Pigeonholing

I found this during an aimless wander through someone's Tumblr archive and being as I love finding and applying labels to describe myself, this is a delight to me!

I now know to describe myself as Conservative leaning towards Tradtionalist. Yeah, that indigo area. I am an indigo Catholic!

Why I Must Become A Catechist

The Tuesday night scripture study session at our parish is a relatively new phenomenon and a welcome one. Generally, they are led by our priest who is lovely, but who is relatively new and of whom we are still rather in awe. However, in his absence yesterday evening our gregarious and more familiar deacon took the helm and the other participants felt slightly freer to enter the discussion as a result.

In one way, it was I relished having a time for openly talking of our faith. In another, it was utterly devastating...

I'm used to hearing Church teachings misunderstood, denigrated and maligned by some of my atheist, protestant and even lapsed Catholic associates, but this was a group of practising Catholics; many of whom attend daily Mass and some of whom have been Catechists for our younger parishioners. In other words, not the people I would have thought to have heard describing core teachings of our Church as "too harsh", "unfair", and "needing to update". Some - including the deacon - were even unhappy with the things that Christ had said in the portion of the gospel we had just read and were anxious to try to make them sound less severe; requiring less of a radical commitment to live our lives for God; and were determined not to see the dire penalties for those who refuse to do so. It was utterly heartbreaking to hear.


Afterwards, kneeling at the foot of the altar in the dark and empty church, I begged for the sanctification of the funny, ramshackle and generally lovely bunch of people who make up this parish. Though my words were incoherent and ineloquent, any confusion over what my future plans should be seemed to evaporate. Rather than merely entertaining a feeling that I would like to study the diploma in catechesis, I instead knew I must become a catechist. I knew I might be one of only one or two orthodox Catholic voices some of our children and young people ever get to hear during these formative years; and though that is a somewhat intimidating and disheartening thought, it is also one that - by the grace of God - serves to drive me forward.

Lovesick

"As an apple tree among the trees of the wood,
    so is my beloved among young men.
With great delight I sat in his shadow,
    and his fruit was sweet to my taste,

He brought me to the banqueting house,
    and his banner over me was love.

Sustain me with raisins,
    refresh me with apples;
    for I am sick with love."

"I love Him.  I love Him so much that it pains me, but it is a pain for which I long. I want to pour myself out for Him as he has done for me. There is nothing I have that I would not give up for Him. He is the great love story of my life, and yet what do I do for Him? Scarcely anything purely good; much that is tainted by mixed motives; and still more that is downright selfish and sinful. Beloved, make me Yours. There is nothing I desire now but to be pleasing to you."

Pain With Purpose

Growing up amongst evangelicals, lapsed Anglicans, agnostics and pentecostals, I received various impressions about the nature of personal suffering. A few called for quiet endurance of a largely pointless torment; others sought to avoid and strive against it at all costs; and - perhaps most dangerous of all - some saw it as an irredeemable evil from which God would spare us entirely if only were righteous and prayed hard enough.

Unfortunately, it was the latter opinion that tended to abound in the charismatic evangelical churches I frequented in the troubled years of my adolescence and early twenties. At the time, I had not been diagnosed as autistic; I had simply been a "very odd, anxious, and isolated child" who - like many females with undiagnosed autistic spectrum disorders - had developed severe clinical depression as I struggled in a world which overwhelmed me and to which I could not relate.

Thus, my early tentative attempts to form a deeper relationship with God and give my life to His service were thwarted by feeling that I was not accepted by Him and not praying hard enough to be healed of what was then labelled 'mental illness' by my psychiatrist and 'demonic attacks' by my church. I sat, numb with anguish, through various healing services in which lots of outlandishly happy people sang and danced to folk-pop worship music then tried to cast demons out of me. "Thy will be done" was passed over, and "God wants you to be well" became the mantra we heard over and over again.
Even at the time, this seemed an unsound doctrine. I would not have been able to express confidently how or why it was so, but echoes of Job, Colossians, the charge to take up one's cross, and the frequent calls to rejoice in suffering seemed to contradict much of what I heard preached. In later years, these same passages ensured that I recognised the truth of the traditional Catholic perspective when it was finally explained to me.

A correct diagnosis and the subsequent understanding of the workings of my brain have helped to alleviate much of the angst of previous years. However, when short episodes of depression recur or incidents of physical pain crop up I no longer languish in despair. Suffering is never pleasant, but now that I can offer it up to be united with Christ's Passion, it is sanctified; it has purpose, value and potential. Whether I suffer or whether I am healed, I will rejoice. There is only one thing I ask: Father, Thy will be done.

Though Your Sins Are Like Scarlet...

Living in an area in which our priest has sole charge of two large rural parishes (in addition to teaching at a seminary, writing a doctoral thesis, and carrying out administrative obligations for the diocese) I am understandably grateful that Mass is celebrated at our church three or four times each week. Confession, however, is no longer provided in our town at all. Doubtless this is due in part to our priest having so many other demands upon his time, but I also have a sneaking suspicion that it is because frequent confession is not viewed as particularly important by many parishioners.

As a convert, I am continually baffled and dismayed when I encounter the mixture of reluctance and indifference with which so many Catholics view this unspeakably beautiful sacrament. Perhaps I am all the more confused because I clearly recall being desperate to make my first confession; yes, sick with nerves and literally trembling with anxiety, but desperate nonetheless! The fount of mercy was being opened to me at last, and no matter how embarrassing or formidable it seemed, I knew I must go forth and ask before I might find absolution.

Return Of The Prodigal Son - Pompeo Batoni

Even after frequent repeat performances with various priests, confession has never become entirely easy. There is always some trepidation and timidity involved, but I have never emerged without having been showered with blessings and filled with a joy, thankfulness and peace to which my words can only fail to do justice. The fact that nearly everyone who is absolved describes similar feelings only makes me more incredulous that people aren't more eager to confess on a regular basis.

Of course, it could be that I am simply a far more frequent sinner than anyone else in our congregation! Lamentably, I'm only half joking about this. I wouldn't be remotely surprised if I was. Still, mercifully, His grace is sufficient.

Opening Gambit

Introductions are difficult things at the best of times. With my hard-wired fear of change, my difficulty in switching to a new task, and my problems with communication, I generally regard them with slightly less affection than I do root canal surgery.

This particular specimen is proving a halting, mildly discouraging affair. Between each line I must pause, recollect and attempt to regain focus; distracted as I am by the hum of the fan in my PC tower and the flickering light on the router. I try to suppress - without success - the knowledge that it's gone midnight and I've yet to recite Saturday's Rosary.

Anyway... I'm Jenny. I'm autistic. I'm a Roman Catholic convert. I'm married to an atheistic lapsed-Anglican who has the patience of a saint where I am concerned. I'm hoping to study for a degree in divinity, and in the meantime I shall be studying to become a parish catechist.

Admittedly this does not constitute the most thorough of introductions, but I hope to elaborate on most of these things - probably at tedious length - in subsequent posts. I'm sure you can scarcely contain your excitement at the prospect.