The Feminist Flames of Pentecost -- Guest Post

Sunday is the feast of Pentecost, the day that falls forty-nine days after Easter. It is remembered by Christians as the day when the Holy Spirit descended on the disciples of Jesus as tongues of fire.

At my Roman Catholic alma mater, there was a stained glass window of the Pentecost event that featured the apostles and Mary, the mother of Jesus. Red, disembodied tongues floated piously over their heads, and with a stretch of the imagination they could be said to look like flames. It seemed to me a rather gruesome image when I was an undergraduate.

Now, as the feast of Pentecost approaches, I recall that window as a powerfully subversive image: the God whose word has been enshrined on the page had given ordinary human beings the authority to speak on God’s behalf. What kind of God would do that?

Maybe a God who wasn’t afraid of the alleged imperfections of ordinary human beings would. Maybe a God who wanted to empower ordinary voices to be extraordinary would. I think of Mary, mother of Jesus, and I imagine a woman—of all people--being given the power to speak for God. Then I look at my two small daughters, and I imagine their voices being given the very same power—to speak boldly, with authority. What kind of God would do this? The kind of God who was willing to share power and authority. The kind of God who valued what each voice could bring to the conversation. A feminist God. Am I right?

As I celebrate Pentecost with my daughters, I will share with them the story of the tongues of fire, and I will tell them that Pentecost was the day when the most powerful voice of all invited those who weren’t powerful to speak up, loud and clear. And maybe they’ll learn from their God a lesson in listening to the voices of others—and most importantly, listening to their own.

...

Kate is the married mom of two precocious tots. When she's not chasing them or dancing around them or singing at the top of her lungs with them, she likes to drink coffee, make yummy food with her hubby, edit other people's writing, pray, and write edgy pieces on religious topics. You can check out her blog, Thealogical Lady, at lifeloveliturgy.com. (And, for the record, that "a" in "Thealogical" is no accident.)

Conversations about God from the Backseat

When my children reached the ripe old age of six, I decided it was time to introduce a little God into their lives. After all, we live in Florida. Sooner or later, they’re going to get a hell of a lot more God than I’ll ever be comfortable with. We went the Catholic route. I grew up Catholic, and when they were babies, I snuck them into my old parish without doing any of the requisite paperwork to get them baptized. You know. Just in case. Hell insurance, really.

Anyway, it seemed only natural that we start going to Mass before their peers figured out they had no idea who Jesus was; it also seemed like the only way to get them to stop referring to crosses as “x”s. Don’t worry, I picked a Mass that always serves donuts and lemonade afterward. Those Catholics really know how to reel them in.

We’ve been going weekly for a few months now, and the discussions that follow are the result of my hard work, fortitude and moral guidance as my kids find their path to their savior.

Week 1:

Child one put her hand on her chest pledge-of-allegiance style during the Lord’s prayer.

Afterward in the car: “Mama, I didn’t want to tell on him in church, but the man up there said JESUS CHRIST a lot. Are you going to yell at him?”

Week 2:

“You tell us to listen to the stories, but the stories are so boring, mama. Can we bring them a book to read next time?”

Week 3:

Totally skipped it to go to the beach. God is everywhere, right?

Week 4:

Child: “I want to eat one of those flat things, too.”

Me: “You have to be seven and go through a lot of stuff to do that.”

Child: “Maybe we could just lie to them.”

Me: “You’re missing the point of church.”

Week 5:

After Mass, the priest stops to talk to child 2 for a moment.

Child 2: “Oh yeah, I forgot you said CHRIST all the time.”

Week 6:

Child 2: “Mom, did Jesus die?”

Me: “Yes, he died.”

Child 2: “How did he die?”

Me: “Well, he died on a cross.”

Child 2: “What do you mean?”

Me: “You know those necklaces a lot of people wear with the x on it?”

Child 1: “Oh yeah! That’s a cross? And the little man on it is Jesus?”

Me: “Yes.”

Child 2: “What, did he walk into it or something?”

Week 7:

Child 1: “But mom, if Jesus is God, then he can’t die.”

Me: “Well, he was human too, so he died.”

Child 1: “Could he not have died?”

Me: “Yeah, he chose to die so he could open the gates of heaven for us.”

Child 2: “He CHOSE to die? Why?”

Me: “If he didn’t, we wouldn’t have a beautiful happy place to go when we die. It was his job.”

Child 2: “So he was born to die?”

Me: “Well, yeah. We all kind of are.”

Child 2: “JESUS CHRIST.”

Week 8:

Child 2: “Mom, where is heaven?”

Me: “It’s very far away. Like, past the sky or something.”

Child 2: “How do we get there when we die? We have to walk all that way?”

Child 1: “No. We must drive.”

Child 1: “Hey, mom? Heaven sounds a lot like aliens and zombies. Is God an alien and a zombie?”

As you can see, Catholicism is going really well. I feel confident I am bringing some good, God-fearing, moral little beings into the world. Even if they’re only going for the donuts.

 

What I'm teaching my kids about Christmas -- Guest Post

My little girls are still small--1 and 4--and they're into the holiday season. They love all of it: sparkling lights, Advent calendar chocolates, an Advent amaryllis that grows and blooms over several weeks, Santa in a musical snowglobe, the Chanukah menorah, and the Christmas tree with a bright star on top. They love hearing their Grandpa Ira's recorded rendition of "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," and they love dancing and singing to Christmas music, especially by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra.

All these things are part of our Advent/Christmas ritualizing, but come Christmas Day, before (or maybe after) the flurry of presents, I'll add something more. I'll tell my daughters the story of a young woman named Mary who said yes to an extraordinary possibility, even though she could much more easily have said no. I'll tell them about Mary being pregnant with God's Word for nine months, and I'll remind them that Advent is the time when the world celebrates being pregnant with God's Word here and now. I'll tell them the nativity story from the Gospel of Luke, and I'll share with them how Jesus was laid in a manger, a feeding trough, so he could become the Bread of Life.

Advent and Christmas are occasions for joy, and they're occasions to teach my kids about some of the wonders of Christian faith: that God loved humanity so much that God became one of us, that a woman's consent changed the fate of the world, and that the world's salvation became food for those who hunger. I'll remind them that we, too, are part of the Body of Christ, which means we are also called to feed the hungry, and I'll talk with them about the donations I've made to the food bank every time I've shopped during Advent. I'll teach them that Christmas is about receiving the gift of God's presence so we can learn how to make our own presence into a loving gift for others.

...

Kate is the married mom of two precocious tots. When she's not chasing them or dancing around them or singing at the top of her lungs with them, she likes to drink coffee, make yummy food with her hubby, edit other people's writing, pray, and write edgy pieces on religious topics. You can check out her blog, Thealogical Lady, at lifeloveliturgy.com. (And, for the record, that "a" in "Thealogical" is no accident.)

Dying and Rising - Abortion and Easter: Contributor Post

Today I am blessed to have an extremely personal post by good friend and thealogian K. A. Her bravery and strength in sharing her story so that others may not feel so alone is inspiring. I am so lucky to be able to consider this woman a friend. Remember, people in all walks of life have had abortions, and each one must deal with it in her own way. And each one needs support.

...


My name is Kate. I'm a woman of deep, life-long faith. And a number of years ago, I aborted a wanted baby.

I was in relationship with a man I loved deeply, but our relationship was not known to others. If our pregnancy had been discovered, we (or, at least, I) perceived that we would lose support as a family from all those who then supported us as individuals, and we wouldn't be able to make a life together, much less support our child. The decision was ultimately mine. He was there when I took the pill.

A couple of weeks later, our relationship ended. In the midst of grieving the loss of that relationship, I lost sight of my grief for the tiny fetus that would have become our first-born child.

Now, all these years later, I am the mother of two amazing daughters; I am also the wife of the best man I know. My life is beautiful and full. And I'm finally giving myself permission to grieve my first pregnancy, the pregnancy that became my first abortion.

To my surprise and consternation, I've had a difficult time figuring out how to grieve it. Once I decided to allow myself to grieve, I intentionally tried to access my grief for over a day. Nothing came. I read a book called A Solitary Sorrow in which a therapist discussed her encounters with women who had had abortions. As I read the therapist's stories and considered my own, thousands of thoughts flooded my mind, but I couldn't access any emotional content.

I had already shared the story of my abortion with those closest to me long ago, so I decided to shared my story with several additional trusted friends. When one of them--the one from whom I most feared judgment--replied with compassion, my heart broke open. I ran to my husband and sobbed on his chest, a tidal wave of long-hidden grief bursting the dam in my heart.

In the United States, abortion is often heatedly discussed, but actual abortions--the abortions chosen by women all around us--are almost never discussed. To have had an abortion is an enormous taboo, and that impacts the self-perceptions of those who have abortions. The woman who has an abortion will often either perceive herself as a terrible, hypocritical sinner, or she'll tell herself that she's not supposed to feel any attachment to the tissue that grew in her womb.

I am pro-choice and completely support the right of all women to choose whether or not to continue a pregnancy for the reasons she holds close to her heart, but I now also have the profound and personal realization that women who choose abortion need to be supported in their right to grieve that choice. The decision to choose abortion is rarely a neutral matter, and often it isn't the most desired outcome of a pregnancy, but when it is chosen it is almost always perceived as the best possible choice among the choices that are available. That makes for a lot of messy feelings, all hidden behind the rage of society's abortion debates.

I am one woman among many who has experienced abortion, and sharing the story of my abortion publicly here and now is terrifying. Even though I already experience deep support from some, I expect judgment and hatred from others. I expect to be disowned and cast out by at least some in my life who would otherwise keep me close. Beyond those I know personally, I expect strangers to point fingers, to call me a baby-killer and a whore and an evil woman, and even to threaten me for daring to speak up.

As I seek to answer my vocation as a future minister, however, I feel compelled to risk all of this. As a woman who buried her grief for years and discovered, after sharing it, that she is still loved, I can no longer justify cloaking myself in timidity and fear while other women still bear the burden of their grief alone (many in far more oppressive circumstances than mine). If I had known even one woman like myself--a woman of faith who chose abortion and dared to share her tale later so that others might be able to face their own stories--I might have been able to grieve and begin to heal far sooner.

I invite any woman who has had an abortion to consider letting her grief rise up and to share her story with someone she trusts. And for those women who can't think of anyone to tell, consider sharing it confidentially with someone who will listen to your story without judgment. If you are someone to whom one of these grieving women shares her story, I invite you to release all your expectations of how she should feel or how she should have acted and listen instead with all the tenderness and compassion you hold within you.

As a Christian, I experience on this Easter day the strange, radical truth that tombs aren't necessarily destined to remain closed. Perhaps, if we who have experienced abortion allow our grief to rise up, we will visit the tomb one day only to find it empty--and we'll realize that what was dead was made to be raised to new, undying life in us, just like Jesus was raised up from death in the midst of those who loved him.

 

Purim: How Does It Work? - Contributor Post

Today, Kate Allen from Life, Love, Liturgy talks about the history of a really cool, and slightly unknown by some of the masses, holiday.

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If any religious people can put on a daringly joyous and raucous holiday, Jewish people can. Purim, celebrated on the 14th day of the Jewish month of Adar, will be celebrated this year starting at sunset on March 15 (and continuing till sunset on March 16).

Purim is a holiday based on the book of Esther, which is a ten-chapter tale about Esther and her cousin Mordecai, who are Jews, along with the Persian king and his advisor. The king's advisor, Haman, persuades the king, Ahasuerus, to eliminate all of the Jews, mainly out of anger and jealousy he bears toward Mordecai. Mordecai persuades Esther, who has become the most favored woman in Ahasuerus' harem and thus the Persian queen, to go to the king and ask him not to fulfill Haman's request. After fasting for three days, Esther goes to the king, thus risking her life, because no one is supposed to approach the king without a summons. The king continues to look on Esther favorably despite her unexpected appearance before him, and afterward Esther reveals her Jewish identity, asking him to spare her people. In the end, Haman is hanged on the gallows he had built for the leaders of the Jews, and Purim is declared a holiday by Esther herself.

To celebrate Purim, Jewish folks prepare for Purim by fasting. Then they get together to read the Megillah (i.e. the book of Esther). This is no drab reading of scripture, however. Folks show up for Purim in bright costumes, armed with groggers to boo and blot out the name of Haman. The celebration of Purim is a lively ritual enactment of the salvation of the Jewish people from those who would have them annihilated.

According to Esther 9:22, people offer food to their friends and money to the poor. Purim is also a time of obligatory drunkenness--observers of this holiday are supposed to get so drunk, according to Talmud, that they can't tell the difference between cursing the name of Haman and blessing the name of Mordecai!

If you don't make it to your local Purim celebration this weekend, you might try your hand at making triangular, jelly-filled Hamantaschen so you can join in the feasting!

picture courtesy of Wikipedia

Open Letter to Pope Francis from a Roman Catholic -- Contributor Post

A while back, I wrote an open letter to Pope Francis as a nonreligious. Today, thealogian Kate Allen from Life, Love, Liturgy writes a much more relevant note to him, as a Roman Catholic.

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To Pope Francis:

In my almost thirty-two years as a Roman Catholic, I have never been prouder of any pope. Granted, I've only encountered three in my lifetime, but I am also a student of Christian history. You stand out among your predecessors.

You have rocked the entire world with your embodied proclamations of the good news. You kiss the wounds of the sick. You share tables with those who have neither tables of their own nor food to put on them. You warn your clergy again and again against the glamour of clericalism. Your love is abundant, like Christ's was and is, and I have seen it have a multiplying effect, even (perhaps especially) among non-Roman Catholics.

I am tremendously grateful to God for your faithful, living witness to the teachings of Jesus. Your heart is wide open, and I feel quite certain that if I happened to walk into your midst, you would smile and greet me with the warmth of an old friend, and I would greet you likewise.

I need to confess something to you. On February 16, 2014, God willing, I will leave my cloak of Roman Catholic identity behind in order to be received as a member of the Episcopal Church.

Despite having spent my entire life as a devoted (albeit flawed) Roman Catholic, I cannot remain Roman Catholic any longer. Because despite the gospel of Jesus you now proclaim miraculously through your very body, and despite the many ways in which I encounter Christ's presence through your holy example, I'm afraid there is at least one way in which you, like most if not all of your predecessors, have failed to hear the voice of God and heed it: in the calling of thousands upon thousands of women around the world to ordained ministry.

I was able to name my own God-given call to ordained ministry thirteen years ago. I was still a teenager then. I am close with several Roman Catholic women who share the same call. Yet you, like your papal predecessors, have dismissed even the possibility that women might be called to ordained ministry.

I don't understand this hardness of heart. Not from you.

What I do understand is how hard it can be to hear God's earnest whispers when so much of one's culture screams against it. My favorite psalm is Psalm 51, because it is a perpetual invitation to be changed, transformed, turned around:

Create in me a clean heart, o God.
...
Then will I teach transgressors Thy ways
and sinners shall be converted unto Thee.

I suspect this psalm is as dear to you as it is to me. Please, then, let God's whispers reach your ear through my meager words: God calls some women to serve as ordained ministers. That the Roman Catholic hierarchy refuses to acknowledge this (or even to discuss it) is gravely sinful. It is presumptuous to deny God's calling to those whom God has chosen.

Please, for God's sake, don't allow whatever is lacking in me cause you to be deaf to what God is speaking to you through me in this moment. If anyone with the authority to effect gospel change in the Roman Catholic Church can hear this prophetic word, I believe you can.

Please, open your heart and listen for the sake of my daughters, who will grow up in the midst of your legacy even if they never set foot in a Roman Catholic church.

Please, listen. Listen because you know better than almost anyone that God speaks prophetically through those who are marginalized, women included.

Please, I beg you from the bottom of my heart, listen--allow yourself to be importuned by me, just like the judge was importuned by the widow, or like Jesus was importuned by the woman begging for scraps. You and I both know what happened in those latter two instances. If Jesus' mind could be changed, surely yours can.

I believe that the world-wide turning of hearts to God, if you listened in this one way and acted accordingly, would be a miracle of biblical proportion.


With blessings and love in the One who creates, redeems, and sanctifies all the world,


M. Kate Allen









 

An Open Letter to Pope Francis

Hey there, Pope Francis,

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to address you, so forgive the informality. It's been quite a while since I Catholicked. I'm a bit rusty on the when-to-kneel part right now.

But that's what I wanted to talk to you about. See, I lived in a Catholic-laden town, was born and raised Catholic, got all my sacraments, and even did my first year of undergrad at an all-girls Catholic college.

When you're a kid, you don't know any better, you know? You trust the adults around you. You believe what they say because they know things. And they say those things with authority. And you love and respect them.

So that God and Jesus existing as these beacons of light and life was just a given as a concept. I couldn't imagine a world without that.

One day, walking through that Catholic campus, I looked up at the chapel, and I didn't feel God anymore. I know that sounds silly, but pretend this image of Him was like a blanket covering me in my youth, and suddenly, for no discernible reason, it disappeared. I was pretty pissed. It felt like abandonment, in an equally silly way. But I carried on. I started doing some research, asking some questions, poking some holes. I ended up switching colleges and majoring in evolutionary biology. (Yeah, you heard me.)

There were several times I tried to go back. When life felt too hard, or something was lacking. I held onto the hope that God may yet return. I went back to church a few times and didn't find Him. I worked for the Church, and found the opposite of Him there. In the Church's infrastructure lies a great evil, a bullying, narcissistic, abusive presence. Literally the opposite of all the Jesusy things I'd been led to believe as a young girl. It was heartbreaking.

That's not to say there wasn't some good, there. Our Archbishop was an incredibly kind and gentle man and the former bishop of the area nearby was perhaps the most compassionate man I've ever met. There were priests fighting for families, immigrants, the poor. There was love and happiness. But the good up top was manipulated by middle management, and the good below was stifled by that same middle management.

I began to think I hated the Church, its manipulation, its trickery. I moved far to the left, supporting abortion rights, birth control, gay marriage, human rights. (And I will continue to do so, regardless of all else).

But it wasn't that I was against the Church. It was that I was for goodness. Goodness as I understand it. Goodness as charity without strings, goodness as kindness without judgement, goodness as unconditional love and compassion for all people.

I didn't believe goodness was some guy in a ridiculous hat and robe, riding around in a "Popemobile." I still don't.

But you don't even use the Popemobile!

I used to say my kids didn't know who God was. And they didn't. They went four years of their lives never hearing his name. Because I wasn't going to do that to them. I don't know anything about this stuff, and I wasn't about to mess them up by telling them the wrong thing, leading them the wrong way. Slowly this year, we've introduced some of the old bible stories. When they ask if God is real, I tell them He's a story that some people believe. When they ask me if I believe it, I say I don't really know. They still don't know about Jesus.

I got them baptized, "just in case." Because, you know, the Church has some scary-ass stories, like Original Sin, and I didn't want my preemies burning in hell just because I didn't symbolically wash away that sin. Which is ridiculous. These are the ridiculous things, you know what I mean? Well, those things, and the scandals, the sex, the money, the generally bad apples that can get to the top (in life as well as in the Church, it's across the board).

Anyway, the point of this ramble is that kids believe in things because they like and trust the adults telling them those things. I haven't liked or trusted the Church in a long time. But maybe it's not cynicism, maybe it's hidden hope.

It's too early to say yet, but you seem to be doing a lot of things I can get behind. Not as a believer, but simply as a human being. You seem to understand religion's place in the world today, and you seem to understand the goodness at the heart of all the dogma.

I like your stance on atheists (thanks for understanding, bro).

I like that even though you're still wrong about gay marriage, you agree it's none of your damn business.

I love the idea that you might possibly be sneaking out of the Vatican at night to help poor people. In. Love. With. That. Idea.

I'm down with your dismissal of stupid trickle-down economy.

I'm super excited about the fact that you are looking the child sex abuse issue in the effing face.

I mean, this is some yes, we can shit right here, am I right?

Suffice to say, if we ended up at the same party, I think we'd get along just dandy. I mean, you are lacking in hugely  important areas to me (mainly that women are actually equal human beings), but I understand we can't just change everything all at once. We'll just steer clear of talking about my vagina. I'm pretty sure you'd agree to that, anyway.

I wrote a Facebook status saying that if you were actually for real, I might consider going back. Because if Catholicism is going to do goodness and kindness right, I can get behind that. I can teach my kids that. I can give them a framework that may well be a story, but at least not worry that I'm telling them to trust corruption and 'sin' masquerading as truth and goodness.

As a friend of mine said, in reply to my status: "If we were doing Christianity right it would be irresistible. Because, truthfully, Christianity is sexy, dangerous, challenging, and bad ass."

That's the Christianity I want to be a part of.

In essence, perhaps it's not so much that I'm a non-believer, that I hate Catholicism, or anything like that. I thought I would side-eye the Church for the rest of my life, no matter what they did. But now, in just a few months, I'm tilting my head rather than squinting. Perhaps I just needed to be shown a little bit of hope, a little bit of humanity. Perhaps I wanted to belong all along, and needed just the slightest sign that you all were at least trying. 

I'm not going back yet, and I can't say I ever will. But I am paying attention. And I'm starting to give you (you the Pope, not you the Church. That will take much longer) the benefit of the doubt. Which I never thought would happen. I'm starting to smile a little when I see your picture. I'm starting to allow you to represent the Christian ideals I thought were at play when I was a very little girl. Those ideals that I soon found were nowhere in the Church at all. I'm starting to hold out hope that one man can make an institutional change.

Basically what I'm saying is, you've got the potential to bring a lot of people on board. If not as true believers, as helpers to the cause of goodness.

It's goodness we need, and goodness we're after, regardless of what God, if any, you believe in.

Please do not fuck this up. You're giving yourself an awfully big task, but you're also making people believe you might possibly be able to do it. And if not do it, at least try without falling to dogma, pressure or wealth of station.

I don't want to be crushed again. I don't want to have played the fool. Twice, after all, is shame on me.

So, Pope Francis. Go. Do it. For all of us. Make it happen. Good luck.

Darlena

PS - I hear you have the direct line to God, or something. Tell Him hi for me. And Merry Christmas (or happy holidays, whichever you prefer.)











 

He's Got the Whole World in his Hands -- Guest Post

Tracey from Inside the Mommyvan with a post I pretty much need to hear every day of my life.

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I posted on Facebook the other day, "Learned something this afternoon. No matter how rotten your mood is going in, a room full of 3 & 4 year-olds singing "He's Got the Whole World In His Hands" will cure it." A friend commented that this should be the first paragraph when I write my book. I don't know that I have a book inside of me waiting to get out, but it's a good lead-in to what I'm writing today so thanks, Jane, for the suggestion!

I volunteer at our church's weekly children's program. I'm the music assistant, and part of my job is to give the littlest participants, the 3 and 4 year-old preschoolers, a taste of choral singing and some fun rhythm and movement activities. I'm planting seeds of musicianship in their hearts and in their souls. I give them a safe, happy place where we sing and make friends and there is no judgement. They are special -- we sing hello to each child by name, and remind them that "God loves you!" -- and they even get to call the shots sometimes: what hand motions will we do with this verse; shall we shake the jingles, or roll them on the floor? They don't care about tempo or dynamics, or even pitch in most cases. They care about joy and exuberance, and it is contagious.

My Facebook-worthy revelation came as we rehearsed that old standard for the last time before they sing it in worship on Sunday. They sang that song, and every word of it came straight from their hearts. If you don't believe that "He's got you & me, brother, in His hands," you would after hearing this bunch sing it to you. I love these kids, I really do. I handle behavior problems, the wiggles, the giggles, even the defiant non-participation, with kindness and grace. They, in turn, show me love and gratitude like whoa. When my little cherubs are up there on the chancel steps on Sunday morning and get a little nervous, and their eyes find mine and they smile and sing on, I know what a superhero feels like right after he flings the doomsday machine into the sun and saves all humanity.

The rotten mood I had going in, now that was another story. My own children had been misbehaving in every way imaginable for the 45 minutes directly before we needed to leave the house, and not all that great in the hours preceding those 45 minutes, either. That key time, though, when I need to get everyone including myself into decent clothes, get snacks into everyone's bellies, and prepare everything we need for the marathon of activity that is our Wednesday afternoon and evening, is one of those times when just one thing going wrong means we're late; more than that means something or someone is going to be unfinished, forgotten, dirty, hungry... and we're going to be late.

A little while after I tossed that quip up on Facebook, I went back and thought about it more. How do those children melt my heart so easily? Why do my own offspring -- not even much older -- seem, at times, to exist only to torment me? Part of it, I know, is the time factor. Half an hour of adorable preschooler antics is a piece of cake compared to the non-stop proximity that homeschooling brings. We do get breaks from each other here and there, but I'm still the primary taskmaster, disciplinarian, and all-around mean Mommy & teacher all in one. I can't commiserate with my kids over homework overload or even the lousy lunch offerings because I am the source of all evil in their academic world.

Don't get me wrong, I homeschool in large part because I love my children and I don't want to miss a moment of their growing up, exploring, and learning. When they read with increasing ease, make a science discovery, or catch on to a new math concept... do you remember the thrill of those first toddler steps? Their excitement, my pride... it's that superhero feeling all over again.

But I forget. I forget to stop and notice their beautiful children's hearts. I forget to appreciate. I lose my kindness and my grace. I focus so hard on what they need to learn, how they must behave, where we're going next and what time we have to be there that I forget to revel in those moments of glee, of love, of gratitude the way I do during those half-hours on Wednesday afternoons. I try to schedule and control all of our minutes and hours so that we waste no time that could be put to productive use. We have our play time, of course, but even that becomes a source of annoyance rather than freedom and delight. They might be having a grand old time, but as soon as Mom appears and reminds them they weren't supposed to be in the dirt because now we'll have to clean up and change clothes and that wasn't on the agenda, it's all out the window.

As of the other night, that has changed. I'm taking to heart the lessons my cherubs have taught me. Ultimately, I'm not in charge, and when I try to be I foul it all up. The happiness comes first, and I work my schedule around it. I am still committed to academic rigor, but the tempo isn't as important as I've made it. The dynamic doesn't have to be non-stop tedium or dire threats as motivation. It can focus on the discovery and the excitement, and slip the necessary-but-monotonous in while they're still on a high from the last "get up and dance" bit. Just as we add some life to our singing by using sticks or shakers or scarves, I can spice up our work as simply as substituting paints for pencils.

He's got the whole world in His hands... the kids get it, and my timetables and priorities got nothin' on that!

 

Finding Religious Formation Good Enough for my Daughters - Contributor Post

Today, Kate Allen who blogs over at Life, Love, Liturgy (and CornDog Mama!) shares her struggle to find the right religious landscape for her kids.

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My oldest daughter turns three next month, and I can no longer put it off: I have to decide what sort of religious formation my kids are going to have growing up.

I wrote recently about resources parents can draw on for their kids' religious formation, but, the thing is, there's a bigger issue than resources at stake for me. I mean, I have more theological training than most ordained pastors--I am and always will be a walking theological resource for them. But I want more for my kids than what I can teach them. I want my kids to grow up in religious community. And it'll take a serious leap of faith for me to stick them in religious community and trust that they'll be formed well.

I grew up Roman Catholic. I have a Master's degree in Roman Catholic theology. The easiest thing would be to stick them in Catholic Sunday School and correct whatever they're taught that strikes me as off-base or wrong. In fact, that was my plan before I had kids.

In the last year, though, I've come to the realization that pragmatism won't be able to overcome one vitally important fact: the Roman Catholic Church isn't good enough for my daughters.

I don't want my daughters to grow up in a faith tradition where only men are allowed to do the most important things, like acting in persona Christi to say the consecrating prayers over the bread and wine. I want my daughters to look to the center of the action in religious services and see a woman leading, rather than making way for a man.

I don't want my daughters to hear weekly Mass readings that systematically exclude women. I want my daughters to hear regular references to the many bible stories featuring women who do awesome, even outlandish things.

I don't want my daughters to have to fight their way into the idea that women can do anything men can, especially in a truth-charged religious context. I want them to be empowered by everything they see, hear, smell, taste, and touch in their religious formation.

The thing I've learned as a follower of Jesus is that Roman Catholics aren't the only ones who do Christianity wrong. Christianity has evolved into an exclusivistic club where you have to buy into Jesus as the sole son of (a male) God to get the most grace.

I don't buy it. Christian creeds alone aren't good enough for my daughters.

I do want my kids to learn about Jesus and all the ways he broke the status quo of his religious context--that's critically important to me. I also want them to see beyond what Jesus' followers have canonized and creedalized as right and good. I want them to know that Jesus was born Jewish and died Jewish. I want them to know that Jesus wasn't out to start a new religion--that what he was really doing was being an extraordinary interpreter of Torah. You know, the way rabbis often are.

I want them to dance in the presence of God the way the people at Chochmat HaLev did at their High Holy Day services earlier this month. I want them to laugh and sing out in the presence of Goddess. I want them to regard all places and creatures as holy, and that "more holy" or "less holy" are labels that can only apply to one's actions. I want them to learn that God is both-gendered and beyond gender. I want them to learn that they are sacred bodies as ancient and substantial and changing as the stars, not merely immortal souls as immaterial as infinity. I want them to see how extraordinary--even divine--Jesus is (and isn't). And I want them to see how extraordinary--and divine--they aren't and are.

So maybe I'll take them to a Christian church, and maybe I'll also take them to a Jewish synagogue. Maybe I'll choose a Christian place that rehearses radically and intentionally inclusive table fellowship in its liturgy, and maybe I'll choose a Jewish place in which all are welcome to dance with and kiss and learn and interpret Torah. And maybe both of the religious communities I choose will be led by women as awesome as my daughters are.

Because that would be good enough for my daughters.



 

Kids and God

I am what you would call a lapsed Catholic. My family went to church every Sunday. We sometimes prayed before meals. I was baptized, received communion, and became confirmed. We all went to CCD every week for years. I was part of the youth group, part of the choir. I knew the priests, deacons and ushers by name.

At age 18, I went to a Catholic College on basically a full-ride scholarship. Through no fault of the school, or the church, or anything that people would normally blame for such a thing, I woke up one morning and God was gone. I looked at the chapel on campus, and I just didn't feel him there anymore.

My security blanket had disappeared, and it wasn't coming back. I left the school and paid to go to a state university instead.

As my children grow, I find myself pondering what I am going to do with them in terms of religion. Both my husband and I come from Catholic families. The babies are baptized, more to keep the peace than anything, although, I figure if there's any truth to the baptized being saved, better to have it done than not. I'd like to save my kids in any way that I can. I'm not trying to be lighthearted about this, it's just that I truly don't know, and since that may possibly be a way to save them from Hell if there is such a place, there's no reason not to do it. Other than, of course, we're not following through on our promises to the church, as of right now.

But should we have to pay a price to a human church to gain the favor of God?

Don't get me wrong, I think the church does a lot of good. I also know (I worked for them recently) that they are a human organization with facets that are completely wrapped up in human desires, like money and status.

I want my children to be good people. I want them to follow the ten commandments, not because they were handed down by God to Moses, but because they're a good set of moral rules in my opinion.

I want my children to be able to make informed choices about their beliefs and ideas. I want them to have ideas. I know that being religious does not prevent that, especially as an adult, and I know that religious adults who fully understand their belief and the role it plays in their lives are capable of showing their children how to use that religion to further their own growth.

That's not me, though. I don't understand where I stand, so how can I properly inform my kids there? I wouldn't have the answers to their questions. Many of my answers would be: because the man in the white robe says so. That's a disservice to both the church and my children.

On the other hand, I'm disillusioned with the church I grew up in, while at the same time still fiercely loyal to it, so that I couldn't imagine changing religions, finding new things to like and dislike about a new belief system. I'm halfway through the journey in Catholicism, should I choose to go back. I don't think I have the stamina to start from the beginning in some new faith. I don't think I could bear the new disappointments sure to meet me when I find those religions also fail in many human ways.

So, where does that leave my kids? How can I prepare them for this complex other-worldly part of life that I don't understand myself? Why is God a fear in my life as my kids develop and grow, and no longer the comfort He was in my own childhood? Do I really want them to wake up one morning as an adult and feel the marked pain of betrayal as the man in the sky vanishes before their eyes? Is it my right to project my experience onto them like that? Is it my right to push them into a religion or away from it? Where is the line?

Religion is a comfort to many people. On some level, it remains so for me. But mostly, it is a terrifying ordeal I'm going to have to straighten out in my own head before my children start asking questions.

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