Emerging Women

By Irim

“Woohoo!” I thought, as the 4B stopped next to me in the High Street. “Hi ho, Hi ho, off to Littlemore we go!” It had been a full day – talk to the Research Induction School; Dean’s Forum; the usual first week frustrations with a new intake. Now off to a 7pm case study.

It was just after 6 when I got on the bus (I like early, especially in rush hour) and was rooting through my pockets for gum (which, of course, I’d left on my desk) when my hand came upon an odd texture.

Beads.

I have a ROSARY in my pocket? Since when?

She is eternal:

Curious to see which one it was, I surreptitiously pulled it out – and found myself smiling. It was the one brought back for me from Israel by my beloved teaching colleague, Helen Raucher, and her husband, Steve, shortly after I’d converted. Blue crystal beads, silver chain, ‘Terra Santa’ where Our Lady’s image usually is. Yes, I’m a wooden bead girl, but a rosary given with love – especially from Jewish friends acknowledging and wishing me joy in my conversion to Catholicism – trumps that a thousandfold. It’s my favourite, and was a particularly appropriate one to find as Erev Rosh Hashanah was about to begin.

I gazed at it with trepidation. Anyone who reads this blog knows of my deep love for Our Lady, the dream I associate with her, the fact that I said the ‘Hail Mary’ long before I was Catholic…

long before nations’ lines were drawn – when no flags flew, when no armies stood, [her haven] was born

…but I have a shameful secret. I DREAD saying the rosary. I would rather dental floss an army of cats without body armour than have to say the rosary, especially in congregation after the 10am mass (sorry, guys!).

But I feel torn. Our Lady is what holds me in the Church, and this is really THE form of prayer that focuses on her, and I can’t abide it. I know I’m not alone; that doesn’t make me feel less guilty. “Ok,” I thought, “Let’s give it a go. Best way over guilt is to stop avoiding it. You can do it for an intention, right? Just…start.”

I tried the Apostles’ Creed, but got as far as…”We.” Hey, at least I got that far.

I looked at my phone as soon as I got off. 18.30. Not due in till 19.00. Maybe try it walking through the church graveyard at St Mary’s and St Nicholas’? Had time to spare, what did I have to lose?

I wiggled through the gate and turned left, starting the Apostles’ Creed, as I tried to remember WHICH mysteries…Tuesday…sorrowful. Crap, it’s been so long, what ARE they?

Our Father, which art in heaven…

I passed the grave of the lad who died at 19 yrs and 6 months in France in September 1918, and though I continued reciting the rosary, my heart broke with sorrow for one lost so young, so near the end of a war.

And you ask me why I love her – through wars, death and despair. She is the constant; we who don’t care

And as the beads slipped through my hands…

Hail Mary, full of grace

…I finally got it. Fr Richard told me ages ago, when I told him I couldn’t do the rosary at home or in bed, that the rosary was a prayer of motion. I kind of got it at Walsingham and on Newman night walks.

In the graveyard, I *got* it. It’s what any Buddhist or Hindu or Muslim would have told me. The rhythm of repetitive prayer allows your mind to let go and drop deeper into prayer – even if that prayer is the fact that the plumber needs to come and fix the sink. Even if it’s about a 19 year old boy I never knew. It’s all prayer.

Glory be to the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit…

As I wandered amongst the graves, beads rough against my fingers, slipping from decade to decade, I thought about love, life, loss, being forgotten and remembered, what I’d left behind and where I was going, the constant, deepening struggle between the institutional Church and my unfolding faith.

You wonder will I leave her – but how? I cross over borders, but I’m still there now.

As the sun lowered in the sky, I could feel the internal stillness deepen, and a sense of peace came over me.

Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy…aw, crap, how does the rest of it go? Fuck it. Salve regina, mater misericordiae…

Then I turned the last corner, and the gate came into sight again…and I had the answer. Well, I’d always had it; I’d just been letting too much get in the way, too many well-meaning people decide what KIND of Catholic *I* had to be: you’ll be a good Catholic when you receive on the tongue; if you fall in line here; if you stop thinking about this, it’ll be so much easier, dear, won’t it? And if you stop looking too hard and too deeply and seeing what’s really going on, it’ll all be fine. Will it, fuck.

I can’t say the rosary just like anyone else: others prefer kneeling, saying it together, in bed, in the car, wherever. But that’s not for me. The rosary works for me when I’m walking in a graveyard: maybe it’ll work when I’m walking on the railway line at Walsingham or somewhere else. I don’t know. What I DO know is that tonight, I made the rosary mine. Now, it is always mine.

I need to do the same with my faith: stop looking around; stop listening to even the most well-meaning when they try to change me; stop trying to fit in a mould that doesn’t work for me. The other thing I need to stop doing is getting infuriated/drawn into politics, ideological arguments, hard as that is for me, since I love a good argument. But this isn’t genuine argument; it’s polarisation. And I can only imagine Our Lady’s sorrowing eyes as she looks down on it.

How can I leave her? Where would I start? Let [the Church's] petty [factions] tear themselves apart…

Not too long ago, a friend said that I was ‘a mix’ when it came to my faith. He’s *right*. My faith is what it is – it’s ME. Complicated, light, dark, sharp, tender, angry, loving, sad – all of it. Take it or leave it. I suspect – or rather, I hope – I know which one Our Lady will choose.

…[Mother Church's] only borders lie around [her] heart.

Happy birthday.

Irim lives in England and is re-training to be a psychotherapist – after having been a teacher and a librarian. She was born a Muslim, taught at an Orthodox Jewish School and became Catholic. This post first appeared on her blog The night and half-light of dreams.

By Jessica Coblentz

I have a problem. I’m addicted to Sex— Sex and the City, that is.

A friend lent me a couple seasons on DVD recently. I had needed an episode for a program I facilitated at the women’s college where I work in campus ministry. The students and I gathered for popcorn, Oreos, and an episode of Sex and the City, followed by a thoughtful discussion about sex, dating and spirituality. Ideally, the show provides a point of reference for the discussion beyond one’s own sexual and dating experiences (or, sexless and dateless experiences).

The weekend following my program was chilly and wet. Cooped up in my apartment, I found myself utterly pathetic in any attempt to resist the sassy DVDs stacked on my desk. I would watch a couple episodes, eject the disk, and return to some writing, my “to do” list, or a phone call to a friend—only to cave in, again, to “just one more episode!”

What is it about this series that I love so much?! Why do I find it so utterly irresistible? Surely, I love the clothes, the shoes, and the posh New York restaurants. Ultimately, though, it’s the hip sitcom’s candid, witty talk about sex that keeps me glued to the screen. It’s so absolutely refreshing. Even when I disagree with the assertions they make about sex, I love the honest, bold, and fearless way they talk about the sexual decisions they make. They are confident in their sexualities. Not driven to silence or timidity by guilt or shame like so many of us.

In the discussion that followed the episode I watched with my students, I had asked them to characterize the conversations they’d had about sexuality in their religious communities. Most of them were Catholic like me, and all of them responded with, “NO. No, no, no, no, no, no! All we’ve heard is NO.” If they heard about sex in the church setting, it came across as “no,” and “Don’t do it, period. None of it.” There was no honest talk about the complexities of sexual decision-making. No hospitality that allowed them to feel they could ask genuine questions about the reality of sex in their relationships.

This got me thinking…what would a Catholic-type Sex and the City look like? Sex and the Vatican City, perhaps? Honestly, my first response was, “Well, it might look exactly the same as the regular Sex and the City!” Like most folks, we Catholics have pious speech about sex that we often fail to live up to. However, as I thought about it more it occurred to me that if there was a “Catholic” version of Sex and the City that embraced a conversation style akin to the show, yet ultimately continued to espouse the same “Catholic” positions on sexual ethics (anti-abortion, pro-NFP and anti-artificial birth control, no extra-heterosexual-marital sex, etc.), I might still love it. And my students might have a very different experience of Catholic sexual teaching.

I can see it now: The four ladies chatting over brunch. Charlotte is cheering about how happy she is that her natural family planning is not working and she’s pregnant again with her fifth child. Samantha is complaining about her latest boyfriend who just can’t understand why she won’t marry him: he’s been divorced and she is standing by the Church’s position that he cannot remarry. Miranda is still struggling to balance her work as a mother and as a lawyer—only now its in the context of Pope John Paul II’s teachings on “the genius of women” and women’s unquestioned responsibility to family life. Carrie writes a witty sex column for the National Catholic Reporter.

I can envision it now! And I would still like this “Catholic” version in many ways—even if I continued to wrestle with some of the ethical positions it endorsed. Perhaps this type of show will never happen for the Catholic Church, but I still hope that some version of this honest, hospitable conversation about sexuality will.

Jessica Coblentz, a graduate of Santa Clara University, works in Catholic young adult ministry. She will begin graduate studies at Harvard Divinity School this fall. This post originally appeared on her personal blog, www.jessicacoblentz.blogspot.com.