get to heaven

I have from time to time thought about deleting this goal because it will never, in this life time, be accomplished. But I reread for the first time my entry about the parish retreat. And about my spiritual struggles. I am reminded that this entry will be in my heart long after this website is defunct. It stays, and it stays #1.

I don’t know if it will help me get to heaven, but I said no when I wanted to say yes, yes, yes. It was a very gentle no, not incredibly firm. But God knows my heart better than I do.

I said no.

Tonight, as has been tradition, we went to the Easter vigil at St. Anne’s. My mind wandered to forbidden places for most of the mass. What struck me was during the baptism, the part where everyone renews their baptism promises. Do you refuse to be mastered by evil. Do you reject the glamour of evil. It’s something to think about.

I write the least about this entry although it is the all-pervasive goal that I think about constantly.

Back in December I went to the parish retreat, run by a bunch of out-there looking Franciscans. Catholic Hari Krishna’s. Young. Garbed in gray sacks. Carrying their blankets. All of them in sandals. The men all had beards. Although I know objectively that its not true, they gave the impression of being dirty, and kind of scary. Determined to get past outward appearances, I stayed. I attended three of the four evenings. On Monday I listened to one of them talking about how messed up he was until he became a brother. Then the priest got up and gave a similarly long talk. There was nothing there for me except the feeling that I wanted to come back.

The second night one of the sisters, a very young woman who was not a good speaker, talked about how she was the model student throughout college. She got along with her family, did activities, was a great student, and had everything. But she felt empty. She got involved with the Franciscans and asked herself if Jesus was enough for her. Could she give up all the busyness of life, and just let Jesus be enough for her? Obviously, her answer was yes. So I asked myself the same question. I examined what I thought I wanted most, the one thing I can not have because it is prohibited by society and God. And I asked myself if giving up that want in exchange for wanting God more, would be possible. And the conclusion I came to is that no matter what else or who else I am running after, I want God more. God doesn’t want me to don a gray robe and a pair of sandals. But he does want me to prioritize and put him on the top of the list. And I can willingly do that.

Then it was time for confession. I waited on line a long time because I wanted the more private setting of the chapel, as opposed to the side aisles, the front aisle, or behind the altar. I also wanted one of the friars, as opposed to Fr. Cronin. With what I had to confess, it was better to go to someone I’d never see again. Or, as it turns out, forget. When I FINALLY got in there, I saw a very tall, very big man with a really long bushy beard, and a toothpick dangling in the corner of his mouth. Bizarre would not be an exaggeration. Let me digress. For years I’d been toying with the idea of going to confession. But I don’t quite believe in it. I don’t really believe that I Catholic priest can absolve sins. I don’t know that the whole process has anything to do with God. And I avoided my particular topic because I don’t think I felt any real remorse. More like foreboding. Don’t do this. The penalty is too high. Because, aside from the penalty, the prospect of losing everything, previous commitments written in virtual blood, and my understanding of the concept of covenant, and my understanding of God’s idea of a social security system, and the fact that I do desire God above all else, the act in itself, I still desire. I always have. Maybe I always will. And the strength of it is incredible. But my desire for God is stronger, and more durable. Still, I feel no shame, no remorse. Just an even more overriding desire. Although I don’t quite believe in confession, I don’t strongly disbelieve it. And through all that ambivalence, I respect the sacrament. But I wonder if using it more me shows a lack of faith in God. I still don’t have these answers. But at that moment, when confessions started, after all those years of indecision, I knew in my heart that I was being led to this place in this moment and that I was supposed to go to confession. So I went.

“You’re a good girl, mama.”
That was his response. He also said that it takes some time to turn the ship around. While I had already started turning it, four months later I am still struggling daily to make course corrections. When I think I want to go backwards, I remember that I’m good. “You’re a good girl, mama.” Such odd words from such an odd man. Ambiguous words that shot into my soul and stayed. And encouraged. He commended me for understanding how damaging my behavior was becoming. He said many don’t see the error of their ways until they get beat up and “bloodied”. And that was enough warning for me.

I don’t know when I will go to confession again. Next month? Never? But I had a sudden strong sense of going at that point and I was given strenth and guidance.

The third night featured more talks that I really can’t remember. But I still felt compelled to stay. The priest processed through the church with the Eucharist. Then the lights were dimmed and one of the brothers played a soft guitar song. We were invited to kneel on the altar and touch the thing that holds the eucharist or the robe he holds it with. It took a long time. My knees hurt, so I kneeled back, more sitting that kneeling. And I didn’t know why I was there. I never completely believed that God was present in the host. I know the belief. I can express the belief. But I never owned, not totally, this belief. I was mostly thinking how uncomfortable I was. I was looking at the others around me, wondering if I was the only questioner at the altar. Seriously wondering why, as an unbeliever, I was painfully shifting my knees in the dark waiting to touch a piece of cloth. What am I doing here with these people? I was wondering what to pray when it got to me. I was rehearsing in my head. But when it came to me, my mind was stilled. No, I was overwhelmed with stillness and the presence of God. I don’t know what I thought or prayed. But I knew it those few seconds that I was in the presence of God. Then I left. I never told anyone. I never wrote about it.

For four months I continued going to mass. The doubts returned about the true nature of communion. I still received every week, as I undoubtedly still will in the future. But last night was Holy Thursday. It was a nice mass. I tried to brush off the aggravation of being surrounded by the toddlers whom I wished would shut up. I was, as usual, annoyed by the very holy mannerisms of the deacon. And the fact that Sly spent a good deal of time talking about himself. But that is a conflict within myself. Sly is an idealist. Like me. I hide it so I don’t sound like him. At least some of the negativity I’ve felt towards him has been his sanctimonious idealism. I can be a sanctimonious idealist too. What I don’t like about him is the part of me I see in him. He also projects a sense of seeing right and wrong, black and white, while the older I get, the more shades of gray I see. More to the point, it was a nice mass, but I was not centered. At the end, as I was headed to the chapel to kneel in front of the sacrament, I was wondering why most people were just heading out the door. I stood in the back of the chapel wondering where I should be. It was kind of confusing. I had no pious thoughts running through me. Just logistics and minor irritation. Then I found a spot and knelt down. And there it was. I tooked at the tabernacle and there was the overwhelming feeling of God just like those two nights of the retreat. Then I left. And everything was normal. But when I start thinking that maybe God isn’t real, when I start thinking that maybe religion really is just a way to keep people in line, I can remember the feeling of God and know that I didn’t just make it up. God is real and my targeted destination.

I went to confession tonight. It was the right time, place, and circumstance. Afterwards, kneeling in prayer, I felt the presence of God.

After reading the Bible again, and speaking often to Frank, who’s opinion I respect and come close to trusting, I have learned that reliance on the Bible is not enough to learn about God. I have to rely on God to give me wisdom. I have to study a whole lot more and be ready to apply what I learn to life. I have to go back to the days when I knew in my heart to keep my eye on the prize, eternal life, and put nothing, and no one, in the way of that all important goal. As I get older, and want something personal – romance, adventure, knowledge – it is hard to discern what is just being human, as God expects, and what is following distracting or deleterious pursuits.

I read the Bible this morning, but I didn’t take time to pray. I did think about my relationship with God. I’m the type who God will look at the wrong way and I’ll back right down.

This is my single focus. It is my ultimate goal. Everything, everything else in life must be dependent on this. Each and every choice I make must have God as its paramount criteria and nothing can be allowed to thwart this goal.