Besides the need we have for each other in daily life, as well as in navigating the obstacles on our spiritual path, community and communion are witnesses to our oneness in Christ.  Community proclaims that in a world fraught with hatred and division, it is truly possible to love one another.

Solitude, on the other hand, reflects the reality that we are not only one with each other, we are also unique in all of creation. And very practically speaking, solitude recognizes our boundaries as human beings. We cannot be available to others twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Physically and mentally, we cannot sustain an intensity of presence to other people all the time.

Solitude also honors our need to be alone with God, just as in the human context of relationship, we need to be alone at times with people we love. And solitude bows before the fact that there is a deep place inside us which is accessible to God alone.

Whom have I in heaven but you?
And there is nothing on earth that I desire other than you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion for ever.

Indeed, those who are far from you will perish;
you put an end to those who are false to you.
But for me it is good to be near God;
I have made the Lord God my refuge,
to tell of all your works. (Psalm 73:25-28)

One thing that did not change, however, was the emphasis on prayer.  I would like to share with you a passage from the letter on prayer she wrote to all the Sisters in 1884.

In the Cenacle all is done, all is obtained by prayer; it begins, accompanies, and concludes all our actions…

If I hold my life in my hands (Ps 119:109) before God; if, living by faith, things of time are for me as already passed and things of eternity as already begun; if I have found the spring of “living water”; if I possess the one thing needful (Lk 10:42), what more can stir my desires, what struggle will be beyond my courage, what difficulty can arrest my course, what error or prejudice can weaken my faith? Closely united to God, loved by the Lord of all things, terrible to the devil, the prayerful soul accomplishes perfectly the divine will.  She fulfills her vocation as a Religious of the Cenacle, and can cry out with the Prophet-King, “Funes ceciderunt mihi in praeclaris”: “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places” (Ps 16:6).

Although Mother Marie-Aimée’s reflections are addressed to the Cenacle Sisters, surely all of us may find our fulfillment by becoming as joyfully docile to God as the “prayerful soul” she describes.

Visit this house, O God,
that no evil may reside here.
Cleanse our hearts and our spirits,
protect us from the deceptions of the evil one.
Save us from lightning and tempest,
from fire and flood, from pestilence and famine,
From every bodily harm,
from sickness of mind and spirit,
From blindness and hardness of heart,
and from all lack of charity.
From sadness that turns us away from you,
from fear that takes us captive.
May our dark places be made light,
and may our hearts be lifted.
May we be the sweet fragrance of Christ to God,
spreading the knowledge of Jesus everywhere.
May we be among the pure in heart,
whose blessing will be to see you.
May your holy angels dwell here to keep us in peace,
and may your blessing be upon us always.

- – - – -

Photo of angel sculpture from Houston Cenacle

The essay continued to gnaw at me, especially because, although it was obvious that the author was trying to deal thoughtfully with the topic, there seemed to be little understanding of what it means to live the vows.  I soon realized that I needed to write a response.  So I sent a letter to the editor, which can be found on the Commonweal website under the heading “Living the Vows,” as well as in the print version of the magazine.

Here is what I wrote:

I realize that Barry Gault, wrestling with what he calls “a painful paradox,” is asking anguished questions in the latter part of his essay, rather than stating firm conclusions. However, the implications of those questions may be misleading on at least two fronts: first, the familiar suggestion that celibacy makes sexual abuse more likely; and second, the notion that living the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience tends to preclude the encounter with reality required for human maturity.

Although I am no advocate of mandatory celibacy for diocesan clergy, I am convinced of its value for those who are called to it. Statistics on abuse are hard to come by, both because of the predisposition Gault notes to cover up scandal, as well as the lack of centralization among many Protestant churches; but what data I have seen seems to indicate that sexual abuse of minors is as frequent among noncelibate Protestant clergy as it is among Catholic priests. (The Baptist Web site EthicsDaily.com is one of several valuable resources on the topic.) Needless to say, this should be no source of congratulation for Catholics, because even one case of abuse is too many.

As for the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, Gault asks, “However admirable in the purity of their moral rigor, might not these principles forfend some of the most difficult challenges of full adulthood?” On the contrary, far from removing one from a confrontation with those “three great forces” of the adult world—wealth, sex, and power—living the vows obliges one to come to terms with them, if the vows are to be lived in a holy manner. To consider only the first of these forces: the complacent greed of an unscrupulous CEO is not so far removed from the petty possessiveness of a sister guarding her space or her few belongings. Neither has confronted adequately the mighty pull of material treasure.

So if Gault’s professors were immature, it was not because of the vows they made—though I readily admit that a superficial understanding of religious vows can indeed foster immaturity, just as a superficial understanding of marriage vows can do the same thing.

- – - – -

“Dream Feet on the Journey” photo by Rose Hoover, rc

Saint Therese, co-founder of the Sisters of the Cenacle, loved everything about religious life, including her sisters.  But if you had asked her why she loved religious life and why she thought other women should enter religious life (if that is their call), I doubt very much that she would have said it is because the sisters are extraordinarily good.  She would have been much more likely to respond, “Because God is good.” God, she commented, is not only good, God is goodness itself.

About Catholic Sisters

There has been much discussion lately, online and off, about religious life and the lives of sisters today.  Discussion is a polite word, because some of it has descended to the level of slander.

But whatever you think of today’s Catholic sisters, we are, after all is said and done, ordinary human beings, as much in need of mercy as anyone else.  As the hymn, “For All the Saints” puts it, “We feebly struggle, they in glory shine.”

God is surely calling all of us – sisters, priests, and laity – to a deeper fidelity to Christ.  Unfortunately, none of us – sisters, priests, or laity – will ever in this life attain perfection in the living out of our call, as much as we may struggle and pray.  We can nevertheless be consoled by the next line of the hymn, “Yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine, Alleluia!”

A Blessed Way of Life

I think our Mother Therese would have said that being a sister is without doubt a blessed way of life, but that this is not because the sisters themselves are flawless.  (In fact the early history of religious congregations sometimes reads as if it belongs in a melodrama, featuring extraordinary Christian heroism side-by-side with commonplace pettiness.)  If religious life is is a blessed way, it is because God is the one who is wonderful, and can work through the clay vessels that we all are.

For me as well, the perfection – or lack of it – of my sisters in Christ is not why I entered the Cenacle,  though many of them are indeed remarkable and holy women who never cease to inspire me.  And neither is the goodness of my sisters, though they are all good women, the reason that I stay.  I entered and I remain, because God is wonderful.

What does it matter if my feet, bare and torn, fill my wooden shoes with blood? I would willingly begin my journey all over again, for I have indeed found the Good God!

- Saint Therese Couderc

September 26 is the feast day of Saint Therese Couderc.

During the sexual abuse crisis, the retired archbishop of San Francisco, Most Rev. John R. Quinn, wrote:

“I believe, in fact, that this is the best time in the history of the church to be a priest, because it is a time when there can be only one reason for being a priest or for remaining a priest—that is, to ‘be with’ Christ. It is not for perks or applause or respect or position or money or any other worldly gain or advantage.”

(“The Strengths of Priests Today,” America, July 1, 2002)

One might make a similar point about religious life: this may be the very best time to be a Catholic Sister, in spite of — or perhaps because of — declining numbers, loss of prestige, and partisan controversy among some Catholics about which kind of religious life (if any at all) is really of value. No longer can entering the convent offer security or an assured future — except the future full of hope promised by God through the patriarchs and the prophets, and revealed and sealed by the Resurrection of Jesus.  No longer can a Sister be confident of living a productive life, seeing a new generation pick up the torch of the charism, and dying surrounded by her sisters in the infirmary of her congregation.

And as for the many tasks of the Church formerly accomplished only by religious — they can now be performed just as well by dedicated lay people.

With all this in mind, shouldn’t young women flee in the opposite direction, as many are obviously doing?

On the contrary, now is the moment to listen diligently to God’s call, for at a time such as this, there can be only one reason for becoming a sister, and that is to know Christ and to accept the call to union with God in love.

But aren’t all Christians called to union with God in love?

Yes, of course.  However, each Christian call has its own unique value for the Church and the world, and the living-out of that call has its own emphases, highlighting different facets of the same divine love and the same call to transforming union.  One Christian vocation is not interchangeable with another.  Without Catholic sisters (or brothers or religious priests) there would be something sorely missing, but this missing element would not necessarily be the works we are now doing, no matter how important these works are.  Just as the witness of married love is not based on the occupations of the spouses, but rather on living deeply the sacramental relationship of marriage — so the witness of religious life and the reason it is still indispensable to the Church is not based primarily on the jobs we do, but on the life itself, lived in depth.

By its very existence through the centuries, religious life proclaims:

that what matters is God; and as Teresa of Avila wrote, “sólo Dios basta,” God alone suffices;

that prayer is more powerful than bombs;

that it is possible to live together in peace, even with people whom we did not choose — or might never have chosen — as companions;

that communion with God includes communion with each other, expressed through presence, ritual, and the sharing of material goods;

that possessions do not make us happy;

that giving ourselves totally, as Jesus did, does not lead to annihilation, but brings us most surely into who we truly are.

that grace and mercy abound in the struggle to be faithful to God’s call; and that when we inevitably fall short, grace and mercy abound, still and always.

Here are four recent examples — small actions, but not insignificant, for kindness is never insignificant:

After I filled the gas tank, the pump flashed a message instructing me to pick up the receipt inside the store. So I locked the car and went in.

As I returned to the car, I had a sinking feeling. Where were my keys? I peered inside, and as I feared, they were on the seat inside the locked car.

Back in the shop, I asked if I could use the phone (because of course the cell phone was also in the car), then wandered about the aisles, waiting for our Sister Annette to locate the extra key and pick me up (one of the many kindnesses I take for granted on the part of my community).

Quickly tiring of the cramped store, I went back outside to wait. A woman pulling away in her truck stopped. She smiled, showing a mouth mostly bereft of teeth.

“Are you going to be okay, Baby?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “I locked my keys in the car, and I’m waiting to be picked up.”

“I do that all the time,” she said, to encourage me. “That’s why I have three sets of keys. Is there anything I can do for you?”

I told her no, and thanked her. She drove off, and I continued waiting, but now feeling a bit more positive about myself and life in general.

On primary election day — the local primaries here in Gainesville — I bicycled to our polling place and afterward on to the public library, where I found a book and read for a while. At the table next to me was a middle-aged couple, and when I got up to leave, the woman noticed my “I VOTED” sticker.

“Oh, you voted!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I did.”

“You go, Girl!” And she high-fived me.

Such a small event this was, but immensely cheering.  And as the high five is not a common convent greeting, I was thankful that I knew how to respond to this gesture of approval.

There is a mentally handicapped man whom I encounter occasionally, a small and rather round African-American who is often visible downtown — at the library, in the post office, outside on the sidewalk. His mission in life seems to be greeting passersby and wishing them a good day — far from a worthless calling when you think about the general state of human relations, and I earnestly hope most people respond to him in kind. His greetings serve as a reminder of God’s never-failing good will.

Another mentally handicapped citizen is the physical opposite of this greeter, a very tall white man whom I have met at daily Mass. His mission is similar, but with an explicitly religious slant. He blesses the congregation as he goes out after communion, anticipating the priest’s official blessing.

The other day at church, he was alone in the row just behind Sisters Annette, Elizabeth, and me. During the Our Father when worshippers in our parish generally hold hands, everyone in our pew had already taken the hand of the next person. He moved forward, but instead of trying to break in, he simply placed his left hand on my shoulder and his right hand on the shoulder of the man standing next to me. His hand was warm and weighty as we prayed, which was fitting, I thought, because a genuine blessing is not as insubstantial as we might think. No, a blessing has heft.

And like all blessings of which I am mindful, these small acts of kindness are not lacking in heft for me. Even what seems trivial can shed a glimmer of light on that supreme truth which Christ’s Resurrection manifests in splendor: that all the evil so evident in our world cannot annihilate the Goodness of God.

The Lord bless you and keep you;
the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you;
the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace.

(Numbers 6:24-26)

We live in an age when young adults rarely consider religious life an option for their own lives. Are we dinosaurs? If we are not, then why is it that we come together in religious communities in this day and age—or in any day and age? I am not going to tackle the question of why we have consecrated life in any form, but will simply reflect on the purpose of religious community, whether we are talking about community under one roof or community in a broader sense that does not necessarily mean living together.

Why do we gather? For example, are we brought together as religious for the purpose of a particular task? Do we form community for the sake of the ministry we do? Many groups do join together for a task—music groups and sports teams, for example. Some groups even live together to make the job easier, like the ad hoc assemblages on some of the reality shows. We too have a task, and for religious, this is usually a task not only precious to us, but valuable for the people of God. It is true that good community life can assist us in the carrying-out of our ministry. But is ministry the primary reason we come together? Today, in most cases, other people do the same ministries we do, and do them just as well as we do, without being members of religious communities. If religious community is for the purpose of performing our ministry, and if the ministry no longer necessitates coming together in community, then is our gathering as consecrated religious also unnecessary?

What about relationships? There was a lot of talk a few years ago about relational communities as opposed to task-oriented communities. A quick internet search shows that the concept is far from dead today. As Christians we are indeed called to be in relationship both with God and with each other. Without the relational element, any individual, much less any community, is bound to be lifeless. Consequently, relationships and companionship must be nourished in religious life. However, although loving presence is absolutely necessary for consecrated life, companionship—even deep relationship—can be had in other ways, some of them far easier than religious community. Besides, neither friendship nor companionship can be the main purpose of religious community. As Antoine de Saint-Exupéry writes in Wind, Sand and Stars, “Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction.” [1] When our primary gaze in Christian community is on each other, rather than on Christ, relationships cannot lead to true communion.

Can religious community exist for the purpose of making the practical details of life more economical or more simple? It certainly can do that, though it does not always. In our university town, we see students who live together to save money and sometimes to make life less burdensome and leave more time and energy for studies. We know that religious community too can be a good model for simple and economical living—even for gospel poverty. But is this all there is to it?

What about security? People throughout the centuries have banded together for the sake of security. Gated communities are thriving today. California lays claim to at least three gated cities—basically walled towns: Rolling Hills, Hidden Hills, and Canyon Lake. There are probably people who did enter religious life to be safe from the dangers of the “world.” (Not to mention the others who tried, but were not accepted, like the woman who told me she wanted to “escape the demons.”) We know from experience that religious community is no way to flee the world, if for no other reason than that the world walks right in with us. Security, therefore, cannot be the purpose of coming together as religious.

There has to be more to religious community than any of these, more even than all of these together. The Quaker Parker Palmer, who at the time he was writing was part of an intentional community, puzzled over the longevity of monastic community, especially given the difficulties of community life. He concluded that it is because the monks “created a form of community that brings them together not for the purpose of togetherness but to support each other in the rigors of the inward journey.” [2]
To support each other in the rigors of the inward journey: the inward journey, the spiritual journey, is indeed rigorous. It has no less a goal than transforming union with Jesus Christ. That, after all, is the Christian call. Along the way, the road can be rocky, and pitfalls can lurk in our path. There are periods of discouragement on the journey, as well as periods of joy, peace, and love. There are moments when we are astonished by grace, and others when we are thoroughly bored; times when we are tempted to take the easy path of complacency, and times when we are strong against the wiles of the enemy; moments when we have glimmers of understanding and others when we are miserably confused.

Truly a rigorous journey this is, more rigorous than the Tour de France or the Iditarod or the ascent of Mount Everest—and one that is much too arduous to be undertaken alone. Without each other, the journey can be well nigh impossible.
So yes, I would agree with Parker Palmer about the rigors of the inward journey. I believe, too, that whether we knew it or not when we said yes to religious life, this journey is the primary reason we entered. It is a purpose that God knew, even if we did not—the call to give ourselves wholly to God in this journey of transforming union in love.

Demands of the Spiritual Journey

This spiritual journey not only blesses us with the joy of being loved and forgiven, it also demands much of us.

First, it would seem to go without saying that the inner journey requires prayer. Nevertheless, I believe it does need to be said, because while for some people, prayer may be pure joy, for others, prayer truly is a rigorous obligation. And as for praying together, some find it no burden at all, while others are sorely tested by common prayer. The spiritual journey asks us to find the courage to carve out leisure for prayer and presence (both to God and to each other) when society—and sometimes religious life as well—would instead reward us for constant activity. How many times have we heard someone say with a hint of pride in her voice, “I haven’t had a day off in months”? Or maybe we have even made that boast ourselves.

The spiritual journey requires us to learn compassion toward the uncompassionate and to love those who do not love us. It asks us to see loveliness in those who appear unlovely, recognizing how incredibly beautiful we all are. The spiritual journey demands an acknowledgement of our own sinfulness, our helplessness, and our inability to understand either ourselves or the God who loves us and in whose image we are made.

The spiritual journey in religious life means being favored with a vision of life—but usually without visions. It involves taking on the mind of Christ who emptied himself. It means not clinging to anything, holding nothing back. This journey obliges us to take one step at a time, without knowing the end of the road and often without even being certain whether the next step is the right one. It can take us through an interior landscape where it may seem as if someone has removed all the highway markers; and the weather can be so obscure that we barely see our hands in front of our faces, much less perceive the presence of God.

But what a trip it is! Formidable though the way may be, it is precisely here that we find our delight. After all, the God who created the universe, who fills the cosmos, who is and was and ever shall be, this God is, amazingly enough, both our companion and our destination. After beginning on this path, any other way seems insipid, hardly worth the trouble of putting one foot in front of the other.

To nurture this wondrous journey and to smooth its progress, we come together as community. We gather in order to support each other by our words, our prayers, and our presence; to encourage each other as well in the silence and solitude we need. And when we become discouraged, like Elijah lying under the broom tree, we take for each other the role of the angel who said, “Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you” (1 Kings 19:7 NRSV).

If we are truthful, though, we will admit that sometimes our sisters and brothers themselves can be part of the “burning of the noontide heat, and the burden of the day.” [3] The community may be the very reason we long to crawl under the broom tree and disappear in sleep. But the burdens and the blessings of the road are intermingled and often indistinguishable one from the other. What seems like a burden may in reality be a blessing, and each blessing tends to bring with it its own weight, imperceptible at times, unbearable at others. In community, as we accompany each other along the way, as we support each other in the rigors of the spiritual journey, we are for each other burden-bearers, burdens, and blessings.

What, then is the role of our ministry? Is the value of ministry lessened if the work we are called to do is not the primary reason we are brought together? On the contrary. Apart from the inward journey, our ministry lacks integrity. A religious community with a task—even a noble task—as its primary purpose and goal risks allowing both the community and the task to become sterile. The apostolate is inseparable from the journey of transforming union. Flowing out of the journey, rather than usurping its place, our ministry flowers and reaches fruition, for it becomes more and more the work of Christ, as we ourselves are being transformed into the compassionate and merciful presence of Christ for each other and for the world.

__________

1 Aimer, ce n’est pas se regarder l’un l’autre, c’est regarder ensemble dans la même direction.

2 Parker Palmer, “The Monastic Way to Church Renewal,” Desert Call, Winter 1987: 8-9.

3 Eliz­a­beth C. Cle­phane, “Beneath the Cross of Jesus,” 1868.

. . . . . . . . . .

The above Journal reflection is somewhat longer than usual. This essay was accepted for publication in Review for Religious. However, when it came out in January, 2007, it had been edited so severely (without my knowledge or permission) that it was almost unrecognizable. According to Sister Elizabeth’s calculation, only 27 of the 87 sentences were my own. Even worse, the intent had been modified.

I thought that some of you might like to read the original.

Sister Rose Hoover

Oh, I had read a romantically pious biography of her, and knew that an important element in her spirituality was surrendering oneself* to God. On that winter day in Saint Louis , though, the ground covered with a foot of snow, I had no idea of what this concept required — of both how difficult it is in real life (and how easy – see the whole meditation of Saint Therese at “To Surrender Oneself”).

I had not yet learned what Mother Therese knew — that there is nothing we can call our own. She spoke of “my extreme poverty” (in French, ma misère). She was conscious of having no virtue of her own: whatever goodness she had was from God, and even her spiritual life was more God’s affair than it was hers. She said that if she were called to account for her deeds, she would find herself with empty hands, her only recourse being the great mercy of God. But for her, as for us, this great mercy of God is sufficient.

I did not yet know that all-sufficiency of God’s grace. I knew it in my head, of course, having been well taught. But when I entered the Cenacle, not having grown into a spiritually mature daughter of Mother Therese (and who can ever claim to be entirely mature?), I was still afraid of what God might do when I failed in faith or devotion or human virtue. I was well aware of my own lukewarmness. I knew the pitiful state of my prayer. Would God abandon me because of that? And what if I made a terrible mistake or committed a dreadful sin? Was it possible to be so evil that I would not be forgiven?

How miserable I made myself!

Mother Therese wrote:

In a word, to surrender oneself is to die to everything and to self, to be no longer concerned with self except to keep it continually turned toward God.

To surrender oneself is, moreover, no longer to seek oneself in anything, either for the spiritual or the physical, that is to say, no longer to seek one’s own satisfaction, but solely the divine good pleasure.

To be “no longer concerned with self except to keep it continually turned toward God” and “no longer to seek oneself in anything, either for the spiritual or the physical” — I realized that this stance must also include the way I dealt with my failings. In other words, how could I be continually turned toward the good God and at the same time constantly focused on my own inadequacy? How could I be no longer concerned with self, if I were always berating myself, rather than praising God for the divine mercy freely poured out in Jesus Christ who died for me?

What about my prayer? What about other areas of my life? Here, too, it is impossible to be continually turned toward God if my primary concern is the quality of my own prayer — or the state of my faith, or my relationships, or my work, or anything else that I consider mine. A certain discipline is important, certainly, but even the discipline is not to be my primary focus. My focus must be God.

This turning toward God means handing over the results of my prayer or of any other undertaking. The fruits are important of course. Am I growing in faith, hope, and love? Does my life witness to what Paul calls, in Galatians 5, the “fruit of the Spirit”: “love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control”? If not, something is askew.

Success or failure, however, is another matter altogether. In the life of Mother Therese there were certainly what we would call failures — the most startling being that she was deposed from her role as superior general — in other words, she was fired. But what we human beings consider failure is not necessarily failure in God’s eyes. Just consider the colossal “failure” of the mission of Jesus as it seemed to end on the cross.

In the Spirit of this same Jesus, Mother Therese handed herself over to the one she knew as the Good God. Through grace, she answered the call to entrust herself to a Mystery she could not see, but whom she experienced as Mercy, Love, and Peace.

Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.

(John 12:24)