Failure, The Only Option

by Rebekah Mays

As a writer, I often wish there was some magic pill I could take that would instantly transform me into Flannery O’Connor. I’ll look at a page I’ve written, think it’s genius, read it again an hour later, delete the whole thing, and start over.

Supposedly, all writers suffer this inferiority complex, and logic and experience tell me that no one becomes great at what they do overnight. But the impulse to think otherwise is really strong. It tells me that what I write needs to be perfect the first time round and that any failure is an omen I won’t “make it” as a writer.

Two years ago, when I was first thinking about converting to Catholicism, I viewed faith a little like a ‘magic writer pill.’ I thought the sacraments would transform me in a way that Calvinism and charisma had not.

The sacrament that first got me considering Catholicism was confession, or “reconciliation.” I was eating pizza and discussing religion with a Catholic friend, and after I made some insensitive comment about the pointlessness of confession, my friend quoted John 20:23. Apparently, Jesus once said to his apostles, “If you forgive anyone’s sins, their sins are forgiven; if you do not forgive them, they are not forgiven.” How could I have missed this?

As an evangelical, I believed that to be absolved from my sins, all I had to do was tell Jesus I was sorry, ask for forgiveness, move on, and repeat when necessary. But it was never as simple as that. There were sins that, no matter how many times I confessed them in my prayers, I didn’t stop committing. Confessing in front of friends, which I tried a number of times, didn’t help much, either. There were a few moments which seemed like breakthroughs, for instance, that time at camp when we threw links of paper chains representing sin at the foot of a wooden cross. At first, it appeared successful. But the cycle would soon start over, and I’d fall back into old habits.

When I began studying the Catholic faith two summers ago, I was struck by how tangible everything was. The sacraments, the saints, the rosary – I realized that this wasn’t idolatry after all. These were tokens to help believers taste and see Christ, and I hungered for this kind of solid grace. I wanted to be a part of this faith, as old and rich as a bottle of wine, vintage 1 AD.

The day came for my confession. I was unbelievably nervous, but ready. Maybe this act would be the religious experience I wanted. Maybe receiving absolution would at last bring me peace and would once and for all free me from my guilt.

I opened the door to a small room. A priest was sitting there in a metal chair, facing the wall. There was no screen to separate us, and my stomach tightened into an even tinier knot. It took a few minutes for my confession to come bubbling out, but I told him everything – my sin, my shame, how distant I felt from God. The priest patiently listened. Then, he spoke about grace. He told me that the love of God is what really mattered.

A few minutes later, it was over; I closed the door behind me, spotless as a sacrificial lamb. But I didn’t feel so different. I was expecting the world to be brighter, my heart to be freer, the weight that had been pressing down on my shoulders to be gone. But I felt more or less the same as before. I was relieved, to be sure, but mainly that the priest was kind, and that the confession was over and done with. I’d hoped that partaking in the sacraments would change everything; it was disappointing to find I was the same messy person.

This was all about a year ago. And then, quite recently, I realized that God had been at the dirty work of sanctification all along. Last month, I managed to forgive someone. It was someone who’d hurt me, someone (like my writing, the sacraments, and a host of other things) through whom I’d tried to define myself.

I realize now that when I let go of my anger, it wasn’t just the other person I was making peace with. It was myself. It was relinquishing the idea that I’ll never be good, talented, or beautiful enough to make my life exactly what I want it to be. It was the unpleasant truth that there is no magic pill, that a lifetime of failure and faith is the only option. Solid grace is not some mountaintop experience that centers on the self – it’s living for others, forgiving them when they hurt you, and accepting God’s forgiveness when you hurt them.

And I was able to do this because of Christ, whom I’d met in the form of that priest. This was Christ, whom I’d received in my palms and dissolved on my tongue mere days before, at work in me. This was the sign of the cross over my chest, saying that despite my protests, I really am free. 

Rebekah Mays is a Barnard College graduate originally from Austin, Texas. She currently works and writes in Prague, Czech Republic. You can find more of her writing on her blog The Prague BLOG or follow her on Twitter @smallbeks.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

Image Credits:
Image #1 via Cmacauley
Image #2 via Tilemahos Efthimiadis
Image #3 via fakesalt  
  

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A Little Crazy Behind the Eyes: The Bachelor and How to Date 15 Churches at Once

Apparently "Worth the Drive"

by Amanda Taylor

My parents packed up and carried off their three little girls to church every week, every Sunday morning, every Sunday evening, and every Wednesday night for my entire childhood. Thirty-five minutes it took to get to the modest, small brown building on the left-hand side of North Court Street in Circleville, Ohio. Thirty-five minutes to get there, thirty-five minutes to get home, every week through the cornfields and past the paper plant to sit in the pew right behind the 85 year-old woman who’s had When the Roll is Called Up Yonder memorized since 1936.

“A Church Alive is Worth the Drive.”

What is a “church alive?” That phrase has continued to silently whisper in my ear, haunting me since its plastic black letters first appeared on the church sign out front 22 years ago. By many of today’s standards, this church was deadern’ a doornail. Small, both cramped and yet somehow drafty, adverse to change, enthusiastic about routine, skeptical of outside influence, a lover of How Shall the Young Secure Their Hearts.

It is as objectionable to me now as it is entrenched. The comfort, love, and safety I feel in that small Church of Christ setting is something that I am certain will never be replicated, but it is also confining, and limiting, and maddening. So where do I belong? How do I practice this faith in a way that will honor my parents’ commitment, as well as the great blessing and curse of my own?

After swim practice in the fifth grade a friend asked me what religion I was, and when I answered, “Church of Christ,” they told me that wasn’t a thing. Feeling bad for me, they asked if I was, you know, Catholic or something? I pondered, unsettled, and panicked and then asked my dad on the way home from church the next Sunday, Hey Dad? Are we Catholic? Only years later did I realize how incredible my question sounded to him, once it became a running joke through our entire extended family that I might be “the Catholic one,” but that I wasn’t sure.

A little crazy.

Perhaps this confusion about belonging burrowed a little too far into my heart and mind, because now I wonder all over again “what I am.” I must go to church; I have gotten this far.  But the decision of where that will occur is another matter entirely. I find myself, having watched The Bachelor a time or two, seeing parallels between my pursuit for a church community and the latest Bachelor’s quest to date 15 women at one time. Every single option is beautiful, though it carries with it the subtle suspicion of crazy behind the eyes.  

For the record, I don’t think it’s normal to date 15 people at one time. The idea of getting to pick your soul mate while chaotically making out with as many people as you can get away with in the meantime is insanity, which I presume is why it makes for such good television. The human emotion on display is very raw (reference ugly cry here) but it’s expressed in the midst of an entirely orchestrated and fake environment. How do you honor what is real within a production?  

Doesn’t church educate me about what is true and eternal in this human experience through the mechanism of a production? Are churches focused on creating an environment that draws you in and convinces you of their authenticity and relevance, in a great bid for relationship? If The Bachelor is how we are normalizing relationship building in society, is not the church susceptible to similar whimsical and fleeting ideas of commitment? I don’t know how to date 15 churches without inherently judging them all and committing to none, and I’d appreciate being able to blame reality television if at all possible.  

In participating in all these competing religious environments however, I’m struck more by the similarities than the differences. I notice the love and the passion and the cold indifference, coexisting in foldout chairs and velvet-lined pews. I see and experience comfort in the routine, and feel resentment in our complacency. I feel music wash over the body gathered, the rhythm of the words fusing the masses, the repetition calming and steadying, and maybe the drums, either loud and accosting or beating out any worry and tension we’ve brought with us that day.  

The uniting of many for the glory of one is very powerful, and critically important to the practice of faith. We humble ourselves before what is perfect in the hope that we may rest in it, for just a moment, to carry away to the corners of our world whatever remnants are gracious enough to linger.

Person or symbol?

Watching the black smoke turn to white this week, I found myself humbled by the Catholic faith, connected to it. This is the uniting of many, centered, focused on who will lead them in pursuit of the glory and honor of one. This is not political posturing or parochial strategy or a statement to society as much as it is the body of Christ, a church alive.

The press surrounding this important and significant changing of the guard is chilling; it’s analytical and manufactured, yet it reminds me too much of my pursuit of a church community. We have already stripped Pope Francis of his humanity and understand him instead as his geography, his routines, his Jesuit background, and his political implications.  

The Catholic faith quickly becomes a body we review as we would another social psychology case study, peering in upon its internal strife and posturing, labeling so much as scandal and tawdry. We turned church into The Bachelor and asked ourselves if our favorite contestant won. How perilous to think of faith as something that can be contained by policy and bureaucratic refinement or understood by the world’s standards.

In the end church is a production of sorts, an orchestration of people, ideas, action, and relationship, to say something to the world and to the individual about the Creator. It is inviting us to see its relevance and look past its flaws and, more than anything, is asking for participation, for faith, to just show up to own version of a modest, small brown building on the left-hand side of North Court Street.

“It is to provide an example that submitting to the practice of worship and the leadership of those in charge is a Christian teaching about humility and submission to God.” My dad said that.

Amanda works in “community development” and no, she doesn’t know what that means either. Forever the critic. And enthusiast. Never one for dichotomies. Follow her on Twitter @tayloram03 if you’re not into receiving tweets.

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One Small Step for Benedict

Pope Benedict XVI

by Rebekah Mays

A week ago I logged onto Twitter. It was a sleepy Monday morning, until I saw a headline from the New York Times: “Breaking News: Pope Benedict XVI Will Resign, Vatican Says.”

As a soon-to-be convert to Catholicism, I was confused by this piece of news. Should I be grateful? Worried? Should I fall on my knees right then and there and cry out for this fragile yet precious institution, the Roman Catholic Church?

Amidst all the hoopla and conjecturing about the Pope’s successor, religion blogger David Sessions posed a question. He tweeted: “Is America still pretending to care about the pope?”

At first I was a little taken aback, but since as the day went on my social media circles seemed to engage the matter with mild amusement, rather than serious interest or inquiry, I thought maybe this question was a fair one. It’s no secret that the Catholic Church and the papacy with all of their old-fashioned rigidity don’t have much of a grip on the lives of Americans. A look at the vast numbers of Catholics that use birth control says it all.

Still, though many of us have a problem with the Church’s antiquated teachings and public failings today, I have a hunch that there’s something Americans respect about the Great Tradition and its potential for global good. Last spring liberal activists like Nicholas Kristof defended the work of nuns when they received a hand-slap by the Vatican. And while the Church’s attitude toward birth control, abortion, and same-sex marriage continues to be an enormous roadblock for young people who might otherwise find refuge in the Church, Catholics have for a long time been key advocates for immigrants, for the poor, for the homeless—often more so than their evangelical sisters and brothers. Orthodox Christianity still has so much to offer those who want to help the marginalized today, and it’s not Mass that keeps people out of our churches—it’s what is seen as backward sexual politics.

The beauty of the Eucharist

Wanting to explore these questions further, I made a simple poll and posted it on my Facebook and Twitter feeds. The question was: “How much do you care about the Pope?” Out of 51 respondents, 29% chose the answer “I care very much and have strong opinions on the kind of person they should pick to succeed,” 49% chose “I think it’s important/interesting, but it doesn’t have a direct impact on me,” and 22% chose “I couldn’t care less.”

Obviously, we should be very careful not to draw firm conclusions from such a limited data pool, but I do think the results give us a little insight. To an extent, these answers confirm my belief that although most people don’t feel the papacy directly affects their lives, they do think the Church influences culture in some way or another.

In my opinion, this mixed bag of intrigue and disdain toward Catholicism indicates that the Church has a window of time in which we can still recover the respect, or at least non-hatred, of many Americans. The way Church leaders have waged a culture war against the current administration has not done us any favors. While I am not about to prescribe certain steps for the Church to take in terms of what issues it should or shouldn’t emphasize (I am a newcomer, after all), it is only too obvious that so many souls have been alienated by the Church’s views on sexuality. But I think it’s more than that. I think what has done the most damage is the Church’s pride when fighting these battles.

This is why I’m both baffled and moved by last Monday’s events. When Benedict XVI recognized he did not have the health to continue serving the Church effectively in his role, he set a new standard for his successor. He broke from tradition to keep the Church as healthy and vibrant as possible, and admitted his limitations.

Glass window above the throne of St. Peter

We can pray that regardless of politics, the next leader of the Roman Catholic Church will be humble, willing to listen to the voice of God, wherever that may be leading us. It’s safe to say that the next Pope won’t be a flaming liberal. But I’d like to think he doesn’t have to be for would-be-believers to appreciate even the small steps the Church is making toward becoming a more understanding and compassionate body of women and men.

I cannot begin to list the things I admire and even love about Catholicism, and for me reliance on big-T Tradition is one beautiful asset of the Catholic Church I haven’t found anywhere else. But respecting Tradition doesn’t mean we have to be stuck in the Middle Ages. Somehow the Church must show that its core doctrines are still relevant and appropriate today, and most importantly it must demonstrate how a man who lived two thousand years ago is changing the world right this minute. That’s a tall order, and it mandates some changes. We can and must learn from the past, but we must all the while work steadily on our future.

Rebekah Mays is a Barnard College graduate originally from Austin, Texas. She currently works and writes in New York City. You can find more of her writing on her blog Iced Spiced Chai or follow her on Twitter @smallbeks.