Monday Motivation: St. Teresa's YOLO

There is something both depressing and uplifting in this sentiment. We only have one life; we must follow God now and do good, for there is no other chance. Don't mess this up. Further, your soul is your responsibility. Your journey may be aided by others, but it is yours alone. Only you (and God) know the totality of your experiences. In the end, you will be judged individually. This call feels isolating and almost futilely challenging. 

And yet, how often do we stress over the state of our souls? In the end, it is the reason for living, yet we let ourselves get torn into pieces, focusing on dozens of other problems and stresses. If our life's purpose were actually priority, how much would those other issues fall into place? And how much more at peace would we be with those things that we can't control?

What worries do I have today that will matter in a year, in 10 years, in 100? My soul is eternal. I should be much more concerned about that.  

And Who is My Neighbor?

This Sunday’s Gospel reading was the parable of the Good Samaritan. A story we’ve all heard multiple times before, a Sunday School classic, if you will. But this Sunday was also the day of targeted ICE raids, striking terror into immigrant communities who feared that the targeting might be a little too broad. As we watch people pile up in the detention camps near the border and hear the stories of families separated by deportation, it’s a good time to ask, “And who is my neighbor?”

The scholar who asks Jesus this question knows God. He knows what he must do to inherit eternal life: love God and love neighbor. But he wants specifics. He doesn’t want to be actually obligated to love those he hates. He wants assurance that being good to his preferred people counts.

“I’m a good person,” we reassure ourselves as we love those who are easy to love. But Jesus calls us to show mercy, to go out of our way, out of our comfort zones, to aid those most in need of help, to see that they recover, to love our neighbors—and everyone is our neighbor.

Whether one believes those who have entered the country illegally should be deported or given a path to citizenship or some other solution is not the issue at stake right now. The issue is how do we treat those in our care? Do we see people who have walked thousands of miles for their children to live in a safe land? Do we see people fleeing all they know for just the chance of a better life? Do we see neighbors? Do we see people?

Our neighbors deserve water, for drinking and bathing. Our neighbors deserve food and medical attention. Our neighbors deserve a place to rest their head at night. Our neighbors deserve to be treated like people, looked in the eye, and acknowledged.

The Good Samaritan is remembered for going out of his way for loving a man in need. He was not socially obligated to help, but morally he was compelled to. He chose mercy.

“Go, and do likewise.”

St. Bertha of Artois

St. Bertha of Artois was born into a wealthy Frankish family around 644. Her mother was the daughter of the King of Kent. She married Siegfried, a relative of King Clovis II of Burgundy. They had a happy and devoted marriage. They had five daughters, two of whom died in infancy. After around 20 years of marriage, Siegfried died, and Bertha sought a religious life.

Around 682, she founded a convent at Blangy, Artois. Legend says the first two buildings she had built collapsed; an angel in a vision guided her to a third spot where the abbey was finally built. Her two eldest daughters, Gertrude and Deotila (who also became saints) joined her there. A young lord, Roger, wished to marriage Gertrude after she had taken religious vows, but Bertha refused and protected her daughter. Roger tried to slander Bertha, saying she was involved in an English conspiracy to taken over the region. The king called her to testimony and believed her, ending the persecution.

After establishing her community and leaving it in the care of her daughter Deotila, Bertha retired to live as a recluse, devoted to prayer. St. Bertha died of natural causes on July 4, 725. She is a patron of widows. Her feast day is July 4.

Kumba-nah

It’s summer, and so it’s spirit season—the time of year full of Vacation Bible School, retreats, church camps, revivals, and mission trips. People have time to really devote to their faith, and that’s great. I always liked extra church time in the summer as a kid, but I also always encountered uncomfortable moments, moments when the music slowed, people shared testimonies, and those around me had an emotional response I couldn’t relate to. Why were they being so emotional? Why did I never, never feel those things?

I made myself feel better through justifications. The atmosphere is emotionally manipulative. Some are just faking to fit in. They’ll go right back to business as usual once the week is over. It’s ok not to feel anything. Right?

A part of me wanted that emotion, that connection, that overwhelming feeling that seemed to spill out in tears and hands in the air and bright smiles. Why wasn’t I feeling anything? Was I missing something? Was I not as faithful as them? Would everyone think I didn’t love God unless my devotion outwardly expressed itself in emotional demonstration? I never asked God for an emotional experience. It looked messy and vulnerable and unsustainable. My subdued, internal devotion is steady, glowing embers rather than fireworks. So I enjoyed the crafts, the lessons, the songs, the submersion into summer church things, but I never got a retreat high.

Retreat highs happen when people have strong emotional experiences or spiritual revelations during a retreat or mission. When we step out of our daily routines and devote a day or a week or more to living for God and reflecting on faith, it’s easy to see our faith make great strides. Oh, this is why we’re here, this is how God loves me, this is how I want to live for Him. We make great plans for how we’ll take the lessons of the retreat back home. But oftentimes, the familiarity of home knocks us back into our old routines. We fondly remember the retreat, but it’s not life-altering.

For those who felt those retreat highs, they miss the high more than they miss the retreat. They seek out other ways to get the emotional feeling—more retreats, more music, more emotional expressions in their worship. Others feel that losing the high is the same as losing faith. God felt so close then, but now the feeling’s gone; is God gone too? Feeling becomes a confirmation of faith.

In The Spark of Faith, Vatican household theologian Fr. Wojciech Giertych, OP, says, “Since faith is located in the intellect and partly, in the will, belief as such is not a matter of feelings….Emotional experiences and imaginations therefore play a role in religiosity, which expresses faith and maintains it in the personal and social realm, but the force of their expression is not a sign of the depth of faith. Some people react to everything emotionally, and so they also experience their religiosity in this way, and others are more reserved in their reactions. This does not mean that those who are cooler have no faith….It is not essential to have religious experiences, nor that they necessarily be multiplied. What is much more important is that concern that faith will grow, that it will be more deeply rooted in the intellectual and moral life, thereby opening it to the fecundity of grace.”

It reassuring to know that my faith does not depend on my ability to have deep emotional experiences or public displays of such. Though it is also good for me to be reminded that others experience God and the world in such ways, and they aren’t all being manipulated or fake. God speaks to us differently. And while I don’t risk retreat high withdrawal, I am learning the benefit in letting go and just living in the experience. I’ve now had emotional spiritual experiences. They’re powerful. But we can’t stay on the mountain. We have to come back down into the world. Our faith must be rooted in rationality so that it doesn’t bend to the winds of whimsy. The summer ends. The retreat high dissipates. Life steadily moves on. Can I handle that?