My Literature of Accompaniment

On September 23, 2015, I scrawled in my journal: 

Books completed so far since moving: 

1. H is for Hawk 

2. This Year in Jerusalem 

3. After Many Days

And since then, I have not stopped counting. I know people who read far more than I do, and others who read far less. But as the pandemic has given me more time to do one of the things I love most - disappear into a good story - I realized I was near a whole number and set myself a goal: 60 books by the end of August, my Philadelphia residency anniversary. Sixty books in five years would average a book a month, which, in my humble opinion, is awfully respectable. Seven books and over 28,000 cases of COVID-19 later, I reached my goal a month early. 

Catholic Complicity

As we stood in the midst of a memorial listing every name of every enslaved child who died at Whitney Plantation, I was awestruck. “How do we know their names?” someone asked our guide. “Baptismal records,” she answered. In Catholic Louisiana, every enslaved child had to be baptized, and so every child had a documented name. Beyond that, not much more information was known, just life and death. My mind was racing. How could the church have recognized humanity enough to save a soul, but not enough to save the body? How could they let this happen? The complicity of Catholicism in the institution and perpetuation of slavery had never occurred to me. I was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion, anger, and bitter disappointment. 

Owning Whiteness and Ousting Racism

Philadelphia has been rioting for four consecutive days in the wake of the murder of George Floyd, a black man pinned down by a white police officer in Minnesota. The streets are full of protesters, looters, shattered glass, boiling anger, and fragile hope. The sound of sirens and helicopters has become our lullaby. People are tired, frightened, nervous, righteous, fed up, grieving, and demanding justice. Black Lives Matter. 

Meanwhile, the Catholic Church just celebrated the feast of Pentecost on Sunday: the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the apostles, the birthday of the church. Pope Francis articulated in his homily that the apostles “were all different. Jesus did not change them; he did not make them into a set of pre-packaged models. He left their differences and now he unites them by anointing them with the Holy Spirit.” What if we applied this to our country? We are all different; what unites us? How do we use our differences for good? How do we treat those differences as good, not as a basis for injustice?

A Socially Distant Lent

Closed on Sunday.

Yes, the title of a song on Kanye's latest album Jesus is King, but also the condition of every church here in Philadelphia and beyond. Despite many churches like my own already being pros at social distancing, with several pews between us at all times and only a wave at the sign of peace, their doors are closed and barred, for where ten or more are gathered, there coronavirus is with them. For the last four and a half weeks, Catholics have been in the season of Lent. How can we go on with our fasting, prayer, and almsgiving when the world is falling apart and we have no church to support us? Jesus did say, "Can the wedding guests mourn as long as the bridegroom is with them? The days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast" (Matthew 9:15).  Well, here we are, our bridegroom - Christ in the Eucharist - has been taken away from us. While we should mourn, we should also recognize this opportunity to dive deeper into Lent; to reconcile exactly what it means to be without, so that we can truly rejoice when we are with Him, and each other, again.

Cleaning Out the Cobwebs of the Heart

I thrive on organizing and attending to my home. I spent Ash Wednesday fasting and deep cleaning my house, transitioning seasonal decorations and fine-tuning organizational systems that had been failing for six months. I spent Good Friday fasting and rearranging my furniture, shifting bookshelves and side tables and lamps and plants until I finally could look around and feel satisfied, and more importantly, undistracted. Easter brought springtime, and springtime brought a change of clothes in my dresser, and an opportunity to change how I folded them. While I won’t make this an advertisement for Marie Kondo, I will say seeing neatly folded and clearly visible shirts, pants, and sundry items begins and ends each day with peace instead of chaos. Oh, and I bought a vacuum, and filled it up instantly with months worth of hair and dirt. I always thought vacuums were for wedding registries, and thus have always bummed off my roommates’ instead of buying my own. I can’t even convey the empowerment and thrill I feel every time I use it; that the time to get clean and have a clean home is now, not later. 

For the last year, I’ve been trying to extend the same fervor of neat attention to my habits and behaviors, and mostly, to my heart. I have dusted off cobwebs and struggled with stains. It’s the hardest cleaning job I’ve ever had to do, and it never seems to be complete.

A Few Good Men

I have been extraordinarily blessed to hold good men as some of my dearest and oldest friends. Some have been like brothers; others my betrothed; others my stage lovers. We have camped and carpooled together, laughed and cried, karaoked and improvised. They have guided me through break ups, buoyed me through unemployment, clapped for me at performances, paid for me when it meant the most, given me their bed to sleep in, confided in me with news and fears, called me in times of crisis, showered me with thoughtful gifts, inspired me with their faith, cooked their first egg with me. When the world claims “men and women can’t be friends,” I have years of evidence to the contrary. I have Max's uproarious laughter; David B.'s reliability; Justin's creativity; and Paul's generosity, just to start. Frankly, I don’t know who or where I would be without these men in my life, but recently, I lost one.

A World Without

Imagine, if you can, a world without church bells. No quiet evening strolls interrupted by the toll of the time. No deceased loved ones sent out of this earth with musical accompaniment. No noon song that draws out a hum as you go about your business.

Imagine a world without churches. No steeples dotting the mountainside, rising up out of the hills. No stained glass windows or mosaic archways or painted frescos. No grand feats of masonry and carpentry. No structure that brings our eyes and minds higher than our own achievements.

Imagine a world without gospel music. That would mean no soul, no blues, no country, no rock-n-roll, no R&B, no jazz. No Elvis Presley or Dolly Parton. No Otis Redding or Luke Bryan. No Beyonce.