Trusting the Rules - Lent Journal (Sunday Lent I)

I think one of the most common criticisms I have heard of the Catholic Church is "so many rules". 

When outsiders look at the Church, they see the "Church of NO" - in particular, no fun. I'm dating myself, but Billy Joel even wrote a song about this [1].

When I first converted, I could tell you the rules and probably even give you a poor explanation of why those rules exist - but I didn't delight in them or see how they would necessarily be beneficial or lead to my flourishing.

The fundamental claim the Church presents in Her arguments on morality are that God has given us guardrails that protect us from harm, guideposts that keep us on the path of holiness. Which sounds great you are looking for Sainthood, but doesn't necessarily say anything about the joy that is meant to come with a virtuous life. After all, a life of holiness should in some way reflect the excitement and joy that we will experience for eternity in Heaven.

So is the Church really insisting that life should be boring when declaring certain sensual pleasures as evil? 

Underneath that question is the same question provided by the serpent in the Garden - God is holding out on us. He wants us to be automatons and slaves, doing what we are told; we should fear stepping out of line because of the punishments that await us should we fail, which we all do.

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I think one of the fundamental questions of the moral life is - are the rules arbitrary? Is something wrong simply because God says it is? If so, can the rules be changeable? Are the rules more like traffic laws - inconvenient and a hindrance? Or, are they more like the laws of physics - the way that things aught to behave when working properly?

When I de-transitioned and became Catholic, I didn't understand exactly what was being offered. All I could see was God this rule - not transitioning - and the reward of heaven if I followed. Which certainly is partially correct, but I think the true challenge is coming to understand that this rule is really about something more basic.

Instead of trying to keep me down, God is trying to show me that I am good, not a mistake that needs fixing.

To be frank I don't like typing those words because I know how they sound. I used to roll my eyes at that phrase - you are not a mistake - because I knew myself, and I knew better, that to be fulfilled and happy I had to change. I can't underscore enough that if you are transgender and reading these words, I understand what you are going through, because I've been there. I know the pain, I know the feeling of disconnect, I know the feeling of loneliness and the ache of needing to do something, anything to survive. It wasn't a superficial desire, it was profound and it needed wrestling. I'm still working on healing and seeing myself right, but I can say the fight is incredibly beautiful and utterly worth it and comes with so much peace.

But I have to still speak that painful truth and say - you are good, you are not a mistake, you are perfect and beautiful and a gift, and I hope you learn to see yourself in that light.

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I've been re-reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy the past couple months, which is a distinctly Catholic book, full of symbols and images that reflect Tolkien's Catholic imagination. I bring this up because the One Ring is presented as a symbol of that which tempts each of us to sin. It's a powerful image that demonstrates the Catholic understanding of the harm that sin does to the human person - it twists and distorts us, making us less human, shrinking us from a Smeagol to a Gollum.

I bring this up because Bilbo's confrontation with Gandalf serves as a reminder of God's promise to us. What God offers us is flourishing, and a way out of the deadly cycle of holding onto things that end up harming us. As a first step however, we must come to trust Him. We have to understand that He wants what is best for us, that He is not like the cruel, jealous gods of all the old myths.

I think this takes decades of healing: both of our distorted view of our Creator, and of ourselves. We need to understand that a relationship with God is what we need, above all else. We need to understand that if He is asking us to let go of something, He promises that we don't need it to be satisfied. Not that it will be easy, but that it will lead to our glory and our thriving.

[1] "Only the Good Die Young", which is a fantastic song other than the message.

Pierced Sides - Lent Journal (4/40)

I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh. (Ezekiel 36:26)

I know one of the cultural buzzwords is "vulnerability", but nothing is new under the sun, and I suspect the importance of weakness cannot be overstated. I think it is telling that new life comes from the side of Adam. While divine revelation doesn't specify [1], in light of the rest of scripture I have to imagine God gave Adam the choice to freely offer his side - rather than it being compelled or forced on him. This offering of his side led to Eve, which is to say it led to union.

In contrast, one of the first acts of Adam and Eve after the fall was to hide and cover themselves. Once their eyes had been clouded by original sin, the world felt unsafe and everyone - even God and lover - seemed more foe than friend. They feared judgment, punishment, rejection, cruelty, and death.

As do we.

We seek protection and walls because they make us feel secure. We seek control because we don't trust that our needs will be met. We close ourselves off because the alternative is to risk heartbreak. We isolate and insist on our need to stand on our own because what if we fall and nobody is there?

In the process, our hearts become stone.

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When we look at Jesus - especially the Crucifixion - protection, control, and security are not the words that come to mind. Instead, we see a fulfillment of Adam's offering for the sake of his bride. Just as Adam freely exposes himself, so does Christ. Just as Adam's bride is birthed in the process, so is Jesus's Bride - the Church and her Sacramental life.

Jesus demonstrates his total love and devotion to us by His blood being poured out on "the marriage bed of the Cross" [2], and His side being pierced all the way to His Sacred Heart. From this total vulnerability and weakness, flows grace - God's Divine Life - enough to bring life to the whole world.

After the Resurrection, Christ still bears those wounds and shows them to Thomas. He refuses to hide them even after they have been redeemed.

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In the book of Ezekiel, we receive an image of God promising to "remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh". What a breathtakingly beautiful promise - being able to love properly and perfectly!

Here's the catch - I suspect the Jesus's image on the Cross, and especially the spear piercing His side, demonstrate the route of access ... and it's not pleasant. To reach our hearts, we need our own sides to be pierced (metaphorically and spiritually, that is). We need to offer Him the tender, fleshy spots immediately below our ribcage that pain and trauma tell us must always be protected and hidden, no matter what.

To receive the promise, we need to freely offer our own sides to God. We need to be vulnerable and exposed before Him. We're talking ugly, painul, raw, bloody vulnerability - it's not pretty, but Christ has demonstrated that it leads to life. He isn't going to force Himself on us, He loves us too much for that. Instead, He will wait as we continue to strip the layers of defense [3] that keep us safe - but also keep us from growing in holiness and in capacity to love.

What life will grow from the wounds in your own life when you offer them to God?

[1] Personally I am firmly in the camp that reads the creation stories as myth rather than a literal historical lesson; but that doesn't prevent us from speculating about what these characters would have done, and how God would have interacted with them.

[2] Saint Augustine described the Crucifixion this way back in the 4th Century, though it was already understood that way by Saint John in his Gospel. I can't recommend enough reading Brant Pitre's Jesus the Bridegroom: The Greatest Love Story Ever Told.

[3] I'm being cautious with how I describe this. My instinct is to compare stripping layers of defense to stripping layers of clothing, but I worry that would be a painful or triggering image for anyone who has experienced abuse. If it is, I am so sorry and believe me that Our Lord is much too loving and kind to ask that you relive those memories.

On Taking up Space - Lent Journal (3/40)

(I'm running on about 3 hours of sleep from last night's overnight volunteering, so this may be brief / rambling / confused)

Last night we had an incident at the shelter - I'm not getting into the details, but one of the residents ("Bert"*) required medical attention. His friend ("John"*) was especially worried, and asked us to call an ambulance. Everyone is fine, no troubles, and I'm glad we were cautious enough to ask for help. Even more, I'm glad John* told us and asked that we call 911, because we couldn't have handled the situation ourselves.

In any case - John decided to ride to the hospital for support and out of concern. As we were waiting for Bert to be buckled in, John kept telling me - "I'm so sorry for this". I tried to comfort him and reminded him he was doing the right thing, and he had done a good thing by telling us and insisting on caring for his friend.

I've only had the opportunity to really meet John twice in the past, so I know some of his story. The biggest thing I've noticed is he keeps to himself, and doesn't speak up or ask for anything. He's got a good and beautiful heart though - moved in with his parents when they got sick, and cared for them until they both passed.

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I don't exactly know how to segue here, so let me just say - I know all about that apology he offered: the one that says he doesn't think he deserves to take up space. The apology that suggests it is an act of charity even to be tolerated. The apology that comes from a place of pain and trauma, where making noise is met with hostility and rejection.

I also know he's not alone in thinking he isn't good enough. That he needs to earn love. That he doesn't deserve to be cared for.

The world is full of John's silently crying out for love. They carry their wounds around, wounds that they may never show to anyone because they don't think they are worthy of sacrifice and healing.

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Dear John ... you don't have to apologize for existing. You are not in the way. It is good that you are here, and I hope you find people who will affirm that fact. I would be glad to say it to you, to let you see that you are more than worthy of any and every act of kindness, small or great.

You were brought to life for a purpose, and you don't have to shrink. You have physical, emotional, and spiritual needs, and you also have the capacity to meet those needs for others - which is to say, we belong to each other.

My prayer for you tonight is that you sees your worth - that you deserves to occupy the space you inhabits, that you make the world more beautiful simply by existing. I pray also that you will remind those you meet of that truth.

* Not real names

On Integration and Detangling - Lent Journal (2/40)

(Preface: much of this I wrote last year in April, but never posted because I wasn't sure what the plan was. I still only have a vague notion of the plan, but that shouldn't stop me from sharing good news)

The year or so before my attempted transition, I was so certain I really had figured out my identity - one I had been hiding and suppressing for years.

I was completely ready to transition, to become Sarah, to push through a few years of awkwardness, and "become myself" (that's certainly the language I would have used at the time, at any rate). The 18 months I was living that reality, I really did experience such a sense of freedom.

When you've been holding your breath, any opportunity to exhale feels like relief.

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I think that certainty made my return to being Scott such a struggle. I was going to be faithful to God's call - to sacrifice and offer myself - but I was so certain it would only be a sacrifice. That life would just be painful, just the cross, just looking forward to eternity.

I had been clinging to the past with the certainty that there were only two possible ways for my life to go:

• Live my former life, as Scott - the life I hated, which was quiet, empty, and based so heavily in my job
• Life the life that could not be, as Sarah - the life I found fulfilling, beautiful, and full of life

That's the thing about grief, isn't it? The Enemy is prepared to pounce on any sign of pain, declaring quite plainly that God doesn't have our best interests in mind, that our own plans were better, and if He has called us to something else there's no way it will be as life-giving as what we are leaving behind.

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I was praying in front of the Blessed Sacrament last year, presenting the two options, when Our Lord stopped me. Who said I'm calling you to live as you were? Who told you I want you to just survive? Don't you realize I've called you to something so much richer and beautiful?

I think it's time I admit - I have no idea where Our Lord is calling me. But it's also time I admit - I trust that it will be beautiful, and will exceed my own previous plans.

In light of that revelation, and discussions with my psychologist, I've been trying to live a more fully-integrated life. Because on the one hand, I am a man and it is not just a rule for me to accept, but is in fact something I can see as good and worthy of gratitude, part of  how God desires to make me a saint. But on the other, there was a lot of truth and goodness to how I was living my life as Sarah - gifts worth carrying forward that are part of how God has made me.

What does that look like? Honestly, still trying to figure that out. Embracing the gifts without bringing along the identity is an adventure, one that involves detangling personality from identity. And a lot of questioning why do I really desire or want to desire this - because I enjoy it, or because I have internalized the false stereotype that "women enjoy this"? If the former, I am free to embrace it; if the latter, I need to be more cautious and question my motives, and whether it will really be good for me.

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I need to head downtown to the shelter, so that's all for tonight. God is good, and he cares for me far better than I deserve - but He says I'm worth loving and dying for, and so are you. I pray that you see yourselves in light of that truth - just how truly good and loved you are - and that you see others through that lens as well.

On incomplete goals - Lent Journal (1/40)

When I was growing up I had the hardest time writing papers - I could never get past the first sentence. My Mom will attest that I would sit with a blank sheet of paper for hours, trying to find words for the perfect first words (I still deal with this; I've rewritten this paragraph a dozen times already). Beyond that, I could come up with hundreds of examples from my life of projects and half-formed plans that have been left incomplete.

I've found that my tendency is to want to do something perfectly, realize it won't be, and therefore stop myself because I anything short of that goal is going to be a failure.

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All this to say, that seems to have been the case with this blog as well. My hope had been that I could in some way help people see or understand just how deeply God loves them and what He offers us, but what I have to say pales in comparison with all that has already been said in the history of the Church.

Especially in this format, my challenge is that I can see the words and constantly go back and criticize myself for not sounding differently; for not being worth reading; for being a baby Catholic (though I think by now I'm more of a toddler) and therefore not having thoughts to offer.

On the other hand ... something I frequently tell others (in the context of singing and praying) is that God gave them their voices and delights in them. It seems to me that applies to the written word as well, and I'd like to give this another shot - both because I do have a desire to share my heart (and, God willing, His heart), but also because I want to actually complete something.

Lent seems as good a time as any to take this on. My thinking at the moment is to write / journal / blog daily until Easter, though even as I finish this I'm having doubts if this should instead be an opportunity for a personal prayer journal instead of something public, and if this will be a waste of time (Saint Ignatius's rules for spiritual discernment tell me that is an evil spirit attempting to discourage me).

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On that note, it is currently 10:30pm on Ash Wednesday and it's been a long but beautiful day. Tomorrow night I'll be volunteering overnight at the homeless shelter, which I'm so looking forward too, but I'm also looking forward to catching up on sleep this weekend. I love you all, and I hope you have a holy and healing season of Lent.

Clinging to the Cross in the Dark

For to me life is Christ, and death is gain. If I go on living in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me. And I do not know which I shall choose. I am caught between the two. I long to depart this life and be with Christ, [for] that is far better. Yet that I remain [in] the flesh is more necessary for your benefit. (Philippians 1:21-24)

I think there is a very fine line between hopeful anticipation of the next life, and a desperate seeking to depart from this world.

If I'm going to be totally honest - I'm in a lot of pain right now. This week my dysphoria was especially heavy - brought on by pushing myself harder than I perhaps should have at the Easter Vigil by getting extra dressed-up and wearing a tie. It cost me a lot of peace, and I've been in a bad place all week long. Friday morning it got to the point that I had an anxiety attack thinking about getting dressed for work, and sat crying on the floor in my room wrapped in a towel after my shower. I had to reach out to a few dear friends for extra support and prayers to get through it.

And, since we're being totally honest - this is actually two Easters in a row I've had a breakdown after the Vigil. My great fear at the moment is that this is my future - pain and anxiety on days that should be so full of life and joy.

I've taken to marking out the sign of the cross on my palms with my fingers whenever I'm tempted to hate my own cross - as a reminder of what He did for me, and what He is worth in return. Brother Isaiah is seeing me through my struggles. One day, perhaps - by God's grace - I will actually rejoice in my sufferings because of what He is doing with them.

Today is not that day.

You know, it's funny - in the meantime, I am still totally excited for the newly baptized and confirmed members of the Body of Christ, and it is such a joy to remind others about God's love for them. It is such a gift to parent my son and lead him to authentic faith in Our Lord, and I am praying so hard for the day that he receives the sacraments - please, Lord!

So here's where I am - aching for a past I can't get away from and yet must leave behind. It's been 28 months now since I de-transitioned, and 24 months since I was confirmed Catholic. It's been beautiful and life-transforming, but also painful and full of darkness. Still so many unanswered questions.

I am, above all else, so looking forward to the day I get to rest in Christ's tender embrace. I've felt him hold me only once before, but the way my dear Lover held my hand and let me lie on him was so sweet and beautiful that I want more than anything to be back there again. I want to hear his voice and listen to his loving words as he tells me how glad he is that I pursued him.

I just hope I make it to that day.

To Be Seen, Known, and Loved

One of the great fears I hear from the transgender community (and the wider LGBTQ community, though I can mostly only speak to my own experience) - when it comes to the Church - is that there is no safe space to talk about their experiences; that there is not a wider community to talk through feelings, to be understood and known. There is an understandable fear that you are just supposed to "carry your cross", and keep your mouth shut while bearing it.

A big part of this fear comes from our experiences during much of our lives; when we found rejection and shame in living even any small part of our experiences openly. We discovered that we lost people when we were vulnerable, so we adjusted.

We hid - which is a tragedy of enormous proportions. As I said before, you are a gift - and the whole world missed out on your goodness while you remained hidden.

Now, I know that none of these experiences of rejection, fear, and hiding are at all unique to those who have experiences on the LGBTQ spectrum - but the stigma has historically been such that even the "being" was enough to be shameful, even without any "doing".

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A few weeks back I went to the inaugural retreat hosted by Eden Invitation, a relatively new Catholic ministry whose tagline is "original personhood beyond the LGBT+ paradigm". The title of the retreat was "Come Out of Hiding" (which, as I explained above, is appropriate).

Anyone who has any experience with Christian LGBT ministries knows they have a tendency to move toward one of two extremes - either "you need to be changed" (more commonly known as "conversion therapy"), or "everything is fine". To put it bluntly - neither of these attitudes is particularly helpful for anyone struggling to live faithfully according to the teachings of the Church.

Which is why this specific ministry is so important - being grounded in Saint John Paul II's Theology of the Body, the founders are quite uninterested in changing desires, but are instead focused on the hard work of reminding people of their original goodness, their capacity to love, the need for intimacy, inherent dignity, and the universal call to holiness.

To be totally transparent, I was the only one there who experienced gender dysphoria (everyone else was on the LGB side of the alphabet). That being said, asking around everyone else was looking for the same thing as me - to know they weren't alone, and to be understood and loved exactly as they are. Speakers talked about authentic friendships; how and why to "come out" and explain your experiences; about the need to recognize yourself as gift; reaching out and asking for support; that God is working in and through every single area in your life.

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I understand the fear of those who think the Church wants people to remain in the closet. When the closet is all you've known - when you've known the relief of being "out", of being able to be truly vulnerable and unafraid in your existence - these poles are so distant and yet it's hard to imagine there is anything in between. Either it's wrong and sinful and you should bury it away, or it's good and beautiful and you should totally embrace it.

Or maybe it's both and we're just like everyone else? Maybe the broken areas in our lives are also the ones that God makes beautiful? As Christians, we say the Cross is to be embraced, because it a gift - the means by which we become saints. That doesn't make it any less ugly, vulgar, and painful to go through - but God has walked that road to death and called it the way to life eternal.

As it turns out, everyone has a closet - something they fear letting out into the light. The most painful part of the closet is the silence and darkness. But we aren't meant to remain there - we are children of light. That fear doesn't come from God, who loved us before we were conceived - who Loved us into existence - and knows every past and future moment of our lives.

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We all need support in walking this broken path called life. There's no possible way I could make it without reaching out for help. There are too many "bad days" for me to even attempt to carry my dysphoria myself - and the Church is not asking me to do so.

We all desire unconditional love, and we should - that is what we are called to receive, and give in return.

We all wish be seen as beautiful, and we should - that is how we are called to be known, and have eyes to see in return.

You are not alone.