Vested interests*

001Almost a decade ago, I began to acquire priestly stoles I could not possibly use.

In 2005, while attending the School of the Americas protest in Fort Benning, Georgia, I browsed the stalls of the vendors. A woman from Latin America operated one stall, full of crafts and hand-woven cloth. Among her wares was a rich purple stole. It bore images of Jesus in the desert and women at a well and was draped on a hanger.

The scene triggered something. I had to have it. I moved as if in a dream. My heart beat louder while I wrote my credit card number on a piece of yellow paper. I paid eighty dollars I would have done better to save.

I went back to my friends. I showed them my grocery bag, warily removing the purple stole from it as though authorities would be more concerned about this than about the demonstration. Teasingly, my friends made me try it on. They liked how it looked and told me I would be a Jesuit one day.

Catholic guilt overtook me. I could not keep the stole. Stoles were sacred clothes. They were for sacred men. Sacred words had been said over these men by other men who had been authorized to say them. I did not feel God looking over my shoulder. But I definitely felt Pope Benedict looking over my shoulder.  Continue reading

This is who we are

It was the Saturday before Pentecost. The evening vigil Mass had just let out, and I hung around the back of church. Sellers of fair-trade Latin American goods, mostly crosses and woven religious art, had set up tables. I scanned prices and listened to people talking around me.

One parishioner, conversing with a table staffer, related: “So then she said, all you people are cannibals.” My ears pricked up.

Apparently, the parishioner had been traveling in Latin America when he encountered a Protestant fundamentalist, whether convert or missionary I wasn’t sure. A heated discussion ensued. “Cannibalism” was the fundamentalist’s term for the Catholic Eucharist.

I smiled. My family and I had been here before.

My mom grew up on a street where one side was a solid Polish enclave. That was her side. The other side, and the rest of the neighborhood, consisted of what my grandparents somewhat dismissively called the Americanski, the Americans.

In Mom’s retelling, the Americanski kids simply did not get the Polski kids. The Americanski asked her why she wasn’t Christian. She asked why they thought that. Well, the Americanski responded, you Catholics don’t pray to God: you pray to statues. Mom had that argument enough times to still be smarting over it decades later.

I had that argument once, too. Almost. I was on a field trip in eighth grade. Two kids in the next school bus seat abruptly turned around and confronted me. “Are you Catholic,” one of them loudly demanded to know, “or are you Christian?”

I punted. “Catholics are Christian.”

One kid turned to the other: “See, didn’t I tell you?” They began arguing about whether it could be true. Happily ignored, I stared out the window.

More recently, just a few months ago, I noticed that whenever I got on or off my train in the Chicago Loop, there were typically several people outside the station, promoting a rack of free books and chatting with commuters. The tracts were entitled “What Does the Bible Really Teach?” I waited until one time when nobody was around before snatching my copy.

According to the tract, one of the important things the Bible really taught was the signs of the End Times. There were drawings of specific trials and tribulations we would endure in the last days. I recall: one showed a man shouting at his wife. One showed a soldier at war. And one showed a smug-looking pope standing on a balcony.

I threw the book in the trash.

To my Protestant relatives and friends: I very much understand that in the year 2013, such encounters are outliers, brushes with the fringe. Also, I am actually thankful for experiences of religious friction. You learn who you really are. You speak your own name. Once you start doing that, nobody takes it away.

Nobody takes it away. Even when, in a somewhat eye-popping about-face, the main people telling me who I am not are overwhelmingly Catholics themselves.

When I read online articles about Catholic issues, I regularly find people in the comment sections hissing that we progressives should just go become Episcopalians, a word spat out as though it were an obvious corollary of gambling, drinking, and debauchery. We are ordered to leave the holy, easily-irritated remnant in peace.

Some bishops openly agree, though their phrasing is more subdued. Bishop Thomas J. Paprocki of Springfield, Illinois, recently joined LGBT advocate Sr. Jeannine Gramick, SL, in Phoenix to speak about gay marriage. According to an NCR article by Michael Clancy, Paprocki darn near personally suggested to a young woman that if she disagreed with him, it was time to go:

One of the youngest people in the room said she was a devout Catholic, but when her aunt and sister told her they were gay, she was put on the spot. She asked Paprocki if she could remain a good Catholic and still support her family members in their desires to form lifelong relationships.

“It is a struggle to be a good Catholic while supporting gay marriage,” the bishop said. “It strains your relationship with the church.”

He said those who oppose the church on the issue should become Protestants. “They do a lot of good things too,” he said.

But such noises, while initially jarring, soon sound about as sensible to me as “cannibalism” did. I’ve already been there, heard all that. So have we all. We’re grown-ups now, and the commands and definitions offered by the fundamentalist fringe, whether street-corner preachers or Catholic bishops, don’t faze us anymore. We know in our bones that, as Pope Benedict XV (r. 1914-22) put it, Christian is our first name and Catholic our surname. This is who we are. We claim it. We’re not leaving.