Through this meditation, texts both secular and sacred become part of a reader’s heart and soul.
I sometimes picture myself in a nursing home where my family and friends complain about having to empty my pockets of notes, reminders, and quotes stashed here and there lest I forget good advice. They’ll also have to manage an avalanche of prayer books, anthologies, and texts on my bedside stand, never shelved just in case I need to find, in a weak moment, a favorite passage, part, or prayer.
Being a godparent is tough work, but the payoff is worth it.
It was 1994, a year in my life best represented by Doc Martens and dark red lipstick. But it was also the year my best friend married young and had a baby, disrupting our social life and making me a godmother all at the same time.
The Jesus Prayer invokes a living God who is present in every aspect of creation.
When I made my final profession as a Benedictine oblate last summer, Brother Luke, one of the monks at the monastery I’d just pledged myself to, gave me a welcome-to-the-community gift: a hand-tied prayer rope of 33 knots (one for each year of Jesus’ life) with a small Byzantine cross attached. (Brother Luke’s grandparents were Byzantine Orthodox, and he nearly joined a Byzantine monastic order before settling on the Benedictines.) I was unfamiliar with prayer ropes at the time but thought it was a sweet gift.
Music as a spiritual practice helps us tell our Christian story anew.
One of my core childhood memories is of singing at Mass. It’s neither a sappy nor a prayerful story, however. This was one of my rare moments of rebellion. While the rest of the congregation stood and sang together the opening hymn at Mass, I was lying down, sprawled out in the pew, singing my own made-up lyrics that went something like, “I don’t want to be here! I’d rather be watching cartoons!” My mother rightfully glared at me, urging me to stand up and behave.
Burying the dead is a corporal work of mercy, although the practice isn’t strictly about burying a dead person.
Sometimes when I visit my parents’ graves, I remember going as a boy to the same cemetery with my mom and grandmother, carrying the plastic flowers as they bent over to dress the graves. I was never thrilled to go—I would rather have been running bases, riding a bike, or throwing a ball. It’s different now, and not just because my body doesn’t tolerate those activities so well anymore. The only one of the three of us left, I’ve only just begun to catch on to what they knew.
No amount of classes can prepare you for the experience of God’s presence in the Eucharist.
At my former parish I was the catechist for second graders, students for whom the chief focus and driving dynamic of the school year was, of course, preparation for first communion. Every lesson, every Sunday, was parsed for its eucharistic significance, though preparation began in earnest once we hit Lent. One morning we took a look at da Vinci’s The Last Supper and talked about the disciples’ reactions and what they might mean.
To be a lector is to live out the Catholic commitment to prayer, community, and storytelling.
At the start of the Triduum last year, a theater monk offered our group of lectors this advice: Do your homework. Tell the story.
To pray vespers is to become alive to a liturgical cycle that flows throughout the week, each office of worship informing the next.
I attended evening prayer for the first time at a monastery in upstate New York. I was immediately drawn to it because the service correlates perfectly with the poignancy of dusk—that hour of the day that imbues the most routine action with a sense of subtle mystery. Ritualizing this transitional time instilled in me peace and refocused my energies for the evening ahead. It was a practice I longed to continue on a more regular basis from my home in Brooklyn.
It’s the one day of the year when you know who believes what you believe.
Ash Wednesday is become a very popular feast day, perhaps more important to some people than Holy Days of Obligation. At Marquette University, where I teach, Ash Wednesday Mass and the distribution of ashes will positively fill the modest but spacious octagonal chapel in the student union. Student ministers will distribute the ashes, and as many as 200 students will file into the central sanctuary to have an often quite large sign of the cross marked on their foreheads in ash.
Reading poetry shows us the beauty of the world through new eyes.
“A poem in the pocket means we will be accompanied wherever we go,” writes Bishop Robert Morneau.
Morneau’s words ring true to me. Poems have been sturdy companions on my spiritual journey, accompanying me through moments of rejoicing and lament and everything in between. While the liturgical prayer of the church and reflection on scripture are bedrock spiritual practices for me, praying with poetry has also been a fundamental part of my spiritual life for as long as I can remember.
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