There are times when being a modern woman in the Catholic church seems so infuriating that I just want to march out the door and never look back. Given my beliefs in the equality of the sexes, the whole idea of subordination of women in the Roman Catholic church seems unjust at best and un-Christian at worst.
Recently when asked in an interview about the possibility of ordaining women into the priesthood, Pope Francis stated that the Church had already spoken on that issue and the answer was “no”. Women, he said, had a special role in the church above priests and Bishops, just as Mary, the mother of Jesus, is held above the Apostles. HHHmmm. Sounds nice, but what does it really mean? Most of what we are taught about Mary; the peaceful, chaste, ever-loving mother, sets a bar so high, she should be held above all men, and women too. Contrast that against the Apostles; squabbling about who would ride “shot-gun” in heaven, making plans to build a theme park atop Mount Tabor, and locking themselves inside the upper room after the crucifixion. It is clear who we should want to emulate and who we actually see ourselves reflected in.
So, back to my original thought; why do I stick around? Why would I willingly subject myself to an institution that so stiffly holds to decisions made centuries ago. After all, even Abraham was able to change God’s mind about destroying Sodom. The answer is simple; the Catholic Church is my Christian faith family.
As much as I am conflicted by the struggle between the desert of reality in the Church and my thirst for the divine, every now and then, I receive such a clear reminder of who I am and where I belong. Last Friday I had one of those reminders.
My Cursillo buddies, Kay and Peggy and I planned a trip to Our Lady of the Angels Monastery in Crozet to attend their morning Mass. Mass is at 7:30 and Crozet is about 45 minutes from here so we were in for an early morning trip along some of the back roads labeled “Virginia By-Ways” on the map.
There was a beautiful sunrise as I headed out that morning; like a herald of the angels to lead my way. I drove to Kay’s and then on to Peggy’s and soon we were off into the morning first light with the help of our celestial guide, Garmin.
Kay only missed one turn and after getting back on track we were driving up a winding dirt road up the side of a mountain, passing a small herd of milk cows grazing in the grass. Soon we heard “Arriving at Destination, on right” and we were in the small gravel parking lot of the monastery. Looking out the passenger side window, taking it all in, I spied a bright blue indigo bunting sitting on the post and rail fence right in front of me. What a welcome! Like all ethereal things, he flitted off before I could snap a picture of him.
There was only one other car in the lot, and it was very quiet all around us, except for the usual country sounds of birds singing in the trees. Slowly and a little unsure we approached the door. On the right of the door was a small white sign that read in big blue letters, “Door Is Open, You Are Welcome”.
As we quietly opened the door, we entered a long hallway and the soft sound of women’s voices chanting morning prayers lilted in from the far right. Not knowing what lay behind the door nor wishing to disturb the sisters, we waited until the singing was finished before entering the chapel’s public sitting area.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in a convent and never in a monastery, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. The sitting area consisted of a small cubicle to the left of the altar, roped off from the sisters’ sitting area. We were welcome, but we were not invited to enter their space, which seemed only right.
Soon, the sisters entered and took their places in seats lining both walls in front of the altar, with a wide aisle between them. It was a small group, of about ten or twelve ranging in age from early twenties to perhaps early nineties. Most were middle-aged. Two of the younger nuns went to the back of the room and began to pull on long ropes hanging from the ceiling and bells began to ring. The priest took his place on the altar, and Mass began.
As daily Mass celebrations go, this one was very long. It is the sister’s practice to enunciate each word of every prayer slowly and distinctively. There was nothing close to rushing through the rote prayers; each was said as if for the first time. At first it seemed peculiar but soon I found myself purposefully putting on the brakes to slow down to the sisters’ pace. It was pleasant to take my time, to not rush in my time just being with God.
A couple of weeks ago the Gospel at Sunday’s Mass was the story of Martha and Mary. For most of my life, I have to admit that I’ve felt a kinship with Martha; trying my best to take care of the details, making others more comfortable but also criticizing those who chose to not participate. It seemed to me that praying was all well and good, but sometimes you needed to live out your prayers, sacrificing your own wants for other’s needs.
Last Friday I realized more clearly that through their thoughtful and deliberate prayer life, these sisters were doing just that. Through their prayer life, they carry the balance for folks like myself who find it difficult to sit quietly and center myself into a meditative prayer experience. Their choosing to be “Marys” allows others, like me to be “Marthas”.
Despite its history of human frailties, the Catholic Church, dysfunctional as it is at times, with all its warts is my faith home and my branch of the Christian family. Yes, we have the crazy uncles who spout off at parties and think they know what’s best for the rest of us and we have the occasional squabble about who should do what. Sometimes there are harsh words, fierce disagreements and sadly, the kind of deep, everlasting hurt one can only receive from family. Thankfully our family also includes the loving aunts who with open arms welcome the broken into God’s loving embrace, wipe away the tears and provide healing for the soul.
It’s not perfect, but it is what I know. At least for now, I’m sticking around.