Being Catholic

Although I have not been a faithful blogger, which has led to almost no comments, I wanted to share the following info in case anyone might be interested. I responded to a request by Speaking of Faith (NPR) for reflections on Catholicism. They have chosen to use some part of my interview on their program to be aired via broadcasting and podcasting beginning on May 1st.
My written comments from 1 April follow.
Today is my 57th birthday, and I am what some refer to as a cradle Catholic. So I have been through almost silent Masses, meatless Fridays, Latin readings, Communion by mouth only, Latin responses, to vernacular and guitar Masses with home baked unleavened bread and a shared cup of consecrated wine, the latter of which I believe to be Christ’s body and blood. One of the issues facing this church is whether I, as laity and woman, have the right to be even peripherally involved in our primary rite of Eucharist. I know I do, whether or not the male hierarchy has the grace yet to understand that. This issue, however, is only symptomatic of a centuries old conflict between legalism and love. Of course that is an over simplification, but there are those who go by the letter of the law, be it Biblical or church-made, and there are those who depend more on God’s mercy. We all call ourselves Catholic. My belief is in the mercy camp, and I envision God’s being puzzled over some of our squabbles about who can do what or whether sexual orientation or lack of Catholic Baptism might preclude holiness.
The reason I am still churched within the Catholic faith is community. Although individually we are imperfect, yes even the hierarchy, as a group we can be so much more and sometimes are. Today at Mass, the priest offered his thoughts about how each of us can be backed by community. That connected so well with what I had been considering for this reflection. He offered an example of a selfless act he had witnessed but would probably not have performed. Yet the attempt at the ideal happened and touched him. Maybe each of us cannot achieve ongoing perfection, but there may be an occasional ideal moment. I am not doing his homily justice, but I want to somehow explain what it means to be part of this group. The rotten apple analogy comes to mind—one spoils the bushel. But in the case of the Church community, the apple of a selfless act, a positive impetus, perfects the bushel, an imperfect group. So this sense of my community, one that is always becoming better than we defective members are, allows me to travel to a strange city and find some out of the way Catholic Church, and be at home. It does not matter if the priest preaches well or even if the congregants are friendly. I still belong and I know that deep in my bones.
I have seen beautiful cathedrals, representations of God’s Kingdom on earth, where wonderful choirs have filled the archways and resounded off the mosaics. My favorite image, however, of celebrating Catholic Mass is one my father shared with me. He was stationed in the South Pacific during World War II where accommodations were canvas rather than brick and mortar. He described acting as an altar server for a priest chaplain who celebrated the Eucharist on what was probably a mess tent table. Here was my shy dad thousands of miles from home, under threat of air attack, with men he hadn’t known at all just months before. Yet he was able to comfortably share in the rite. I find comfort in that same rite, the Eucharist, which makes me at home in some remote town, and in the community that is more than the sum of its parts. Thus I am assured that my being Catholic makes me Church, with a capital “C,” as much as any other member. Nor can I be very discouraged by any particular Catholic, no matter how egregious his sins or flawed thinking. My hope is that we continue perfecting. Although I am not well versed in the thought of the Jesuit Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, my understanding is that he believed we humans are evolving toward the divine. Now that’s Hope.