7/27/15

I haven't been motivated to write much lately. The death of my mom has taken most of the wind from my proverbial sails, and I just don't have the desire to write. It's not that I've stopped going to church or anything; I've been going every Sunday. And I've received a lot of nice messages of support from Fr. Michael and everyone at St. Philip. But ever since my mom passed away, it's been hard for me to think much about things, let alone write about them. I've stopped praying regularly, too. Emotionally, it's been a challenging month.

I think another problem is that I've missed home. My time in Michigan has once again impressed upon me how special of a place St. Philip is, and how great the St. Philip community is. Not just on a personal and spiritual level, but on a social/political level, as well. I went to St. Clement (now St. Mary, Our Lady Queen of Families) on Sunday, June 28th, the day after my mom passed away and two days after the Supreme Court decision in favour of same-sex marriage. Although I was consumed by grief at the loss of my mother (as I think I still am), I was also happy about the decision, as were many of the people at St. Philip judging by all the Facebook updates and rainbow-filtered profile pics I saw. But it seems others were less so.

I went to church that day, I think, primarily to pray for the strength to be a cushion for my family, reflecting a lot on the homily Fr. Michael gave the Sunday before I left Portland. The readings were about death and healing, and I recall feeling conflicted. The first reading was from the Book of Wisdom:

God did not make death,
nor does he rejoice in the destruction of the living.
For he fashioned all things that they might have being;
and the creatures of the world are wholesome,
and there is not a destructive drug among them
nor any domain of the netherworld on earth,
for justice is undying.
For God formed man to be imperishable;
the image of his own nature he made him.
But by the envy of the devil, death entered the world,
and they who belong to his company experience it. (Wis 1:13-15; 2:23-24)

In some ways, it sounds like death, dissolution, isn't something natural, but a corruption of what was made perfect, imperishable; and I found myself wondering how something that's by nature imperishable could become otherwise. Later, however, reading these lines in context, I saw that they weren't referring to physical death so much as spiritual death, which is tied into morality. In essence, it's about our potential, our ability to transcend.

One footnote on the beginning of the first chapter in the NABRE translation, for example. offered, "The reward is the gift of immortality, to the righteous (1:15; 3:1–3), but not to the wicked"; and another on the word 'undying' noted that, "immortality is not seen as an innate quality of the soul but as a gift of God to the righteous." That made more sense to me, and I found it more in line with my experience of reality, which is full of inconstancy, of arising and ceasing, birth and death. Immortality, awakening, or whatever we want to call it, is an attainment, a gift to the righteous (i.e., those who follow the noble eightfold path)—a journey that can conceivably take lifetimes to complete.

The last reading was from the Gospel of Mark, where a woman is healed simply by touching Jesus' robe and Jesus raises a young girl seemingly from the dead; and I found myself both sad and angry, wishing that my mom had been healed. Why did she have to suffer so much? Why did she have to die so young? I do recall enjoying the homily, especially the parts inspired by the reading from 2 Corinthians, though I don't remember much of it. My thoughts kept returning to my mom.

But at the end, just before the final blessing, the pastor read an excerpt from a statement written by Archbishop Joseph Kurtz, the USCCB president, basically slamming the decision, and then suggested that this decision was an attack on their First Amendment rights, which apparently protects the right of Catholics to oppress anyone and everyone they disagree with—an attitude greatly contrasting with the compassion and open-mindedness at St. Philip. I thought it the most unChristian things I'd ever heard uttered in a church, and it truly upset me. I vowed never to return.

The next Sunday I went to St. Louise de Marillac. It wasn't a great experience, but it wasn't a bad one, either. Nothing really stands out about it. The Sunday after that, I went to St. Anne downtown since I was spending the week at my friend's place in Woodbridge. Sadly, most of the churches nearby were closed, and it was the closest Catholic church. I'd wanted to go to Spirit of Hope, an Episcopal/Lutheran church I went to for the first Occupy Detroit general assembly meeting in 2011, but they don't seem to have Sunday services anymore. Happily, though, St. Anne was nice and welcoming. The homily was long and encouraged us to confront injustice and be generous to the poor.

The last Sunday I was there, I went to Our Lady of Grace (formerly St. Cletus); and it was much like my experience at St. Louise. Not great, but not bad. It's like whatever spark St. Philip has is missing from a lot of other parishes; and I think a lot of that spark comes from the Paulists and their approach to Catholic spirituality. Suffice it to say that I was happy to be back, especially for the mass said for my mom, which Chris (from B-/RCIA) arranged.

I saw a lot of familiar faces, many of whom gave me their condolences. Fr. Bill was the celebrant, and he gave an interesting homily. At the beginning, he passed around a wooden Eucharistic set he made while on vacation and which he later used during communion. He also talked a lot about the importance of environmentalism and ecology and how we need to take care of our collective home. He said we're the center of creation, "creation become conscious," and that that gift also comes with a certain responsibility.

That message, inspired by Pope Francis' encyclical Laudato Si: On Care for Our Common Home, is one that truly resonates with me, and one of many where I find my spiritual and political beliefs converge. In Genesis, we find the idea that we are both masters and stewards of our world, meaning that there must be a balance between our use and enjoyment of what nature provides and the care and reverence with which we treat it (environmentalism), which I think is complemented by the communal ideal in places like Acts 4:32-35, where the community of believers lived by the maxim, 'From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs' (communism/social justice).

In some ways, things are beginning to feel like they're getting back to 'normal.' But in others, I feel like they've been changed forever, especially when it comes to my faith. Being confronted so intimately by death and loss, I find myself questioning the inherent goodness of the world, as well as any purpose we might have in our short time here. I also find myself questioning my relationship with God. The presence that I once thought I felt has been replaced by a deep, abiding emptiness that frightens me. I feel as if I've been set adrift, with no safe harbour in sight. My only refuge this past month has been the love and support of others, which I suppose reflects the love of God. But at the same time, God has never felt so distant.