Religious
Life Another woman religious breaks camp
By LAURIE BRINK
I do not stand as Moses did on Mount
Nebo, having brought the people of God so far. He was the seed whose death
compelled others to go forward. I have never been fond of seed
theology, as a novitiate classmate called it. It is the theology that
roots itself in Johns Gospel, where Jesus announced that unless a seed
dies, it does not bring forth new life.
The agrarian imagery doesnt bother me so much as the
rootedness of the action. Plants dont move. I prefer the image of
tapestry, weaving or even quilting. Such an image implies a group effort, a
sewing together of pieces to make a whole. A whole that when stretched out,
pushed up and pegged down can become the broad tabernacle of a wandering
people, as Isaiah wrote: Enlarge the space for your tent, spread out your tent
cloths unsparingly; lengthen your ropes and make firm your stakes (Isaiah
54:2). A tent is portable, easily set up and taken down, a perfect shelter for
a traveling people. If those like me and I are to venture into the Promised
Land we will need the tools of travelers.
The tent for ancient Israel witnessed to the peoples
journeying in the wilderness -- their time of total dependency on God. What
mattered most was not their route (for surely there is a quicker way from Egypt
to Israel) but their journey. Not so much where they were going -- the
parameters of the Promised Land would be delineated in later books -- but that
in the process of the journey they were becoming a people. So it is the image
of a spacious, hospitable temporary abode that captures my imagination when I
think of religious life today and tomorrow. I think we women religious are
going somewhere, but we can only go there together.
That we are compelled to be wandering in the desert doesnt
concern me. That we interpret the experience so radically differently does. And
the difference most often has to do with the church. Call me impetuous, call me
naïve, call me an early member of Generation X. All are true. But I
believe there is a future for religious life, and its future is within the
Roman Catholic church. Now some would call me traditional. And it is the
name-calling, mostly under our breaths, that tears at our seams and threatens
to rip down our tent. When it comes to discussing matters of the church or most
especially Eucharist, our well-educated, well-trained tongues fall silent. And
I fear it is a silence that will kill us.
I dont think we are unwilling to talk together. I think we
dont know how.
I often feel uncomfortable talking about church issues with some
of our sisters who are in their 50s and early 60s. Its not simply an age
difference but a cultural generation difference. Sean Sammon, a Marist brother
and psychologist, wrote an insightful and helpful article, Last Call for
Religious Life in Human Development (Spring 1999). He speaks of the
Generation X adults born between 1961-1981 who have entered religious life.
According to Sammon, the 80 million members of Generation X are
more tolerant of diversity than the previous generations; are the first
generation of Americans whom other people took pills not to have; are the
grown-up latchkey kids who are delaying life commitments and
looking for a world and church that is stable; took on adult responsibilities
at an early age because of absent parents; define family without relying on
blood ties because of their high experience of divorce; trust friendship over
all other relationships; are slow to commit; long for institutions to live up
to their claims; are the clean-up crew for the century.
We are the generation who has no memory of the church before
Vatican II. I have never heard a Latin Mass, nor can I imagine why the priest
would not face the people in liturgy. In my lifetime, the church has been
guided by Pope John XXIII, Pope Paul VI, Pope John Paul I and Pope John Paul
II. My religious education spanned the awkward years when the Baltimore
Catechism was out and nothing had yet taken its place. I wasnt taught the
rosary or the stations of the cross, but I read comic books about St. Francis
and colored endless pictures of Jesus in various cardboard settings. As a
teenager, I was introduced to social justice and those modern day saints Mother
Teresa, Dorothy Day, Archbishop Oscar Romero and the four churchwomen martyred
in El Salvador. My spirituality sprang out of the soil of catchy tunes sung at
the Saturday evening Masses and quick-fix opportunities to help the poor.
As Sammon has suggested, this generation of which I am a member
longs for a church that lives up to its claims, for all we have now is the
chaos in the wake of Vatican II, the breath of fresh air, the force of which
left little still standing.
I can only imagine the power and energy many of my religious
sisters must have felt in the 60s and 70s. Hope and possibility
freed them from arcane rules and imbued them with a spirit of adventure. I have
sat at their feet and listened with awe and wondered what it would have been
like to be so hopeful; to believe the seed theology -- the old was
dying, the new springing forth; to trust that the spirit of Vatican II had the
power to unsettle centuries of encrusted hierarchy. Sisters responded to new
challenges and needs of the people of God, leaving the parochial classrooms to
capable lay people. They became pastoral workers and social workers,
ministering to the very needy, the anawim who oftentimes were their
congregations original inspiration.
But these sisters who have so inspired my vocation are the very
ones with whom I cannot talk. A recent encounter will illustrate. A group of us
were having dinner and attempting to discuss church issues. I said I
didnt understand why some of our sisters were estranged from the church,
sometimes choosing not to attend the local parish. A sister in her late 50s who
has spent much of her religious life working in a parish responded,
Youre not honoring my anger. I said it wasnt a matter
of honor or respect. I simply did not understand it and felt overwhelmed by it.
As Sammon pointed out, Xers are not angry with the Catholic
church, though -- just strangely indifferent toward it. ... As a consequence,
the fury that some men and women religious direct at the church perplexes
them.
We could not continue the conversation. On other occasions, my
peers and I in religious life have felt uncomfortable because we happily
participate in our local parish. Some sisters have encouraged me to participate
in more inclusive liturgies elsewhere. When we respond that we like our parish,
we are often left to feel somehow less a feminist.
I have felt less than a good member because I do not possess the
righteous anger, the zealousness many of our movers and shakers
exude. And if the measure of my membership is based on such zealousness, then I
and many of my generation will fall short, for our experience of church is so
very different. I only know the church in turmoil and change. I only know a
congregation committed to collaboration and inclusivity. I did not earn my
stripes on the battlefield of change and therefore I do not feel betrayed.
But I do feel stymied -- not by the church but by my very sisters
who expect of me the same passion for the issues that inspired them to work for
justice in the church, a passion now riddled with disappointment and anger. It
is a passion that has motivated and inspired change. I reap the benefits of it,
certainly, but it is not my inspiration. It is yours. This is not to say I lack
a passion or do not see the real need for the dismantling of strangling
structures within our church. My motivation is filled with a cautious
hopefulness. I dont expect sweeping changes. But I do expect change.
Mount Nebo stands as an icon for us religious. Some of you in the
generation before mine have been Moses, leading the way, urging us on through
the arid desert of dead ritual and ossifying hierarchy. We would not be here
without your passion, yes, even your anger. But Im no Moses. I doubt that
I am a very good Joshua, but I am a good tent-maker. And while the Promised
Land is not what you imagined, it is more than I could hope for.
Because of your commitment to inclusivity and your continual
challenges to the hierarchy, I could be an altar server as a little girl. I
grew up believing myself as capable as my brother. I have stood in the pulpit
and preached, and believed authority resides in the people of God inspired by
the Holy Spirit. Because of your leadership I have made tentative steps into
the Promised Land, and now others and I are cautiously setting up our tents,
knowing that to secure more than just a foothold will be our lifes
work.
National Catholic Reporter, February 18,
2000
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