Peering Beyond the Prayer Book: Resolutions

Reason number 40 why it is great to be Catholic: Multiple chances each year to be a better person. Within the sacred calendar, Advent and Lent are both times of reflection and introspection, ultimately in preparation for the coming Christmas and Holy Week celebrations respectively. In the secular calendar, we make resolutions at the New Year, for a new school year, and we even have our resolution of things to do before we die, nicknamed as a “bucket list.” We continuously make resolutions as a means to help ourselves in some way, ultimately striving to become a better person. Here we are yet again at a recent time of resolution-making during this Lenten season.

During Lent, the continuous question one might hear is, “What are you giving up for Lent?” The idea of atonement and preparation for Easter seems to have been boiled down into not eating meat on Fridays and choosing not to eat candy. For me, something seems to be missing if this is what the tradition is about. In contrast, let me reflect on the beginning of Lent, Ash Wednesday. A paradox seems to occur between the Gospel reading and the Ash Wednesday ceremony. In the reading (Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18), Jesus warns the disciples repeatedly against proclaiming of their “righteous deeds, almsgiving, prayer or fasting,” advocating instead for the reward that comes from “the Father who sees what is hidden.” The paradox arises when, as soon as this reading is read, each individual is marked with an ashen cross on their forehead, a quite prominent display of one’s “piety.” The purpose is not to be ostentatious, however, but instead to be a simple reminder of mortality. Commonly, the phrase that accompanies this symbol is, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” representative of the belief of creation from and our return to ashes in death. Never before has this message been so clearly evident for me as it has this year.

A rose is now what  I see when I peer beyond the prayer book.

Less than 24 hours after our Ash Wednesday ceremony, Sr. Mary Bernard Leiser died suddenly from a stroke. If the symbolism was not enough, the fragility and mortality of our lives has just been made clear with this loss, and the hole of shock and pain is only just barely beginning to heal. I still imagine seeing her in the halls or with her yellow rubber gloves scrubbing dishes before everyone else has arrived. If I had known what was coming, would I have done things differently? Said something more meaningful? Ultimately, though, is the reality that nothing that is past can be changed, and our resolutions are a means to change our future. Resolutions are our ways to continually reflect on our lives, implementing changes for growth and self-discovery.

My favorite hymn on Ash Wednesday is “Ashes” by Tom Conry because of the beautiful Lenten invitation as described in the lyrics. The following lines are the first two verses of this hymn:

We rise again from ashes,
from the good we’ve failed to do.
We rise again from ashes,
to create ourselves anew.
If all our world is ashes,
then must our lives be true,
an offering of ashes, an offering to you.

We offer you our failures,
we offer you attempts,
the gifts not fully given,
the dreams not fully dreamt.
Give our stumblings direction,
give our visions wider view,
an offering of ashes, an offering to you.

Although there is no real refrain, the one line that continuously returns at the end of each of the four verses is, “an offering of ashes, an offering to you.” Essentially, I believe this is what we are each called to during Lent: to give an offering of ‘ashes’ to God. The composer goes on to describe what “an offering of ashes” is in the second verse, listing “failures… attempts… gifts not fully given… dreams not fully dreamt.” In stark contrast to many Biblical stories that refer to offerings as prized possessions, it seems that “an offering of ashes” would be aspects of ourselves that which we might be ashamed. Whenever we share anything of ourselves, more often than not we attempt to only share the best of ourselves. Recently, I have interviewed with several graduate schools, and this situation demands me to only share and highlight my greatest attributes. I found myself highly aware of those aspects of my personality that would be some of my greatest assets during the interview: being cordial, friendly, polite, articulate, and confident. This would not be a time to intimately discuss my fears, apprehensions and self-doubts.

While it may seem petty to compare a school interview to God, this seems the best way to highlight the distinction of God’s compassion. If we can humble ourselves enough to share our failings, faults, and attempts, we are instantly being more real than any offering of monetary wealth. To close, one of my Lenten resolutions is to give “an offering of ashes,” to be honest and mindful of myself and what I do. In doing so, I hope that I may truly “rise again from ashes to create [myself] anew.”

Peering Beyond the Prayer Book: The Call

There are certainly no prairies in New York.

Over the course of my time here at the Monastery of St. Gertrude’s, I have repeatedly heard that to seek God alone above all else is a call to monasticism. While I have spent time pondering this thought, I have also been in the process of applying to graduate schools, not for anything based in religion or theology but instead for musicology. How is it that a prospective music professor from Upstate New York ends up at a monastery in the middle of nowhere, thousands of miles away from her friends and family? The only answer I can honestly give is that I was called. I do not mean that God or anything like that picked up the telephone, dialed my number, and left me a voicemail saying that I should go to Idaho; nothing quite that dramatic. I do, however, believe there is something that draws you, me, and all of us to certain things in our lives. That may be the voice of God, but in more secular terms, I believe it is simply this desire to be part of something greater than our selves.

What sparked this idea for me originally came from answering the question of why I was here. Many guests I have met have asked if I am interested in becoming a nun. While evidence would make this a logical conclusion, I find myself firmly saying, “No.” When reflecting on my reasoning, why I don’t want to be a nun, it seems that as much as there is a call to religious life, so do I feel called away from religious life. The call, for me, is to something else, somewhere else.

Maybe I'm called to live in the bustling city of Denver

This concept of the call was confirmed for me during a recent trip to Denver. One opportunity I had while there was to visit a potential school and meet the musicology faculty. After giving the “nutshell” version of what I have been doing since my undergraduate graduation, one of the professors commented about how the call to musicology seems similar to the call to monasticism. Immediately, the parallel use of “the call” resonated with me, attesting to the truth of the draw for each of us as individuals. What draws me to musicology, I believe, is the same draw to religious life; the same draw that an allergist, a mechanic, a trapeze artist, a zookeeper, etc. all feel towards their ultimate career goals. When I brought up this subject with a friend, he reminded me that this call is not limited to career choice. We are called in our lives, throughout our whole life. I can speak to my own experience of the call I felt at different points in my life. As a child, my call was to do well in school, respect my parents, and play nice with my brother and sister. My college career was answering the call to study music. After college, I felt called to a year of service, and now I have been called here to Cottonwood, ID. My friends have been called to other things, such as the armed forces, marriage, or parenthood. We are all responding to this call in whatever ways we can, ultimately answering the call of God or whatever higher power to live fully; to truly become who we already are.

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, / I took the one less traveled by, / and that has made all the difference." - from Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken"

So this time I leave you with a question (or several questions). What is your call? Where and to what are you being called? How are you answering your call?

A post-script thought: The last time I saw my boyfriend, when he was handing me my things, he slipped me a card that said, “Through you, God’s love is shown.” Maybe I really am seeking God above all else.