In Which I Get Angry and Political

 

            I was away all last week with my family on vacation. Today’s blog post was supposed to be a wrap up of the wonderful time we had. But that will have to wait. A former classmate posted something that happened to a member of my college family on Facebook last week that got my blood boiling. I don’t like to discuss religion or politics. It’s something I rarely do I real life and do even less frequently on this blog. But once in a while I feel like I need to stand up and say how I feel. This is what made me so angry:

            This was printed by the Washington DC group who calls themselves "Public Advocate of the United States" and was mailed out across Colorado to attack Sen. Jean White, a supporter of civil unions. What makes the particularly despicable is that it is the actual engagement photograph of a couple from New York City. The original looks like this:

Image if your personal photograph commemorating one of your most precious memories was distorted and used as a weapon to limit someone’s right to marry the person they love. I understand that there are folks out there that believe that gay marriage is wrong. To those people I say, don’t marry someone of the same sex, don’t go to a church that performs same-sex weddings, and if you get invited to a same sex wedding don’t go. But do not stand in the way of your fellow tax paying citizens having the same rights you take for granted.

            I am straight. I am a wife. I am a mother. I am a Christian. I am a patriot. I support same sex marriage. Bigotry and hatred are not family values.

A Confession

            As I looked over my blog posts for the last few weeks, I realized that everything I’ve posted lately was written in response to a prompt of one kind or another. So today’s post is not only unprompted, but it also delves into the murky waters of religion and politics. I normally avoid both topics—not just on my blog, but in real life.

I don’t avoid politics because I’m apathetic. On the contrary I care very deeply for and have strong opinions about our country. I avoid it because we’ve come to a place in our society where there is very little room for true discourse. Political discussions quickly become shouting matches where we look for someone to blame, instead of looking for solutions or (God forbid!) compromises. Name calling has become the norm. If we teach our children not to call each other "stupid", shouldn’t we teach our leaders not to call each other "unpatriotic" when they disagree?

As for religion, I believe that faith is a personal and private thing and I don’t wear it on my sleeve. That doesn’t mean it isn’t in my heart. I’ve always liked this verse from the Gospel According to Matthew, “When you pray, go into a room by yourself, shut the door, and pray to your Father who is there in the secret place; and your Father who sees what is secret will reward you.” Don’t get me wrong, if shouting your beliefs from the rooftops (or the gridiron) is your thing, go for it. To me, there is great strength in quiet faith.

            Last week, my son James had his first Sacrament of Reconciliation. That’s the new term for what we used to call Confession in the Catholic Church. The name change is an important one. It doesn’t simply make something unpleasant seem more palatable. It’s about putting emphasis on the important part of the ritual—reconciling. In reconciliation we not only admit to our transgressions, we atone for them and promise to do better. We make amends with God and ourselves. I know for some, the idea of sending a seven-year-old to confess his “sins” may seem over the top. But as I’ve worked with James, and his older brother before him (our church uses a home school program in combination with bi-weekly classes), I’ve come to believe that learning to apologize for the things we do wrong and work to make them right is a valuable thing to learn at an early age.

            Think how different the world would be if public figures were willing to admit their mistakes and try to fix them. Personally, I would respect a person for coming forward and saying, “I made a huge mistake. I’ve hurt people I love. I’m really sorry I did it and I’m going to make it up to them and try to not do it again.” How much energy gets wasted in the workplace when someone tries to cover up his or her mistakes instead of just owning up to it, apologizing, and straightening it out? People make mistakes—some bigger than others and some more public than others. Just as we all make mistakes, we are all capable of making things right.

            When Owen made his first reconciliation two years ago he asked me when I had last gone. I admitted that I hadn’t been since high school. I’m not one to make my kids do something I’m not willing to do myself. Besides, there had been something that weighed heavily on my conscience at the time. I had long since been forgiven by the person that I hurt, but it still gripped my heart. So I recited my Act of Contrition and confessed. The priest’s words were not accusatory, but comforting. He assured me that God had forgiven me and it was time to forgive myself. I felt lighter having received Reconciliation. Maybe it was the changes that have been made to the sacrament over the years, or maybe it was the first time I felt I needed absolution, but whatever the reason I walked away feeling better. We’ve all heard the old adage, “Confession is good for the soul.” Funny thing about old adages, sometimes they’re true.

RemembeRED: An Old World Saint in the New World

            This is a late posting for the RemembeRED prompt from the Red Dress Club. This week’s assignment was to write about a class trip, so it’s only appropriate that this be a day late like most of my college assignments. I very rarely write about religion, so there are new waters for me to dive into.

An Old World Saint in a New World

            I was trying to follow along at Saturday afternoon mass as my children squirmed in the pew beside me. I have been told by a number of my fellow parishioners that my boys are well behaved during mass. It’s kind of them to lie like that. By the end, my patience is gone and I don’t always catch what Father Larry or Father Jim has to say during the announcements. But this week there was an announcement that got my attention. 

“I have very exciting news,” said Father Larry. “Blessed Brother André Bissette of the Order of The Holy Cross will be canonized in October.” He went on to tell the parishioners about Brother André.

            I’m not the strictest Catholic in the world, but saints are one of the things I like best about my faith. The idea that someone Up There can run interference for us with the Man in charge appeals to me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we need to have that go-between. When I talk to God, I address my remarks directly to Him. But it’s nice to have an otherworldly advocate who has your back. And Brother André (now Saint André) and I go way back.

            In my senior year, my college choir took a trip to Montreal to sing in two basilicas. My roommates and I drove my little black Honda Prelude from Poughkeepsie to Canada with the sunroof open as we sang The Indigo Girls songs at the top of our lungs. There wasn’t enough room in the bus for the entire choir, so the director allowed us to take my car.

            We danced in nightclubs, found out that beer was cheaper than Diet Coke, discovered we didn’t like French food, got lost in a sketchy part of town, and serenaded some hockey players in the hotel elevator (they didn’t believe we were singers and we felt obliged to prove it). And of course, we sang with the choir. We sang pieces by Handel and Fauré at masses at St. Patrick’s Basilica and St. Joseph’s Oratory.

St. Joseph’s began as a humble wooden chapel built by Brother Andre who raised the money by offering students inexpensive haircuts. Today it is a grand copper-domed building—the third largest of its kind in the world. I was awed by the piles of crutches and canes left behind by those whose cures are attributed to Brother Andre’s miracles. I knew shrines like this existed, but I never expected to see one so close to home. There were places to pray for St. Joseph’s intervention for various things. I paused to light a candle at a sign that read St. Joseph patron des mourants (patron of the dying) for a friend with cancer.

We continued on to the choir loft of the Crypt church—smaller than the main chapel it seats an impressive 1,000 people. After we sang we began to look for the exit. A kindly security guard spotted us, conspicuous in our purple iridescent taffeta choir gowns (think of the ugliest bridesmaid dress you’ve ever seen and add a little more ugly and a little less flattering). “Would you ladies like to see Brother André’s heart?” he asked us.

“Sure,” we said. We really wanted to get back to the hotel, take off our gowns and find some more cheap beer, but he seemed so enthusiastic. I assumed the guard was speaking metaphorically. Perhaps we’d see an exhibit about Brother André’s miracles. The guard showed us a glass box behind a metal grate with the letters RIP sculpted on the top.  Inside was a human heart—Brother André’s heart preserved as a relic. We didn’t really know what to say as the guard looked at us expectantly. I think one of us mumbled, “Thanks for showing us this.” He asked us to sign a petition for Brother André’s canonization.

I thought about that signature when Fr. Larry told us Brother André had become a saint. I reflected on having a great time with great friends and singing beautiful music. My life had changed so much. No longer a student and now a wife and mother. I am in touch with my roommates through the miracle of Facebook. When I got home that afternoon I opened my laptop and wrote them a message, “Do you remember Brother André…”