When the headlines appear, the questions come in. I’m used to this. And in fact, I’m absolutely flattered by it. It means a lot to me that people take the time to ask for my thoughts about whatever Catholic controversy fills the news on any given day. Sometimes, friends ask me to sort out the esoteric religious jargon for them. I’m capable of this only sometimes, but I am always honored that folks trust my assessment of the tradition. Other times, these blessed friends are simply concerned about how I’m dealing with it all. “How are you feeling about this, Jessica. How are you doing?”
In recent weeks when the news spread that the Vatican is making significant strides to revise its handling of clergy sexual abuse cases–all while allegedly linking the severity of these sins to the ordination of women–the questions came in, and I started to ask myself, “How are you feeling about this, Jessica? How are you doing?”
I couldn’t stop thinking about the story my friend Katie told me the other day. During a recent weekend, she volunteered at a middle school camp for inner city youth run by the Catholic parochial school where she taught for a few years after college. On that Sunday morning, she went to Mass with the students and their teachers in the camp’s quaint wooden chapel. The presider was gracious with the kids, and a good homilist, too. “But the tabernacle there–” she told me. That’s what got her. “The tabernacle looks just like the boy’s Catholic school down the street. Like the shape of their building.” I began to smile as she went on. I delighted in the fact that this friend anticipated the wonder I would share with her as she recounted this experience for me. “This is what Catholicism is about, isn’t it? Recognizing Jesus inside an inner city school like that? Like that? Believing that Jesus dwells with the underprivileged so much that you make a symbol of it with the most important part of your sanctuary?”
I nodded as we savored this moment that captured the best of our Church. In that small moment, we didn’t have to convince ourselves that we are so blessed to belong to this Church. We are blessed to have church that views inner city schools as tabernacles, and tabernacles as inner city schools. And blessed to be raised in a church that has given us the eyes to see the world in this way, too. “I wish I had moments like that more often,” Katie said. I think she was referring to the tabernacle at the camp, but I was thinking the same thing about the moment we had just shared–that moment of unwavering pride for our faith.
I’ve been telling a lot of people that, for many reasons, I feel sad and disappointed about the recent Vatican stirrings. And, really, I’m feeling tired of feeling sad and disappointed. But I am also trying to tell a lot of people about my hope. I’m trying to talk about that, too. I’m trying to tell them about the eyes this tradition has afforded me–Katie and me. Eyes that recognize miraculous transformations in places and people that much of society overlooks. Eyes that see Jesus in the sometimes harsh and unglamorous realities of our cities. Eyes set on recognizing God’s redemption of our world in any and every place. Even in our Church.