Seriously, I preach

Heidi Schlumpf has an article about lay preaching in Commonweal that I read with particular interest as I did an 8-week preaching practicum for Catholic women this spring. 

A couple of friends shared the Commonweal article on social media and in the comments on one post someone implied that those who grumble and push back against the prohibition of lay preaching at the Eucharist aren’t serious about preaching. If they were, they’d put their energy behind celebrating and preaching at the Liturgy of the Word or the Liturgy of the Hours (particularly Vespers, or rather Evening Prayer) where preaching by the unordained is permitted. Besides, he noted, it's a moot point, because the priest shortage means no one is going to be getting much access to the Eucharist anyway.

I bristled at this take. I wanted to say, "Dude, I think the prohibition should be eased and I take my preaching very seriously!" I did not. Also, there is not really as much space for licit lay preaching at liturgies outside the Eucharist as he seems to think. I didn't say that either. I did say that preaching outside the Eucharist tends to be marginalized.

I note the liturgical norms that restrict the homily at the Eucharist likewise forbid lay persons from reflecting on the readings at many (most?) celebrations of the Liturgy of the Word.  The norms for Sunday celebration in the absence of a priest restrict the homily to the ordained (in this case a deacon) regardless of whether they include distribution of Holy Communion. If a lay person must lead such a liturgy, then they must read a homily written by a priest or deacon (New Zealand's bishops also provide a collection of generic seasonal reflections.) Even on weekdays, the preference is for someone to read a prepared homily, though the UK bishops conference permits a reflection on the reading by a lay person (not to be confused with a homily). Per the USCCB "A Liturgy of the Word with Distribution of Holy Communion should never be scheduled for the purpose of 'providing a role' for deacons or lay ministers." In other words, lay leadership (and/or preaching) in this context is a last resort, not a regularized space for lay preaching.

The norms regarding the Liturgy of the Hours say that a lay person cannot preside if a priest or deacon is present. Can they still preach? The norms are silent on this point, and presumably what is not explicitly forbidden is allowed. But even this still leaves lay voices on the margins.  I have lived in some of the largest dioceses in the country (LA, Orange, Philly). I have lived most of my life in parishes staffed by. religious orders (Franciscans and Augustinians). I have never lived in a parish that regularly celebrates Evening Prayer on a Sunday (my parish does celebrate Morning Prayer every day but Sunday). Philadelphia's cathedral parish does not have public celebration of any of the Liturgy of the Hours as far as I can tell. Would people come out a second time for for Vespers? Probably not. And given the hunger that has been inculcated in Catholics for the reception of the Eucharist, I don't think people are going to line up for Vespers in lieu of a Communion service. (Though apparently you can swap in the Sunday readings at the LOH and follow with communion, so that would serve as an opportunity for lay preaching.)

I know for certain that I have “preached” at the Eucharist, in that a reflection I have written has been read at the time of the homily (sometimes with actual attribution, or as it was once reported to me, "written by a devout lady" which felt terribly medieval to me). At least once at a cathedral (though not by the bishop). If that is licit, why could I not read my own words? Or have my words blessed by an ordained minister ahead of time and read them with my own voice? Is it because my body is wrong? Not Christ-like enough? (I suspect that's the actual answer, a woman can never be as close an image of Christ as a man. Which grieves me, but that's another post.)

Seriously, I do get to preach (as one Carthusian abbot put it, the — presumably ordained — brothers were to preach with their hands, that is by the written word) a lot. I will preach to thousands of people in that sense every day next Lent, having written a book of daily reflections that comes out in the fall from Liturgical Press. I preach at retreats. I have contributed to collections of homilies. I reflect in Give Us This Day —which offers a veritable banquet of voices, from Augustine to my friend Fran, scientists and theologians, ordained and lay, saints and the rest of us. I believe that preaching, however I do it, is my vocation. How do I know? Of all the hundreds of reflections I've written or given, only once have I volunteered. Every other one has been asked for.  Called forth.

The Last Lecture

On the first of May, I gave what I imagine was my very last lecture in a chemistry course. This was not the last lecture of the movies, where a grizzled professor in a tweed jacket waxes philosophical about life within the ivory tower, students hanging on his every word. This was not the poignant last lecture of a computer scientist in khakis and a polo. It was just my usual last lecture of introductory chemistry: on nuclear chemistry, on rads and rems and banana equivalent dose and how nuclear reactors work. And about the pile in the squash court at University of Chicago. (“Was it ever used to play squash on again?” wondered a student.) And when I was done, I wished them a good summer.

It was how I wanted to end my teaching days, with a solid lecture, not a flashy performance, covering material that mattered. To finish as I had gone along all these years, with the needs of my students directing what and how I structured a course, a lecture, an assignment. With an eye out to what might matter for the world. 

It felt like a good landing, and one that I could not have managed without a generous portion of chemistry, given how my own neurochemical machinery was misbehaving. What was utterly impossible the previous time I had  taught this course — writing on the blackboard, scrawling comments on student papers — was once again possible. What was then merely difficult — constructing notes on the iPad, walking down the hall, gesturing at the board, projecting my voice — I can now do without thinking. I am grateful for the chance to retire on my own terms and not because Parkinson’s is pushing me out. I am grateful for the all the pieces and people that made this possible, from the meds to the 50 grams of metal on my Bic pen. PTs and OTs, neurologists and psychologists, spiritual directors and pastors, colleagues and friends and family. I absolutely could not have done this without all the help. 

There have been celebrations and notes and recorded greetings. Crash crashed my retirement party, appearing unannounced at the door last weekend from the other side of the Atlantic. His brother, Math Guy, said they had something to drop off. He wasn’t kidding. And I still have work to do, a couple of letters of recommendation left to write, grades to assign (finals are graded!). Saturday I will march in commencement and get the last word before I, and this last class of students, walk out of the tent and into whatever is next. 

Office hours

 

The hours left in my office are few. Today are my last scheduled office hours (which I generally don't hold in my office, but in the atrium space in my building). The last departmental meeting of my career was this morning. Friday is my last class lecture. 

I've written my (final) final exam.

I am noticing all the systems I have set in place to keep me organized, worn smooth over the years.  My teaching bag with its dongles and chalk and dry erase markers. There is a set of molecular models. Tissues for allergies. The vertical slots for each course (and research student) on the shelves by the door. The color coded plastic sleeves: green for general chemistry and blue for p-chem handouts. This morning I slid the last set of lecture notes (nuclear chemistry) into its sleeve, feeling organized and competent and in control. 

It feels odd coming to the moment where I have to dismantle these systems. Empty the cubbies of answer keys and roll sheets. Add the collection of plastic sleeves into the drawer at home that houses the ones I use to organize retreats (pink and yellow and white). Put the teaching bag on the shelf. Red pens. Will I need a red pen after next week?

The work of writing, at least for me these days, is organized in virtual folders, slipped in and out of Scrivener and Pages and Word. Only rarely printed out. Deadlines on the calendar (virtual, too). Will I miss the material culture of this life? Maybe. Probably.

Charting a moral course: Popes, presidents and politics

"Pope Leo should stick to his lane. President Trump has said it. Vice President Vance is so convinced of it that he tried to school the pontiff on just war theory. Pete Hegseth’s Pentagon staff called the papal nuncio on the carpet to make it clear. What is the Pope’s proper purview?"

Frankly, I don't recognize much of my Catholic faith in the pronouncements emanating from the White House. And sometimes I get annoyed enough to make a public stand. I suppose I could stand outside the White House with a bullhorn and read from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, or the documents of Vatican II, but instead I write. I am grateful for the Philadelphia Inquirer who has given me a space to do that.

"I hear this administration saying that our morals are supposed to be detached from our everyday lives. That our beliefs — or our unbeliefs — are an entirely private matter. If we aren’t making our choices based on our own well-formed consciences, whatever tradition has formed them, then are they our choices at all?

Faith and morals are precisely what inform my politics, what guide my thinking about economics and social policy and climate change...Are there any decisions I make where my faith doesn’t play a role? Sure. Do I want mango or lemon water ice at Rita’s? But for the rest of it, I want my moral compass to help me navigate these challenging times.

Conscience isn’t a lane; it is the map that lets us find our way through all the lanes. Pope Leo is reminding us to not leave it behind."

Know where you stand and stand there, said Daniel Berrigan SJ. I know where I stand and I will stand there as long as I can and as long as it is necessary. 

Read the whole thing at the Inquirer. And yes, I enjoyed some alliterative moments...

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For the record, the proper choice is mango!

For non-Philadelphians: Rita's is a purveyor of frozen confections, particularly "water ice" (pronounced "wodder ice"). Water ice (also called Italian ice) is more crystalline than a sorbet or gelato, but not as crystalline as a snow cone. 

Hobbies

Five more lectures to go.  On solids and X-ray crystallography. A short tour through nuclear chemistry, aware that these 100 or so minutes might be all they get on the topic in their chemistry degree. Memories of my own undergraduate training surface, where we got to use the nuclear reactor to do neutron activation analysis of milk samples. Can I find a photo of the reactor to show them?

Chatting with a colleague in the hall about my plans to write: "It's good to have a hobby," he offers. I bristle a bit.  I'm not sure that I would classify my writing under "hobbies." Sketching is a hobby, knitting is a hobby, fly fishing is a hobby. (Which two of these do I do?) A hobby feels too casual a classification, bearing a frisson of frivolousness. Writing for me carries weight, sometimes serious weight. So is it a job? an avocation? a vocation?

What does the OED have to say? A hobby is "An activity or interest pursued regularly in one's leisure time for pleasure." Or an avocation:  "an activity or line of work for which one has special talent or affinity; one's calling." Vocation, it  tells me,  derives from a summoning.

Writing is (mostly) a pleasure for me. Some of it is done in my "off-hours" from my paid job. This blog is probably a hobby. Regardless of the box I might drop it into, my writing is an integral part of who I am. The words call, and I cannot help but pick them up and start dragging them into place.