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. 

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.

Hope in History

"Hey! Can you come over here and tell us a story?" a man yelled to me from a small distance, waving his paper flags in the air. "We can't leave this area."

"Can't you come over to me when you are finished inside?" I replied.

"It will be raining then. Please," he begged.

Seeing as it was slow, and drizzly, and he had nine people with him, and he clearly very much wanted to hear a story, I walked over and obliged. "Just someone keep an eye on my things," I told them, and they assured me they would and cheered at my accommodation. I made some remark about the barrier between us, and he responded "we're always behind barriers these days," at which we all - the four adults in the group and I - shared a laugh and a "well played." They were a Latino family, you see. The joke was fitting, if a little too real.

Holy Leisure, Batman

4,056 miles. Thirteen gallons of gas between stops. A dozen donuts. Ten states. Six museums. Four Catholic masses. Three barbecue joints. Two beaches. Two state parks. One wedding. One Mississippi River. One broken windshield.

As we traversed the Mississippi Delta and the Atlantic coast, Cerise and I walked in the footsteps of the enslaved and the assassinated, of the Big O and the King; we sang to the tune of Yebba and Abba, to drumbeats and a tambourine; we skipped meals and skipped rocks; we wandered through parks; we smelled jasmine and magnolia and meats smoking on a fire; we skirted around roadkill and planned Cerise's death on a pyre. From the Tennessee mountains to bad margaritas in Mississippi, from the poboys and drunk boys of New Orleans to the pork rinds and early nights of Birmingham, from the sands of Florida to the Glass Doctors of Wilmington, from quiet Shenandoah nights to shouting at a T-ball game under the lights, from wishing love to the bride and bride-to-be to wishing we didn't have to go back home at all.