Humility is seeing yourself as God sees you - no more, no less (hence my frustration at people's pious attempts to be humble by degrading or ignoring their own talents, or by refusing to accept compliments). I believe it was St Augustine who said that if we saw each other as we truly are, we would be tempted to fall down and worship. So, all else accounted for, humility includes recognizing that we are awesomely gifted and incredibly blessed.
But it took me years to discover what I will call supernatural humility, which consists of allowing others to trample upon your dignity while holding fast to it inside. This is the humility displayed by the martyrs when they allowed their bodies, precious temples of the Holy Spirit that they were, to be mutilated and destroyed, and by Our Lord when countless calumnies were spoken against Him. They knew their worth was much greater than that, but were happy to suffer these injuries for the sake of our heavenly Father.
This kind of humility is a very practical virtue to work on in one's daily life. Ignore (or even smile at) that kid that ran into you in the supermarket rather than expressing your frustration at his careless disdain for your personal space. Work diligently at your tireless job without expectation of appreciation (also accept without complaint tasks far below your skill level). Quietly pick up and do the forgotten tasks for which other people in your household are responsible (sometimes).
These examples work best with strangers, though, and get tricky when they're with closer people. But building friendships I've found to be a different story. Between the command to love your neighbor as yourself and the analogy between spousal relationships and other friendships (analogous insofar as both are based in love of God), it seems clear to me that the telos (end) of every Christian friendship is to get your friend to heaven. So you want to enable them to persist in vice as little as possible without infringing upon the unconditionalness of your charity.
Scenario One: Road trip with one friend (read: little to no alone time for a full week). Both of us looking out for each others' interests so far above our own that we never stopped to consider whether what we thought the other wanted was really what they wanted. So communication fail, but also humility fail. What was needed from me was not to set aside my own legitimate needs and desires but to trust that my friend loved me enough to want to meet my legitimate needs and desires, and to express those so as to give them an opportunity to do so.
Scenario Two: Went out of my way to make plans with a friend for special quality time before I leave; other plans were then made for this friend over the plans they had with me, but this was not communicated with me until I asked about our plans. On an objective level, this was quite upsetting, but my initial response to this friend was not even one of disappointment; all I said was "good to know!" Sure, humility would just take the injury (which was my initial reaction), but friendship should not. Friendship required me to step up and demand a reschedule, not in the least because I know this friend had no desire to hurt me, and would benefit from the opportunity to develop the skill of being a little less oblivious to such things.
Scenario Three: My children slack off and don't do their chores. How much is it laudable for me to simply pick up after them quietly, and how much of that is simply spoiling them and enabling them to not learn to take care of themselves?
Humility is a tricky virtue, this supernatural kind none the less so. Like just about everything else that's good in this life, it's a balancing act. So the goal is to make sure I balance my humility with charity, not with insecurity. (Why are the worthwhile things always easier said than done?)
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
On Childhood Latin
Today, as part of his Latin-themed 80th birthday present, I took my grandfather to Latin Mass. It was mostly just a pleasant trip down memory lane for him (not that he didn't pray, but that it wasn't an overwhelming spiritual experience), but I found it delightful to be able to bring someone from my family into this spiritual home of mine, which sometimes feels like it might as well be on another planet. And what stories he told! They were pretty cool. I especially like the one where he challenged an old pastor, asking him when he last used the phrase "fear of God" (the priest didn't really have a response).
Anyway. Back on topic. So my mom, in explaining this happening to the monsignor at our local parish, mentioned that "Claire and Pop-Pop have had a Latin connection for years." When she later relayed this to me, I laughed and asked, "Really?" I mean, I've always remembered that my grandfather had some hobby-like interest in Latin whenever I was studying it in school, but that seemed to be a shorter time than her statement reflected. And then she told me a story (which I actually remember!), and that put it all into perspective.
Pop-Pop and Mom had been in our parish choir for as long as I can remember. And I was pretty much ready to join the choir myself for as long as I can remember (it wasn't available to me 'till 4th grade; since then, however, I've not had a break of more than a few months without singing for Mass). So when, at seven years old, I learned a new choir song from my Pop-Pop, it quickly became my favorite (in my memory, at least, the song was definitely "Pop-Pop's favorite song", which may have influenced my proclivity for it). It was a simple round, with words as follows:
Characters:
Claire, age 7
Mom
Pop-Pop (grandfather)
All three sing the song together, at Claire's insistence. Then Claire tries to conduct them in a round, with forceful directions, like "Pop-Pop, start!" (Mom gets the second part, and Claire takes the third part). Mom and Pop-Pop look at each other, amused, and sing obligingly.
At seven years old, my favorite church song (probably my favorite song, period) was in Latin. And my family was not traddy at all. Who knew?
Anyway. Back on topic. So my mom, in explaining this happening to the monsignor at our local parish, mentioned that "Claire and Pop-Pop have had a Latin connection for years." When she later relayed this to me, I laughed and asked, "Really?" I mean, I've always remembered that my grandfather had some hobby-like interest in Latin whenever I was studying it in school, but that seemed to be a shorter time than her statement reflected. And then she told me a story (which I actually remember!), and that put it all into perspective.
Pop-Pop and Mom had been in our parish choir for as long as I can remember. And I was pretty much ready to join the choir myself for as long as I can remember (it wasn't available to me 'till 4th grade; since then, however, I've not had a break of more than a few months without singing for Mass). So when, at seven years old, I learned a new choir song from my Pop-Pop, it quickly became my favorite (in my memory, at least, the song was definitely "Pop-Pop's favorite song", which may have influenced my proclivity for it). It was a simple round, with words as follows:
Jubilate Deo"Rejoice in God, all the earth. Serve the Lord in gladness/joy. Alleluia! Alleluia! in gladness/joy. Alleluia! Alleluia! in gladness/joy." That translation comes more from my memory than from my current Latin knowledge. Now picture the scene:
Omnis terra!
Servite Domino
In laetitia.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
In laetitia.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
In laetitia.
Characters:
Claire, age 7
Mom
Pop-Pop (grandfather)
All three sing the song together, at Claire's insistence. Then Claire tries to conduct them in a round, with forceful directions, like "Pop-Pop, start!" (Mom gets the second part, and Claire takes the third part). Mom and Pop-Pop look at each other, amused, and sing obligingly.
At seven years old, my favorite church song (probably my favorite song, period) was in Latin. And my family was not traddy at all. Who knew?
Monday, August 10, 2009
On the Danger of Knowing a Little Psychology
One of the classes that was required for my undergrad was Philosophy of the Human Person. I took this entry-level class as a senior with a good background in philosophy, so I wasn't particularly bowled over by any major revelations in the class, but the one thing that did stick with me was the distinction between self-presence and self-reflection.
Bear with me, you non-philosophers. Self-presence is just living your life; self-reflection is being aware of the fact that you're living your life (and of how you're living it). For instance: Picture yourself at a funeral home, alone in the viewing room with your deceased love one, just grieving. That's self-presence. Now imagine that someone walks in the room. You are instantly aware of how you appear and sound, and (unless you have an enormous amount of self-confidence) probably interrupt your grieving because you are aware of being observed. That's self-reflection.
So I tend to be somewhat psychologically oriented. This is great, because Our Lord can point out to me that I suffer from this terribly silly insecurity that I'm an overbearing personality (a total lie), and I can look critically at my friendships to see that this is far from the case. He can also suggest that I need to let Him increase a particular virtue in me, and I do so easily because I'm so aware of myself.
On the other hand: it often makes life more difficult. When with a group of men, for instance, I usually have to fight the fear that I'm infringing upon guy time, which makes it much more difficult to just relax and enjoy myself / be able to give myself more freely to others. When I'm not going through a particular crisis or growing period, I begin to ask God what He wants to fix in me next, as if it's all about Him improving me (whereas it's really about Him loving others through me).
Don't get me wrong: self-reflection is important and helpful and all that. But it's like being that kid from the Wonder Years and always narrating your life. Sure, it's funny. But are you really living life to the fullest? Are you really able to truly be there for the friend crying on your shoulder if you're thinking about the fact that she's crying on your shoulder (as opposed to listening wholeheartedly to her story that is the reason for her tears in the first place)...
For those of us who routinely first examine our motives to be sure we're not manipulating or using others, it's a tough job to trust ourselves to not screw up God working in us, and to just be present to those around us and to what's going on. Like most things in life, however, difficult only really means entirely worthwhile.
* * *
Special thanks to Emmy for awarding me the Anti-Muffin Award in the sidebar to the left! Reading her blog and corresponding occasionally with her has made me feel like I've made a new friend, which is a really novel and awesomely cool feeling. :D
Bear with me, you non-philosophers. Self-presence is just living your life; self-reflection is being aware of the fact that you're living your life (and of how you're living it). For instance: Picture yourself at a funeral home, alone in the viewing room with your deceased love one, just grieving. That's self-presence. Now imagine that someone walks in the room. You are instantly aware of how you appear and sound, and (unless you have an enormous amount of self-confidence) probably interrupt your grieving because you are aware of being observed. That's self-reflection.
So I tend to be somewhat psychologically oriented. This is great, because Our Lord can point out to me that I suffer from this terribly silly insecurity that I'm an overbearing personality (a total lie), and I can look critically at my friendships to see that this is far from the case. He can also suggest that I need to let Him increase a particular virtue in me, and I do so easily because I'm so aware of myself.
On the other hand: it often makes life more difficult. When with a group of men, for instance, I usually have to fight the fear that I'm infringing upon guy time, which makes it much more difficult to just relax and enjoy myself / be able to give myself more freely to others. When I'm not going through a particular crisis or growing period, I begin to ask God what He wants to fix in me next, as if it's all about Him improving me (whereas it's really about Him loving others through me).
Don't get me wrong: self-reflection is important and helpful and all that. But it's like being that kid from the Wonder Years and always narrating your life. Sure, it's funny. But are you really living life to the fullest? Are you really able to truly be there for the friend crying on your shoulder if you're thinking about the fact that she's crying on your shoulder (as opposed to listening wholeheartedly to her story that is the reason for her tears in the first place)...
For those of us who routinely first examine our motives to be sure we're not manipulating or using others, it's a tough job to trust ourselves to not screw up God working in us, and to just be present to those around us and to what's going on. Like most things in life, however, difficult only really means entirely worthwhile.
* * *
Special thanks to Emmy for awarding me the Anti-Muffin Award in the sidebar to the left! Reading her blog and corresponding occasionally with her has made me feel like I've made a new friend, which is a really novel and awesomely cool feeling. :D
Friday, August 7, 2009
On Control, Independence, and Marriage
One of the things I've enjoyed most about being home and single this past year has been the independence and flexibility. I can make last-minute snap decisions as to whether I want to go out (and if so, where) on a given night. I can drive forty minutes away to go to Sunday Mass at a parish where I really feel at home, where my soul is deeply nourished. I can pick up and spend a weekend away visiting friends, and my only concerns are not making plans at home during that weekend. Even in college I didn't have this much freedom.
But I'm going back to school next month. And while it's fantastic that I have my own room, parking on campus is free, and a load of laundry in the washer or dryer costs only $.50, my life will have a new structure to it.
See, this program is an M.A. in Liturgical Studies, and the school believes that one cannot be Catholic and merely study the Liturgy without being steeped in it, and for that reason all students are required to live the liturgical life of the campus: praying together for Matins, Vespers, and Mass each day. The Sunday Mass (on campus!) is explicitly the liturgical highlight of the week, the packet I received this weekend reminded me, so much so that priest students are encouraged to not have weekly duties at nearby parishes. This is serious business.
And while it absolutely makes sense for liturgical scholars to pray together, and while I had known that this was an integral part of their degree program, I had forgotten. Instead, I was getting excited about spending Sundays with friends from my undergrad who are in the area, about taking Sundays to explore downtown Chicago, and about assisting at Mass at such beautiful places as St John Cantius and the Shrine of Christ the King.
The hardest part is that conforming to these campus liturgical norms (as required in obedience even just to my vocation as a student) means leaving behind a favorite part of the spirituality the Lord has developed in me this past year: my adherence to the old calendar and living in the spirit of traditional liturgy. That spirit will remain, but I will be thoroughly rooted in the modern calendar and practice, which is something I find extremely disappointing.
But as Anne pointed out over the weekend, this is simply another case of preparing for my vocation as a wife and mother. When married, I will not have the freedom to do things my way simply because I prefer them that way. I will need to do things in a certain manner for the good of my family, and I'm sure I will have to compromise even on issues I consider to be important.
St Faustina had mystical visions of Our Lord, in which He gave her specific instructions (for things like forming a new religious order or getting the Feast of the Divine Mercy put on the liturgical calendar). When she took these to her confessors and superiors, they nearly always said, "You're crazy. No." (Not always in so many words, but they rarely believed her.) She knew that the instructions Our Lord gave to her were good and holy and His Will, but even so she submitted to the will of her superiors, of those to whom she'd sworn obedience, and simply trusted. And Our Lord told her how much He valued her obedience. It wasn't until after her death that these particular things were accomplished, but one of the crosses Our Lord wanted her to bear was His unfulfilled desires.
And so I say: even if I must set down my joy in the glories of Thy tradition for Thy Will and the good of my future family, may Thy will be done on earth - in my heart - as it is in heaven.
But I'm going back to school next month. And while it's fantastic that I have my own room, parking on campus is free, and a load of laundry in the washer or dryer costs only $.50, my life will have a new structure to it.
See, this program is an M.A. in Liturgical Studies, and the school believes that one cannot be Catholic and merely study the Liturgy without being steeped in it, and for that reason all students are required to live the liturgical life of the campus: praying together for Matins, Vespers, and Mass each day. The Sunday Mass (on campus!) is explicitly the liturgical highlight of the week, the packet I received this weekend reminded me, so much so that priest students are encouraged to not have weekly duties at nearby parishes. This is serious business.
And while it absolutely makes sense for liturgical scholars to pray together, and while I had known that this was an integral part of their degree program, I had forgotten. Instead, I was getting excited about spending Sundays with friends from my undergrad who are in the area, about taking Sundays to explore downtown Chicago, and about assisting at Mass at such beautiful places as St John Cantius and the Shrine of Christ the King.
The hardest part is that conforming to these campus liturgical norms (as required in obedience even just to my vocation as a student) means leaving behind a favorite part of the spirituality the Lord has developed in me this past year: my adherence to the old calendar and living in the spirit of traditional liturgy. That spirit will remain, but I will be thoroughly rooted in the modern calendar and practice, which is something I find extremely disappointing.
But as Anne pointed out over the weekend, this is simply another case of preparing for my vocation as a wife and mother. When married, I will not have the freedom to do things my way simply because I prefer them that way. I will need to do things in a certain manner for the good of my family, and I'm sure I will have to compromise even on issues I consider to be important.
St Faustina had mystical visions of Our Lord, in which He gave her specific instructions (for things like forming a new religious order or getting the Feast of the Divine Mercy put on the liturgical calendar). When she took these to her confessors and superiors, they nearly always said, "You're crazy. No." (Not always in so many words, but they rarely believed her.) She knew that the instructions Our Lord gave to her were good and holy and His Will, but even so she submitted to the will of her superiors, of those to whom she'd sworn obedience, and simply trusted. And Our Lord told her how much He valued her obedience. It wasn't until after her death that these particular things were accomplished, but one of the crosses Our Lord wanted her to bear was His unfulfilled desires.
And so I say: even if I must set down my joy in the glories of Thy tradition for Thy Will and the good of my future family, may Thy will be done on earth - in my heart - as it is in heaven.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
On Love and Consolation
I imagine that most of us have a small group of people who reside extremely close to our hearts completely undeservedly. Though one is occasionally blessed enough to develop a lifelong friendship with one of these people, usually the people in question are ones we don't know well, or haven't known long - the sort of relationships about which the sheer volume of love we feel is quite disproportionate to the knowledge of persons exchanged.
Yesterday, just before Mass, I was thinking about and praying for just one such friend. As my mind wandered gratefully over small affirmations by which he had gifted to me the love of God - objectively they were small, but to my heart they were overwhelming - I was struck by a powerful realization.
Back story: Months ago, I was filled with desire for greater closeness with another of this kind of friend, and especially for the desire to pour myself out more fully for his sake (as he clearly needed more graces than simple prayer and fasting could provide). Suddenly, an epiphany: the very emotion I was feeling, this fierce desire to lay down everything I had for the good of this other, was but a shadow of the love Our Lord has for me, of His great desire to bring me, undeserving, to sanctity by virtue of His sacrifice. Oh.
Yesterday's realization is almost part two: the great joy I feel at this friend's smallest gesture of love is akin to how Our Lord feels when I make an act of love for Him, be it as simple as not eating that piece of chocolate, rearranging my plans to be where my family needs me, or stopping by the adoration chapel for an unnecessary visit just 'cuz I was in the neighborhood.
Yesterday, just before Mass, I was thinking about and praying for just one such friend. As my mind wandered gratefully over small affirmations by which he had gifted to me the love of God - objectively they were small, but to my heart they were overwhelming - I was struck by a powerful realization.
Back story: Months ago, I was filled with desire for greater closeness with another of this kind of friend, and especially for the desire to pour myself out more fully for his sake (as he clearly needed more graces than simple prayer and fasting could provide). Suddenly, an epiphany: the very emotion I was feeling, this fierce desire to lay down everything I had for the good of this other, was but a shadow of the love Our Lord has for me, of His great desire to bring me, undeserving, to sanctity by virtue of His sacrifice. Oh.
Yesterday's realization is almost part two: the great joy I feel at this friend's smallest gesture of love is akin to how Our Lord feels when I make an act of love for Him, be it as simple as not eating that piece of chocolate, rearranging my plans to be where my family needs me, or stopping by the adoration chapel for an unnecessary visit just 'cuz I was in the neighborhood.
I find it hard to think about that - about the fact that Our Lord receives consolation from my actions, feels joy from my love.
For the forgetfulness and ingratitude of men, We will console You, O Lord...
For the sacrileges that profane Your Sacrament of Love, We will console You, O Lord...
For our own unfaithfulness, We will console You, O Lord...
For the sacrileges that profane Your Sacrament of Love, We will console You, O Lord...
For our own unfaithfulness, We will console You, O Lord...
UPDATE: I nearly forgot to link to this post by the Crescat, which muses on the other side of this same issue.
Friday, July 31, 2009
On Angst and Truth
I recently confessed to Isaac* that I wrote some angsty fiction in high school. While he laughed (with an appropriate degree of loving mockery), I came to realize that beneath most angst there is truth.
Certainly my angsty writing (this one example is humiliating enough) got at a deeper truth, something that I felt wasn't known in the world at large. You know how, in high school, your closeness with your friends is such that their problems become your problems, too? This was a case of learning something from my friends with initial shock, but then wanting to spread the knowledge once the shock faded away.
And realizing that my writing of angsty fiction was coupled with my desire to make people understand the truth makes me feel a little bit less sheepish for writing complain-y rants like that. But just a tiny bit. It is, after all, angsty fiction.
At least I never wrote fanfiction.
*I know I have a bad habit of name-dropping just so I can link to my friends' websites and blogs. I still haven't yet gotten over the novelty of my friends having websites and blogs to link to, and it's fun, so cut me some slack, okay?
Certainly my angsty writing (this one example is humiliating enough) got at a deeper truth, something that I felt wasn't known in the world at large. You know how, in high school, your closeness with your friends is such that their problems become your problems, too? This was a case of learning something from my friends with initial shock, but then wanting to spread the knowledge once the shock faded away.
And realizing that my writing of angsty fiction was coupled with my desire to make people understand the truth makes me feel a little bit less sheepish for writing complain-y rants like that. But just a tiny bit. It is, after all, angsty fiction.
At least I never wrote fanfiction.
*I know I have a bad habit of name-dropping just so I can link to my friends' websites and blogs. I still haven't yet gotten over the novelty of my friends having websites and blogs to link to, and it's fun, so cut me some slack, okay?
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
On Leaving
I move to the suburbs of Chicago in 35 days.
See, it's not going off to school that's scary. It's not leaving my home with its familiar places and beloved people that's scary. It's not jumping headlong into a completely new environment where I don't yet have any friends. It's not even packing up my life and driving it with me over to the next time zone.
It's this gut feeling I have that I'm not coming back.
Not that I'll never be back to Jersey. I will most definitely come back to visit for events and holidays for the rest of my life. It's not even that I don't love Jersey, that I've been wanting to move away, or that my plan has been to go to grad school and not come back. I love Jersey; this place will always be home.
And it's not that I'm afraid of losing people. I've kept touch with long-distance friends since I was fourteen; I know that the most important people will stick around, and those that don't stick around will still bring me great joy via my memories of these wonderful times.
What's just beginning to sink in is that going away to grad school is different than going away for undergrad. Sure, there are many similarities and parallels, but actually going out there means I'm getting on with the rest of my life already. And I'm not staying local like so many of my family and friends have done (and there's such a beauty in that!); instead I'm moving up and out, moving someplace where my family will have to fly in order to come visit me (it's only 13 hours, but Mom can't do long drives), with open possibilities of moving to just about any metropolitan area in the country, and a gut feeling that it won't be the NY Metro Area I'll end up in.
It's like I realize that I'm drawing near to the end of this chapter of my life, only it doesn't end neatly, like the last chapter did. College had a defined finishing point, and that's when I left. Now I'm the only one who's leaving, and everyone else is continuing on in their regular lives. And I am most likely never to return to those lives here - or if I do, it'll be radically different.
I guess what's happening is that I'm beginning to mourn the end of this period of my life, of this time in which I'm living with my family, not in school, working full-time, singing in the choir at my traddy parish, and receiving innumerable blessings through Spirit and Truth (and the friends I've made there). It has been a joyful, extremely blessed period, and I have learned so much. It's only good, natural, and healthy that I mourn the ending of this time.
But that doesn't mean I stop crying. It just means that my sorrow is rooted in the joy of the Lord.
See, it's not going off to school that's scary. It's not leaving my home with its familiar places and beloved people that's scary. It's not jumping headlong into a completely new environment where I don't yet have any friends. It's not even packing up my life and driving it with me over to the next time zone.
It's this gut feeling I have that I'm not coming back.
Not that I'll never be back to Jersey. I will most definitely come back to visit for events and holidays for the rest of my life. It's not even that I don't love Jersey, that I've been wanting to move away, or that my plan has been to go to grad school and not come back. I love Jersey; this place will always be home.
And it's not that I'm afraid of losing people. I've kept touch with long-distance friends since I was fourteen; I know that the most important people will stick around, and those that don't stick around will still bring me great joy via my memories of these wonderful times.
What's just beginning to sink in is that going away to grad school is different than going away for undergrad. Sure, there are many similarities and parallels, but actually going out there means I'm getting on with the rest of my life already. And I'm not staying local like so many of my family and friends have done (and there's such a beauty in that!); instead I'm moving up and out, moving someplace where my family will have to fly in order to come visit me (it's only 13 hours, but Mom can't do long drives), with open possibilities of moving to just about any metropolitan area in the country, and a gut feeling that it won't be the NY Metro Area I'll end up in.
It's like I realize that I'm drawing near to the end of this chapter of my life, only it doesn't end neatly, like the last chapter did. College had a defined finishing point, and that's when I left. Now I'm the only one who's leaving, and everyone else is continuing on in their regular lives. And I am most likely never to return to those lives here - or if I do, it'll be radically different.
I guess what's happening is that I'm beginning to mourn the end of this period of my life, of this time in which I'm living with my family, not in school, working full-time, singing in the choir at my traddy parish, and receiving innumerable blessings through Spirit and Truth (and the friends I've made there). It has been a joyful, extremely blessed period, and I have learned so much. It's only good, natural, and healthy that I mourn the ending of this time.
But that doesn't mean I stop crying. It just means that my sorrow is rooted in the joy of the Lord.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; Blessed be the name of the Lord!
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
On Performing
My junior year of high school, I had to memorize (and recite) a poem for English class. The only parameter was that it be longer than a haiku or limerick. While most of my classmates, unbeknownst to me, were choosing works by poets like e e cummings, Robert Frost, or Shell Silverstein, I spent my time memorizing Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. That's right: when everyone else was memorizing poems of twelve to twenty-five lines, I painstakingly committed to memory one hundred and eight lines of rhyming iambic octameter. I realized along the way what a thorough process memorization for performance is, and while I'd thought I understood the poem when I first chose it, it wasn't until I was in the thick of rehearsing my delivery that I saw how much depth there was yet for me to plumb.
Some people I know through Spirit and Truth have organized a few coffee houses in recent months, and have asked me to sing in them. Now, after my third performance, I have finally begun to process just what is so different about performance.
It's not ministry. In ministry, you may be singing, but your objective is for the listeners to forget about your song and encounter God. Not only do you not have to look at the congregation, you need to fade into the background and refrain from anything that would distract. (I've been in various church music ministries without more than an occasional few months off since I was ten, so this is second nature to me.)
It's not public speaking. When you're giving a speech, both your delivery and your content are important, but the one drives the other. It's nigh impossible to speak clearly and eloquently without that carrying over into your mannerisms and gestures, which are secondary anyway. Especially if this sort of thing comes naturally to you, all you need to concern yourself with as far as preparation is the text of your speech. You can even interact with your audience while speaking (this usually enriches the experience for all involved).
It's not acting. Good acting requires a lot of preparation (for most people), but more importantly it requires an invisible curtain between the actor and the audience. You must take your character seriously and remain in character, no matter what the audience's response (save perhaps if they're yelling "FIRE!" and the building's burning down. But even then, you get bonus points if you can improvise in character and leave with all your theatrical dignity).
It's performing. In a performance, you put yourself on stage for others' enrichment and entertainment, but also for a unique kind of conversation with them. You are expected to appear as comfortable as if you were in your own living room after a loosening-up drink, yet all eyes are on you (few of which give you any indication as to their response), and people are more docile to how you ask them to behave or feel, whether you explicitly ask them or lead them subtly through your performance. Performance requires the polished preparation of an actor with the conversational ease of a public speaker. If your performance is a musical one, it requires many of the same technical skills as ministry does, but with an intensity like that of one who carefully recites poetry.
And often, if your raw talents are good enough, you can get by without much preparation, and the audience is none the wiser. But you know that you're capable of shining so much more brightly with just a little bit of elbow grease. But a merely-good performance is better than none at all, right?
And besides, maybe you'll eventually develop a comfort zone for being on stage as yourself. And then this whole performance thing will really become fun.
* * *
I feel obliged to note that this is my 100th post. Woot! My new goal: 200.
Some people I know through Spirit and Truth have organized a few coffee houses in recent months, and have asked me to sing in them. Now, after my third performance, I have finally begun to process just what is so different about performance.
It's not ministry. In ministry, you may be singing, but your objective is for the listeners to forget about your song and encounter God. Not only do you not have to look at the congregation, you need to fade into the background and refrain from anything that would distract. (I've been in various church music ministries without more than an occasional few months off since I was ten, so this is second nature to me.)
It's not public speaking. When you're giving a speech, both your delivery and your content are important, but the one drives the other. It's nigh impossible to speak clearly and eloquently without that carrying over into your mannerisms and gestures, which are secondary anyway. Especially if this sort of thing comes naturally to you, all you need to concern yourself with as far as preparation is the text of your speech. You can even interact with your audience while speaking (this usually enriches the experience for all involved).
It's not acting. Good acting requires a lot of preparation (for most people), but more importantly it requires an invisible curtain between the actor and the audience. You must take your character seriously and remain in character, no matter what the audience's response (save perhaps if they're yelling "FIRE!" and the building's burning down. But even then, you get bonus points if you can improvise in character and leave with all your theatrical dignity).
It's performing. In a performance, you put yourself on stage for others' enrichment and entertainment, but also for a unique kind of conversation with them. You are expected to appear as comfortable as if you were in your own living room after a loosening-up drink, yet all eyes are on you (few of which give you any indication as to their response), and people are more docile to how you ask them to behave or feel, whether you explicitly ask them or lead them subtly through your performance. Performance requires the polished preparation of an actor with the conversational ease of a public speaker. If your performance is a musical one, it requires many of the same technical skills as ministry does, but with an intensity like that of one who carefully recites poetry.
And often, if your raw talents are good enough, you can get by without much preparation, and the audience is none the wiser. But you know that you're capable of shining so much more brightly with just a little bit of elbow grease. But a merely-good performance is better than none at all, right?
And besides, maybe you'll eventually develop a comfort zone for being on stage as yourself. And then this whole performance thing will really become fun.
* * *
I feel obliged to note that this is my 100th post. Woot! My new goal: 200.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
On Love Songs
By the time I reached high school, I was familiar enough with the popular music scene to feel dissatisfied with it. Why is every single song about love? I frequently wondered (leaving aside for a moment the distinction between love and lust). I searched for songs about other things, since romance is not the only important part of life worth talking about. And I did find a few, but most of what was out there were humorous songs and parodies or showtunes (or else too serious and depressing to be enjoyable). Still, these were what I tended to prefer. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that everyone else seemed perfectly okay with listening to love songs all the time. :)
Then, in college, I stopped paying as much attention to the music I listened to. Rather, I paid more attention to what went in my ears, and purged from my collection some albums or songs whose content I found morally unsuitable. I listened to much more Christian Contemporary Music, most of which is just one artist putting to music a slightly different version of the same praise and worship song that's been put to music by eighteen other artists before (not to even try to count the number of amateurs who play the song with their own flair while leading worship). I listened to much less music on my own, and most of what I did was lyrically directed to God, so the Why is every song a love song? question mattered little.
I don't really know what has changed. But while I still appreciate a good nonsense song, I do value love songs more and more. I realized this suddenly as I was brainstorming a list of songs I might sing at the Appalachia Benefit Concert this weekend (anyone in my area who wants to hear excellent music and support our mission trip is more than welcome): every song I'd chosen to sing (with the exception of two hymns) was a love song! Whatever happened to me, that I who thought that it was silly to have so many love songs am now excited to be performing a bunch of love songs for fun?
I can only speculate, but I think it must be connected with my growing understanding of God as Love. Human love is a gift from God, a shadow of His own love. And human love is beautiful! In recent years I have experienced the beauty of self-sacrificing love, and it is positively intoxicating.
If I can subtly attract people to God by revealing the beauty of love through music... then how can I keep from singing?
Monday, July 20, 2009
On Separate Chapters in the Book of My Life
I spent this weekend in the throes of another college wedding. That is, I was a bridesmaid, I knew the rest of the wedding party and the couple's family (and over half the wedding guests), I was involved in a bunch of the planning, and I knew I would thoroughly enjoy myself.
But this one was different. See, the last two weddings I was in that fit the above description were while I was still in college mode. But this time, things were different. This time, it wasn't just an exciting wedding with my regular friends; it was an exciting wedding with old friends, while my regular friends waited back home for me to pick up my social life when I returned.
All this made me realize in new depth a regret that I've felt several times already. The longer I go on without a husband, the more experiences of mine he'll miss out on, and the more communities I treasure that he'll never know. I'm sure that I will conversely be welcomed into various communities of his via stories and friendships down the line, but right now, it's just a little bit sad.
It was sad when I realized that I am unlikely to marry a man from my cherished Ann Arbor crew. Unlike some of my oldest and deepest college friends, I will have no reason to return to that central location for holidays, where I would conveniently see old friends as well as beloved family.
It was sad when I realized that I am unlikely to marry a man from the Apprentices of St Joseph household. There will not be a moment at my wedding reception at which my husband and I will be surrounded by silly gentlemen doing something affectionately called "The Piston Dance."
It was sad when I realized that I am unlikely to marry a man from Conquer Through Love household. I will never receive a CTL nickname or bowling pin, nor will my firstborn son.
It was sad when I realized that I am unlikely to marry a man from my local Spirit and Truth young adult community. My husband will not be seranaded that he's "lost that lovin' feeling" by a large crowd of gentlemen as the ladies and I look on with joy.
Not that any of these are completely foregone conclusions, and not that the wedding reception itself matters so much. But each of these wedding traditions represents a friendship, a comeraderie, an inclusion into a group whose friendships and spirituality have blessed my own life so much that I desire for my future spouse to receive their blessings.
This weekend's wedding reminded me just how separate the different groups of my friends can be, and while the gaps between the groups can be connected by the telling of stories and the occasional visits, I am finding that the people in my life are such an incredible blessing that I want to be able to share them all with my future spouse, even those he's likely to never meet.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
On Stalker Phobia, and Receiving Love
The other night, Isaac pointed out that so many of us in this day and age have a "stalker phobia", if you will - an overexaggerated fear that other people are paying too much attention to them. His example was that if he were to mention to a casual friend that he was browsing through their facebook pictures, their first reaction would probably be to pull away, almost as if they felt violated!
But as even this story illustrates, we are also fickle exhibitionists. A simple search by my name can easily direct you to my blog, facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn, and umpteen other pages that put my information and my personality directly on the web - not counting the various xangas, livejournals, and other accounts I've deleted since high school - and I'm not even trying to promote myself on the web!
My Christian Marriage professor taught us that love is based in knowledge. This was revolutionary to me at the time, but seems more fundamental the more I consider it: the more you know someone, the more you can love them, and the better you can love them. We all desire to love and to be loved; when we invite others in to the mystery that is each one of us, we are inviting them to deeper knowledge of ourselves, for better or worse.
If you draw people in and invite them to know and love you, you may be perceived as desperate or pathetic. But if you genuinely pay attention to others and love them by knowing them, you run the risk of being perceived as a stalker, someone who's unpleasant and even dangerous.
Why is it such a risk to reach out and love someone? Why is it scary for me to admit that I remember your birthday? I know that I feel special when people remember my birthday without the help of facebook. So what's the difference?
Perhaps it has to do with our view of love. I think one could make an argument that the dominant American culture's view of love is rather similar to its view of life: that is, if an unborn child is wanted, its mother is praised and protected and cared for with great affection; if the child is unwanted, however, it's an unfortunate circumstance that is best simply taken care of. Similarly, if love is felt by both parties, they should be able to marry and do whatever they want, but if the love is unrequited, it's a terrible shame and the lover is pathetic and needs to get over himself.
In past ages, much emphasis was put upon unrequited or unattainable love - arguably too much (though I suspect Joe may disagree). Perhaps one can blame Bacon and the empiricists for putting rationality into science's hands and, in the long run, orienting our whole society toward valuing the factual and the practical over the abstract and the emotional.
Having recently gotten over a situation in which I was head over heels in unrequited love for two years, I can appreciate thoroughly the pros and cons of such a thing. I used to think, as does the prevailing culture, that the best thing to do in such a case is to just get over yourself and move on with life. But I found myself unable to do this, so I embraced the feelings, and learned some very valuable lessons. Most pertinent now: love is a risk, and truly loving someone is always worth that risk. It is often painful, but true, selfless love is one of the most real experiences a person can have, and one of the best ways to understand God's love for us.
Yet love is based in knowledge. Every kind of love, that is (not just eros). Those of us who are detail-oriented with a good memory can easily flatter or scare casual friends with our recollection of minute details about their lives, and it is a relief to us when we realize that we've found another who will accept our quirks, including our minutiae, without feeling threatened and running away.
Yet here I find a point I missed earlier - why do we feel a need to run away? Is loving pursuit so terrible? Is receiving love so hard? (Admittedly, sometimes it is.) Or have we all been so hardened by sin (original or personal) that we expect people to use us before we expect them to love us? Love is a tender emotion, and vulnerability an important factor toward increasing love. True, we oughtn't be so vulnerable to everyone all the time, but we should let the Lord push us out of our familiar little box every now and again.
I challenge you to go out of your comfort zone sometime in the coming week and show someone (probably someone other than your beloved) that you love them in a way that's a little bit scary. Too, pay attention to how well you receive unexpectedly personal moments of affection, and try to be as open to them as you can. I pray the Lord to bless these endeavors, that they may be a vehicle of great grace to you as they have been to me.
But as even this story illustrates, we are also fickle exhibitionists. A simple search by my name can easily direct you to my blog, facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn, and umpteen other pages that put my information and my personality directly on the web - not counting the various xangas, livejournals, and other accounts I've deleted since high school - and I'm not even trying to promote myself on the web!
My Christian Marriage professor taught us that love is based in knowledge. This was revolutionary to me at the time, but seems more fundamental the more I consider it: the more you know someone, the more you can love them, and the better you can love them. We all desire to love and to be loved; when we invite others in to the mystery that is each one of us, we are inviting them to deeper knowledge of ourselves, for better or worse.
If you draw people in and invite them to know and love you, you may be perceived as desperate or pathetic. But if you genuinely pay attention to others and love them by knowing them, you run the risk of being perceived as a stalker, someone who's unpleasant and even dangerous.
Why is it such a risk to reach out and love someone? Why is it scary for me to admit that I remember your birthday? I know that I feel special when people remember my birthday without the help of facebook. So what's the difference?
Perhaps it has to do with our view of love. I think one could make an argument that the dominant American culture's view of love is rather similar to its view of life: that is, if an unborn child is wanted, its mother is praised and protected and cared for with great affection; if the child is unwanted, however, it's an unfortunate circumstance that is best simply taken care of. Similarly, if love is felt by both parties, they should be able to marry and do whatever they want, but if the love is unrequited, it's a terrible shame and the lover is pathetic and needs to get over himself.
In past ages, much emphasis was put upon unrequited or unattainable love - arguably too much (though I suspect Joe may disagree). Perhaps one can blame Bacon and the empiricists for putting rationality into science's hands and, in the long run, orienting our whole society toward valuing the factual and the practical over the abstract and the emotional.
Having recently gotten over a situation in which I was head over heels in unrequited love for two years, I can appreciate thoroughly the pros and cons of such a thing. I used to think, as does the prevailing culture, that the best thing to do in such a case is to just get over yourself and move on with life. But I found myself unable to do this, so I embraced the feelings, and learned some very valuable lessons. Most pertinent now: love is a risk, and truly loving someone is always worth that risk. It is often painful, but true, selfless love is one of the most real experiences a person can have, and one of the best ways to understand God's love for us.
Yet love is based in knowledge. Every kind of love, that is (not just eros). Those of us who are detail-oriented with a good memory can easily flatter or scare casual friends with our recollection of minute details about their lives, and it is a relief to us when we realize that we've found another who will accept our quirks, including our minutiae, without feeling threatened and running away.
Yet here I find a point I missed earlier - why do we feel a need to run away? Is loving pursuit so terrible? Is receiving love so hard? (Admittedly, sometimes it is.) Or have we all been so hardened by sin (original or personal) that we expect people to use us before we expect them to love us? Love is a tender emotion, and vulnerability an important factor toward increasing love. True, we oughtn't be so vulnerable to everyone all the time, but we should let the Lord push us out of our familiar little box every now and again.
I challenge you to go out of your comfort zone sometime in the coming week and show someone (probably someone other than your beloved) that you love them in a way that's a little bit scary. Too, pay attention to how well you receive unexpectedly personal moments of affection, and try to be as open to them as you can. I pray the Lord to bless these endeavors, that they may be a vehicle of great grace to you as they have been to me.
Friday, July 10, 2009
On Vulnerability, Redemption, and a Continued Recovery from Feminism
I was a feminist in high school. Of the courteous, egalitarian school of feminism, but still. For instance, if I were walking into a building and the guy walking with me held the first door for me, I would thank him and hold the next door for him. If a female friend complimented my appearance, I would quickly scan hers for something upon which to compliment her. Accepting a compliment without returning one seemed almost ungracious.
I was alerted to the fact that I treat compliments this way over four years ago. In a long end-of-year conversation appreciating an amazing friendship, Joe kept giving me compliments, and I just didn't have as many to return as he had to give. And he called me on it, telling me that to simply accept a compliment was enough. This rocked my world, and I worked to become proficient at sometimes graciously accepting a compliment without returning one.
Back to the egalitarian side of things. Even as a feminist, I didn't think that men and women should be the same, just equal. So the way I now work out visits to my chivalrous guy friends would have been perfectly acceptable to me then, too: they pay for things, because they want to, and I pay them back by accepting it graciously and then making them dinner. Perhaps not always an even exchange, but an exchange nonetheless (and one that allows me to sneakily spend money on him without breaking the taboo on the woman paying for things).
Too, the man paying for dates in a relationship rarely bothered me. Perhaps because I knew the woman would pinch hit on occasion, or because their finances would ideally be united in the end anyway, or because she contributed to the relationship in non-monetary ways.
But a man going out of his way, freely spending his time and money on a woman just for the joy of her company? That's a little humbling. That's a part of the equation I don't like to think much about.
But I was thinking about it at Mass yesterday morning, my eyes fixed on the crucifix as the priest offered prayers at the altar, and the Lord reminded me that He spent much more than money on me. My naive response (we silly humans always think we're right): But it wasn't just for the grace of my company!, thinking of all the great victories the Paschal Mystery won for us.
Oh. Don't I feel dumb. Check, please!
I was alerted to the fact that I treat compliments this way over four years ago. In a long end-of-year conversation appreciating an amazing friendship, Joe kept giving me compliments, and I just didn't have as many to return as he had to give. And he called me on it, telling me that to simply accept a compliment was enough. This rocked my world, and I worked to become proficient at sometimes graciously accepting a compliment without returning one.
Back to the egalitarian side of things. Even as a feminist, I didn't think that men and women should be the same, just equal. So the way I now work out visits to my chivalrous guy friends would have been perfectly acceptable to me then, too: they pay for things, because they want to, and I pay them back by accepting it graciously and then making them dinner. Perhaps not always an even exchange, but an exchange nonetheless (and one that allows me to sneakily spend money on him without breaking the taboo on the woman paying for things).
Too, the man paying for dates in a relationship rarely bothered me. Perhaps because I knew the woman would pinch hit on occasion, or because their finances would ideally be united in the end anyway, or because she contributed to the relationship in non-monetary ways.
But a man going out of his way, freely spending his time and money on a woman just for the joy of her company? That's a little humbling. That's a part of the equation I don't like to think much about.
But I was thinking about it at Mass yesterday morning, my eyes fixed on the crucifix as the priest offered prayers at the altar, and the Lord reminded me that He spent much more than money on me. My naive response (we silly humans always think we're right): But it wasn't just for the grace of my company!, thinking of all the great victories the Paschal Mystery won for us.
Ah, but it was. I spent all I had for the grace of your eternal company with me in heaven.
Oh. Don't I feel dumb. Check, please!
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