in gains and losses, or, more accuratly, losses and gains. I started the year out by losing my Dad, lost a career, losing a parish full of relationships and love invested, lost income. I lost so many tears, and so many of what I thought were certainties. I lost a lot of time being angry and resentful. I lost my winter boots… where did I put them? I lost my faith in the Catholic parish system, at least as it is here in my diocese, and what little positivity I still held for the diocesan priesthood. I lost the will to maintain whatever illusions I was working so hard to keep. 

I did not lose weight. I did get rid of cable.

But this year, I gained a new job -- a wonderful job -- and I gained assurance that God still has hopes and intentions for me, plans for my welfare and not for harm, plans to give me a future with hope. I gained hope, and found a world outside what I thought was my calling. I mean, seriously; I found a whole new world. 

The end of my job in Salem was brutal; I was betrayed- no, worse, I was really damaged (dare I say, again, f*cked?) by the way I was treated, on so many levels. But I know that I don’t leave places or ministries easily; God has most often had to give me a shove, and sometimes a hard kick. This was the hardest of the kicks, for sure, but it has led to the best place. My faith… no, not my faith, but my religion… has suffered more this time around, but I’m feeling pretty sure it would have done so even if I stayed in Salem. Things were crumbling around me, and in me, and I was working so hard to carry on. 

It turns out that sometimes, we don’t have to just struggle through misery. I know that sounds flip, but I think it was only this year that I started to understand this. I see now that I had come to accept that suffering was part of the deal of answering God’s call in this Church, and it’s been hard to un-write that message this year, but I’m working on it (Mary, Untier of Knots, PFU). 

On to the gains.

I gained my certification in spiritual direction, and that’s opened up exciting possibilities to me. 

I gained an extra day off a week and wrote 229 pages of a someday-maybe-book with my extra time (it’s what Anne  Lamott would call a “sh*tty first draft” and who knows the eventual fate of it)!

I gained a website and this blog that I update sporadically, a new Spiritual Director who has been unbelievably helpful, and a podcast with tens of listeners! 

I gained a deeper appreciation for my own marriage, and my husband, who was positively heroic through everything this year. He took amazing, loving care of me when I was fairly catatonic on the couch, assured me that I was not the crazy one when I was struggling in my old job, talked me off spiritual ledges, and waited patiently for me to feel okayer. When I had covid and cabin fever, he masked up and drove me to get ice cream. He miraculously appeared whenever I dissolved into furious tears. My siblings, too, checked on me and sent me support, and a few precious friends showed up, even when I felt like the zombie in the room. 

I’ve gained hope, and freedom, and love. I’ve gained new insights into my religion and my faith and my calling. 

I’m as glad for this year to be ending as I am for the new year to be starting. I imagine there are gains and losses to come, and I'll be here, right on schedule, in December 2023. 

Thoughts? Email me!

A year ago tonight, my life was about to change in so many ways. I was due at the parish for Christmas Eve Mass, but my Dad was in the hospital, under quarantine. He didn't have covid, but the hospital was under covid rules, and that meant no visitors. Like so many elderly people, hospitalization and whatever infection he had made him foggy and confused, and it was so incredibly distressing to my siblings and I. We couldn't visit, but also phone calls were difficult; he seemed too confused to answer the phone at some points, forget about dialing out. 

So on Christmas Eve, before I left for work, I tried to give him a call. Once he finally answered, he fumbled with the phone, but didn't hang up; for the next 15 minutes or so, I listened to the ambient sound of his hospital room and called out to him, but he didn't, or couldn't, put the phone to his ear and answer me. 

It was excruciating to call out to him with no answer; I couldn't hang up the phone. I didn't know if he would answer if I called again. While I sat on the phone, crying, Scott came home, and called Dad's name while I tried to get myself together.  I pictured my Dad in his hospital bed, all by himself, on Christmas Eve, and realized that this might be the last time I'd be, in the form of a phone, in my Dad's lap. 

Eventually he hung up and I called back and was able to tell him I loved him, and hear him say "I love you, dear." A week later we were able to be with him in his ICU room, able to hug him and talk with him, and say goodbye. 

Every year for many years, I've gotten my Dad a page-a-day calendar (usually the Far Side). I'd write in everyone's birthdays, anniversaries, and all the holy days. In between I'd write little notes "Love you Dad!" "Have a great day Dad!" "Don't forget to call your favorite daughter today!" 

I was only part of the way through filling in his calendar when he died, and never got to give it to him. It's been in our kitchen all year, and we've torn each page off day by day, and now it's almost gone. This year, I've lost my job and my shit, and gained a new job and purpose and new life in my relationship with Scott, and family and friends. Everything is different this December; mostly, so much better. But I sure miss my Dad this Christmas.

Thoughts? Email me!

 This week I was looking through old photos, in search of a Polaroid pic of my brother and me, putting on a Christmas pageant on my bed when we were really little. I believe my stuffed bear (cleverly-named Furry) played the role of Jesus, and the set was a blue lined polyester bedspread. 

I didn't find the picture, but I did find one of me from high school, standing dripping wet in the kitchen door of my house. My mom took that picture because she was so surprised to see me laughing. 

It had started to rain SO HARD just as I got off the bus, and as I headed down the hill to my house, it reached monsoon status. I knew that there was nothing I could do; I didn't have a raincoat on or umbrella handy, there was nowhere to to duck in and wait for it to pass, and running wasn't going to help either. So, I just walked, and laughed. It struck me so funny, for whatever reason; just getting relentlessly, hopelessly drenched. 

By the time I got to my house I was soaked and giggling. My mom, waiting there for me, was surprised; she had expected me to be so angry about the whole situation. but my laughter got her laughing, and she ran for the camera to get a picture of my wet, smiling face. 

Sometimes, even when things are relentless, hopeless, all we can do is laugh. I've been told before that I laugh at too many things, things most people don't find funny, and I do notice that sometimes I'm the only one in the room who's laughing.  

I think it's brilliant (no pun intended) that the Church builds in a week of joy in the midst of this ever-darker season. I hope you're finding a giggle here and there, this rosy week.  

Yesterday I had a massage. I know, I know, so luxurious, but it's really the one expensive indulgence I do regularly, and why am I defending myself to you anyway? 

The point is, I had a massage, and my beloved Massage Therapist really kicked my ass (with my permission). I'd been having lower back pain and weakness, and so she spent the bulk of my hour working on my back, glutes, hamstrings, and other painful places. I yelped a bit, at points, because my muscles were not used to being pushed around like that. 

She asked me why I thought my back was going out, and I told her I hadn't exercised much, and then felt weak, and didn't exercise because of that. She said "do you think it might be tied to your emotions at all?"

Hm, I said. It is almost the anniversary of my Dad's death and of the beginning of this very difficult year. Yeah, she said, I know. 

Grief is the worst. I think I can safely opine that, here at the end of a year of grieving my Dad, my career, my relationships at my former parish; at the end of this year of exile. I've been working at forgiving the former pastor/boss/friend who failed spectacularly and cruelly in all three of those roles, but as you can see in this very sentence, it's not going well.  I'm coming to see that my un-forgiveness and my grief are tied up together pretty tightly. 

Maybe I will look into Mary, Untier of Knots. Maybe I'll get an icon for my massage therapist. In the meantime, my prayer is "please, untie my knots."

Here's the benediction prayer I wrote for the Village's Thanksgiving service this week. One of the residents mentioned at the planning meeting that he was thinking about the things he'd worried about on Thanksgiving days in his 20s, 50s, and now, in his 80s. I volunteered to write his thoughts into this benediction, the first I've ever written! When I asked them to reflect on what they prayed for and were thankful for in their 20s, all 200+ of them in the chapel full-on snickered. 

I invite you now to reflect on your thanksgiving experiences over your lifetime.

Take a moment now to picture your thanksgiving tables over the years, and to reflect silently on what you were praying for, and what you were thankful for, when you were around 20 years old.

Now, take a moment to consider what you were praying for and thankful for at around 50 years old.

And now, consider what you’re praying for, and grateful for now, at your current age.

And now, Let us gather up all the things we’ve prayed for and have been thankful for over these years of our lives, and pray for God’s blessing over it all.

May Thanksgiving celebrations this week inspire in you a desire to live your gratitude.

May time with or without a loving family around you, place a yearning in your heart to reach out to people who are lonely and in need of someone to belong with.

May your full belly prompt you to work for justice and relief for all who go without.

May the kindness of your host enkindle in you a desire to be hospitable in every setting that you find yourself; guest, host, or fellow traveler.

May God who is eternal remind you of the hopes and dreams and prayers of gratitude of your 20-something self; and show you how the stories that were only just being written then have turned out, how your prayers were answered (even if the answer was no, or not yet). 

May you feel the tender affection for your 20-something self that God has felt for you at every age.

May God who is outside of time hear your prayers of thankfulness and of desire, when you bowed your head at Thanksgiving tables in your 50s; and may you rest in the knowledge that Love is eternal; eternally responsive and eternally creative.

May the God who is loving you now bring you a sense of peace and contentment in being cared for. May you realize how never-alone you were, even in your darkest days, how not-permanent any situation has proved to be, how the passage of time inflicts wounds but also buffs those wounds to a shine, leaving scars that bear witness to your healing.

May your hard-earned wisdom make you kinder to yourself, more patient with yourself and others, more open to possibilities beyond your imagination, and more willing to continue to grow.

May God who is Love bless you and those you love with relationships that last a lifetime.

May God who is Peace fill your heart with a sense of Their friendship and presence with you always.

May God the Creator remind you that you are made of, and for, love.

Amen!

Happy Thanksgiving!

In one of my parish jobs, we had a change in pastors. The former pastor was drummed out under mysterious circumstances. The new pastor invited all of the staff to breakfast in the rectory on his first weekend, so we could get to know him. 

As the mealtime drew to a close, he said "I just want you to know that my job is to get you all into heaven." I knew then that I would be moving on from that parish. 

Soon after that, my husband and I met a former pastor and friend for lunch. This guy, now deceased, was a rebel; a prophet at a time when the Church was not particularly appreciating prophets, and he suffered the consequences of his prophecy for the rest of his life. I told him this story, of the pastor saying his job was to get us into heaven, and I'll never forget how he looked up from his plate at me and said pointedly, "Uh... how about JESUS?" 

Maybe people think that all priests believe the same things, or maybe it's impossible to think that about priests anymore. But these two priests disagreed on something so fundamental; whose job it is/was to save us. One had fear and the other had faith. One had himself in the hero role, and the other had Jesus there. The new guy thought our salvation was eternally in jeopardy, and the old guy knew that it isn't. 

Later, the new guy was also drummed out, under different circumstances, and the old guy died and was buried in a casket that he'd had made years before and had used as a bookcase in his sitting room. I guess it's safe to say that both of them struggled with some kind of mental illness (don't we all), but if I had to choose one over the other, even knowing the consequences, I'd want the one that knows Jesus has the lead role in the story. 

As a side note, can you imagine how thinking that everyone else's salvation depends on you could make you pretty fricked up? Yeah. Not to mention how sad a thing it is to give one's life for a God that expects you to do Their job. I've heard wives and husbands say this too; my job is to get my spouse into heaven. 

I've got Good News for you all, priests and spouses! Getting people into heaven isn't your job! You are officially fired for this job that you were never hired to do! But you do have a job, and that is to love. Even though this sounds easier, it is much much much harder. But you do your job, and God will do God's, and things will go much better, I promise. 

Thoughts? Let me know!

I can't stop crying today. 

It might be because I'm grieving my Dad, might be because I'm grieving the parish from which I was exiled this year, might be peri-menopause, might be depression. This is a very un-cool thing about this year; it could be anything, all of them reasonable. 

I generally do hate this kind of year; it's a time of year when bad things have happened to me historically; pets dying, cars crashing, mother dying; coincidence I'm sure but there's something in me that remembers, that starts dreading as soon as the first leaf starts to fall, and continues on until November 1, when stupid Halloween is finally over. I guess my body remembers that this is a time of crying, and stands ready to do so, when October comes around. 

As for the grieving,  I've never been much of a griever, honestly. I chalk that up to my faith, my upbringing (our house bordered a cemetery) and the plain-talk my parents used about death. I knelt at the caskets of my mother's parents with her, saw her touch their lifeless hands. I remember sitting at a wake for my Dad's aunt and listening from one of the folding chairs that lined the wall, to two women exchanging recipes while my great aunt lay at the other end of the room, wreathed in flower arrangements. I learned early that death happens, and I learned early that death is not the end. 

All this, I guess, has made me able to minister to the grieving pretty well. If I have one drawback as a minister-to-the-grieving it's that I am not at all maudlin enough. I prayed the burial prayers for a family last week, who I've been ministering to through the death of their mother, and greeted them by saying "I'm so happy to be here." That's not, probably, the correct opening for graveside prayers. 

This week at the Village, we had our annual memorial for the residents who'd died over the past year. Everyone who lost a family member was invited to come, and were given a beautiful white rose, and the whole thing was absolutely lovely. As the music started though, I realized; I am one of them, one of those people who lost someone this year. It was a strange feeling. 

After my mom died, around 5 years ago now, I started to realize that I had a better relationship with her than I'd had when she was alive. We had had a complicated, but loving, relationship, and once she died, the complications were gone. I started to see her in a more whole, more compassionate way, could begin to appreciate qualities in her that I hadn't been able to do, for whatever reason, when she was alive. 

But my relationship with my Dad was uncomplicated. Somehow while my Mom's death made her feel more present to me, it's made my Dad feel more absent. I can almost hear my mom saying "well, that's only fair- he had that with you during his life, and now it's my turn." 

In early 2022 when my doctor prescribed meds for depression for me, she said "this will help you stop crying long enough to deal with what's happening." I waited for that to happen, and it hasn't. That is, I can still cry. I'm not sure if I should be disappointed or thankful for that. 

Come on, Nov. 1.

Thoughts? Let me know!

    I’m not a very still person. Once, in a conversation with my pastor about prayer, I said as much. He (with loving sarcasm) said “no kidding?” I was honestly a little surprised- I hadn’t ever considered that people knew this about me, could see that I am usually in motion, because I'm only recently starting to see it myself. I’ve been surprised, in this new world of online meetings, to see how much more still everyone else is in zoom calls, while I seem to be in constant motion.

    I’m mentally fidgety too, an over-thinker. I remember asking a boyfriend in high school “what are you thinking about” I was sincerely blown away when he said, “nothing.” Was that even possible?? I’d had no idea up to that moment.

    Unsurprisingly, I’m also spiritually fidgety. Contemplation is not my strong point, and among my least favorite ways to (fail at) praying. Using the definition in our syllabus, I absolutely can and do “recognize God in the ordinary,” but I can’t leave God there. Maybe it’s the writer’s brain in me that wants to spin a story, find some theological or spiritual point in God, wherever I encounter God.

So, I enjoyed Gregory Boyle’s book, Tattoos on the Heart, because he demonstrated to me that contemplation can dance on both sides of a fine line; that of both observing and meaning-making.

Of all the underlining I did in the book, I missed the word that has stayed with me; with-ness. I can’t remember where in the pages I read it, but it was evident in every page, in the way Boyle describes what is to be our response to the people we meet, especially those in most need. He doesn’t just walk beside the people he meets; he doesn’t just try to respond to their immediate needs. He delights in them and reminds us that God loves in the same way; not only walking, not only responding, but delighting in us.

    Every time the question comes up at church “how do you picture God?” my answer is the same. I don’t really know what God looks like, but I know as sure as anything that God laughs and rolls Their eyes at me, daily. I feel, see, and know God’s delight in me, and I know that I’m doing my Christianity “right” or, more right, when I start to delight in the people around me.

   I hadn’t heard about Merton’s experience of suddenly and overwhelmingly loving the people who surrounded him on a busy street, before reading this book, but I’ve experienced it myself. I never see it coming, but some time I’ll be on the train, or in a store, or in Mass, and look around and realize that I’m head over heels in love with everyone there. I have a keen sense of… remembering. I remember that each of these bodies around me contains a story, a multitude of stories; memories, fears, joys, loves, losses, pain, suffering, growth… and the feeling of privilege I feel, at just being in the presence of all these stories, and the honor of getting a glimpse at how God loves God’s people, it can bowl me over. Boyle says it this way: “Here is what we seek: a compassion that can stand in awe at what the poor have to carry, rather than stand in judgment of how they carry it (p.67).”

   I think one reason that I’ve struggled with contemplation as a form of prayer is that I’ve tried to over-define it. I’ve bought the stereotypical description of contemplation as being akin to assuming a trance-like state; staring at a rose and being transported to some mystical place, an emptying out of the mind, a vacuousness. I like the idea that this is possible, and am truly impressed by those who can achieve it, but have never been able to make it happen, or even to trip into it by mistake.

   But Boyle presents a different definition of contemplation, one that is not just about sitting still and empty, waiting to be filled. His contemplation is a sweeping, soaring, personal thing, a falling in love. It’s a grounding but also a loosing. He says “To anchor yourself in this, to keep always before your eyes this God is to choose to be intoxicated, marinated in the fullness of God (p. 22).” It’s contemplation that will make you laugh, cry, cheer, and rage.

This way of looking at contemplation, this makes sense to me; the being with, the loving of, the delighting in the presence of God in all things. It’s a challenge for this fidgeter, but when it happens, it’s a beautiful gift — and I try to hang in it for as long as I can make it last.

*Greg Boyle's Tattoos On The Heart

Thoughts? Let me know!

  In 2020, I had started reading books by Rachel Held Evans and Sarah Bessey, as always late to the trend. I was so taken by Sarah’s book “Miracles and Other Reasonable Things” that, when I heard that she was offering a conference online that year (because covid), I signed up. 

  As the date came closer, I noticed that the posts on the conference Facebook page were stories of heartbreak and searching, deconstruction and reconstruction of faith. And ironically, blissfully unaware of the trials ahead of me, I felt a little out of place. For one thing, most of the other attendees were not Catholic -- like almost all of them were not -- many were working their way toward healing from religious trauma, and most were from an Evangelical church background. And for another thing, I was feeling pretty good in my faith life, and in my church, at the time.

  But I went, because there were no refunds, haha, and leaned into the experience. That weekend I set myself up in the guest room, lit some candles, stocked up some snacks, and tuned in.  

  The conference was over two days, as I remember, and the conference team was so good at creating holy space around it; sending the schedule ahead of time, and instructions to make the tech easy. They set up a group on Facebook for guests to mingle, virtually, and there were optional prayer spaces and breakouts. The music and speakers at the conference were gorgeous, and life-changing. 

  Their emails mentioned that they would be a communion ritual at the end of the weekend, and they invited us to assemble whatever elements we were comfortable with. I gave this a lot of thought.

  Of course, Roman Catholics are only allowed to receive Eucharist in our own Church. But I reasoned, that's not what this was. No one presenting at the conference was claiming that our elements were or were going to be Eucharist. But it was communion; each of us, in our separate places, with our broken or soon-to-be broken hearts, breaking bread together. 

  So I made, for the first (and only, so far) time in my life, my Mom's oatmeal bread. My Mom died in 2017, in the fall, and making her recipe while I watched the conference talks in my kitchen felt... well, it felt holy. It felt sacramental. And to break it and eat it at the culmination of this beautiful weekend felt right, and very much not a Grave Sin. 

  All this is to say that the Evolving Faith conference is coming up again, and online tickets are available, and I recommend it.  

  I could really go for some of that bread right now. 

It's been exactly a month since I tested positive for Covid. It's been a long slog back, and I'm still coughing a bit and whatnot. But now that I'm starting, finally, to feel better, I am realizing how sick I was, how lousy I felt. There's something about suffering, you know? It's hard to even gauge things in the midst of it. 

And, in a similar way, I'm realizing more and more, the farther and farther I get from parish ministry, how much cognitive dissonance was involved in that life. I still have a lot to unpack. 

A few months ago I heard a RobCast (I know, Rob Bell is  controversial, but not for Catholics, who mostly don't know about him, I think) about that moment, when the historic first fish comes onto land for the first time... he's not so much talking about the fish as about the moment of standing on the beach, looking ahead at the land, or back, at the water.

Because it's an adjustment, moving from one situation to another; from parish ministry to non-parish ministry, from Catholicism to something else, from sickness to health, from middle-age to senior years, from parenting to empty-nesting. Even if we're transitioning from something bad to something better, it takes some time to, as Rob says, realize what you've been swimming in, all that time. 

I remember a friend of mine from high school telling me about the time he broke his arm playing hockey on a pond, and how when he screamed, his dad yelled "walk it off!" Sometimes that's good advice, and sometimes, it's not. What water have you been swimming in? What injury do you need to stop and address before you get back out there? 

I followed a worm-hole to my old blog, and found a post from this time of year, back when I was in faith formation. I worked for a parish that believed in whole community faith formation, and we used the Generations of Faith model. We loved it, and I look back really fondly on this creative and energized time in my ministry career. 

But reading this post, which starts with me talking enthusiastically about all the projects I had going and ended in pre-exhaustion, has made me think about how stressful this time of year is for parish staff. 

Good Lord, the thought of juggling all that, and doing it well, along with all the administrative tasks that go with each one, well... that's a LOT. 

I'm praying for all those parish staff who are feeling this stress, this overwhelm, and the pressure to do it all well and with an aura of holiness. Hang in there.