I'm a cradle Catholic - I've been hearing the stories of the Bible for my entire life. I've done a Bible study and I've started to actually read it on my own time. What I never, ever considered was that the stories in the Bible are more than stories. What I mean by that is that it never occurred to me to think of the people in the Bible as... PEOPLE. I know, I know, "but how could you have considered otherwise?" I just never really thought of things from their perspectives, I guess. I mean, I have 2000 years of teachings of the Church, lives of the saints, an incredibly rich tradition to draw from - what do you mean people didn't KNOW Jesus was the Christ? The answer is right there!! Well, that has officially changed, and it's thanks to this past Sunday where the Gospel reading was the woman at the well.
You know the story, Jesus asks a Samaritan woman for a drink and she's more than a little incredulous and he says "go get your husband" and she replies "I have no husband" and he says "right you don't, you've had 5 and the man you're with now isn't your husband" and she admits he's a prophet, then he says he's the Messiah and then she goes into town to tell everyone that she's met the Messiah - “He told me everything I ever did.”
Before the 14th of this month, that was the whole story to me. Then my friend and I had the jail ministry to go to and she brought along a story written from the perspective of the woman at the well. How she came to the well in the middle of the day in order to avoid the women of the town - the looks, the comments, the gossip - because she was a social pariah. She did not want to be seen. For some reason, that resonated with me. The desire to be invisible, to not interact with anyone. Then she sees a man sitting on the well. She considers turning around because she doesn't want to have to deal with people in general but this man specifically. She berates herself for not coming earlier, but remembers why she didn't want to see the women of the town. She steels herself, reminding herself that he's just a man and she can handle men. After he asks for a drink and she replies, incredulously, the story goes on to her thinking that he must be a simpleton, then slowly realizing that he is at least a prophet, so she tries to trap him with the question of where it's appropriate to worship. When he says that about her husbands, the story continues that they talk and he tells her to ask for a drink because he can hear her soul crying to him that she's thirsty. She whispers "please give me a drink" which he does, then they continue talking and she realizes that not only is he a prophet, but he sees her. Really SEES her - not only her tough outer shell that she's had to develop, but all the cracks in her shell, all of her pain hidden deep inside that perhaps she doesn't even acknowledge. All of her sin, her shame, her brokenness. And through the whole conversation, not once does he treat her poorly - not once does he say "go away, you're not fit to be in my company" not once does he say "you're the most horrible woman I've ever met." Instead he looks at her with love, with compassion, with acceptance. When she leaves to tell the others in the town what has happened to her - that's such a transformation from the woman who went to the well in the middle of the day to avoid the townspeople - now she's actively seeking them out to share Him with them.
After I read that story, it stayed with me. Then this past Sunday (the 19th) the Gospel reading was the story of the woman at the well and the priest gave an incredibly moving homily about the difference between shame and guilt. How shame pulls us down because we truly believe that we are no good, that we can not do better, that this is who we are and nothing can ever change that. I BELIEVED THAT not so very long ago. I still sometimes do. I fall short so often from what the Church teaches, I don't love God or Jesus or my fellow man like I'm called to, I am the scum of the earth that Rob Zombie speaks of. He said that guilt (which Catholics are very much known for) actually builds us up. The reason for that is that when we feel guilty about something, we acknowledge that we've fallen short but we also know that we can do better. We accept that broken part of ourselves and understand that through God's grace, it's possible for us to become the people that He's called us to be. There was a lot more than that, and I cried in church yet again that day.
Then came Monday. I like my job for many reasons but one of the best things is what I call the "trained monkey" stuff. The stuff that takes very little brain matter, so I can listen to something else and still do my job. This particular day, I decided to listen to some talks by Bishop Barron. I listened to him a lot that day on topics that I'm currently struggling with... I'm not totally comfortable talking about them here, suffice to say that there's some good stuff of his on youtube.
Then Tuesday. I like Tuesdays because that's usually when Father Mike Schmitz' homily from Sunday has been posted on bulldogcatholic. So I gave him a listen... and cried at my desk. You see, for Lent he's doing a series on being/becoming wholehearted. On acknowledging our pain, our mistrust in God, our brokenness, our sin, all the things that we try to hide or ignore or push away and then trusting in God and letting Him heal our brokenness and make our hearts whole again. I've been praying for this kind of a thing for a long time and let me tell you, I didn't think it would hurt this bad. But think about it - Jesus sees me the same way that he saw the woman at the well. He knows every nasty thought, all my darkness, my brokenness, my mistrust, my sins, everything about me that is both ugly and not ugly and... here's the kicker... he STILL loves me. He isn't waiting for me to work on some of these things, he's not waiting for me to be more holy, to not struggle with my uncharitable thoughts or road rage or lose 10 lbs or wear more makeup or anything. He loves me for who I am right this very moment and that... that is so foreign, so scary, so unknown. Father Mike makes the point that in our society what is valued is what is beautiful, what is good, what is whole. If you have problems, don't tell me about them. We greet each other with "how are you" and the ONLY acceptable answer is "I'm fine, how are you" and answer "I'm fine." People are very thrown off when you say "actually I'm a friggin' mess at the moment." They don't want to know that. If we're struggling with something, we're told to keep it to ourselves, don't be a burden, don't make waves, don't be a problem. Whereas Jesus tells us "I know you - I see all of you, everything that is good and everything that is bad and you know what, I love you. I love you in your wholeness and I love you in your brokenness. I love you in your beauty and I love you in your ugly. I love you for who you are body, mind and soul." It took 32 years, but now I know that I am the woman at the well. We all are. And the thing is, it's OK. We are loved.
Another thing theme that followed with both Bishop Barron and Father Mike was the hookup culture and how sometimes people just give up. How using someone else for pleasure and then casting them aside has become normal and how soul-crushing this so-called "freedom" can be. I've been struck so often lately about what a lie this "freedom" is. How can you tell me that I'm free if the onus of avoiding a baby - the natural result of sex - is all on me? I'm expected to be on birth control, I'm expected to "take care of it" should the birth control fail and generally speaking the man... well, he MIGHT pay for the condoms. This is equality? This is freedom? I'm gonna go ahead and call BS on this. As for the giving up - yeah - that struck a chord. The woman he was describing was me a few years ago. The me now sometimes wants to go back to the me then. I wasn't happy, but there was companionship and let's face it, generally when guys find out there's a strict "no sex" rule, they leave pretty quick. So have I resigned myself to a life of loneliness because the concept of having a chaste relationship is so alien to our culture? Honestly all I can say is maybe. And if that's how it is going to be, at least I'll be right with God in the end.
So this is where my mind has been... perhaps it's understandable that I didn't sleep so well last night. How does one respond to love that asks for nothing but to be loved back? Demon Hunter has a great song called "I will fail you." I love that song, but now I imagine God whispering throughout the song "I know, and I still want you. I still love you. I still see you."
