Bus Stop Jesus

Less of a Lent loser this time #Lentchallenge

I have the self-discipline of a sloth. I’d like to have focus and determination of a leaf-cutter ant or some other creature of control and tenacity, but in much of my life, I simply don’t.

This is especially true when it comes to Lenten practices. I’m impressed by people who can abstain from coffee for 40 days and still be gracious at the workplace, or folks who sacrifice a particularly addicting pleasure (chocolate, movies, Facebook) and never complain. I really admire those who add significant extras to their Lenten journey (daily Mass, for instance, or what Brian Harper’s doing over at Busted Halo) and still exude peacefulness in a world where there is never enough time.

While I’ve not been a total Lent loser, I’ve rarely made it to the Easter finish line without the sad side-effect of replacing the sin I was trying to conquer (i.e. gluttony) with another (i.e. grumpiness). Not exactly the reason for the season.

But this year may be the non-loser one for me. The #LentChallenge of reading the New Testament in 40 days is proving quite doable, perhaps because this particular discipline fits my personality: I like to read, I like to learn, and I like to be able to check off boxes or cross things off lists.

Additionally, it fits my bus-riding habit. I’m on the Route #6 for about 40 minutes each day, and the readings take about 35. I just hop on and read for the ride, which is what I would normally do but with the daily paper, not the Bible. (Lo, she went into the desert for 40 days with only the Word of God and became woefully uninformed about the world. Journo 5:18)

This change of habit – Bible not newspaper – has led to some interesting encounters with other members of the Public Transit Tribe. One man asks questions every day about what text I’m reading and then tries to engage in a verbal battle about why the Bible is “crazy.” Another woman asks me which Church I attend and raises her eyebrows when she hears the name. “Oh, you’re Catholic?” she asks. “That’s interesting.”

These experiences and others have made me realize how uncomfortable I am reading a religious text in the public square, and that has made me think a bit on why that discomfort exists. I wasn’t always this way, but then again, I didn’t always ride a public bus or work at a public university.

It’s safe to say the majority of people where I work are non-religious and many have no qualms about expressing their disdain of all things faith. They are especially intolerant of Islam and Catholicism, although they would never call it intolerance. For instance, someone will say the Catholic Church is “categorically wrong” to fight abortion because “a woman has the right to her own body.” If a Catholic were to point out that yes, a woman does have the right to her own body and by the same token, so does the female fetus, that person would be dismissed as being blinded by religion, even though groups like Secular Pro-Life make the same argument and are atheist.

Or someone will say that they don’t understand how a Muslim woman – a graduate student, for goodness sake! – could choose to wear a hijab, and when that woman tries to explain her feminist rationale for doing so, the non-religious person will announce that the Muslim woman is misinformed about true feminism because she is “constrained by her religious heritage.”

I’ve had a professor describe the parents of potential university recruits as “holy rollers” and had colleagues make offensive jokes about every religion possible because I used to be a religion reporter and it is assumed I’ll find the jokes funny.  I’ve stood in line for coffee behind women in abayas and overheard whispered criticism of them as “religious nuts,” and had Christian professors in the sciences confide that they are in a “religious closet” because they don’t want to be labeled zealots or have their research questioned.

Considering this, it is probably not surprising that I’m uncomfortable reading a Bible in public. But because I really don’t want to be a Lent Loser this year, I’ll keep it up. Maybe if I make it all the way through, my husband will buy me a pony. Or, at least a chocolate bunny.

#LentChallenge Learning

I’m a week into the #LentChallenge of reading the New Testament in 40 days and I’m only two days behind! Notice the positive spin: I could have said, “I’m already two days behind,” but if I did, I’d only feel rotten about myself. Instead, I’m only two days behind!!! That sounds pretty successful to me.

For reference, keep in mind that I’m using the New American Bible translation, which includes scripture scholar notes. I’m spending as much time reading all the footnotes and references as I am the text, which is probably why I’m two days behind. That and the fact that I had a huge birthday surprise to host this weekend with lots of out-of-town guests and distractions.


As originally announced by the author who sent out the Lent Challenge, folks are supposed to be blogging/tweeting/facebooking about what they’re learning/relearning as they read through the New Testament this Lent. Mostly this is happening on Twitter, but here’s my four-shot of what stood out in Matthew:

1) The name Jesus was a “common Jewish name”; first-century Hebrew would be Joshua (Greek: Iesous). So, in Matthew 27:16, where Pilate is asking the crowd who they want released, he asks, “Which do you want me to release to you, {Jesus} Barabbas, or Jesus called Messiah?” The footnote says “this reading is found in only a few textual witnesses, although its absence in the majority can be explained as an omission of Jesus made for reverential reasons. … The Aramaic name Barabbas means ‘son of the father’; the irony of the choice offered between him and Jesus, the true son of the Father, would be evident to those addressees of Matthew who knew that.”

2) Jesus, long preached as merciful and forgiving, is shown as petulant in at least one part of Matthew, 21:18-19, where he curses a fig tree that had no fruit on it when he was hungry. ” ‘May no fruit ever come from you again,’ he said. And immediately the fig tree withered.” Ouch.

3) The term “brother” is interpreted different ways in different verses. Matthew 18:21-23 regarding forgiving your brother 77 times, is a direct instruction to disciples of Christ forgiving their fellow disciples who sin against them. It would make one wonder about forgiveness of non-Christians (or, in ancient Israel, non-countrymen) except Jesus has already commanded his followers in Matthew 5:44 to love their enemies “and pray for those who persecute you.”

4) Finally, a verse that’s been co-opted by popular culture and tossed around like a juggling ball, “Don’t judge me .…” and was the basis for the quote heard round the world when Pope Francis’ uttered, “Who am I to judge...”. The scholar’s note on Matthew 7:1 – “Stop judging, that you may not be judged” – is interesting:

“This is not a prohibition against recognizing the faults of others … but against passing judgment in a spirit of arrogance, forgetful of one’s own faults.”

The power of food

This is how unconscious I am about the eating of food: It is Ash Wednesday, a day of fasting for Catholics, a fact I reminded myself of multiple times this morning when packing to head home from the conference I was at. I’ve also reminded myself that my 40-day sacrifice centers around giving up certain food and giving the money saved to charity, the alms-giving part of Lent that is easy to forget. Lucky, we have the Pope explaining on Twitter:

And yet, in spite of these reminders, when I walk into the hotel lobby to wait for my cab and I see the box of salt-water taffy, my first thought is, “Great, if the taxi is late, at least I won’t go hungry.” Really. Then, a nano-second later, I slap my subconscious to remind it that today is Ash Wednesday and I move the taffy out of my view.


I am a stress-eater and a happy-eater and a eat-at-my-desk eater. I wasn’t always this way, but these past couple of years, I have grown more and more unaware of what and when I eat, eating far more than needed of particularly unhealthy foods. It is a problem on a number of levels, not the least of which because I call myself a Christian and in that name comes a certain promise to treat my body as a temple. To appreciate what God has given me and not prance willy-nilly through sugarland. So, this Lent, I want desperately to be more aware. My experience in the hotel lobby shows this will be a long 40 days.

There’s been a movement in the last decade or so to “do something for Lent” instead of give something up. Me thinks we’re all such a mess and have so much need for improvement and drawing closer to God and neighbor that we should be doing both, and also, that sometimes, “doing something” is simply an excuse to not have to suffer with giving up something. We are physical beings and our senses help us relate to the world. When you have to say no to something you want desperately to say yes to, you are more likely to think about people who have no option for yes or no. And when you’re hungry – like during the Ash Wednesday fast – you pay closer attention.

For me, that’s meant noticing today how much food we are surrounded by. Everywhere, all the time. If not in reality (the guy sitting across from me in the airport waiting area eating a 500-foot-long, mile-high sandwich), then in the virtual world (food commercials breaking up the CNN news feed). No wonder people struggle with obesity. Who could have daily will power in this land of food excess?

And then, you also notice this: The woman in the park sleeping, an apple core near her head. The guy digging in the trashcan outside a restaurant. The small children in the soup kitchen line. I think this noticing is probably important, and it doesn’t happen without a heightened awareness that comes from giving something up. That said, if you’re looking for something to do instead of something to give up, this year-old video by Fr. Jim Martin (who lets his college roommate choose his Lenten sacrifice) offers some great advice.

My sister, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and causing a scene

The first time I called the police to intervene in family matters, I was about 12 years old. I can still see myself standing in the kitchen of my childhood, looking into the living room where my parents would not stop yelling at each other, announcing – as if were the most normal thing to do in the world – that I was calling the police.addiction

They didn’t hear, or didn’t care, and I dialed the number and the dispatcher (“How old are you?”) sent two police officers who came into our home, stood between my parents, told them to calm down and explained that it would be a good idea if they stopped drinking for the night.

“You have kids,” one of the officers said, and I recall my parents looking around as though alcohol and arguing had made them forget that, yes, indeed, my little brother and I still existed.

The next time I called law enforcement into family matters was a week ago, when my sister posted messages on Facebook that included a young woman with a sign stating suicide is never the answer. My sister had commented something to the effect that maybe it might be.

Like so many people in my extended family tree – and the guy who sat next to me on the bus today reeking of booze and pot at 7:15 a.m., and the professor I know who can’t meet for Saturday morning coffee because he has to make an AA meeting, and the late, great Philip Seymour Hoffman – my sister has an addiction. It is a cross to bear that seems so much heavier than most.

She has suffered long and hard fighting her addiction, and has managed extended patches of dry and sane punctuated by dark, troubled times under the influence. The news of Hoffman’s death – and the uncharitable reaction to that death by some – had really affected her. She explained that unless someone has an addiction, they simply can’t understand what would drive anyone, against all logic and common sense, to do the thing they know they should not do.

When I saw the Facebook posts, I emailed my sister, asking her to hang on – as others on social media were doing – and saying I’d call in 30 minutes. But when I called, both her cell and landline went to voice mail. I left messages and waited for responses. I called other relatives to see if they’d had luck reaching her, but they hadn’t. I waited a little longer and then called law enforcement in her town for a well check. I did this because I remembered a call I didn’t make years ago when my mother started saying things similar to what my sister was now espousing. I was 20 years old, and had lost the bravado of my 12-year-old self. If I called the cops, I’d make my already distressed mother angry, bringing pain and embarrassment to a life that had already had too much of both. I didn’t want to cause a scene.

The next day, when I found her motionless in bed and grabbed the phone to dial 911, it was too late. Exactly 30 minutes too late, according to the time of death estimate. I didn’t want to make the same mistake with my sister. So I called, and it did cause a scene. But it was worth it.

My mother’s death certificate labels the cause of death “Respiratory failure due to, or as a consequence of, overdose of multiple chemical agents.” There are classification areas on the certificate labeled “natural causes, accident, suicide, homicide, undetermined or pending.” The one the coroner checked is “accident.”

That’s because most people with an addiction don’t mean to kill themselves. They are driven to their drug of choice by sadness or anxiety or the overwhelming chemical desire and brain circuitry that creates addiction, or 1,000 other things. They pick up a drink or a drug and another and another until they can’t pick it up anymore. Usually, when they do this, they are alone. Sometimes they wake up and sometimes they don’t. It happened to my mother. It happened to Hoffman. It could have happened to my sister.

Aaron Sorkin wrote the best obituary about Hoffman I’ve seen, with this section was especially on point: “Phil Hoffman, this kind, decent, magnificent, thunderous actor … did not die from an overdose of heroin – he died from heroin. We should stop implying that if he had just taken the proper amount, everything would have been fine. He didn’t die because he was partying too hard or because he was depressed. He died because he was an addict on a day of the week with a y in it.”

There are a lot of those days in a week, and a lot of people dragging a cross of addiction through them. Don’t be afraid to reach out. It’s okay to cause a scene.

(I thank my sister for being willing to share herself in this column through my writing.)


#LentChallenge – Gonna do it

First, it is hard to believe Lent is drawing near. Just realizing it starts in four weeks compelled me to eat four of the molasses sugar cookies recently mailed to me as part of my winning the Amazing Horton Christmas Exchange. Four. One for each week, I guess.

My Christmas gift is home-made cookies sent to me every other month, baked by my awesome niece Rachel.

Second, I have never been that thrilled with Lent. Just being honest here, and maybe it makes me a bad Catholic (heaven knows it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called that), but there it is: Don’t like Lent. I’m more of an Advent girl.

And yet, I mark those 40 days the best way I can. I hit an Ash Wednesday service at the crack of dawn and do my job with ashes dropping every so often off my forehead onto my nose. I fast on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, and not a sort-of fast either (two small meals during the day as long as they don’t equal more than one normal-sized meal), but a full-on no food between dawn and dark awfulness. I go to one daily Mass a week, as well as Sunday services, and I give up something tangible and then try hard not to become a cranky-pants due to my abstinence. I give alms, usually in the way of bus fare since the bus is where I’m most likely to encounter the poor and suffering, and I attempt to do this with an non-judgmental heart. And finally, I try to read the Bible.

I’m no great shakes at any of the above, but it is in the last area – reading the Bible – that I fail the most. Over the years, as part of my own faith walk and even more so as part of my former life as a religion reporter and columnist, I’ve read most of the Bible. But it is always in bits and pieces. Extended study has been lacking for a good number of years. I’m exhausted when I return home from work and use what little energy I have to string words together into sentences someone might want to read. Then, further fatigued, I crawl into bed and read other people’s creative sentences before falling asleep berating myself for lacking the talent of Barbara Kingsolver.

During Lent, I try to substitute my normal bed-time reading with Bible reading, but I often fall asleep mid-verse. Not surprisingly, I wake in the morning not remembering a shred of what I’ve read. It’s probably better to fall asleep reading John 3:16 or Luke 7:47 instead of a novel, but it is definitely not the most effective way to absorb the Word.

This Lent, things will be different. Why? Because due to the wonder that is Twitter, I discovered a rocking writer’s conference in California, which led to the host of the conference sending me a Facebook friend request, which led to my seeing her post today about the #LentChallenge. I’m going to do it and maybe, just maybe, my Lent won’t be so dreadful. (Stop judging me! I’m just being honest! I don’t like Lent!)

300x250-Lent-Ad #LentChallenge is reading the entire New Testament in the 40 days of Lent, and is the idea of Margaret Feinberg, who is apparently well-known by everyone except me. She has an adorable puppy, a husband who surfs and has written a bunch of published books. We can be friends because I have a dog who was once an adorable puppy, my son’s girlfriend surfs, and I read a lot of published books. And now, we’ll be reading the New Testament together – along with a New Testament scholar, a Religion News Service columnist and other God geeks.

I’m a great starter, though not always a spectacular finisher, but I have hope for this, primarily because there’s accountability when you announce doing something in public, and secondarily because I’ll be able to read about other people’s efforts for encouragement. So, I’m committed to this. I’m also committed to sitting up while I do the readings. Want to join me in a virtual manner? Get the free reading guide and get started planning how you can do it.

American Atheists and the Super Bowl

Well, then. I’m not sure what irritates me most – the fact that American Atheists have set up a billboard making fun of prayer via mocking the Hail Mary, or the poor reporting on same that refers to the prayer as “a popular Christian invocation” or the clerics of the man in the ad as a “priest uniform.”

Or maybe I’m frustrated by the blog posts – especially ones by self-titled friendly atheists – that intimate Catholics shouldn’t think the ad is an affront to their faith. Being snarky about expected backlash just doesn’t seem very friendly, but then again, it isn’t friendly to make fun of those who disagree with you in the first place. Oh, well.

American Atheists has launched the billboard near Metlife Stadium where the Super Bowl will be played. It features a “priest” in eye black cradling a football with one hand and giving a thumbs up with the other. The text reads, “A ‘Hail Mary’ only works in football. Enjoy the game!”

The press release announcing the billboard says this is a “playful jab at prayer.”  It seems a little more like a pushy middle-school bully being ultra condescending to the uncool kids. This is the very attitude atheists criticize in religious people or groups, making them, ironically, similar to organized religions in level of hypocrisy. (And as an aside, I’d love to see American Atheists try this with Islam or Judaism and avoid a strong reaction.)

Amanda Knief, the group’s managing director, says in the press release that the billboard “… is a celebration of who we are and how we self-identify …” Apparently she wants atheists to self-identify as mocking and intolerant. I’m not sure the average atheist wants that.

Maybe this billboard (and others that are less offensive) are an answer to some awful Christian billboards across the country. But stooping to the same level to make the point that religious people have offended you seems backwards.

You want to be atheist? Go for it. You want to be Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Pastafarian, whatever, have at it. But if you really believe what you do, then you don’t need to attack other people’s beliefs or non-belief to prove your belief or non-belief. Just live your life. If it is beautiful, peaceful, joyful and generous, people will naturally be drawn to it. They won’t need a billboard, because they’ll see you.

Who is in your stable?

Pope Francis is not the first pope to speak of the Church’s preferential option for the poor. Neither is he the first to criticize unbridled capitalism or critique harshly the belief in trickle-down economics. But his actions toward the poor and disenfranchised make Church teaching about the least of these much, much harder to ignore.

Which is probably why some people are apoplectic about the Pope’s economic comments in his 224-page apostolic exhortation released in late November. “The Joy of the Gospel” (Evanelii Gaudium in Latin, because, come on, Latin is just cool) makes no bones about condemning an unregulated free market or the “crude and naive trust” some people have in it. Again and again, standard bearers of so-called conservative values said the Pope was leaning far too left for their comfort.

Each time one of these pundits spoke up, I wondered if they were familiar with the Gospel. Because if ever there was a leftist on economic issues, Jesus Christ was it. (Maybe that’s why he wasn’t real popular.) The Gospel message of protecting the poor is not easy. Never has been, never will be. Christianity is not about the “prosperity Gospel” no matter what these guys wants you to believe. Christianity is about sacrifice and service and being your brother or sister’s keeper, even when – or perhaps especially when – you don’t feel they “deserve” being kept.

But the hardest part about this keeping isn’t giving away your hard-earned cash. Not at all. That’s the easy part. In fact, it can even feel good. Just ask anyone who’s paid it forward in a fast-food drive through. What is really hard – and why I think the Pope’s actions and words are hitting a nerve – is treating people in poverty or addiction or prison or disability or lunacy like fellow creations of the Almighty. It’s pretty darn easy to write a check to, for instance, an organization fighting abortion or providing housing for unwed mothers. It’s much harder to challenge a system that says it is a sin to kill an unborn child in the United States but not to bomb and kill a pregnant mother in Iraq. Or to fight a system that allows a man and his wife to work 40 hours a week at back-breaking labor and still have to pick up family bags at the soup kitchen once a week because rent inflation is out of control. Or to ignore that the kids on one side of town get the good teachers and the safe classrooms and the kids on the other side of town don’t.

The hard part about what the Pope is saying is not the money part, it’s the people part. It is the part where we have to let people we’d rather not know about (or at least not have in our neighborhood) get up close and personal.

Which brings me to the pauper who wound up inside the stable in our Nativity Scene this Advent. Click on the photo and you’ll notice that the guy with the ragged clothes and knapsack on his shoulders is up close to the Holy Family. Almost like he’s a relative.


When I was setting up our Nativity Scene – made Holy to me by the fact that we started nearly 30 years with only Mary, Joseph and Jesus and no place to house them so my husband made a stable out of scraps – I put the beggar pretty far away from the action. Like I always do. The Magi were always up close. The donkey was usually nearby. But the humble folks – the beggar, the shepherd, the traveling towns person and his son – they were always outliers. But this year, I set up the Nativity scene after reading much of “The Joy of the Gospel.”

And I put the beggar in the stable. Like a relative. Like someone who belongs.

Every morning, the Nativity scene is the last thing I see as I get ready to head to the bus, and it makes me think: Who do I keep out of my stable? Jesus said the second greatest commandment was to love our neighbor as ourselves. Not instead of ourselves, but just as much as ourselves. It is the call of justice, and it is really hard work. But we are, as Jesus said and as Pope Francis so clearly emulates, our brother’s keeper. So help me, God.

Advent Girl

The entire country, it seems, spent the past few days running roughshod over Thanksgiving in a mad dash toward shopping and decorating for Christmas. Life was focused on all things consumer. Or at least that’s how it seemed to me and a handful of “What about Thanksgiving?” people.

I love Christmas as much as the next person, but I also like each celebration to have its due, and I like them to remain in order, thank you very much. This might mean I have Holiday OCD, but so be it. I like Halloween before Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving before Christmas. But mostly, being Catholic, I like Advent in between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’m an Advent girl. Because if I wasn’t, I’d probably fall over dead.

You see, most of the year I’m an insane goer-doer type, and Advent gives me a reason – a command – to slow down. It calls me to be led to the “place where God is,” and although I wish I didn’t need this excuse, I do. So, while many people were putting up a tree and stringing lights this weekend, I got out our Advent Wreath, the Nativity Scene and, most especially, this:

One fourth of the Liturgy of the Hours.

During Advent, my morning bus rides are focused on reciting/reading/reflecting on the Liturgy of the Hours, the “public and common prayer of the Church” meant to sanctify the day. About 75 percent of the time, I also use the Evening Prayer section right before bed. Sticking to this discipline exposes me to an ancient practice from the early days of the Catholic Church. I think we are what we consume – be it food, social media, books, music, movies. During Advent, I consume the Hours, and I think in some small way, it helps me be a better person.

While the Liturgy of the Hours is used mostly by priests and religious, lay Catholics (or anyone interested, really) are called to use them as best we can in our daily lives. Few people do because we’re awfully busy with jobs and families. In fact, if I didn’t ride the bus, I know I’d have a hard time working them in. But lucky for me, I ride the bus!

Centered around a four-week rotation of the psalms, the Liturgy of the Hours also contain daily Old and New Testament readings, intercessions, short prayers to mark five different times of the day, and my favorite, writings from the early Church Fathers. For instance, this gem from St. Anselm:

“Insignificant man, escape from your everyday business for a short while, hide for a moment from your restless thoughts. Break off from your cares and troubles and be less concerned about your tasks and labors. Make a little time for God and rest a while in him.”

Amen. Christmas is coming. But Advent – and the waiting and resting and reflecting it contains – comes first.

(For a bit of Advent humor, read about this mom who tried to keep Advent from her kids by way of punishment.)

Hope – and fear – in taking the Pope at his word

I spent Saturday morning with a group of Catholic women that meets regularly to discuss matters of faith. The assigned reading was a 1926 G. K. Chesterton piece on why he was Catholic. It was a fair choice since many in the group have been asking themselves that question for the past few years. But in light of Pope Francis’ big-hearted interview, we basically tossed Chesterton and spent our time talking about the interview. A few themes emerged and thus, this Report from People of the Pew. Clergy, if you’re reading, I beg you pay attention.

  • Women who have felt marginalized in their local parishes or dioceses are feeling profound hope with +Francis’ words: “It is necessary to widen the space for more incisive feminine presence in the church.” These women do not expect ordination, but they sense that, with the pope’s very direct challenge to clergy, women may finally have a true voice at the table.
  • Everyone wondered why so many clerics (and lay people) were rushing to “explain away” what the pope said. Why are people afraid to take +Francis at his word? Is it because certain Catholics think that their fellow (less-than) Catholics will be confused? What, pray tell, would these confused sheep do with these statements?
  1. “The dogmatic and moral teachings of the Church are not all equivalent.”
  2. “If the Christian is a restorationist, a legalist, if he wants everything clear and safe, he will find nothing.”
  3. “We should not even think, therefore, that ‘thinking with the church’ means only thinking with the hierarchy of the church.”

If the Church Ladies of Saturday are any example, this is what they’ll do with those statements: Give their faith a second look, give their parishes a second chance, and hold on to the hope +Francis has planted in them. Maybe everyone involved in the brouhaha  regarding the pope sowing confusion should spend a little time with the other guy who challenged nit-pickers. Just sayin’.

  • Speaking of hope: Overall, the room was awash in it. Not because these women think the Pope is liberal (he’s just Catholic from what I can tell), but because they feel love emanating from Rome. Prior popes spoke about love and wrote large treatises on it, but Francis makes you feel love. And as any parent knows, it doesn’t matter how often you tell your teenager you love him, if he senses your disappointment, your words are empty. (Not only that, he’s not going to listen to anything else you have to say, no matter how profound.)
  • But one hesitation emerged. Would the pope’s example and words trickle down to parishes? Stories were exchanged of clergy dismissing lay concerns or suggestions, treating laity as uneducated or inconsequential (unless a particular talent was needed at a particular time), or being so poorly schooled in human relations they didn’t even understand how they’d hurt people.

Thus, I am here to say it again to every priest out there: This Pope Francis moment, this clear-as-a-bell call from Rome, is a moment of truth. There is a chance that next Sunday, or the next or perhaps more likely at Christmas or Easter, people who had given up on the Catholic Church and the faith are going to walk through your parish doors. They are going to be looking for what Pope Francis has talked about. They want to see if you’re offering it.

If the person is new to your parish, it will be easy. Be friendly, be open, give a good homily, personally serve him or her the Eighth Sacrament of coffee and donuts after Mass. What will be harder is noticing who no longer comes to your parish and figuring out if you might be part of the reason they left. And then, going out and making things right.

If you don’t want to do it for Jesus or the pope, can I ask that you do it for me? Because frankly, I am worn out trying to keep Catholics from leaving because of a priest. I’m running out of excuses. Just this summer, I’ve had to say the following to people who consider themselves “former Catholics”:

  • “Well, yes, that priest was a jerk, but you can’t judge the whole Church on just one (Or two. Or three.) Come try my parish.”
  • “He said what in confession? Oh my! I’m so sorry. That isn’t how most priests handle that. Let me set you up with someone else.”
  • “Yes, you’re right. Sometimes parishes lack dynamics (or a nursery, or youth group, or decent music or …), but you know, the laity must step up and provide these things ourselves.”

Now, I don’t mind doing my part, and trust me, I do do my part. I can’t remember not volunteering at my parish, beginning in 8th grade when I started playing guitar at my the Catholic school I attended and going all the way through babysitting in the parish nursery, serving as youth minister, teaching Confirmation classes, helping lead music at Christmas midnight masses that actually started at midnight, being a Eucharistic Minister and lector, cooking pasta for 100 people, and putting in my time on the cleaning and decorating committees. And, no matter how poor my husband were in our first years of marriage, we gave money to our local parish and Catholic Charities. I have a “clergy” section in my cell phone, and I could get any number of priests and a couple bishops to vouch for the fact that I defend the Church, follow the Church, correct poor media reporting on the Church, and try desperately to bring people into the Church.

But I refuse to sit silently while people leave when I know part of the reason some of them are leaving. At least not after Pope Francis’ interview. It is like he’s given us all permission to call a spade a spade and say, “This should change.” So I’m saying it.

In my many years of listening to people who’ve “given up” on the Church, I’ve figured out that seven out of 10 have abandoned their faith practice because of something a priest has said or done. You didn’t return a phone call (or many phone calls). You played favorites. You came down hard when you could have come down soft (or simply respected parish culture and left well enough alone). You were arrogant when a parishioner offered a suggestion. When someone broke down in the confessional about a personal issue, you said something to the effect of, “Well, the confessional isn’t counseling …”.

I have heard all of the above not once or twice, but many times, from many people in four different states over the past 30 years, so I’d say I have enough of a sample to proclaim: We’ve got a problem, Father. The People of the Pew aren’t asking for perfection from our priests, and God knows that the people who’ve left know you aren’t perfect. But a little humility might lead to the healing Pope Francis calls for:

“I see clearly that the thing the church needs most today is the ability to heal wounds and to warm the hearts of the faithful … Instead of being just a church that welcomes and receives by keeping the doors open, let us try also to be a church that finds new roads, that is able to step outside itself and go to those who do not attend Mass, to those who have quit or are indifferent.”

There was a guest priest at the parish I attended this morning. Referring to the Gospel, he said we will all be asked by God, “How much do (we) care, and for whom?” He said that every day at our doorsteps, beggars lie, loud or mute, and they aren’t asking for food or money, but something much more difficult to give. They are asking to be seen. They are asking for time, compassion, understanding.  And, perhaps, in my humble but incisive feminine opinion, some of these beggars are those who’ve left the Church and need to hear the following to bring them back:


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