This Ignatian Life » Megan’s Posts

Like a 3-Year Old Spreads Peanut Butter…

mbensley — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 11:16:21 +0000

The other day, someone asked me where I like to pray. I started to respond back quickly with the familiar: church, before meals, on retreats, before I go to bed. And then I started thinking about the past month and the times when I remember intentionally turning to God to share a laugh, mutter a desire, say a thank-you or to simply be aware of God’s presence. Laying in bed after the alarm went off, in the shower, on the subway, at PETCO, after I tripped but saved myself from falling, watching my niece and nephew blow out their birthday candles, stuck in traffic while road tripping to Upstate NY, and looking at pictures on Facebook of summer weddings, baby arrivals, family vacations, anniversaries & beyond. Each of these places and circumstances, though far different from the next, share the common thread of my need for, and turning towards, God’s presence.

I’m not sure what made me pause before responding to the initial question that was asked of me, but in the 20 seconds that I stopped to make this mental list I was yet again reminded of one of the most valuable gifts my Jesuit education and Ignatian spirituality…to look for, and actually find, God in all things. Mother Theresa put it another way: “Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.” When we are actually setting out every morning with this mindset it becomes difficult, near impossible, to separate what is “prayer,” what is “religious,” and what is “my faith” from what is “not prayer” or “not my faith.” How wonderfully solid and purposeful life becomes when it’s all faith— starting from the tiny little crevices of life that blend together, bond together, to give us the strength we need to be true disciples of Christ.

As a teacher, like most professions, I oftentimes have to carefully divide my time, my duties and my attention into concrete categories. If I didn’t I’d never get anything done. It is important that I plan a certain number of minutes of grammar instruction weekly, I have to set aside a particular number of hours to grade each week or else June would come and no grades would appear, and literary discussions must give way to the algebra class next door after a mere 55 minutes have past. But, when it comes to my faith, I’ve learned to embrace taking it out of the boxes and throwing it all around. The mental image of a teenager’s bedroom with clothes strewn about comes to mind.

When I was on the road trip Upstate, I had the luxury of XM radio. I’m not so good with technology even when I have nothing else to focus on, so driving in the car made it a darn near impossible task to master. Luckily, my co-pilot was quick with the buttons and didn’t complain too much when my eclectic musical tastes shifted from Bluegrass Junction to 90’s on 9 to The Fish. At a brief stop on The Fish, a radio announcer somewhat sheepishly dealt listeners the line: “God’s spreads His goodness like a 3 year-old spreads his peanut butter. He just gets it all over the place.” What a perfect image for our prayer life—spread it out all over the place and get it in every nook and cranny. That’s how I like to pray.

My Best Year Yet

Renovation

mbensley — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 16:35:22 +0000

My landlord invited my roommate and I to leave our apartment this month to do some renovations on the roof, bathroom and ceiling. At the end of another dizzying school year this seemed like the perfect time for a vacation, yet the shoestring budget of a NYC Catholic school teacher wouldn’t allow much wiggle room for fleeing. Needing the extra money that summertime tutoring brings and maybe a cake gig or two, I knew I wouldn’t really be able to go far. Instead, I packed my bags, several books, and my computer and prepared to live a little bit here, a little bit there, visiting friends and doing a little bit of soul renovating along the way.

The first few days of renovation (a.k.a. my displacement) were spent finishing work from the school year–typing Word documents at the speed of light, updating curriculum, preparing reports on struggling students, etc. I have to commend myself— I was pretty darn productive. And then the work finished itself up and I was left staring into the tabula rasa that is summer ’10. This is where the trouble began. The lack of structure, certainty and purpose in my days was terrifying. With the predictability and routine of my work environment and my home environment now gone…I too felt gone, lost and unsupported. My confident, determined, and usually task-driven self all of a sudden felt without purpose. Why so glum, I thought, when this is SUMMER and well-deserved relaxation should be a welcomed prospect? The type-A in myself decided to sleep-it-off and wake up in the morning with a concrete list of tasks to put me back on track—go for a walk, do some laundry, call a friend in Omaha, read 2 chapters of a book, bake a pie. Notice that nowhere along the way did I stop and turn to God…nope, I was the task master.

Go for a walk—check

Laundry—check

Phone call—check

Pie—check

Book— check, and…stop.

The book I picked up was Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. I have read through it several times—sometimes slowly mulling over Rilke’s advice and other times racing through the text on a face-paced commute simply to “kill time.” No matter when read or in what style, Rilke’s message always feels fresh and new. There’s always something different I am left with at the end of a simple leaf-through. This time around, it was his advice on writing that stuck with me and his advice on avoiding look OUT to somehow prove one’s worth WITHIN:

“You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now.

No one can advise or help you – no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.”

Reading Rilke’s words struck an accord with my schedule-driven frenzy. What if, just what if, the answer to rest, relaxation and a return to independence laid WITHIN?! I could literally hear God whispering “duh” in my ear and repeating Rilke’s words as:

“… ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I PRAY?”

Looking within, slowing down, turning to prayer, turning to writing…the middle of my 10-day renovation vacation has led me to the beach. No more lists for the time being—more Rilke, a little E.L. Doctorow, and embracing the WITHIN.

Contemplating Careening

Luke 10:38-42

mbensley — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 02:06:21 +0000

Parties have been on my mind lately. Last weekend I helped to throw a birthday party for my niece, this week there were two birthday celebrations at work and tonight I’m having a few friends over for a dinner party. That being said, I cannot get Luke’s words out of my head:

As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!” “Martha, Martha,” the Lord answered, “You are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her.” (Luke 10:38-42)

I am much more of a Martha than a Mary. Dinner parties, lesson planning for my classes, birthdays, vacations…. I busy myself with little distractions, oftentimes to the detriment of my enjoyment of the “event” itself. When I think about the kind of party I would like to throw if Jesus was in my neighborhood for the evening, I immediately begin making lists:

1) Homemade snacks of all kinds
2) Cake fit for a King
3) Extravagantly long guest list
4) Party games? Which ones? (Is Jesus more of a Taboo buff or Scattergories nut?)
5) Clever music (I’m thinking of a catchy i-tunes mix with the first song being Chicago’s
“You’re the Inspiration.” Would He get it?)

In the midst of my planning for this fictional, overly ambitious dinner party I am reminded of Jesus’ reminder to Martha, “Stop being worried about so many things and just enjoy the moment!” This week I am going to take a cue from Mary: worry less, busy myself less and live more in the moment. I suspect this just might make the presence of Christ all the more clear to me in the classroom, in my conversations with friends, and during the dinner party that is happening in t-minus one hour. I’ll keep you posted on my “less is more efforts!”

The Enneagram

mbensley — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 21:29:20 +0000

Every month I gather with fifteen other young adults from the New York City area as part of the Jesuit Collaborative’s Contemplative Leaders in Action Program (CLIA). The purpose of the group is to lead by reflection. That is, through prayer, literature, discussion and community involvement, we seek to first better understand ourselves so that we might then better understand the world in which we live. All of us who gather with the program lead incredibly active, diverse and devoted lives professionally, academically and spiritually. We are engineers, investment bankers, educators, hotel managers, lawyers and marketing specialists who have been formed in Jesuit education and want to continue to lead, pray and live lives of service and faith. If you are reading this blog, chances are a group like this is right up your alley and you might want to read more about the program and the Collaborative at: http://www.jesuit-collaborative.org/CLIA-Opens-in-Two-New-Cities .

A couple of months ago I looked through the CLIA syllabus and noticed the phrase “personality indicator tool” alongside the next two upcoming meeting dates. Clearly our beloved group leader suspected that the clever phrasing might sound a little less harsh than PERSONALITY TEST. A bit begrudgingly, our group of engineers, bankers, lawyers, teachers and wall street gurus sat down to take the personality indicator, the Enneagram. Little did we know the results would bring welcomed and accurate “labels” for who we are, how we lead and where we might grow as leaders. While the Enneagram itself is not explicitly rooted in Christianity, it is based on the premise that through self-awareness, we can use our strengths to better serve and live lives of leadership. Therefore, it is easy to see how the tool can be situated in a Christian framework. In fact, the process of taking the personality indicator and answering focused Enneagram questions reminded me very much of the daily practice of the Ignatian Examen. In the Enneagram, focused questions, lead you to a number (one through nine) that is your “type.” The premise is that people of the same type have the same basic motivations and communication patterns, and view the world in fundamentally similar ways. The Enneagram groups its questions under the following five categories: 1) What is your driving force? 2) What behaviors do you rely on to get what you long for? 3) What role do you usually take in relationships? 4) How do you react under stress? And, 5) What will make you truly satisfied? Just as the Examen asks you to look back at the day, at your actions and choices, the Enneagram helps to pinpoint where your personality shines, where you are at peace, and in what ways you bring peace to others. Yet, the learning aspect of the Enneagram comes with the discussion of where your personality needs to grow and be stretched in order to fully embrace and live a fulfilled life as a scholar, friend, worker, lover, caregiver or confidant. If you’re interested in learning more about the Enneagram, look into Richard Rohr’s book The Enneagram: A Christian Perspective. This rich, extensive book prods you as you figure out your type, situating the tool within a Christian framework and offering anecdotal remarks along the way of Saints who embodied each of the nine types. Alternatively, two websites that offer comprehensive Enneagram material are: http://www.9types.com/ and
http://www.enneagraminstitute.com/.

Once we fifteen engineers, investment bankers, educators, hotel managers, lawyers and marketing specialists had our defined Enneagram numbers in hand, perceptions of the “personality indicator tool” slowly began to change. Unlike any personality test I, or others, had taken, something seemed very Christ-like about the brutally honest and reflective conversation that followed. The gist of it was: “let me explain who I am and how I am so that we can better work, live and serve together.” Since the first CLIA-Enneagram meeting, I have used the “personality indicator tool” to have reflection-based discussions with roommates, coworkers and friends. Going throughout my days now with people who I now know to be “threes” or “nines” has helped me to better understand our relationship and how to effectively work, live and pray together with those around me. Consider my “personality indicator tool” skepticism erased. And, in case you are wondering, I’m a “two.”

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Gas Station Coffee & Do-It Yourself Homilies

mbensley — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 16:58:03 +0000

Gas station coffee. It is one of my favorite things. 1/3 cappuccino to 2/3 coffee. I have had some of my best conversations with friends on road trips, strangers on Greyhound buses, and family members on the walk back from the gas station over a steaming cup of french vanilla. I’m not sure if it’s the no-frills styrofoam cup or the sinful amount of sugar, but gas station coffee really makes people slow down, open up and be real.

The homily at mass this morning in rural upstate New York begged for some gas station refreshment. Father J openly admitted that he needed a breather from the homily-giving after the wear-and-tear of Advent and turned the floor over to the congregation to reflect on the season and what it has meant to each of us this year. The plea for a participatory homily was met with a full 3 minutes of silence and I couldn’t help but become nostalgic for some gas station coffee. It really gets people talking. Enough awkward silence will also get people talking and soon several women had shared their reflections on Advent 2009. I was surprised, and somewhat proud, of the non-sugary stories that my hometown hamlet produced. One woman confessed that the holidays were enlightening as she came to terms with the fact that she, the eldest of eight, was not going to have children of her own even though she had been changing diapers since she was seven years old. Another woman, a nurse, opened up about the long, heart wrenching shifts she struggled to make sense of throughout the Advent season. She shared that as the days passed by she soaked up more and more sorrow from her patients’ suffering. There were several other Advent anecdotes shared and explained, each one seemingly confirming Fr. J’s decision to “open the floor up.” What’s more, each story ended with the storyteller expressing thanks to the congregation for the opportunity to share their story, and thanks for (perhaps unknowingly) being present every Sunday to love, to support and to reassure over the past four weeks.

At the end of mass, I wanted to caravan down to the Hess on the corner with the twenty families present at mass and buy everyone a cup of gas station coffee. You see, the “open the floor up” homily and gas station coffee have more in common than it might seem at first glance. They are both invitations. Invitations that at first we turn our lips up at: “I’ll stick to my fair trade latte, thank you very much.” Or, “Bring on the traditional talk-at-me homily, Fr. ______ .” I admit that I am often of these attitudes. Yet, there is something refreshingly simple and direct about both gas station coffee and what I’ll coin as “Do-it-yourself” homilies. They both get people talking, get people listening to each other and dare I say, get people more Christ-like. Really now, if Jesus Christ himself were looking for a cup of coffee this day in age, I think he would much rather throw down $1.25 in quarters and be on his way with his unadorned joe than pay three times as much after waiting in an altogether too long of a line at a holier-than-thou establishment. And if he turned the corner, coffee in hand, and entered the parish adjacent to the gas station and walked inside, which would he rather hear: the thoughts of one vowed preacher, or the flawed hems and haws of several “Do-it-yourself” conversations?

To bring the comparison to an end, I have to share how the homily ended. Fr. J asked in an appreciative tone if there were any last stories to tell before continuing on. There was another bout of silence before a bearded man dressed in camouflage hunting pants and a camel colored Carhartt jacket approached the altar with a folded piece of paper. Father J took the note and read it, smiling, as the man turned around to the congregation and announced: “The roads on Route 11 seem a little slippery, so please be careful on your way home.”

We all have our ways of contributing to these “Do-it-yourself” conversations, whether it is words of reflection, storytelling, commentary or advice. In these “post-Advent” days, let’s all embrace the spirit of gas station coffee and homemade homilies— slow down, open up and get real with the people around us.

Photo: “Bad Gas Station Coffee” by “desert-dweller” from Flickr (Used under Creative Commons license)

Loss

mbensley — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 20:55:19 +0000

When I was in kindergarten I lost my first tooth ever. It happened in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese and I was blubbery mess, convinced that the tooth fairy would not buy my story. After crying and carrying on in true over dramatic six year-old fashion, I am told that I said these words to the manager that night: “There has been a disaster.” As it turns out, the tooth fairy accepts handwritten explanations from managers on duty—crisis averted.

Twenty some years later and loss continues to tantalize me, shoving its ugly nose into very real attempts to plan, to organize and make sense of the world. But rather than remain victimized by this all too familiar force-of-loss, I’ve come to think of losing as an art, an art that I am very skilled at. I am constantly “at a loss” throughout my day—metro card, the time, my thought process. And I am especially gifted at losing my keys. The early twentieth century poet Elizabeth Bishop writes about the measured process of losing in her poem “One Art.”

“One Art”

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing further, losing faster:
places, and names and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! My last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

–Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write It!) like disaster.

Count your loses— on fingers, with tears, in curse words. Measure what’s now missing, maybe gone forever—gone from sight, from feeling. And if you can, in a joking voice, laugh at the loss and tell it—you are no disaster.

Then there are those other kinds of losses. What do we do about the losses that cannot simply be laughed off with self-deprecating humor, loss that cannot be consoled with a poem, loss that isn’t somewhat easily consoled?

Lost lives. Lost loves. Lost causes. Loss of innocence.

I admit that I’ve had more losses in these categories than I care to remember. And I also admit that in response to too many of these losses, faith was not my immediate response. Life dangles the temptations of quick-fix responses to the most profound hardship—and there lies the disaster. The loss itself isn’t the disaster, but the response to the loss is where the catastrophe lurks. Enter faith.

Faith is what we turn to; what we must turn to in order to weather the significant losses of life. And when I say faith, I mean much more than going to church for a quick-fix, more than swiftly reaching out for Psalm 23, more than hastily carrying yourself to the nearest confessional to own up to your part in the losing process. The faith that I am referring to is a slow faith. Slow faith means sitting down with a trusted friend, a mentor and examining, over time, how you’ve gotten to this point and how God is trying to help you through it. Slow faith means regular quiet time with your God to feel through the loss and grieve together. Slow faith means paying attention to the people, the places, the things that God has placed into your life very intentionally to inspire, encourage and even entertain. Slow faith will lead you away from disaster.

Loss. With patience, with humor, with faith we can be masters.

Photo: “letting go” by “janGlas” from Flickr (Used under Creative Commons license)

Who’s “Highly Effective?”

mbensley — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 16:50:47 +0000

I was recently proctoring the ACT college entrance exam to New York City public school juniors and seniors in a small, white-walled room with no windows (thanks to construction going on around the building’s perimeter that meant all four windows were encased in a bubble-wrap-like material.) The desks were in single file roles exactly 5’ apart from one another in all directions and students sat quiet, stiff and seemingly dead to the world listening to me drone on with the nittiest of the griddiest directions.

While 19 students were supposed to be lined up at the door at 7:30 am on a Saturday to show admissions offices just what they are made of, only 4 not-so-eager troopers actually pulled through and were sitting in front of me. Hour one rolled into hour two and two into three, four—calculators, sharpened pencils, 5 minute warnings, tissue distribution, and a whole lot of silence, unspoken tiredness and staring at the wall. And on the wall…

The only decoration in the entire testing room was a series of 7 posters entitled “The 7 Habits of Highly Effective Teens.” Each poster detailed in words and in illustrations what a teen must do in order to be successful, exceptional, presumably thriving and triumphant. Not allowed to do anything but stand and stare at the environment around me, I spent a lot of time thinking about these 7 keys to success and how they might relate to not just college-bound teenagers, but Catholics as well who are trying to be “highly effective.”

Sean Covey and his dad, Stephen Covey, coined the phrase “7 Habits of Highly Effective (insert age level here)” and the posters that surrounded me and the 4 test-takers included:

1) Be Proactive
2) Start with the End in Mind
3) Put First Things First
4) Think Win-Win
5) Seek First to Understand then to be Understood
6) Synergize
7) Sharpen the Saw

The habits are not mandates, or rules, or Commandments, but instead recommendations for attitudinal and behavioral modifications that will lead to success. I’ll admit, at first, I thought the list was overwhelmingly uncomplicated. “Be Proactive” by showing up to your ACT test on time, “Start with the End in Mind” by realizing that you need a good score on the test in order to get into college and you should therefore, put “First Things First” and pick your sleepy head off your desk and actively engage in the test in front of you. However, when I began making the analogy to “Highly Effective Catholics” this seemingly uncomplicated list got a little more convoluted and complex.

Q. As a successful Catholic, how do we ensure that we are being “Proactive?” A. Daily prayer, weekly mass, creating opportunities to engage in our faith—doing service, talking with others. And another question…Q. What is “The End in Mind” that we, as Catholics, are starting with? A. The Kingdom! As I started going down the list, with the analogy in my head, I developed more sympathy for the 15 no-shows. How often do I, as a Catholic, lack in my “Proactiveness” or in my ability to “Seek First to Understand Then to be Understood?” Let’s just say that too often, I find myself demanding things of God rather than patiently listening for his words or not showing up for that daily moment of prayer like the students missing from my ACT room. Perhaps we have more in common than my original highly judgmental impression of their absence suggested.

As the final minutes ticked by on the official ACT clock, I realized just how hard it was going to be to “eat my words” and my “judgments,” leaving the room with the intention of becoming a “More Highly Effective Catholic.” First things first—now I’ve written down my analogy and am off to discover in what other ways I can be more effective, as a person of faith.

Photo: “Proactive” by “Jonathan Assink” from Flickr (Used under Creative Commons license)

Panic Prayers

mbensley — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 15:02:50 +0000

Recently, as I was teaching a group of ninth graders, the noise level in the room rose to an uncomfortable level. It was last period of the day on a Friday and the room was saturated with excitement for the weekend. Being that I am relatively new on the scene of high school teaching, my heart still begins to race when cracks appear in my classroom management. My heart accelerating with the noise level, I not only threw the class off-guard, but myself as well, with the words: “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.”Twelve words spoken without even raising my voice caused all thirty students who were at various levels of attentiveness to snap to attention; snap their mouths shut and snap their eyes to the front of the room. I wish I had given more careful thought to what I was going to say next after such an effective command. There we all were, thirty-one of us, waiting for someone to break the now oppressive silence. One of the “talkers” in the back of the room had the honors of greeting the newfound stillness with “Wow.”

“Wow” was right. While I don’t want to make a habit of spouting tidbits of internalized prayer, I was amazed at the effect it had. But perhaps even more noteworthy was my quick turn to God in a moment of stress and panic.

A friend of mine calls these automatic, almost reflex-like reaching out to God moments “panic prayers.” When you are running late to work and your mind is racing with the “What ifs” of your delayed arrival, you might interrupt your reeling thoughts with, “Please, God, let the number 7 train be waiting at the platform when I get there.” When driving through treacherous weather— thunderstorms with sheets of rain, tornados on the horizon, bits of blasting hail hitting your car—gripping the steering wheel and focusing eyes more intently on the road, I imagine I’m not the only one who will burst out an “Our Father” or ask more informally, “Jesus! Help!”

So what’s the deal with panic prayers? Are they legit? Should we be using them, relying on them in the freakishly distressing moments of life? Or, are they simply expressions of not carefully thought-out, almost irreverent demands, shouted in life moments when self-control has dwindled? Answer? Legit. At least, I think so. Each of the above examples: teaching in the classroom, commuting to work, and driving in the car lend itself more often to sincere, intentional prayer than it does this quickened, fright-filled kind. As long as I am remembering to pray with and for my students at the beginning of class when the environment is calm and relaxed, I don’t think God so much minds the occasional panic prayer in moments of management crisis. Likewise, the subway can be the perfect place to insert daily prayer time that includes praying for the sleepy people around you who are hiding behind newspapers, plugged into ipods and anxiously checking their watches with a tapping foot. Similarly, if sitting behind the steering wheel is a recurring location of yours why not make it the moment for scheduled time with God? If we can say that we are honestly making an effort in these various settings throughout our day to actively include God, talk to God and practice routine prayer, then the moments of “panic prayer” seem a little more grounded, legitimate and justifiable. I once had a teacher tell me, “If you’re going to panic, panic constructively.” Bring on the panic prayers, albeit sparingly and grounded in the relaxed routine of self-control.

Photo: “by Jami” by “Sara!” from Flickr (Used under Creative Commons license)

The Creed

That Which Will Rise

mbensley — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 13:35:03 +0000

I have no idea what was said in today’s homily, despite the fact that Fr. Jerry is a charismatic speaker who tastefully balances theological weight with entertaining narrative tidbits. I was admittedly distracted by, or let me say, focused on, Jesus’ words to the crowd in Capernaum: “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst” (John 6: 34-35). In true Ignatian style, I let my imagination begin to run wild as my own homily formed in my head:

Some Biblical lines I am simply unable to speak. I am unable to simply hear them, unable to simply read them, and unable to simply write them. Just like a child who breaks into song when asked to recite the alphabet, music begins to cascade through my brain when I hear certain cherished lines: “I am the bread of life,” “We are many parts,” and “You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord,” to name a few. No sooner did Fr. Jerry speak the words “I am the bread of life…” and my foot began tapping as my fingers leafed through the missalette, hoping find that the posted Communion hymn matched the rhythm that was now pulsing through my entire body. To my delight, #338 was in sync with the tune that was being carried through my veins.

When I was 10 years-old or so, I was sitting in church listening to the same rendition of “I Am the Bread of Life” when the significance of the word “raise” became clear to me. Prior to that day the song solely evoked images of bread raising, a familiar sight in my home when I was a kid. My mom baked rolls and birthday cakes, my dad decorated the cakes and rolled up loaves of cinnamon swirl bread, and my brother twisted dough into pretzel knots. I, too, had a knack for the art of baking and found much joy in the kitchen standing in front of the oven waiting for the bread to rise. So, imagine me, at 10 years-old, in my saddle shoes and well-pressed dress, listening to this song and humming along with the lyrics “I am the bread of life; you who come to me shall not hunger…” and then the next notch: “And I will RAAAAAAAAAISE you up!” I’ll never forget that day when I realized that “raise” did not just refer to bread rising (as it had quite simply meant to me previously) but, “raise” also referred to Jesus’ promise to be take care of us, to lift us up. It was one of those “Eureka” episodes, an “A-ha” moment. I like to compare the feeling to being a struggling high school calculus student with fleeting nano-seconds of profound understanding into the meaning behind differentiation and integration.

Bread Rising = Christ Raising. Man, did I feel smart.

I stared at Fr. Jerry, behind the ambo, who was surely helping his parishioners connect their heads and their hearts through his reflection on John’s Gospel. But I was more interested in sitting with the memory of myself at 10 years-old and my realization of, and appreciation for, religion-infused baking. My homily continues…

The act of baking is really all about sharing what one set of hands has prepared with a group, a community, of others. Whether it’s dinner rolls with the family, birthday cakes with the grandkids, doughnuts with the office staff, or a summer pie during a picnic in the park, one set of hands has prepared what many come together to share. Isn’t that what Christ does for us each and every Sunday? We gather together, around a table, as friends, as family, as believers, to eat together what Christ has prepared with his own hands, his own body providing the sacred ingredients. We stand before God with outstretched hands asking for this unleavened promise. We mumble “Amen” as individuals, before resuming our seats next to one another as one congregation. Together, we savor the taste of love that fills our hearts after eating the bread God has made for us. And as we sit in silence, we thank God for this taste, this nourishment, this gift of Life.

On this weekend after the feast day of St. Ignatius Loyola, I am reminded of just how grateful I am for the Society of Jesus and the charisms of Ignatian spirituality that have been truly life-giving to me. Ignatian spirituality has taught me how to run with my imagination, (occasionally giving my own homily in my head is allowed!), “work for the food that endures for eternal life” (John 6:27), and share my gifts with others in both humility and creativity, trusting that one day I too will be “raised up.” I’m off to do some baking while whistling the tune of #338.

Photo: “Basket of freshly baked breads, croissants + pastries” by “Sifu Renka” from Flickr (Used under Creative Commons license)

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Memories

mbensley — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 05:31:06 +0000

All you elementary school teachers out there will understand me when I say how hard it is to throw away the handmade birthday cards, the valentines, the glue-crusted, glittery pictures and the first handwritten letters that a kid ever scrawled onto paper. (Parents too can probably identify.) My reluctance to get rid of reminders like these has resulted in my bedroom becoming overrun with mementos, photos, knickknacks and snippets. Every couple years or so, I reassess the importance of the tiny keepsakes that are sprinkling my room. Some of the more poignant items are so saturated with memory that they stay put, while others find a new home in a cardboard box before being shoved into the closet or underneath the bed. And then there is the third category—those that I force myself to say goodbye to. This third category has by far the fewest participants and I always feel a twinge of pain for every little object that I send sailing into the garbage pile. It has only been a year since I last completed this slow and painful process, but the size of my current apartment and the dreary, rainy weekend that we New Yorkers have been handed has pushed me over the edge to once again walk down Memory Lane:

1. Item: Sympathy card and picture that a third student at Red Cloud Indian School drew for me when my chickens—“Samantha” and “Ignatius”— were eaten by my dog, Daisy.

Verdict: cardboard box.

Reason: The story behind the card is somewhat hilarious and its message is bittersweet, reminding me of the genuine sensitivity all young kids have, but the startling real world knowledge a 9 year-old from the reservation has about death.

2. Item: The list of Walt Disney World Guest Service Guidelines that all Disney employees, (or cast members as they are officially called), are to adhere to. (I worked at Magic Kingdom in Orlando, FL for four months nine years ago.)

Verdict: toss.

Reason: While the list is novel to have and is printed on snazzy Tinkerbell paper, by this point in my life I have incorporated all the points that jive with my day-to-day lifestyle. (“Cast members will seek out opportunities to help guests” sounds a little bit like “Actively and intentionally find ways to be men and women for others.” Perhaps Walt Disney and St. Ignatius Loyola had a bit more in common than we thought! ) And as for the rest of the list, I don’t think I’ll ever work for the Walt Disney Company again.

3. Item: Little metal horse that belonged to a friend, mentor and Jesuit priest that I used to work with.

Verdict: It stays put—right on top of my printer.

Reason: I am fond of this horse because it reminds me of my friendship with Fr. Bill Pauly, whom I loved dearly. He used to keep it on his desk in his room and when he passed away the Jesuits at Red Cloud didn’t know what to do with yet another knickknack. I appreciate that my friend Pauly had a little bit of clutter in his life too and I’ve gladly welcomed his trinket onto my desk. The horse stays put.

4. Item—cue cards

Verdict—box

Reason—Elton John used them

5. Item—Rockettes ticket stub

Verdict—box

Reason—friends from Nebraska

6. Item—Bolivian Ministry of Health certificate

Verdict—toss

Reason—still a good story even without the paper

7. Item—rock

Verdict—stays

Reason—I said so (too much to explain)

8. Item— 2006 birthday card

Verdict—move to fridge**

Reason—message warrants daily reminding
**Did I just create a new category?

9. Item—angel

Verdict—stays

Reason—sister’s wedding favor

10. Item—starfish & poem

Verdict—stays

Reason—sometimes cliché is okay

When I go through this spring cleaning process I am forced to confront the fact that I cannot fairly refer to myself as a person who has few possessions. I do not own a car. I do not own a house. I do not have many physical objects outside the contents that I have managed to cram into my bedroom. But, I am a person that relies on knickknacks. I need these little reminders of the past. Why do I need them? Because they remind me of relationship. And relationships energize me, challenge me, cause me to reflect, push me to be a better me. It is also true that I need to be careful to not become too clingy to these objects in and of themselves. (This is why we have cardboard boxes and garbage cans!) Mementos are reminders of the relationship not the relationship in and of itself. In her novel, Housekeeping, Marilynne Robinson describes the function that household items have on our memories:

“There is so little to remember of anyone – an anecdote, a conversation at a table.
But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance,
written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh,
and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we
always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming
habitual fondness not having meant to keep us waiting long.”

Objects afford us memories, a sense of connectedness and even hope. This is what religious symbols do for us too. The reason I have a crucifix hanging above my bed is because I want to be reminded, daily, that I am part of the Church community. On a more personal level, I am reminded of my individual friendship with Christ. The cross isn’t the friendship, but it reminds me of the friendship. It isn’t enough to simply surround myself with religious symbolism and call myself a Christian. I need to validate the cross on my wall by living my life in an intentional, prayerful way.
Similarly, I look around my newly organized room at the trinkets that are staying put—the horse, the rock, the angel, the starfish and poem. Each serves as a reminder to me of a relationship in my life. But I do not cling to the reminder or the physical representation of that reminder. I am driven by these objects, by these memories to be a loving friend, to live as a caring sister, to work as a compassionate servant.

I suspect that Ignatius Loyola and Francis Xavier had mementos of their friendship hidden somewhere in their bedrooms too, although, they may have gone through the cleaning-out-process more regularly than some of us.

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