In the last year or two, I have been delving deeply into my Catholic Faith far more than the previous nearly 40 years. I have sought to stop being a perfunctory person in the pew or in assisting ministries. (People I know would say, I think, that I am far from perfunctory. I am often at Mass, and often in Confession, and participating in many parish activities. This is only proof that appearances are deceiving. I am and have been active indeed, but activity is not of itself transformative).
I have once again explored two approaches to this life: the Sartre/Camus existentialist "life has no meaning, life is absurd, life is hard and then you die, the end" variety and then "the God created us to be happy, and we were, yet, with our free will, we set off an explosion of sin and suffering and death, but God so loved us and has given us a second chance in the form of following Him who took on our sin, died and transformed death into life" variety. The former makes no sense to me at all, is, pardon the expression "meaningless". In "The Plague", Camus' hero fights a plague despite his fervid assumption that life has no meaning. He seeks meaning in fighting the plague. Why fight for what does not exist? Why should we long for that which does not exist? How can a human being, thrown into the world randomly, discover meaning where there is none? Fighting for something presupposes there is something discreet out there warranting risk and charity. Either meaning exists or it does not---and if you seek it, then it must exist, somewhere. The desire for meaning seems to prove the existence of a universe with ultimate meaning. Ok, I'm not going down that rabbit hole, just leading to my choice of the latter, which posits the meaning that we humans seem to seek in every action we take and every argument we make. I have concluded, hopefully for the inevitably short balance of my life, that Catholicism, provides the fullest source of Meaning, that is God Made Man, who reaches out His physical yet Transcendent Hand to every single one of us, if we would just clear away the pride and its overgrown chaff. He asks us to see that the suffering we caused is transformed if we follow Him through it to Resurrection.
The wounds of our lives, the result of the tsunami of sin caused (credit for the phrase here is to Fr. Ed Broom of St. Peter Chanel, who calls sin a "moral tsunami"), that we use to justify our rejection of God is the very thing that that can be healed through the Catholic Church, who is Jesus Christ. The people (Peter, the "Rock", the Apostles, the Disciples, Mary, His mother) upon which Jesus, the Church, upon which He joined Himself, upon which He laid His Foundation, are His branches (I am the Vine; You are the Branches). The branches break, some stop bearing leaves or fruit, while others manage to continue, but the Vine, the Church He is and He founded, survives and manages always to feed, to bring health. In the Sacraments we are nurtured and healed. In the teachings, we are led by the hand back to the meaning that we obscure.
A retreat (through the John Paul II Healing Center held in Sacred Heart Retreat House in Alhambra), I went on a short while ago, was focused on the wounds, inevitably inflicted by other frail humans in our development, and inflicted on ourselves by our own consequent sins, did something being in therapy, studying therapy, and reading endlessly never did. We all have wounds. All of us. That was the inevitable consequence of the first choice against God. It was four days of about 30 of us looking at wounds in both a psychologically and spiritually integrated way using a video presentation, prayer, Mass, Spiritual Direction, and Confession . I have looked at each dimension over the course of my life, but somehow, I never really joined them into a unity. I had nearly despaired that there was a chasm between me and God that something in me would not bridge. For all my church going, participation, receipt of the Sacraments (since I came back to the faith officially), I have been living parallel to God. I have, implicitly, and mostly unconsciously, even when I thought I was fully aware, been using what I perceive to be my wounds as a fortress to keep God at bay. I say all the time, "Lord, I believe, help my unbelief", while telling Him not to get too close. He, of course, could broach the moat and pierce the walls or heavy door, but He won't violate my choices. He reaches to me; and like the model of the greatest saint, Mary, His Mother, he yearns for my unqualified "Yes!" instead of a hedging one.
Wounds can be used as a shield against the rescue operation He successfully mounted on the Cross. "Nope," we/I say, my family of origin, my father, my mother, my brother, my school, the horribly human priest, or nun, "I am too hurt, too injured to reach out to a God even if it means that I separate myself from Him instead of living in joy restored to Heaven". In Paradise, we had it all, and rejected it. Now, we have a second chance and we spit "I will not Serve" either deliberately or reflexively out of deep hurts and fear and anger.
I have never said, "I will not serve" and I do seek to do His Will, knowing that ultimately it is not merely out of obedience to the Truth, but, to be truthful, beneficial self-interest. Am I foolish enough to prefer hell, worse than any suffering here, rather than bliss in the Beatific Vision? But those emotional carbuncles distract and confuse.
The area in which my particular perceived wounds reflect themselves in everyday life, and after the retreat, there was a lightbulb, much brighter than all others which have flashed through my searching was in fear and anger. For purposes of this entry, it matters not how they were developed, but that they have governed even the smallest interaction where those wounds were touched upon and how often they have been touched and limited me in my relationships and lacks thereof. And how, if I do not address both the psychological and spiritual at once, with the indispensable help of God's penetrating Grace, the last chance, to love the God who loves us, who loves each of us completely and fully, nor accept the love He so obviously offers by the historical fact of His death on the Cross and its Resurrection miracle, will be lost.
Mostly, I have kept my anger to myself, driven it within; my fear I think has been more visible to those who know me, but a few have seen an outbreak of anger in public places. It has been rare, but it has happened, and seemed triggered by nothing. Oh, but it never has been nothing. It has been something the other cannot see. And when they have laughed, or dismissed, to the extent they have seen, the determination to drive my heart behind the wall has increased away from everybody, and just in case, from God too, silly as that is. I haven't even realized it. That's what I mean. The retreat helped me see in a way I never have. I wouldn't recommend it to someone who hasn't first tried traditional therapy, and/or spiritual direction. I needed the preliminary insight. And I had insight up the wazoo. But it wasn't translating into a real change.
These days, since the retreat, I have noticed the moments that lead up to the feelings of fear and/or anger and their various components in a way I do not think I have before. I see that they defeat me and keep me from jumping the chasm and to God. How exactly that happens, well, let's see from an example of yesterday.
I had some business to attend to that required me to mail a significant number of envelopes so that I could have tracking. I have a favorite small post office that is in an equally favorite tourist area. They are more efficient than the main post office nearby, and usually they are not terribly crowded because it is an odd spot for a post office. When I got there, there was just one person ahead and no one behind me. The lovely cashier was patient and kind as she began the painstaking weighing and printing of labels for each envelope, which was complicated by the fact that her new label printer was malfunctioning. Meanwhile, a line behind me had developed and I began to feel the general impatience of the gathering customers, which I certainly understood as I too have had to wait on such lines. My Spidey senses, the ones I developed as a young child, felt the seething annoyance not merely at having to wait, but that this person, me, was in the way. I felt the unfair pressure, but I also felt some guilt, or was it a sense of charity, I don't know. Perhaps it was both, as I have become especially aware of late of the reality of the wounds of others, but guilt in that I have never been sure when I have done something warranting remonstration or something that does not--a legacy of my early life. I asked the cashier if she could help some of the people that had quick needs, and one even was not that quick. At first she said no, because it would interrupt the momentum we had begun and the receipt process, then she said she was able to do it. So I let two individuals break into my task, which also created its own stress as I wanted to be careful and accurate. The context of the fallible labeler and the unhappy stares was an aggravating factor. I did not sense gratefulness from the first youngish woman, and sure enough though she said something to me as she finished, it was not "Thank You". The next was a man who needed to pick up some already paid for postcards. He said nothing as he passed me and left. A third woman just walked up to the window, and I asked her politely I thought, I hope, whether what she was about to do would be a small task. She wanted to know why that was any of my concern. I explained it to her. She was displeased. Her husband thought that since I had a few envelopes left that this meant it would be fast and so I began to explain the situation, and by now, feeling anger at them, and at myself for having even attempted to be courteous, the woman accused me of raising my voice. Had I? I don't know. But I certainly was by now angry enough to as they huffed off. I had done nothing wrong. Right? So why did I feel like a bad little girl? So, apparently even when I am trying to do the right thing, I am doing the wrong thing? Oh, that is an old psychological ghost. You can imagine what it was like when as a prosecutor the other side inevitably threw out accusations about my doing my job and my motivations for doing it. Oh, in those earth bound situations, I have defended and will defend usually because it was my job to do so. I had an obligation to overcome my fear. I put it aside. I did not overcome it. But I am never sure that I had a right to do it. And so there was anger at the not knowing and the sense of potential repercussions. And as to a personal life--- not taking any chances with anyone, and that includes God. Oh, the power of transference and projection even beyond the bounds of the earth? Silly girl. But it limits, at least for me, both love and trust. They tell you in this retreat not to compare your wounds to that of anyone else. But let me tell you, I can't avoid it. My "wounds" are far less than many I have heard in my life's travels, and so there is also a bit of embarrassment that I haven't conquered fear, anxiety and anger that have tied me in knots, and kept me wary of man, and God. All of which implicates a pride that I can do it myself--even as I know God is there to offer His help. To reach out to Him, the God of the Universe, somehow is terrifying. It is a great risk even in the presence of faith, albeit it one that needs constant reinforcement. To trust and love God even in the presence of the very worst I fear. In the presence of the constant ambiguity of life.
But, on the positive side, this time I saw what I was doing, that my first reaction was to withdraw, to ruminate, to avoid, to rage internally and to add another brick to the fortress (they talk about fortresses in the retreat) of my particular design. And this time, small thing that this was in the scheme of the harms and hurts of the universe, I looked to God. I didn't demand satisfaction from Him. I didn't demand that He answer my small and big questions. I just asked Him to be with me. And so, maybe one day, with a lot of prayer, with a lot of resort to the Sacraments, I will stop being parallel to Him. I will stop being afraid of suffering, large and small. I will run into His open arms. I will see His hands and feet and side pierced and healed and will know I am safe. Resistance will be delightfully futile.
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