Just Pat

"...all language about everything is analogical; we think in a series of metaphors. We can explain nothing in terms of itself, but only in terms of other things." (Dorothy Sayers, Mind of the Maker, 1941)

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Location: West Michigan

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

Have Mercy


"Pharisee and Publican," Christian Dare

It's not about bringing the biggest gift, the shiniest of smiles, the most illustrious legacy. It's about showing up, honest and humble.

"Christian soul, if you do not find within yourself the power to worship God in spirit and in truth, if your heart still feels no warmth and sweet satisfaction in mental and interior prayer, then bring to the sacrifice of prayer what you can, what lies within the scope of your will, what is within your power." - The Way of a Pilgrim

When our very best is the lint in our spiritual pockets, let's give it all.

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Friday, October 22, 2004

There must be more to life than being really really ridiculously good looking...


Earth to me...

Well folks, I didn't win the Rescue My Bathroom contest. No - please, I'll be okay. I knew my chances were slim, with "hundreds upon thousands upon millions of applicants" sending their essays and photos. Although, I did put off a couple of things I wanted to do to my bathroom, and checked the WZZM website 50 times a day - you know, just in case.
Yes, I'll be fine.
There's more to life than winning a stupid old remodeling contest and getting a really really ridiculously good looking bathroom.
Like...helping people. You know, people that need help.

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Monday, October 18, 2004

Still



I actually still have hits on my site every day, even though I haven't posted anything in over a week. Sorry if you came and found nothing.

I've been busy. I was at a conference Tuesday through Thursday. Friday was very busy at work. Then Friday night was euchre. Then Saturday home improvement. Sunday morning lasted until almost 2:00 p.m. Then it was crash time for JustPat.

My pastor talked Sunday morning about the effects of being busy. Too busy. He preached from the scripture about the sisters Mary and Martha. Mostly about Mary. He showed a clip from the end of the movie "Man on Fire." He talked about the kind of love that is born of gratitude.

The sermon stung me. It's not that I'm not grateful. I am. And it's not that I'm really that busy. I know lots of people who are juggling busier schedules and agendas than me. But, I have become too internally busy to quiet myself. To allow myself to daydream about how wonderful my Beloved is, and how precious I am to him.

All the things I'm doing are important, especially the people things. And really, all the things I'm doing that are not directly with people are for people; my job, my house, even this little post.

I'm homesick for the contentment and gentle knowing of His presence as I go about my day. For time over my bible first thing in the morning; closing my eyes and feeling His heart, hearing His whispers, connecting His wisdom to my path.

I think I'll turn my heart in the direction of His providence. I'll listen, and be quiet. I think I'll start now.

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Sunday, October 10, 2004

Yippee i-yo...yippee i-yay...

I had a great weekend. Babbette is telling me it's time to go to bed, so this will be brief.

Saturday several of my friends came to help me work on my house. When were done, I had mums in my flower pots, my door hinges stripped and ready to lacquer, and all the trim and windows removed from my bedroom. It was stuff I thought I'd do myself, but now I realize how proud and crazy that was. I'm so grateful for all the help!

This morning, John preached on the Lord's prayer. We said the Lord's Prayer as a congregation, and at the end of the service we sang the Lord's Prayer. I thought my heart would explode. Be still my little Catholic heart!

I entered a contest today. I entered the WZZM "Rescue My Home" contest for a bathroom remodel. I never enter contests, but this one gave me the opportunity to not only win a new bathroom, but also see if I could write well enough to get the station's attention. So, how could I resist? Now I'm on pins and needles...

I went to a friend's birthday party tonight, and laughed so hard over the Johnny Cash songs they were playing that I cried. My jaw is still aching from laughing so much.

Now I'm off to bed. Babbette has gone on ahead of me and will most likely have chosen the best part of the bed. Serves me right for not minding her the first time.

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Tuesday, October 05, 2004

For Sister Ann Catherine


When I was 12, I wanted to be a nun. I admired the nuns that taught me in grade school. I loved the stories of nuns who became saints. I was attracted to their devotion, and their simple lives. I dreamed about it every day for months. Sometimes I still do.

If I were to tell you today, at 42, that I want to become a nun, how would you respond? What would be your first thoughts? Would I be correct if I guessed "what about sex?"

I've struggled with writing about this topic with the sensitivity it deserves from one who is no longer a practicing Catholic. But I don't think I could ever do it justice. So, here it goes anyway.
BC wrote a great post about obsession with spiritual feeling the other day, and it gave me the push I needed. The heart of his post is that, after the initial ecstasy of spiritual surrender, what follows is often this...

"You no longer feel that post sex glow...that you once felt. You decide to try the altar call again, and again, and again. You engage in altar calls compulsively and without joy, much like a nymphomaniac or a satyriasist engages in sex. In a very real sense, some Christians make a god out of the feeling they get when they get up in front of church and 'rededicate their lives to Christ.'"

Has feeling become our God? I think if it has not yet, we are all in imminent danger of it becoming so. Our culture is so self focused, it is inevitable that we would be tainted by its influence in the most sterile of environments. But I want to leave the discussion of "sex at the altar," and move to "the altar of sex."

Catholic priests, monks, and nuns take a vow of celibacy. They consider themselves married to God. I think that the vow of celibacy is one of the most counter-western-culture ideals there is. It's not just a Catholic vs. Protestant thing. It flies in the face of consumerism, red-blooded-American dreams, modern psychology; almost everything our western culture holds dear. It is rivaled only, in my humble opinion, by the vow of poverty, also taken by these folks.

This is a pretty wierd thing to promise in the 21st century. At least in my little corner of the world, it is. I will not have sex with anyone. I will not marry. I will not have children because of this vow. I will devote my life to the service of the Church and to worship of God. I will keep my mind and my body pure in order to be a useful tool in this world until I'm joined with the One I love. Way atypical. Not a likely candidate for Survivor or The Bachelor.

Really, the idea of making a promise and keeping it past the point it causes me inconvenience is a real strain. And that's just the idea. I think perhaps I'm not alone in this.

I won't take time here to attempt to blame any industry, movement, parent, school, religious institution - whatever - for the condition our culture is in. We frequent a myriad of venues at which, when you dig deep to see where the god dwells, that god is sexual image. I feel, I copulate; therefore, I am. My feeling is my god. Sex and sexual image has a draw on this culture that is unmatched by any basic need or drive in our lives. It affects every aspect of our lives, so subtly, because we are immersed in it (unless we are cloistered). And for the most part, we are willing consumers of its products; sex makes dollars. I don't think our time and culture are alone in this; history has shown otherwise. But, we have to deal with the time we are in, and who we are in it. ( I know the images I've just painted merit expansion, but not here; please fill in the blanks for now.)

Sex is fabulous. It is a gift from God. But, it isn't God. I am not defined by the sex I have, I dream of, or I am. That is an important part of me, but not the core. I've found myself in the places that have offered me the least comfort or affirmation. I think I may have stumbled on something that smart people from way back knew all along. We are defined by who we are when we are stripped of all of our illusions.

This vow of celibacy is so much more than going without something. It is about making oneself available to something that faith has shown us is higher, and better. It is a pure, beautiful, sacrificial gift. Why do we think it to be so strange and foreign to our own natures? Perhaps the obsession with sexual image and identity is simply the filling of the void that self-focus creates in us. I don't believe that a celibate life is a prerequisite to effective ministry in the Church of God. But I do respect and honor the choice men and women have made over their own present desires to dedicate their bodies and hearts to God for life. Sister Ann Catherine was my first grade teacher, the first nun I ever knew. She taught me to read. She chose teaching children like me over having her own. The little catholic in me will never forget her.

No, I'm not going to become a nun. God has not called me to that life. But you won't see me wiping my brow and breathing a sigh of relief. You might hear me whispering, amen.


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Sunday, October 03, 2004

Number 9...Number 9...Number 9...Number 9...

"Don't recite the same prayer over and over as the heathen do, who think prayers are answered only by repeating them again and again. Remember, your Father knows exactly what you need even before you ask him!" Matthew 6:7,8



I think I'm probably an incidental product of the Jesus People movement of the 60's and 70's. Getting down to what's real, sloughing off the trappings of traditional worship and rhetoric was huge as I was coming into faith. It looked like this: simple or no buildings for worship, non-structured gatherings, praying your own prayers in your own words, ditching the old hymns and singing "a new song to the Lord." My Bad Christian friend has a great take on this view from the pew on his website.

So today, I'm thinking about "vain repitition." Repeating the same words in prayer. Praying the rosary. Reciting the liturgy.

It's true that it's very easy for many of us to become distracted when our minds are not exercised to find our own words in prayer. And, for many of us, saying rote prayers often provides a sense of justification or fulfilled obligation, whether or not we were spiritually engaged in what we were saying. "48, 49, 50...Wow! That must be a record! Atta girl Pat!"

I'm reading a great book right now titled "The Way of a Pilgrim." Found out about it through the Henri Nouwen book Gin loaned me. It's the journal (yes, a true story) of a Russian wayfarer in the 19th century whose quest is to learn how to "pray without ceasing." He finds a holy man who teaches him the Jesus prayer. He prays thousands of times a day, "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me," until one day the prayer becomes part of his breath, his heart beat, his steps. He dreams of the prayer at night, the prayer wakes him up in the morning, and he shares the prayer with those he meets on his way. He takes the prayer into his heart, and the prayer overtakes him.

One of the things I left in my Catholic past was prescripted prayer. Some of those prayers I deeply love. Especially the Act of Contrition. Even the Lord's Prayer is rarely recited in the churches I've been part of over the last 20 years. Rich Mullins, bless him, had the guts and the artistic impetus to sing the Nicene Creed. These are historical prayers that have flowed from the lips of believers in Jesus for hundreds of years, in many cultures, languages, and political climates. There is power and connection in that history that I need to acknowledge and reclaim. If only for humility's sake.

Reciting a prescripted prayer also frees us from the self-consciousness that can sometimes take over when we are doing our best to be eloquent - even when we are alone with God. Of course, we may get caught up in our own dramatic inflection as we recite our prayers, but how is that any worse than fancying ourselves "prayer warriors" when we are supposed to be humbly seeking God? It happens to all of us. Well, okay, it happens to me.

A few months ago, I was praying for someone and felt strongly that I should bless her in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I almost didn't, because the images flashing through my mind was how high-churchy and dramatic it might sound if I said it. But, I did. And I realized afterward how self-focused I'd become that I would actually worry not only what people would think of me, but that I would think that invoking the Holy Trinity to bless her would be thought out of place in a circle of Christians.

What the heck?

So, here I find myself again, full circle, getting down to what's real. And, I'm finding that it isn't necessarily found in my own homespun-eloquent-shot-from-the-hip prayer. In the verses above, Jesus was addressing the heart issue, the focus, the intent, the desired outcome on our part. It wasn't the repetition that was meaningless; it was the disconnect. He showed us how to pray from the heart. There is great value in focused, heartfelt, repetitive overtures of love to God.

"In the center, around the throne, were four living creatures...Day and night they never stop saying: Holy, holy holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come." Revelation 4:6,8


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Friday, October 01, 2004

Dear God, It's Me JustPat


I wasn't a pure-bred Catholic. No, I was a mongrel. My mother was Catholic, and my father was raised Methodist. And, there were other issues; my father had been divorced. His first wife left him for a friend on his softball team. He met my mom after the divorce at a dance studio. Not that it has anything to do with my faith, but it's a fun bit of my history, I think.

My mother married my father against her priest's counsel. Not because Dad was protestant, but because he was divorced. When they left the rectory, Dad asked her what she thought. She told him that it just wasn't fair. They married in the Methodist church. As a result, my mother could not partake of the Catholic sacraments for seven years.

As a child, I knew this, but I never had any bitterness attached to it. I attribute that to my mother's knowing that she made the right choice, and her willingness to accept the consequences. My mom is amazing.

In my early years, my siblings and I went to Mass on Saturday evenings with Mom and my Aunt Dorothy. My memories are few but strong. Sitting in the old Saint Francis balcony because Mom and Aunt Dorothy were in the choir. The altar so far away, and me sitting so high. The slant of the floor, and the short railing separating us from the pews below. The organ directly behind us, and the enormous sound it made. The smell of my mom's perfumed handkerchiefs in her purse. Gazing at her amber rosary.

On Sunday mornings, my grandparents - Dad's parents - picked us up to go to the Methodist Church. My dad had stopped attending the church for political reasons - a long and irrelevant story for now. My memories of the Methodist church are the signing of the attendance roster, holy communion being different and infrequent, and figuring out the alto parts of the hymns so I could harmonize with my soprano grandma. On special occasions like Easter, my dad would come. I would stand next to him so I could harmonize with him as he sang the bass line to "Up From The Grave." I still think of that every Easter. Every one.

The time came when I was eight years old, and it was time for my first communion in the Catholic Church. I'll never know the conversations between my parents leading up to this event. I was totally oblivious if ever they had one. But, I know I sensed some sort of decision brewing. I remember kneeling on the kneeler (which was not padded in those days), and praying to God, "Please God, let me be Catholic."

Something unusual happened. I've met no one who has experienced this. I was baptized by the Catholic priest and the Methodist pastor, at our Catholic church, with my two sisters and my brother. My mother's seven years had been served, which made my siblings and me eligible for Catholic baptism. That baptism made me eligible for my first holy communion the next day.

It seems like a lot of work, doesn't it? Even as I'm writing this, I am amazed at how convoluted this sanctification business really was. But, in spite of it all, I remember how I thought as a child. I remember that this was a miracle. I prayed to be Catholic, and God assured I was not only Catholic, but Protestant as well, and that everyone in my family was satisfied.

Of course, that made a big impression on my worldview, and my churchview (is that a word?). I was very aware from that time that faith in Christ was bigger than Catholic or Methodist. When I was asked to declare religion on paperwork in Catholic school, instead of Catholic I wrote "Christian." I remember the feeling of knowing that I was writing something different than the others. I remember feeling that it was important that I knew this, even if it made me different.

Does this affect my feeling for the Church today? I have no doubt. It's altogether possible that my longing for the Catholic liturgy and reverence are based in my divided Christian self from the time I was a child. In my adult years, I left Catholicism behind as I found a living relationship with Jesus in the midst of Protestant worshippers. Then again, it could be divine providence that I have been blessed to know both these worlds from my childhood. Regardless of the hidden motivations of my heart, I am thankful.

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