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.
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by Lyndsey Graves
Today I went to the grocery store, the nice one here in Atlanta, and unlike the bargain-box store in my Syracuse neighborhood, it had rows and rows of magazines on the checkout line. I stood in that checkout line holding a can of beans and, for two full minutes, I stared at Emma Watson, wishing to be her. I tried the whole time to talk myself down, telling myself the picture was photoshopped and I don't have to have her cheekbones to be happy. But I really only felt one emotion: a nameless fusion of mild envy and despair.
This is why I normally don’t let myself look at magazines in stores, fixing my gaze instead on anything boring in order to avoid them - because they lie. Maybe one day I will have the serenity to glance at Emma's pixel-perfect skin and merely think, "Good for her," but I don't really think so; I don't think that's how the lie is supposed to work.
I'm not supposed to be content with myself. I'm supposed to buy serums, concealers, pastes, powders, relaxers, intensifiers, shields, infusions, masks, and moisturizers. I'm supposed to buy Zumba classes and Spanx and self-help books. It is important that I believe there is something wrong with me.
For years and years, I’ve believed the lie. In fact, I used to think that it would be prideful or dangerous for a Christian to be happy with him- or herself. Self-improvement has been a religion of mine for as long as I can remember – if you don't focus on your flaws, you're deceiving yourself; if you flaunt your strengths, you'll be an embarrassing show-off; if you're not good at something, you'd better work ceaselessly toward reaching your full potential.
So for me, it comes from everywhere. It comes from media messages so pervasive that I have taken to physically dodging them, and from the slightly-twisted brand of "pursuing holiness" that I've adopted: this deep-down belief that I cannot ever be content with myself, that I cannot ever know rest. More specifically, that failure to be and do everything perfectly is failure at all of life. That real people have no weaknesses, need no help, admit no failures. That I'll try harder tomorrow.
The truth is, I can't be and do everything. And neither can you. And this should be obvious to us, but it's not. We think that the perfect version of ourselves would be a carbon copy of some romantic-comedy-protagonist: good-looking, intelligent, hardworking, outgoing and funny, but also deep and profound; fit beyond belief, but also able to enjoy a big buttery meal. We think we can be creative and organized, have a best friend who's slightly uglier than us, be perfect mothers and daughters and friends and employees and girlfriends.
But the thing about romantic-comedy-protagonists is that they're somehow entirely forgettable. More than that, they're not real - they're little gods. And that's really what we're trying to be. Flawless. Bigger than we are. Gods.
I've spent days and months of my life beating myself up for not being extroverted, ten pounds lighter, an early riser, more photogenic, more spiritually disciplined, concerned about strangers, or for not having a louder voice. And if I’m honest, in these areas of my life, if I can only accomplish the bare minimum, that’s me doing really well.
You have your own list, too, of all the million things you think you should be. And I think it's time we all said, “I'm just not.” God has those things, and he did not give them to me, and someone else will have to be them because I can't. I am not infinite. I am just me. And I trust that God doesn’t require me to be infinite, so I will not continue on the soul-crushing slog of pretending that I am.
I am not a detail person, and I used to think I should be. I used to think that every one of the ‘good’ people, the people who were doing it right, noticed and remembered everything. I would berate myself with terrible anger and derision whenever I forgot to bring a knife with my cake to an event, or missed an obvious step in some long math problem, or called the kitchen "clean" when others could point out the crumbs by the toaster and the pots on the stove.
But when I started my new job this year - only because I knew I'd let people down - I stopped trying to keep track of all the details. I learned to make lists and re-make them when I lost them and double-check them again, but I also learned to ask for help. I just looked at rooms full of people and said, “I can't do details.” I stopped being embarrassed when people reminded me of things that should have been obvious.
And guess what? No one cared. No one looked around and said, "Where did we get this awful intern?" They only rarely laughed at me, and more importantly, they liked my big-picture, abstract, creative approach to my job.
Some things aren't so easy to own. It's a little counterintuitive to value introversion in the U.S. - people are always trying to fix your "shyness." Sometimes, I still feel deficient when every job description I read wants applicants to be a “creative planner, great at envisioning, and outside-the-box thinker” as well as “detail oriented to the core.” I worry whether taking a break from volunteering would make me a selfish person. And of course, the Vogue covers will always try to mock.
In a lot of ways, liking yourself can be a pretty radical decision - but I'm learning to do it. I'm learning that I don't have to be the airbrushed blonde or the sinless saint to be enough. I'm more of a normal-looking supporting character, the one with the quirky flaws and lame catchphrases who needs help, and I think, just maybe, God is wild about me anyway.
At least sometimes I do. The rest of the time I'm trying to fix my trust deficiency.
Lyndsey
lives and works in Syracuse, NY. She majored in theology at Lee
University, which is like eating cake or listening to thunderstorms -
too enjoyable to be called work. Also, no one will pay you to do it. You can follow her on Twitter @lyndseygraves and you can find more of her writing at her blog To Be Honest.
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