The Immaculate Misconception

(I was hoping to get this post up in time for the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, but it was not to be.  This has been a crazy-busy week, the most important event being the birth of my new nephew, "Baby E!"  Many blessings  to my brother and sister-in-law as they start the journey of parenthood.  They live an hour away and we haven't had a chance to meet the little one yet; we'll see him next weekend for sure, Lord willing! 

Oh, and the statue in the photo above adorns the lovely Immaculate Conception Church in Fairbanks, Alaska.  For more photos of this beautiful little church, click here.)

I remember when Joe and I were dating and I was still a Baptist, we had many in-depth conversations about Mary.  I had always known that Catholics gave Mary special honor, even naming churches after her and reciting prayers to her.  I never really understood why this was.  Joe explained to me that Catholics honor and venerate Mary because she is the mother of Our Lord, and the Church teaches that Mary was preserved from sin--and never sinned-- so that Christ would have a pure vessel to enter this world through. In fact, he was surprised to learn that other Christian faiths did not teach this.   I dismissed this concept at first, saying that I did not believe that at all; Mary was no different from you and me, and she was a sinner just like everyone else.  I figured God must have chosen her because she was particularly faithful and holy--after all, some sinners are more faithful than holy than others. 

One night during a get-together with some of Joe's high school friends, many of whom were Catholic, someone brought up the subject of the Immaculate Conception.  I had heard this term before, and never thought much of it; I assumed it referred to Christ's conception by the Holy Spirit in Mary's womb.  That was one thing all Christian faiths taught, and I could wrap my head around it.  Someone asked the group if they knew what the Immaculate Conception referred to.  Several people said, "why, it's Jesus' conception in the womb of Mary, of course."  The person then explained that even though many Catholics have this notion, it actually means that Mary was preserved from original sin at the moment of her conception.  (I'm pretty sure Joe knew the right answer, by the way.)  This REALLY confused me, because now I'm like, "WHAT??  The Church teaches that Mary was conceived in her mother's womb in the same way that Jesus was?  Like without sex??"  Well, no, I was assured; Mary was conceived in the usual manner, but God protected her from the sin of Adam and Eve.  (I later learned that many Protestants hold the mistaken view that Catholic Church teaches a virginal conception of Mary.  This is not the case.)  Surprisingly, this made perfect sense to me, even though I had earlier pooh-poohed the idea of a sinless Mary.  Why, after all, would God not want a pure vessel for His Son?  Why wouldn't he make a sinless mother to bear Him?  Over the years, since becoming Catholic, I have come to a better understanding of it.  Some ask, "Why does Mary refer to God as her savior in the Magnificat?  That proves she's a sinner."  Remember, Christ is beyond space and time.  Mary was saved by the merits of her divine Son on the Cross at the moment of her conception.  I sometimes think of it as if Mary was baptized at the moment she was conceived--thus having the stain of original sin removed--but an even more powerful one because she lived a completely sinless life. 

I found this wonderful video by Scott Hahn, who explains beautifully why Catholics celebrate Mary's Immaculate Conception.

I have no idea when you'll hear from me again, on this blog anyway (although I expect I'll be around on Facebook and Twitter).  This week, with what little free time I have, I'm hoping to get a good chunk of Christmas shopping done, start sending out Christmas cards, and spend some quality time with little E. and his mommy and daddy.  I might try to see what I can do about moving my blog over to Wordpress, or at least clean up my web albums to make room for more photos to post here, although that might not happen for a while.  Have a great week, and happy Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe!

Here's Moe when he dressed up as Saint Juan Diego for the All Saints Day parade at school last year.

Today

I finally have my camera back!  At about 5:00 today I noticed a new message on my answering machine.  It was the camera store calling to tell me that my camera is finally ready, and they're open until 6.  I usually leave the house around that time to head to my religious education class at church.  I threw my things in the car, wolfed down some yogurt and granola for dinner, and left quickly so I'd have time to grab my camera before the last day of CCD for the year.

We crowned the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary that stands outside the parish hall.

At the beginning of the school year, I gave the kids a liturgical calendar for them to fill in with the colors of the liturgical year.  From time to time we got out their calendars and colored in the spaces according to the season we were in.  I modeled it partly after this one, which I found in the elementary Catechesis of the Good Shepherd classroom at the Episcopal church where I work;

At the Episcopal church, the color for Advent is blue.  Someone--I forget who--recently told me that blue is an optional color in the Catholic church as well.  I'd never heard this.

 and partly from the one in their textbook.  We left the middle of the circle blank, and today I let the kids cut out illustrations from their books and glue them to the calendars.  Below are some of the results.  They turned out great, don't you think?

I'm also asking for prayers:  first, for a little boy named Truman who almost drowned and is in critical condition.  For updates on his condition, visit this Facebook page.  Also please pray for my friend's father who had a stroke yesterday.

Oh, and thanks be to God, yesterday my cousin Tyler returned home to his family after a tour of duty in Afghanistan!

Perhaps I'll be back here on Friday for 7 Quick Takes, but if not I hope you have a blessed Memorial Day weekend!  (On Sunday, you'll find me--after Mass, of course--parked in front of my couch with my husband and a big glass of red wine, watching the Indianapolis 500.  One day, we'll see that one in person...)

Unworthy

I can't imagine why you would want to see me right now. What have I done to deserve being here with you? Nothing, except screw up again and again. You've done everything for me, even gave up your life. You prayed for me and endured unspeakable suffering because you love me. Why? You knew I was going to betray you and deny you and ignore you.

Right now I'm out here and you're in there. It's nice and dark and quiet out here--but not too quiet; I hear the katydids and the crickets making their music. Their lives are simple. They don't feel the need to please anyone; they just go about their business with joy and purpose, and they're not afraid to sing your praises for all the world to hear. In there it's bright and utterly silent. I can see you through the glass doors, waiting. Usually I'm eager to come see you. I stride through the doors with confidence and anticipation. I look forward to each visit. But tonight I hesitate. Who am I kidding? Have I been trying to fool myself all these years into thinking I'm a good and holy Catholic because I say my prayers and come to Mass and visit you in Adoration? Have I been trying to fool you? If I come in you'll see me in the light and then you'll really know who I am.

Maybe I'll stay here in the dark. Your Mother is out here, a statue of her, anyway; she'll understand. Maybe I'll just have her tell you hello and that I stopped by, but you were busy listening to the prayers of those more worthy than me. But I know what she'd say. Go on, he's expecting you. He knows your heart. Do you think you have more sin than anyone else? Besides, He'd be awfully disappointed if you walked away.

So I come. And when it's time to go, I don't want to. I want to stay here all night to make up for all the hurtful things I've said and done; for all the times you were hungry and I didn't feed you, lonely and in prison and I didn't visit you; a stranger and I did not welcome you. Go on home, I hear you say, and get some sleep. Remember that I'm always with you and I always love you. But before you go, would you stop by and say hello to my mother? She's been longing to see you, too.

I Thirst

When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple there whom he loved, he said to his mother, "Woman, behold, your son." Then he said to the disciple, "Behold, your mother." And from that hour the disciple took her into his home. After this, aware that everything was now finished, in order that the scripture might be fulfilled, Jesus said, "I thirst." (John 19:26-28, NAB)

When Father R. commissioned the new crucifix in our church, he wanted it to represent the moment when Jesus said the words, "I thirst." Mary has her eyes fixed on her Son, and John is gazing into the crowd of onlookers to see who Jesus is speaking to. Every Sunday (and on those rare occasions I manage to make it to daily Mass) I'm drawn to these sculptures, and I wanted to share some of the thoughts I have when I look at these images. (Click here for more about the recent renovations at our church.)

Our Lord's eyes are directed at us, the faithful. When he says, "I thirst," he means me. He wants me to come to Him, to trust Him, to love Him. He is struggling to breathe, and He is in so much pain and his throat is so parched that even opening His mouth to speak the words is difficult. Through His agony He seems to say, "Look at how much I love you." In His eyes are pain and sorrow and agony and love.

Mary is looking at Jesus in anguish. Her arms are raised as if to say, "Why? Why must it come to this?" She looks as though she's about to fall to her knees. At the same time her face reflects acceptance and understanding. She trusts God and knows this is His plan. Sometimes I imagine the blood that must be dripping from His wounds, into his Mother's hands.

I remember hearing a story years ago about an atheist who was walking past a church, and was inexplicably led to go inside. The atheist walked to the front of the church and knelt down and prayed, "God, if you're real, show me." He (or she, I don't remember) got up to leave and when (s)he turned around there was a beautiful lady sitting in one of the pews, with a wounded, broken young man lying across her lap. She looked at the soon-to-be-former atheist with pleading eyes and said, "Look what they've done to my Son." Mary seems to be asking, "What have they done to you?"

The image I tend to be drawn to the most is John. I'm not sure why. He's looking for whoever Jesus was speaking to when he said, "I thirst," and his eyes seem to be searching for me. His face clearly shows the sorrow he must have been feeling as he stood at the foot of the Cross. His eyes seem slightly puffy, as though he's been weeping. I can almost see the tears on his cheeks. His arms are raised slightly toward Christ. He looks as though in the next moment he will put his hand out to touch the wood and look up at Jesus' face like Mary is doing. Or perhaps he's about to clutch his head in anguish. His hands are pointing to Jesus, and he seems to be saying, "Look. See what this man is willing to do for you and for me."

I heard our youth minister, Mr. C, tell the kids who were preparing for confirmation, that John was probably a young teenager, no more than fourteen or fifteen, when He walked beside Jesus here on earth. This surprised me, and gave me a new perspective on the close relationship John had with Jesus. At the Last Supper, John leaned against his Savior, as a child would lean against a parent for comfort. Looking at this statue of John the Beloved, I see a young man who, despite being confused and angry and devastated at what was happening, stayed with Him and prayed that God would help him understand.

Moments before, Jesus had spoken the words, "Woman, behold your son. Behold, your mother." I imagine that Mary and John were looking at each other as He said this. Now the Blessed Mother is looking at Christ, perhaps to say, "I will lead them to You." She understands that by these words he not only bequeathed her to John His beloved disciple, but to the whole world. Through Mary Christ was given to us, and through Mary God shows us Christ still. Among the sorrow and hurt in John's face, I see firm resolve as well. He will take Mary under his roof, to care for her for the rest of her days on earth, and with her help, he will bring the love of Christ to her children.

It's Corpus Christi Sunday. We Catholics celebrate the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. Let's fix our eyes on Jesus. His eyes are fixed on us, after all.

Today

May Crowning: The boys' school gathered in the gym for a Rosary, and Father R. led everyone to this statue of Our Lady out front. Everyone brought flowers for her.

Hail, Holy Queen

Just as we began singing "Immaculate Mary," God gave his Mother a great flyover.

Lots of flowers for Our Lady. She saved a few for this angel nearby.

This afternoon we had a thunderstorm.

When the sun came out, we spotted this guy in the lake.

People sometimes ask me if we go swimming in the lake, since it's right in our backyard. This is one reason we don't.

Just as I was getting ready to drive Curly and Moe to their tae kwon do class, the hailstorm started. I put the car in the garage instead to protect it from this stuff.

Umm, I'm not sure. Something Curly and Moe did with hailstones and food coloring.

The storm was over as quickly as it had begun.

Happy Birtday, Blessed John Paul II! And all the best to my friend Father Stefan on the fifteenth anniversary of his ordination!