the72: Jason Kippenbrock - Great Patience and Great Love

Hope does not disappoint,
because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts
through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.
For Christ, while we were still helpless,
died at the appointed time for the ungodly.
Indeed, only with difficulty does one die for a just person,
though perhaps for a good person
one might even find courage to die.
But God proves his love for us
in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us.
--Romans 5:5-8

My life is pretty boring right now. As a first year medical student, I mostly study, put off studying, sit through lectures, eat, sleep, and try to motivate myself to study more. I’m currently up to my neck in fatty acid biosynthesis and amino acid degradation (and to all you non-medical-type folks out there, it’s just as fun as it sounds).

In my experience thus far, one of the greatest challenges of medical school is to venture outside of my own world. It’s kind of easy to fall into the trap of self-importance, given the emphasis on grades and competition amongst my peers. Honestly, if I’m not looking at the big picture, life can be very miserable.

Through the drudgery of studying day in and day out, I have to constantly remind myself that whatever I can learn now will help to make me a better physician in the future. Really, it’s for the well-being of my future patients. So even though I haven’t been going to daily mass as much as I’d like, I think that I can be a good, practical Catholic right now by being diligent in my studies.

There are significant tensions between my Catholic faith and medicine today which will continue to challenge my profession in the future. Examples include abortion, physician-assisted suicide, embryonic stem-cell therapies, and in vitro fertilization, to name a few. However, I think that there is a more subtle and common challenge facing me and others in the field of medicine: actually caring about the sick people we care for.

Let me shed some light on this issue. In the year after graduating from Notre Dame and while applying to medical school, I worked as an emergency department scribe at St. Joseph Regional Medical Center in Mishawaka, Indiana.

In a nutshell, my job was to follow the doctor around the ER as he/she saw patients, and using my computer on wheels (aka “COW”), I would type out the patients’ charts, including patient histories, physical exam findings, medical decision making, lab results, and diagnoses. It was a great learning experience for me, and it helped to solidify my desire to become a doctor.

However, at every shift, I was also exposed to the not-so-pretty side of medicine. By that, I mostly mean the patients. Bear with me through these non-fictional scenarios:

Example A: 24 yr old male presents to the emergency department (ED) with complaint of dental pain for the past week, worsening last night. On oral examination, his teeth are literally rotting away due to widespread cavities. He states that he doesn’t have enough money to go to the dentist… but he DOES have enough money to smoke a pack of cigarettes every day, which does not contribute to oral health. (For the record, smoking makes everything worse.) 

Example B: 35 yr old male presents to the ED with complaint of back pain for the past couple months, worsening this week. He has difficulty getting up from his bed and couch because of the intense pain. He does not remember any specific injury or accident that caused the pain… but he is 480 lbs. He is very much offended when the doctor suggests that losing weight would help solve the problem. 

Example C: 26 yr old female presents to the ED with complaint of pain in bilateral cheeks… after voluntarily having both of sides of her face pierced one month ago. She has not taken out her “cheek studs” since that time, and the piercings have become infected, since they extend into the oral cavity. Skin and pus have begun to engulf the studs, so the doctor will have to use a scalpel to dig them out.

Really, God? I know You said, “Love one another as I have loved you,” but did You really mean these people, too?  Personally, I think that it sounds pretty reasonable to feed the hungry, give to the poor, and care for the sick. What I have difficulty with is finding the motivation to care about people who make really stupid decisions.

That’s bad, and unfortunately I’m not alone in this either. Although the ER physicians and nurses who I worked with were great overall, nearly everyone seemed jaded in one way or another. Patient incompetence was just a part of the daily conversation.

I sometimes feel like the Pharisee in Luke’s Gospel who thanks God that he’s not “like the rest of humanity,” even like the tax collector (Luke 18:9-14).  This in turn makes me feel awful about myself. How am I supposed to love others perfectly when, because of my sinful nature, I judge people based on how I see them, and not how God sees them?

A helpful and necessary realization is that I make really stupid decisions. Maybe I’ve been fortunate enough to be born to and raised by parents with common sense (who passed it on), but I’m no less human than any other person I encounter. I am definitely a sinner, and I’ve hurt myself and other people in really stupid ways. Also, the older I get, the more I realize that I’m really not that smart in the first place. (And my med school classmates remind me of this daily.)

Also important: God doesn’t ask me to understand why people make the decisions they do. His command is simpler: He asks me to love others as Christ loved us. I am reminded of a fantastic quote by Thomas Merton: "Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy. That is not our business and, in fact, it is nobody’s business. What we are asked to do is to love, and this love itself will render both ourselves and our neighbors worthy.”

As an antidote to my own sinfulness, I have personally tried to be more like the tax collector in Luke’s Gospel and incorporate the Jesus Prayer throughout my day: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!” It’s a vital reminder of just how much I need God’s saving grace. Additionally, I like to think of that prayer as a dual acting remedy; it’s a gift which helps to cure both pride and despair.

So how can I realistically care for challenging patients like those mentioned above? I think it requires great patience and great love. Maybe the smoker will actually be motivated to quit if he knows that I really do care about his health, so I can spend a few minutes talking with him about a patient-specific smoking cessation strategy.

But, at the same time, if he’s up to 1.5 packs/day by the next time I see him, I can’t throw in the towel. I may need a quick prayer when the time comes, but I hope that I’ll have the patience and love needed to give him another talk about quitting smoking. Regardless of my success in getting through to him, a loving act in itself is still worth something, both to the patient and to me.

Beyond passing all of my med school classes and surviving residency training, my primary goal is to become a truly caring physician, and to make sure that every single one of my patients benefits from my caring. I cling to Hope, and trust that, despite my sinfulness, the Holy Spirit can work in me and through me to be Christ’s healing presence in this world. In my case, that means being a physician who imitates The Physician.

Jason Kippenbrock graduated from the University of Notre Dame with a BS in Biology. There, he joined the Knights of Columbus, to which he still belongs, worked as a Mentor-in-Faith with Notre Dame Vision, and served as a Resident Assistant in Carroll Hall. After graduating, Jason worked as an ER scribe for a year while applying to medical school. A native of Brownsburg, IN, Jason now lives in South Bend, IN, where he is a first-year medical student at the Indiana University School of Medicine. Jason can be reached at jkippenb@alumni.nd.edu.

the72: Molly Mattingly - Living the Questions

I am a third-generation church musician on my mom’s side and second-generation on my dad’s side. I’m the first to see music ministry as my vocation and career.

I grew up in a church choir. My mom and dad’s ensemble for the 5:00pm Mass at our parish was a close-knit bunch. Members were godparents to each other’s children. Rehearsals happened in our living rooms, as we kids played in the basement. (And our parents were surprised when some of those kids grew up to be music teachers and church musicians. What did they expect?)

I started piano lessons at age 8 with the accompanist for one of the other parish choirs. At 9, I was in my grade school’s choir. By 12, I was accompanying a few songs at the 5:00pm Mass and playing communion reflections at weekly school Masses. By 16, I was playing and singing in my mom and dad’s group, as well as my high school’s choirs, liturgical ensemble, and annual musical revue fundraiser. Music was still just a hobby I enjoyed.

Then, I decided to audition for music schools for college. I thought, “Maybe it is time to focus on this thing that I love doing and have been calling a hobby, and see where it takes me. If I don’t get in, I can study something else I enjoy.” I was accepted to the School of Music at Ithaca College, majored in music education and music theory, and practiced piano a lot.

I got involved with the Ithaca College Catholic Community (ICCC), because at the freshmen welcome Mass they said they needed pianists. People at the ICCC  became some of my best friends. In my first non-Catholic school experience, I learned to be an apologist for my faith without apologizing for having it. My roommates’ open-minded conversations helped us all learn about each other’s faith backgrounds and perspectives, and they are still some of my close friends, too. I was the co-director for music ministry at the ICCC my junior and senior years, and loved it. (Looking back, I realize it’s not a normal parish community when most members of the volunteer choir are majoring in music and can sight-read in parts.)

My senior year, I did my student teaching quarter. I loved teaching. It took all my conscious energy during the week. Then, I would return on Sundays and realize how much I missed those weeknight events at the ICCC. Our Catholic chaplain invited me to the regional National Association of Pastoral Musicians (NPM) convention the summer before and encouraged me apply to the Master of Sacred Music (MSM)program at the University of Notre Dame. I thought, “Maybe it is time to focus on my faith in context with this thing that I love doing, and see where it takes me. If I apply and don’t get in, I’ll take it as a sign that I’m supposed to be a teacher next.” I was accepted to Notre Dame and went straight to grad school, like many who graduated during the 2009 recession.

At Notre Dame, I was challenged and formed and loved in many contexts -- by the MSM students and professors, in classes and at wine-and-cheese parties; Farley Hall, especially the liturgy committee, ensemble members, and hall staff; the Folk Choir, in rehearsals, at liturgies, and on tours; and of course Notre Dame Vision, which has shaped the spirituality and vocational vocabulary of nearly everyone who writes for the72.

I learned to be confident in publicly claiming my faith, albeit in a place where being Catholic was very popular. The first thing I heard about upon coming to campus was this brand new post-graduate volunteer program having to do with liturgy, music, and catechesis in Wexford, Ireland. (Many good things happened in those two years at Notre Dame, but I’ll just skip to the end...) I visited the first community over my spring break, and applied the next year. I thought, “I have moved far away from home before, and it was hard. Maybe it is time to take a risk in going very far, serving this community in Ireland in a way I seem particularly well suited to serve, and see where it takes me.” This turned out to be a very good decision.

I spent two years in Teach Bhríde, and love, love, loved it. I loved my volunteer communities both years. I loved the parish community and the school communities. I loved the growth I was blessed to see flourish there, in those communities as well as in my own spiritual and professional life. I learned to stop in for tea and a chat, to take time off, and to be present to people and situations around me. As you can probably tell, I still miss it.

At the end of those two years, I applied for jobs back in the States. I thought I would move to Chicago or Denver where I had family and friends, and I would either be a music teacher in a Catholic school or a music director in a parish. When I saw the posting for the Music Director position with Creighton University Campus Ministry and St. John’s Parish, I thought, “That job looks like fun, and a way I can use all my education and training. Why not apply and see where it takes me?” And that was how I came to my current position in Omaha, which is dead center between Chicago and Denver, and between parish and school life. God is very sneaky sometimes. 

So, how do I live my ministry, you ask? I have learned to live it in different ways through my life so far. I really do believe that life is a ministry of presence; that being present to each other in everyday moments is where ministry happens. I live my ministry by living with others, and often music is part of that.

Music ministry is, quite simply, what I do. I would do it whether it was my job or not. I am still learning how best to live my vocation. “Living the questions” is a popular phrase at the Jesuit parish and university where I work. Here are some things I am learning and some questions I am living now.

Living as a single young professional means those everyday moments of presence between friends are less frequent, and they can take effort to coordinate. Even though I was mentally prepared for that coming into the last year, it is still different to learn by living it. The question there is, “How do I maintain my close relationships with family and friends all over the world while still making time for new friendships where I am now? How do I remember my formation while continuing to be formed?”

In the last several months, I have been learning more about what it means to be a young professional single woman in ministry, in a new city. All of those qualities that often benefit me as a minister – welcoming everyone with a smile, gaining trust by trusting, making people feel valued and heard by listening – those qualities do not always benefit me as a single woman in ministry. I’m still working out how high my wall should be with those I minister with and minister to. I have learned that some people are broken, and that my presence cannot be part of their healing precisely because of their brokenness.

I’m living out many questions with this challenge: “Am I supposed to care for this broken person when he is clearly incapable of respecting the clear boundaries I have set? How is the parish supposed to care for him when parish events (my work events) are excuses for him to ignore those boundaries? Is it safe for me to walk alone across the street to my car, or around campus after an evening event? Should I get a protection order against him for my safety? Can I allow myself to be angry at someone who needs help? How much trust is the right amount?” And especially, “Why should I have to ask any of these questions at all? Why can’t I just think about how best to follow Christ and trust others to do the same, especially those in my worshipping community?”

I don’t like having to live those dissonant questions. One difficult realization I have come to is that it cannot always be my job, even as a minister, to care for everyone I see needs help. Even if it’s the kind of help to which my particular gifts seem best suited.

I have always purposely welcomed those who don’t feel they fit in and affirmed their gifts, their worth. A music ministry ensemble can be a perfect community for that: you are part of the group at least for the time you are making music and praying together, regardless of how adept you are at other social situations. The shared ensemble experience is a baseline from which that community grows, through which someone who is otherwise awkward can become confident.

The concept that someone should be excluded from that community because of my presence, that I should purposely be unwelcoming for my own safety in the context of ministry... that concept is strange. I don’t like it. But that’s where I am: still in process, as I learn to live this vocation.

Molly Mattingly graduated from Ithaca College in 2009 with a degree in Music Theory and Music Education. There she was part of the Ithaca College Catholic Community, whose music ministry she co-directed. Molly earned her Masters in Sacred Music from the University of Notre Dame, graduating in 2011. She went on to serve as a lay volunteer in the House of Brigid in Wexford, Ireland, for one year before becoming the House Director for the 2012-13 community. A native of Third Lake, IL, Molly now lives in Omaha, NE, where she is the Director of Music Ministry for Creighton University Campus Ministry and St. John's Parish. You can contact Molly at mary.k.mattingly@gmail.com.

God Shatters Expectations

Starting as Campus Minister at my current high school involved a lot of learning curves. I had to get the practical stuff - how to make copies, what keys work in what doors, where the faculty bathroom is. I had to learn the religious traditions and customs - Food Drive blessing at Thanksgiving Mass, the big Catholic Schools Week Mass with feeder schools, the Living Stations of the Cross prayer service. And then I had to grapple with what I wanted to institute - creating a Student Ministry Team, starting a service-learning immersion, trying to get regular service outreach going, and overhauling retreats.

I am deputized to help our chaplain inaugurate Kairos here (going up to K5 in February). I instituted an overnight senior retreat (did 2 last year, just did the 1st of 3 this year). I evolved my Student Ministry Team into a retreat planning team for spring of last year, and now they're leading the new sophomore overnight retreat. And this year, we hit phase two of ramping up the Freshmen Retreat, most of the way to a full-fledged all-Saturday retreat.

Setting aside for now the growing pains of the administration, scheduling, and organizing of all these events, I had one overarching realization as I began to go on retreats with this student population: their retreat literacy was low.

Whether in small-group, large-group, or other retreat activities, these students could not find the retreat comfort level. They clung stubbornly to the rigidity of the classroom. Discussions had to occur in a cut-and-dry manner: you ask me a question; I supply an answer: you move on to the next student or your next question or point. They struggled with open-form, natural feels. They needed structure to an uncomfortable extent, or else, they couldn't function. The organic, conversationesque flavor of retreat rarely materialized without quickly falling into disorder or running off the rails to tangential distractions.

Frustrating as it could be at times, I understood that their previous experience was so limited that they needed to first be taught the reins. I needed to train small-group leaders in discussion facilitation. I needed to work more closely with speakers on writing emotionally vulnerable but carefully crafted talks. And I needed to be more conscious and intentional about being enthusiastic and proactive in directing large-group sessions.

Luckily, our student population is fairly well-churched. They may not have the best vocabulary. They may not be budding prophets and priests. But they have a positive disposition to church and prayer that is easy to work with.

Over almost a year-and-a-half of being at this helm and directing several retreats, I can see changes starting to come. The quality and quantity of students interested in leadership has increased steadily. Though the structure is still needed, the input students give is getting deeper and more developed. And their reactions to retreats after the fact is stronger, as the students - even if at times dissatisfied or critical of their experiences - are responsive and passionate in their response.

Last week, the first Senior Retreat of this year proved just how far they've come. First and foremost, as we moved through the units of the retreat and confronted integrity, relationships, sexuality, identity, and drugs & alcohol, my small-group did a fabulous job of being open and relevant yet comfortable. They didn't need militant question-and-answer to converse constructively. And the senior facilitators - simply seniors attending the retreat who volunteered to facilitate and met with me for 15 minutes to get a packet of questions and a brief rundown - did a fine job teeing up the topics and affirming others as they shared.

And just when I thought that was the great takeaway, they floored me with their investments into the prayer services.

At the end of night one, we do a Burnt Offering service. Built off the psalmist's prayer that his intentions will rise like incense to the Lord, we conduct an Examen to review our day on retreat and then take time to journal some thoughts and prayers that we need to offer to the Lord. I play some music and invite everyone to come to the altar, where there is a pot on a candlelit table, to drop their prayer in, and then to kneel at the altar and say a prayer.

The candlelit altar with the pot for our offerings.

The altar is right at the step that goes up into the small sanctuary, so I direct them to kneel beside the altar at the step and pray. Maybe I wasn't clear enough or maybe they just had a better idea. The first student who went up placed his sheet in the pot and then walked past the altar, about 10-15 feet further into the sanctuary, approached the tabernacle, and then knelt at the small step before the Lord.

As I asked them to go up no more than two at a time, up went the next student to join the first one. And thus began a pattern of 50 humans praying at the tabernacle. I believe this was no accident. I think that first student - a recent Kairos leader - felt drawn to the tabernacle and opted to make his prayer there. And I believe that while some students simply followed the leader, others consciously chose to emulate that piety. The visual of these students dropping their prayer then approaching the sanctuary to kneel was striking.

Move forward to the end of our second day, a shorter day that ends in the mid-afternoon. We conclude that day, and the retreat, with a Reconciliation Service. After listening to a song together (Friends Again by Martin Sexton) and discussing the lyrics, the mood and tone of the speaker, and the way it helps us think about our own relationships, I invite the students to the sanctuary again (where the pot, now full of burned prayer offerings, remains) to a bowl of water.

I ask them to come up one at a time, dip their hands into the water, and explain something they want to be cleansed of. I wait with a towel to dry the hands of the first person, give them a hug, and then leave them with the towel for the next person. I encourage the students to remain in the sanctuary, after they've washed up and dried off another person's hands, as a sign of support to the others who have yet to come up. I even push the altar back toward the sanctuary to maximize the room up there for everyone to cluster in. Again, they had a better idea.

After a boy came up to get us started and I dried his hands, I headed to the back of the chapel to play some quiet music beneath the ritual. After the second student went up and spoke, the first one dried his hands and hugged this second student like I had done for him. But what followed was different, and arguably better. Rather than form a mushed-up clump behind the water bowl, they arced outward around the water bowl station and amplified the ritual support.

The initial line behind the altar started to grow, as did the ritual.

As the arc of people who had cleansed themselves grew, they created a receiving line of hugs. After someone had washed up, dried off another's hands, and hugged that person, they headed to the edge of the arc and went down the receiving line, where they got a hug from every single person who had gone before them. As the group of 50 went up one-by-one, the profundity of the communal support grew, as the visual became more powerful. It was taking people several minutes to make their way through the line, as they were personally greeted by so many of their peers after laying bare some of their pain.

The receiving line arcs out as the careful, deliberate hugs roll along.

Once the group had finished doing this ritual, the unbroken chain of support clumped up a little as they all pulled each other in for a group embrace during the final reflection song. As I watched these things transpire, I couldn't help but feel like a proud papa, as the Proud Papa above worked such grace-filled love in these budding believers.

The community-wide embrace soaks in the final song.

These teenagers had taken a basic ritual and put their own signature on it, adding in their own layer of support by taking their peers into a loving embrace, moments after they had admitted their weakness. If that's not countercultural, I don't know what is.

And if that's not deep retreat literacy, I don't know what is. Sure, hugs can be a hollow, routinized gesture, but the manner, the flavor, of this series of embraces was different. It felt deliberate. It felt special. It looked as if each person was excited and delighted for every person that came past them in the receiving line. They were relishing this manifestation of God's love and support through themselves and for another.

In a couple profound, clearly visual moments, these seniors demonstrated that they get it. They might not have gotten it as much before, but there were getting it now. Sure, there were times when they exaggerated how tired they were, when they were slow and rude in getting to lights-out, when they took two packets of hot chocolate and didn't leave enough for everyone to get one. But here, they manifested an awareness of God's presence and a desire to actualize it that was so literate.

Earlier on the retreat, a teacher had given the talk on Identity. Talking about his being adopted, about his father's being diagnosed with terminal cancer, and about his marriage being labeled infertile, he walked us through how God shatters expectations by confounding our flimsy labels and moving us to deeper, better, bigger things with His love.

In these instances of growth, God shatters my expectations and shows me a student population with a hunger for Him that is being fed. It makes the heart of their Campus Minister quite warm. And I think our communal ministry is pleasing to God.

the72: Katie Klee - 1 + 1 = 2

My mom was my 6th-8th grade religion teacher. So, when crazy-wild-outrageous middle school weekend plans were made (AKA going to a PG movie, attending St. Joe High School’s football games, hanging out at a friend’s house), it was somewhat common that I would hear comments like, “I bet her mom won’t let her come” or “she probably has to go to church or something” or “she’s too hooooooly to go to that.” After enough of these comments I made the decision that I should either 1) tell my friends how ridiculous and unfair they sounded or 2) never be a religion teacher. EVER. EVERRRRRRRRRRRRRR. Why? Because it ruins the fabulous social lives of your children.

(Do you know where this is going? Shoot. I’ve never been good at the suspense game.)

I always had ambitious career goals: McDonald’s cashier, real estate agent, language translator, Hollywood’s next teen singer/actress (because the world doesn’t have 5 million of those already). I can actually remember seeing a Hilary Duff movie with my mom in 8th grade and being on the verge of telling her afterwards, “Take me to the nearest Hollywood audition studio in South Bend” (do those exist?). I had aspirations, my friends.

As the youngest of 4 kids, my future was never far off as I watched my siblings grow older and dive into various studies and pursuits. While I continued to ponder all of my extraordinary options, I found myself being drawn to classes and opportunities in which I could explore my Catholic faith. I enjoyed the reading, the conversations, the friendships, and the activities surrounding my faith.

Meanwhile my middle-school social self thought, “uh oh.”

When I was a senior at St. Joe High School I took a class called "Great Catholic Thinkers." The class allowed us to read excerpts from the writings of saints and other holy and prominent figures from the Catholic tradition. Our teacher, Mr. Oross, asked us to write a 1-page journal entry after we read each excerpt. When he returned our journals to us at the end of the semester I received a grade of a 4/4 (apparently that was a big deal at the time…now I’m like, “4 POINTS, DUDE?!?!”) and a note that read:

Wow! Your reflections are very nice and profound. You have a double gift: gifted understanding and a deep sense of prayer. Foster both! Have you ever thought of being a Theology teacher?

So you know that line you hear in ministry about planting the seeds and blah blah blah blah? Well, I guess it’s effective. I read that journal note for the first time 7 years ago, and now I am a theology teacher. Mr. Oross' recognition and affirmation of my gifts allowed me to take the time to realize that I did enjoy studying Theology, that I was good at it (if that’s a title you are allowed to award yourself), and that I wanted to continue to pursue it. His words invited me to explore this vocational option for the first time in a very practical and focused way.

I am extremely grateful to Mr. Oross for taking the time to plant that seed, a seed that grew and blossomed with more prayer, education, and life experience in the next 7 years. Since I loved my Theology courses in high school, I sought them out intentionally through the Religious Studies and Theology departments at St. Mary’s and Notre Dame. In my free time I joined a choir that fostered a my Catholic faith and my need for community. I also, timidly at first, asked and applied to lead faith-based summer programs and retreats.

In each of these areas I found that I loved studying Theology and I loved, just as equally, sharing that Theology with others, particularly high school-aged peeps. At a young age I learned this thing called “1 + 1 = 2,” so I applied that same logic to these vocational realizations: passion for Theology + passion for teaching Theology to high school students = become a high school theology teacher. So, what started as general curiosity and a little baby flame in my heart for a school subject, grew to the realization that teaching Theology is something I wanted to pursue as a career. And again, thank you to Mr. Oross for planting that seed. His words were certainly one of the biggest gifts I received from my Catholic education.

So now, as a Catholic educator, how am I called to do ministry? It’s in realizing that teaching is not so much about the lesson plans, the objectives, the schedule, the exams, the grading and all that exhilarating stuff, but rather, it’s about imitating what Mr. Oross did for me, inviting students to explore their God-given potential.

It’s about affirming their gifts and passions. It’s about giving them the opportunity to take a good, hard look at what brings them joy. These areas of their lives that peak their interest now are God’s ways of inviting them to know Him and be His vessels in our world. It’s about finding hope in the phrase “planting the seeds” and knowing that the seeds you are planting may, in fact, be one student’s way to salvation. And that’s a pretty big deal. Like, the biggest.

Oh, and ministry is also about telling your own children that they can still have a life, even if their mother is your Theology teacher.

Katie Klee graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2012 with a BA in Theology. At Notre Dame, Katie was a member of the Notre Dame Folk Choir for four years and twice served as a Mentor-in-Faith for Notre Dame Vision. After graduation, Katie worked for a year as an intern in Campus Ministry at Notre Dame. Originally from the South Bend area, Katie now lives in Indianapolis, IN, where she teaches theology at Cathedral High School. Katie can be contacted at kklee@gocathedral.com.

the72: Maura Sullivan - All I Am and May Yet Become

When Dan asked me to write this post for the72, my initial reaction was a mixture of flattered and worried. Flattered to be included among posts like the one Sarah wrote a few weeks ago, and the one Nick wrote to start off this series. But also worried to be held up in comparison to the other writers on the72; worried that whatever I would contribute would pale in comparison to their amazing work within the Church.

My first job out of college was as the communications director at a Catholic high school—this question would have been easier to answer then. My ministry was to advance the mission of the school and do my part to provide the best experience possible for the students.

But now I work as a writer at a university, one with no religious affiliation. As a student at Catholic schools for 16 years who then went on to work at a Catholic school, it certainly has been a change. And a change that sometimes made me wonder what my ministry is, despite how much I enjoyed my work and the writing I get to do. Hence my apprehension at writing this post.

I am a student of writing. I have a college degree in journalism, dabble in blogging, and have worked as an intern, staffer, and freelancer at newspapers, magazines, and educational institutions. This has not been the first time that I have been nervous or uncertain about writing a piece, and it is usually pushing through and confronting these fears that makes me grow. So here goes.

One of my favorite prayers is the Prayer to St. Joseph. I first learned it from Sister Sara, the librarian at my elementary school and a Sister of St. Joseph, and it has stayed with me ever since.

Hours quickly become days, and days to months.

Each new month stretches to one year after another.

When I look at my life, St. Joseph, I ask:

What have I accomplished?

Whom have I helped?

Where am I going?

Can I serve our Lord in ways I have not even thought of?

Guide and protect me, Lord,

give me strength of purpose and vision.
Bless me for all I am, and may yet become.

Amen.

This prayer became particularly meaningful to me as I embarked on the uncertainties and challenges of life in the “real world” after college. The line that speaks to me most is this: Can I serve our Lord in ways I have not even thought of?

My calling is not in direct service or a religious vocation. These might be some things that immediately come to mind when you think of a vocation or a calling. As beautiful and noble as each of these callings is, they are not mine. And though it took some time, I realized that it does not make my calling any less meaningful.

I mentioned above that writing—even when I am nervous or uncertain or any other gamut of emotions—often helps me grow and process things. I’m doing that right here in this post. And I feel that it is my calling to write, to communicate, to string words together in a way that is meaningful to people.

When I graduated from college and was searching for meaning in the changes and upheaval in my life, I started a blog. I couldn’t not write about it, and in putting pen to paper—or rather, hands to keyboard—I found support in readers who were my friends and others who were random commenters. (And I hope readers felt that support, too.)

Each day at work and every time I write a freelance article, I share stories about people making a difference in their communities or challenging themselves through education.

And I also just started a new blog on a different topic: figure skating, one of my lifelong hobbies. It’s something I love to talk about, so I figured, why not try to widen the conversation and bring it online?

Through writing, I strive to create community and solidarity. This idea of finding solidarity—of knowing you are not alone in your experiences or that others share your interests and passions—is something I have found through my own reading, both online and off. It is something I hope to put back into the world with my words.

This—and other instances you all can probably think of from your own lives—might not be what you typically think of when you hear the word vocation. But my favorite closing blessing at Mass is when the priest or deacon says, “Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.”

Taking each opportunity, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential, to bring light into the lives of others does just what that closing blessing charges us each to do. It might be in a way you didn’t expect or think of, but that doesn’t mean it won’t make a difference.

When I write, I feel like I am using my gift in a way that builds community, both large and small. On my skating blog, the stats page tells me that I have readers from as far away as Japan, the UK, and Hungary.  Readers from across the globe are connecting through a common passion for the sport. My most recent freelance article is about a local group that traces their genealogy back to the Pilgrims on the Mayflower. A much smaller niche, but connections that are no less important to the members. I could say the same for any number of pieces that I have written, from news stories to personal essays like this one.

It has taken me some time to realize the importance of evoking this solidarity. And as you might guess from the introduction to this post, it is something that I am constantly working on. But every time I hear that closing blessing at mass or say the Prayer to St. Joseph, I am reminded. And inspired to keep trying.

Maura Sullivan is a web editor at Suffolk University in Boston and a freelance writer who has been published in Notre Dame Magazine and South Shore Living Magazine. She also blogs about her love of figure skating at twizzletalk.wordpress.com.  She graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2011 with a degree in American Studies and Journalism and currently lives in her hometown of Weymouth, just outside of Boston. You can say hello at maura.sullivan2@gmail.com!

the72: Rob Goodale - Bruised, Hurting, and Dirty

Once you find your center, you are sure to win.

Allow me to illustrate to you, if you’re willing to put up with the incoherence that results from spending virtually all of your time with teenagers, a loose idea of what life is like as a first year teacher.

I staggered home last Thursday, deliriously, gloriously, triumphantly exhausted.[1] After spending the last two months alternately trying to get my students to love me and trying to convince them I didn’t give a crap what they thought of me[2], I have survived, and quite possibly—dare I say it?—thrived as an educator of 15-17 year olds.

I arrived in Salt Lake City in early August, about as far out of a cultural and topographical comfort zone as a Catholic kid from Iowa can get. I was sent westward as my placement in Echo, a graduate program that falls under the infectiously joyful umbrella of Notre Dame’s Institute for Church Life, after spending the summer on campus in what I’m pretty sure is the most rigorous academic environment in the world.[3] This preparation included a three-week crash-course in “How to Not Totally Suck at Being a Theology Teacher,”[4] as well as a variety of other theology masters-level classes scrunched into six straight weeks of basically sprinting a marathon.

This is all to say that even though I was as well prepared as humanly possible for the task of walking into a classroom full of thirty teenagers six times a day, I was still woefully unprepared for the task of walking into a classroom full of thirty teenagers six times a day.[5]

When people have asked me how life is going out here in Utah, my general response has been, “I love teaching. It is soooo hard!” The shy and the politely disinterested will offer a kind but ignorant smile. The fellow teachers offer a nod of understanding that ranges from You, too, huh? Cool. to OHMYGOSHIKNOWISNTITWONDERFULLYTERRIFYING!?!?![6]

But my favorite people are the brave, possibly-unaware-of-what-they’re-about-to-get-themselves-into souls whose eyes light up and who ask why? Because it’s not hard for the reasons you usually hear about.

Yes, lesson planning is a brain-frying, time-draining process in which you try and take everything you know about a topic and condense it down into 45 entertaining minutes. And yes, grading quizzes and tests is probably what Judas, Brutus, and Cassius are doing in the ninth circle of hell. But that’s not why teaching is hard.

Teaching is hard because it’s one of the most vulnerable things I’ve ever done, and I do it six times a day, five days a week. Teaching, especially teaching theology, is about being okay with failure[7] and unafraid to share your whole, raw self with a group of people who are desperate for that kind of human interaction, and aren’t really capable of reciprocating it. It’s an impossible balancing act, because I wasn’t just making a joke up there—I really can’t care what my students think of me even though I really do desperately want each one of them to love me.

Let me see if I can give you an example of this high wire act. I have one particularly brilliant and inquisitive student who often comes in after school to ask questions about Catholicism. Let's call him Carlos.[8]

Carlos was raised Catholic, but has reached that dangerous point of adolescent self-awareness where he has discovered that he's brilliant. With this newfound awareness, he's decided it's important to start thinking critically about his faith, which is absolutely wonderful. We've spent hours discussing Church teaching and sharing bits and pieces of each of our own faith journeys. It's great, but also incredibly time-consuming and sometimes super frustrating.

The other day, after our latest round of discussion, Carlos got up to leave, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. I exhaled, relieved that on this day I had actually been able to answer most of his questions. But as he reached the door to the hallway, he paused and turned around.

“Mr. Goodale,” he said, “would you be interested in hearing what I really think of you?”

Crap baskets. “Uh... Sure, Carlos.”

“I think you're really smart. And usually I don't think Christians are very smart. But clearly there's something going on between you and this Jesus character, and I guess I'm trying to figure out what it is.”

It took me a moment to collect myself enough to not break down crying there at my desk, but then I managed a simple, “Thanks, man. You have no idea how much that means to me. See you tomorrow,” and he left.

And he probably doesn't have any idea. And he probably never will.

I couldn't find the exact quote, but I'm almost positive that Fr. Robert Barron writes in Bridging the Great Divide that one of the hallmarks of true Christian discipleship is living your life in a way that wouldn't make sense without Christ. To have a student unintentionally quote that in his description of me basically validated my entire life, and it also perfectly encapsulates the impossible balancing act of being a teacher. Because, on the one hand, his simple observation made my year. But on the other hand, I felt like I couldn't really let him know how much I valued his opinion of me. And I'm not entirely sure why.

My man C.S. Lewis[9] has a jaw-dropping image of what being made into a saint is like. It’s sort of fun at first, and then all of a sudden a load-bearing wall gets knocked down:

Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.[10]

For Lewis, God is basically Shang from Mulan, only instead of making a man out of you, he wants to make you a saint. And the irony is flipped: you’re already a saint. You might not know it, but He does. And he’s going to make you swing sticks around, catch fish with your bare hands, and climb poles until you realize that you were capable all along. You just had to get a little stronger… and start using the weights the right way.

In Evangelii Gaudium, Pope Francis talks about wanting a Church that is bruised, hurting, and dirty. His vision is a Church full of disciples who roll up their sleeves and get to work! And this is what I feel like I’m doing out here at a Catholic high school in the heart of Mormon country.

Teaching—at least for me—is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying because it’s about being a saint. This is what the saints do.

I spend every day on the front lines, demonstrating the faith (to best of my limited but God-given ability) to a group of people starving for truth, goodness, and beauty. I limp home every evening bruised, hurting, and dirty, deliriously exhausted and feverishly joyful.[11] And I get up every morning ready to do it all over again. And sure, it’s only been a couple of months, but if I can hang on to even a fraction of this feeling, the feeling of being on fire with the Holy Spirit, then I am lucky enough to already have figured out, at the tender age of 23, how I am called to serve the world.
__________

[1] Most of the staggering was due to exhaustion, and not the fact that I stopped for an after-school drink with my mentor, who also happens to be my department chair. Sometimes teaching is the bomb.

[2] Both are entirely true… sorta like Jesus’ humanity and divinity. #paradox.

[3] 14 credits in six weeks. I do not wish it on my worst enemy. Actually, that’s not true. Echo is wonderful, and you should all consider applying!

[4] It was actually called “Pedagogical Theology,” but I like my name better. Hope Todd and Megan agree with me.

[5] #paradox, back again.

[6] These are the people you want to be friends with.

[7] And I mean, down in flames, crash and burn in front of real live human beings failure.

[8] Because, bad jokes be damned, Carlos was always my favorite Magic School Bus student.

[9] If you’ve never read anything else I’ve written, it ALWAYS has something to do with C.S. Lewis.

[10] That’s from Mere Christianity. If you haven’t read it, stop reading this right now and go read it. Seriously. Stop reading this footnote.

[11] Actually, now that I think about it, all joy is just a little bit feverish—it’s contagious, you know.


Rob Goodale grew up amid the cornfields of Iowa and graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2013. During his time at ND, Rob spent two summers as a mentor-in-faith with the Notre Dame Vision program and was an RA in Keough Hall during his senior year. After spending a glorious post-grad year interning with ND Campus Ministry, he is now in his first year of Echo, a two-year graduate program, working on a masters degree in theology and teaching sophomore and junior theology at Juan Diego Catholic High School in Draper, UT. If you found his trademark combination of wit and pomp not totally insufferable, you can find more of his writing over at his blog or contact him at rgoodale@nd.edu.

the72: Michele Monk - The Faith of a Child

A few weeks ago, four girls told me that they said a rosary together at lunchtime for the victims of Ebola. Around the same time, a few guys organized a friendly card game, clearly articulating the rules to newcomers. Meanwhile, a group of eight or so developed a play to tell a familiar story and brainstormed how to find a part for all of the interested parties.

These events all sprouted organically during the span of one twenty-five minute indoor recess on a rainy day. I’m a third-grade teacher in a Catholic school, and these scenes spring up throughout my weekdays for most of the year. Though many of my teacher friends and I cringe at the excess of sentimentality found in some quotes about how rewarding our profession is, there is no denying that seeing these little ones initiate such happenings is one of the many factors that makes my job a pretty sweet gig.

In these interactions, I see my students discover their gifts and develop talents and passions. I get to witness them developing their compassionate hearts, their senses of humor, their unblinking generosity. In their games, their stories, their plays and plans, these little humans are slowly piecing together who they are and their role in the world.  

But what is my part in all of this, beyond a lucky, front-row audience member? How am I called to ministry as a teacher?

I’ve gotten pretty good at answering questions like this. My old classmates and I, (graduates of the Alliance for Catholic Education, a service/teaching program that served as an excellent foundation for a career in education), could probably nail all the key phrases and big ideas that would satisfy the eye of whoever had to read over our responses to this prompt. “In the classroom, we are called to emulate Christ the teacher in the way we interact with our students,” we’d say. And it would be totally true. “By building communities of faith in which high expectations are held, we form students not only academically, but as complete persons.” Also, totally true.

But what does that mean? I believe these things, that as a teacher I am called to be Christ to my school community and to form my students as complete persons, but how do these seemingly abstract, macro-level ideas manifest each day? I have found myself in a growing number of situations in which the best way to emulate Jesus is not exactly clear-cut. What would Jesus do when an eight year old complains to Him about the (high) odds of one’s hand skimming a booger at any given time on the reading carpet? How would Jesus confront possible thieves of sparkly pencils that deny any wrongdoing?

I ponder these dilemmas often, from the mundane to the more significant. How do I pastorally but firmly confront the students that sneakily mess around during prayer? How do I deal with the child that is struggling but does not want to be seen receiving extra help? How do I maintain my patience with students who respond to my efforts to help them understand with apathy?

I can’t examine the Gospels to see how Jesus dealt with these situations, but I am not lacking in models of faith in my life to which I might look. I kind of won the lottery when it comes to nourishing faith communities. My parents have been role models in complete selfless love. The friends I have come to know continually astound me with their deep faith and commitment to doing good in the world. These are the people who have shown me what it means to love in all kinds of circumstances, but most of all how to love in everyday circumstances.

My mom unfailingly puts others before herself, from caring for her aging parents, to pretending like she isn’t interested in the last of the leftovers so someone else can have them. My dad patiently hears me reason out every kind of dilemma, from deciding which route to take to avoid traffic to discerning which job to accept. My friends do incredible things through their jobs, but also demonstrate generosity and compassion in their smallest interactions. John consistently talks to the person he knows feels least a part of the group. Dana sends cards at the most random times, just so her friends find a nice surprise in the mail. Mary drops what she’s doing and bakes her friends their favorite dessert at the first hint of a bad day. The list goes on.

Through my relationships I witness how people serve as vessels of God’s love on the grand scale and in the humble details. In discerning my course of action day to day, these relationships that are such sweet reflections of the love of God remind me that each interaction I have with my students, from the significant to the seemingly mundane, is an opportunity.

My ministry as a teacher is to help my students find their ministry. I don’t expect for children to finish third grade and have a clear idea of how they might best answer God’s call to serve in their life, but I want them to be better prepared to do that than when they entered.

For this to occur, I often have to walk the line between showing compassion and demanding excellence. The confidence and pride that bloom on a child’s face when a seemingly impossible concept suddenly “clicks” makes finding the time to go over and over it the only choice that allows that child to see the extent of his capabilities. At the same time, when a student’s “I don’t get it” is accompanied by a blank page reflecting a complete lack of effort, I think that the more loving response is closer to something like, “I know what you’re capable of. You haven’t tried. Give it a shot, and then check in with me if you are still confused.” These moments of authentic struggle and perseverance are the ones in which students discover the depths of their strength.

The religion book that my class uses defines the Kingdom of God as “God’s love active in the world”. I want to help my students discern their role in building the kingdom by knowing their capabilities and their passions. Sometimes my role in this is gauging how much guidance they actually need to refine a skill, but often it’s as simple as not stifling their innate motivations. I’m tempted to push along a fierce pace to ensure that we “get through” all of the expected academic material. Yet taking the time to pause to have a real discussion, or just giving them the time to joke, play, dance, or pray, offers them the space to explore their gifts in a different way.

Those girls who said a rosary for Ebola victims? They decided to begin a Rosary Club, and they invited classmates to pray with them any indoor recess they feel so inclined. The budding actors and playwrights? When they told me about their project, I said, “Great, just make sure that everyone that wants to be in it can have a part.” “Oh yeah,” one of the leaders responded. “We think we asked everyone at recess, but we’re going to make an announcement at lunch just to make sure everyone feels included.”

I have students who remember the prayer intentions I mention one time, and proceed to offer them up daily. I have students who entered the year already committed to serving people with special needs, because at eight it is so crystal clear to them that these people are in need of others who will help to preserve their dignity. I had a conversation with a kindergartner one morning in which she explained to me, “ I'm not going to stop giving to the poor. I'm going to keep helping them. I don't want to un-serve Jesus.”

This is the raw material, the sweet, unhampered motivations of the children I witness. Of course occasionally they are rude, selfish, and mean. They are kids (and human). But their innate faith, their desire to help, and their impulse to show compassion are so pure.

I have been blessed with an abundance of family members and friends that demonstrate what it means to love in our messy, daily lives. In the past few years, I’ve been especially grateful for the additional relationships that I’ve encountered as a teacher. My students’ innate faith, kindness, and compassion remind me that we are each made in the image of God and are called to channel His love. Through my ministry as a teacher, I hope to help them as they determine how best to answer that call in their lives; by witnessing their example, I know with certainty that they help me understand how I might better answer that call in my own.

Michele Monk hails from Augusta, NJ. She graduated with a BA in Sociology and Spanish from the University of Notre Dame, where she was a member of the Notre Dame Folk Choir and led music service programs at the local juvenile detention center. Michele earned her Masters of Education through Notre Dame's Alliance for Catholic Education, through which she taught PreK-8th grade Spanish in Atlanta, Georgia. She currently lives in Washington, DC where she teaches third grade at a Catholic school. Michele can be contacted at michelemonk@gmail.com.

the72: Sarah Ruszkowski - Walking With

Funny how it takes me sitting on a porch in Door County, WI, overlooking the lake with my journal to be able to clearly reflect on what my ministry is.

The ministry of L’Arche is to provide homes for adults with and without disabilities, seeking to reveal and share each person’s unique gifts as a child of God. It is a wonderful place to be.

But what is my ministry as the Home Life Leader of L’Arche’s Ontario House? Interestingly (since I like to think I think about this all the time), it has taken me many drafts and versions of this post to construct an actual answer to this question. My ministry is to walk with my housemates. 

“Accompany” is the word that we use in L’Arche. It is my ministry to accompany people.

Shared life in L’Arche looks a little like this: You need new shoes, so we go to DSW and walk up and down the aisles, trying on as many pairs of black shoes without laces as possible. We hold hands as we get flu shots at CVS, and I try to bribe you to not be scared with promises of ice cream. I drink coffee as you drink tea. We pray together each night for our brothers. We stop at Target to buy notebooks and markers for our parish’s school supplies drive. We argue, laugh, and talk over each other at the dinner table. We sit together on the couch and watch Gilmore Girls. We sing the Salve Regina together to conclude compline. I listen as you explain why you are afraid to welcome the new guy. We sing Taylor Swift on the way to Costco, and you tell me about your family. I cry with you as your heart breaks.

Here is the thing. All of these things have happened. And half of these moments are with the core people I live with (the language we use for adults with intellectual and physical disabilities) and half of these are with the assistants that I live with (the language we use for those who work in L’Arche, both those who live in the house and those who live elsewhere). The beauty of my ministry is that there is often very little distinction between the two. Our community leader always says, “The fruit of our labor is relationship. Other communities of faith bake bread or farm the land. We build relationships.” My ministry in its purest form is to love and be loved by people.

My ministry as the Home Life Leader of Ontario House has two main parts. I accompany the core people, and I accompany the assistants. Accompaniment of core people means direct care and the work necessary to run a licensed group home. As an assistant, you seek to become friends with people who communicate differently and learn how to advocate with them for what they need. Part of my role is to lead us in prayer that is accessible and utilize the gifts that people bring to the table.

The desire to work with people with disabilities is how I came to L’Arche. By my junior year at Notre Dame, I began to feel called to this field. Through a class, I discovered L’Arche, a place where, quite simply, people love people. Reading about this life built around family and knowing each person as a beloved child of God, strengths and brokenness together, called to me. We take care of each other not because you have disabilities and I don’t, but because we are people. L’Arche seeks to live the Beatitudes—to create life where the poor in spirit and the meek shape us, teach us, and form us. Truly, the majority of my formation in L’Arche comes from the core people. And through this formation, my own poorness of spirit and purity of heart is called forth and fostered.

This life would not be possible without passion for who and what we are. No one teaches me that better than William*, who is more passionate than anyone I know. He loves so expressively—telling me I have the eyes of a child (a sincere compliment from this 73-year-old Cuban) and the prettiest feet in community (I remain unsure about that one). He is furious in the face of injustice and seeks to help each and every homeless person he encounters (which occurs not infrequently in DC). He yells when he is mad and belly laughs when he is happy. He prays constantly. I’m excited? Let’s pray about it. I’m crying? Let’s pray about it. As we walk together, William teaches me to live a passionate, expressive, and forgiving life. This formation is some of the most valuable that I have received here.

And Maria*? Maria teaches me, and every single person in our home, what it means to live as a beloved child of God. She has grace and poise and a constant connection to God. She is intentional with her words (a good lesson for me, who most often says exactly what I am thinking and feeling). She is so very aware of the people around her, and when they need an all-embracing hug, a hand to hold or a joke to be made. I don’t mean to sound as if I am putting her on a pedestal (okay, who am I kidding? She is one of the best people I know), but I do believe that because Maria is so pure of heart, she can easily know and hold the hearts of those around her. This awareness and gentle love has formed how I seek to enter into relationship with the other members of my home.

I could go on and on. Suffice it to say that the majority of my formation in L’Arche and the formation of the other assistants in my home comes from the core people.

This formation also comes from the traditions and structures that support us at L’Arche. We celebrate everything: birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, 4th of July, goodbyes, you name it. We celebrate people’s birthdays by sharing with them what we know their gifts to be. Take a moment and imagine being in a room with at least 20 people, all waiting to tell you what they love about you. It is beautiful. (PS: Please do this next time you celebrate someone you love—name it. Tell them why.)

For my community members for whom words are not the way they best articulate their thoughts and feelings, we utilize all sorts of mediums for people to share what they know to be true about your giftedness. Our ministry is to reveal and rejoice in people’s belovedness. The traditions, especially those surrounding celebrations, of our 50-year-old community remind me how to do this at least once a week. Yes. We have parties at least once a week.

Similarly, when you are welcomed into the most intimate places of someone’s life--when you are helping them step into the tub, or pick out which shirt to wear as they sit naked on the bed because they can’t get to the closet themselves—the “revelation as God’s beloved” goes both ways.

I commit to Miguel every day. I am going to try my hardest to show you that. I promise to listen in between your purrs to hear what you are saying without words. I promise to try to make your coffee to your liking, even though you always want more sugar than I think is good for you. I promise to sit and scratch your back when you are sure a mosquito got you. I promise to do that because I love you and you are a beloved child of God.

In return, Miguel trusts me. What a beautiful gift it is to be trusted. He says to me, in not so many words (he speaks only Spanish and limitedly), I trust you to help me in the shower and to sit with me when I am in the hospital again and to order for me at Starbucks. I trust you, because you, Sarah, are a beloved daughter of God. In these moments of welcome into another’s vulnerability, my own belovedness is revealed.

The other part of my ministry is walking with the assistants who work in my house as well (some live in, others do not). Officially, it is my job to listen to where you are in your journey in relationship with each other and God. We work through the joys and challenges of communal life. I try to call you to grow in your role in community, and to challenge you to love yourself and those around you more completely. I get to remind people of how loved they are. Officially, there are many details to coordinate and communications to facilitate. Unofficially, you climb into my bed after a bad day or pound on my door for outfit approval as you get ready for that date. We chat over the newspaper about your dad’s health, and I follow up after your one-word check-in is “heavy."

Living together and working together and being in community together and being friends (or not) with each other can be very complicated. Accompaniment of the assistants in my home involves a lot of layers. Sometimes it means holding on to each other for dear life as we face another very serious health complication for a core person we love so much. Or it is the desperate plea for insight as we attempt to support someone through months of heightened anxiety. Sometimes it is helping you to find a church that fits who you are. And occasionally, it is realizing that L’Arche is not the right place for you and figuring out what that means.

It is my job, my ministry as the Home Life Leader of Ontario House, to walk with you through your life. And in return? I am walked with. I am trusted and I am held.

I have spent a lot of time lately reflecting on Thomas Merton’s description of everyone walking around shining like the sun. He goes on to say, “It was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time.”

This is how I understand my ministry. But I am particularly blessed because that is the official statement of identity for L’Arche. “We are people, with and without developmental disabilities, sharing life in communities belonging to an International Federation. Mutual relationships and trust in God are at the heart of our journey together. We celebrate the unique value of every person and recognize our need of one another.”

That is my job description. Walk with people, love and be loved by them, and journey closer to God. Most of the time in L’Arche, this is messy, because we as people tend to be rather messy. But as our founder Jean Vanier explains, “We are simply human beings, enfolded in weakness and in hope, called together to change our world, one heart at a time.”

(*Author's Note: Names changed*)

Sarah Ruszkowski is the Home Life Leader of the L'Arche Greater Washington DC community, which she has belonged to for over three years. Sarah graduated from the University of Notre Dame in 2011 with a BA in Psychology and Theology, including a thesis on the relationship between the Church and people with disabilities. A native of Villa Park, IL, Sarah now lives in Washington DC. Sarah can be contacted at srusz17@gmail.com.

the72: Dave Gregory - Bad Religion

Earlier this year while shopping for a suitable gift for my Confirmation sponsee, I stumbled across a patch for the band “Bad Religion” in a record store, which I wound up including in my card to him. Since then, I’ve sort of taken this up as my professional mantra. I’m convinced this is what the culture of Catholicism needs: a religious imagination that is anything but tame, complacent, or nice. Catholicism, when truly lived out, as exemplified by the lives of the saints, produces people on fire. Fire! So, the following reflects upon my approach to fostering “bad” (read: not tame, complacent, or nice) religion within my students.

Save for a few bits about Chinese philosophy and the theology of C.S. Lewis, I cannot remember a single thing I ever learned in any of my high school theology classes. The irony brings me to giggle a little bit, given that I am a professional catechist.

As an undergraduate, I abandoned my biochemistry major when my required philosophy and theology courses grabbed my heart full-force. Lectures on Plato and Scripture brought me to the realization that I wanted to spend my studies focused on those things considered most impractical by 21st century standards. I simply remember thinking “Well, crap, if all this stuff about God and Jesus is true, then what else matters?” Those years of high school theology classes, though their contents escape my memory, thus proved entirely necessary, as they disposed me to seek the truth regarding the Reality that undergirds all things.

Considering my own experience of learning about Catholicism as a teenager, I have one (hopefully humble) thing in mind above all else when teaching: I take some small part in disposing my students to healthfully engage God and religion. I am planting seeds, the fruits of which I may never see. More often than not, this process of theological dialogue that disposes a class doesn’t look pretty. My approach to pedagogy of a theological nature is not warm and fuzzy. Simply put, it lacks rainbows and glitter and butterflies.

I recently watched a televised sermon in which Joel Osteen, the mega-church evangelical preacher, informed his audience of several thousand Christians that God wanted to offer them financial success and bodily well-being. This fellow strikes me as the epitome of warm and fuzzy Christianity. It literally nauseated me, making my stomach turn a little bit. I found myself wondering if Osteen had ever even read the Gospels, in which the Christ promises his followers persecution, in which God incarnate preaches an earth-shattering message of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. If I take Osteen to heart, then I make myself the center of the universe; he presents the worst form of narcissism, the kind of navel-gazing wherein not only the universe, but God Himself, cares for nothing more than my worldly success.

I constantly remind my students of Matthew 25, that passage wherein Jesus presents the clearest criteria for salvation and damnation in the entirety of the Gospels. What catches my students off-guard, and what catches me off-guard, is that those who go to Heaven do not expect to go to Heaven and that those who go to hell expect to go to Heaven! Moreover, Jesus clearly states that the way in which a person prepares themselves for the offering of salvation is by means of concretely loving those unloved: the naked, the hungry, the sick, the imprisoned. When loving charity is true, it does not take action for the sake of Heaven, but for the sake of the person whose eyes it looks into.

In other words, what Jesus says about salvation directly contradicts what Osteen has to say about salvation! One is not “saved” because one believes one is “saved,” as if a mere intellectual acceptance of God’s existence staves off perdition. Matthew 25 starkly opposes evangelical Christianity’s approach to salvation, as those who expect salvation must ask why they are damned, whereas those who simply loved for the sake of loving must ask why they receive salvation. God does not save those who make themselves the center of their universes (as Osteen would have us do), but precisely those who de-center themselves within their existences (as Christ would have us do).

Neither holiness nor repentance nor the process of having our hearts set aflame with love of God bring money or fame or influence; simply believing that Jesus was God incarnate does not mean that all will be made better in my life. The process of encountering Jesus Christ writes moments of the Cross and Resurrection into our lives. It brings about a radical transformation of our hearts such that we might love those on the margins who have been cast aside by the pursuit of worldly power of which Osteen is so fond. It de-stabilizes us. It re-directs our priorities. Methinks that truly absorbing Christ’s preaching thus ought to make my blood run cold. It also ought to bring me to rejoice in light of the fact that although I am a sinner, I am beloved by the One against Whom I sin. This tension cannot be anything but discomforting, but this is the very tension in which Catholicism asks us to dwell, and is therefore the tension I ask my students to enter.

Jesus was not “nice”: he was radically compassionate, relentlessly loving, and frighteningly authentic. He was unafraid to call out friends, followers, opponents for their shortsightedness and hypocrisies, and he remains unafraid to do the same for us. Lukewarmth was just not his thing. Encountering the person of Christ, the Paschal Mystery and all that it entails, and fostering the consequent interior transformation that results from this encounter – all of which remain central to my identity as an evangelist – are not warm and fuzzy. They do, however, present a deep beauty.

My teaching, at least so far as I can tell, revolves around the principle that the human heart and mind are inherently drawn toward beauty, truth, and goodness; as such, I view my responsibility to primarily consist of revealing the beauty, truth, and goodness of the Catholic tradition as a means of establishing a relationship with God. If my students are not drawn toward Catholicism by the end of the year, then I have failed. Boy, oh boy, have I failed. I have turned kids off from Christianity, which pains me. Students have emerged from my classroom dismissive of religion and God and Catholicism, but I can at least find some comfort in knowing that I gave them the tools and vocabulary and disposition to engage these topics with a little bit less ignorance.

On the upside, however, I occasionally catch glimpses of my students growing uncomfortable as they sincerely encounter bits and pieces of legitimate theology. My atheist students question their beliefs as they meet Thomas Aquinas and his Five Ways of proving God’s existence. My religiously inclined students come to see that the natures of Christ and his Church run far deeper than memorizing Biblical history. All around, wounds of ignorance slowly heal. Preconceptions turn out to be misconceptions. The image of God we previously held turns out to be a distorted shadow of Who God actually is. Some of this happens, I suspect, even in our unawareness of its occurrence.

I expect that many of my students will forget 99.99% of what I teach them, of what they read and write, and of what we talk about. Doesn’t it all seem a futile waste? The bottom line of teaching – and I feel that this age-worn truism pertains especially well to my role as a theology teacher – is that teachers do not teach the material so much as they teach themselves. I think this might be the area in which I might hold the greatest sway in the lives of my students: I am a young dude who remains firmly dedicated to the Church, who dorks out on theology, who goofs off, who laughs with them constantly, who talks about Jesus a lot, who expresses and shares their same struggles and doubts. I’m a guy who seeks meaning in his life, just as they seek meaning in theirs, and in the midst of all this, I’ve concluded that Catholicism is the most true, good, and beautiful path to find my meaning.

Above all, I am indescribably grateful that my vocation is one in which I simply get to love my kids. My ministry as a teacher is the way in and through which I exercise that love. Because these students are my vocation, they are my salvation. Because they are in my life, I fall more deeply in love with Him. I am grateful that in helping them to encounter Jesus, I fall in with them.

Dave Gregory, an overgrown Muppet-like man-child, hails from Queens, New York City, and double-majored in philosophy and theology at Georgetown University, where he maintained active leadership roles in various Catholic-y things and whence he graduated in 2010. Throughout the course of his eight-year stint in Jesuit schools, he irrevocably fell madly in love with Jesus, discerned a vocation to the Society of Jesus, and consequently spent two years post-graduation as a Jesuit novice of the Maryland Province. God, however, led him out of religious life, at which point Dave heeded a call to the desert of southern California, where he taught theology and philosophy for two years at Xavier College Preparatory, the first Jesuit-less Jesuit high school in the United States. He is currently a graduate student at the Claremont School of Theology, pursuing a Master's degree in Biblical Theology with a concentration in the Hebrew Scriptures. Should your heart so desire to holler at him, you can reach him at dgregory@xavierprep.org.

(Editor's Note: This bio was lovingly and autobiographically written.)

The Genealogy of Ministry

Early last year, as I tried to decipher how I'd start creating a high school campus ministry from the ground up, I had it in my head that I wanted to create an immersion trip.

I used to work at a high school in Southern California that made several immersions a year to East Los Angeles. Centered on the home base of Dolores Mission in Boyle Heights, the trips involved a lot of experiential learning. Students were given first-hand exposure to rough neighborhoods, the realities of life on the margins, and the people that navigated these realities.

My experience on this immersion gave me some basic genetics to work with that I knew I wanted to keep: visiting a Catholic university for a tour and exposure to collegiate ministry, touring a vulnerable area through the eyes of the marginalized, learning about gang intervention (for East LA, we did so at Homebody Industries), serving and eating with marginalized people, and staying in simple lodging near our immersion sites and not our school.

Thanks to my friends and colleagues at this school, I was able to rundown some of these things with them and get their input on what to watch for as I constructed our trip. They encouraged me to not overpack the schedule with appointments. Leave time for kids to invent their own fun between more structured activities. Intersect faith with action. Activity to the point of exhaustion and reflection at day's end to process it all. Add in more insight from my brother and a Brother, and I was off.

With their wisdom in hand, I set out to navigate the waters of ministry. Those in the business, commercial, and industrial worlds rely heavily on networking: conversations, meetings, and business card exchanges that help companies connect, do business, and mutually support each other. I work in the Church. And we call this ministry.

Our Church is universal. Everyone scattered all throughout our messy network of faith is centered on their pastor, who's centered on his bishop, who's centered on the pope, who's centered on Christ. And when it comes to firing up ministry, you bet I tap this network.

I started with some new friends. Before I was Campus Minister at my current school, I was also offered a job by St. Xavier University. After copious deliberation, I chose to come to the high school, but my almost-boss and I agreed that it would be disappointing if we never found a way to work together anyway. So here was our chance: I wanted my students to visit a Catholic university, do a tour, and converse with college students who were doing something to live their faith and be active in Campus Ministry. My almost-boss and some of his ministry staff worked with me to setup a pizza lunch-and-conversation and sign us up for a campus tour. Boom. We're off.

I next decided to go off my hit list a little to try a home connection. My alma mater high school's annual Lenten Campaign once led us to raise thousands for the Mercy Home for Boys and Girls. As the Student Ministry Team co-chair, I got to deliver the check with several team members and tour the facility. My brother reminded me that the president was an alumnus of our high school, so I walked down this path. After a few emails, a conference call with him and some of his administrators, I matched up with a woman who directs the post-grad volunteers and mentoring program for their at-risk youth. She agreed to host my students for lunch, do an info session/Q&A, and walk them around the facility.

Now, whereas the California kids toured Skid Row with a social worker, I had to be creative as Chicago (thank God) does not have such a profoundly concentrated area of homeless (well, nowhere does). My brother had suggested I look into The Night Ministry, an organization with tons of outreaches to the marginalized of Chicago. I was fascinated by their "Night Walk," an urban immersion exercise in which participants learn about and discuss the realities and facts of homelessness, simulate homelessness themselves, and then share their experience. Despite tight schedules and last-minute issues, a long-time administrator dusted off his Night Walk skills and went out on a limb to lead us in our first Night Walk, though he hadn't been out to do one in over a decade. And now I've learned how to lead students on this activity in which they have 45-60 minutes to explore a neighborhood and discern how and/or where they'll eat/make money, sleep, warmup, and go to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, not everything works out, nor should it. I had the hope of having my students interact not just with homeless/marginalized adults, but also children. I tried to make contact with Catholic junior high and high school administrators, but I struck out. A junior high principal declined my request respectfully, opting not to have my students pass through for the day or afternoon. Mercy Home also opted to decline contact with their youth. Concerns over a one-time visit are paramount with kids such as these who have trust and loyalty issues. Thus, we wouldn't get to spend time with at-risk youth.

Before I got too far, I knew we needed somewhere we could stay. Leaning again on old friends, I reached out to a Viatorian brother, one who used to work at my high school and had been in formation for religious life and now eventually for priesthood. Having connected with him at graduate school, it was an easy pitch. He secured permission from the pastor of St. Viator Parish, on the northwest side of the city, for us to sleep in meeting rooms above their parish/school gymnasium. As would become my tagline to the kids for the trip, it would be safe but not comfortable.

At this point, I needed to go off my beaten paths to create new relationships. Our itinerary still lacked a food bank and a soup kitchen, and I wanted one or both added so the kids would have a significant encounter in direct service with the marginalized.

I Googled my way to a Catholic Charities supper site that served dinner at the right time and on the right day for our schedule. After a few labored conversations with an elderly woman in the office, she secured us volunteer slots at the supper, and a group who would cook the dinner we'd serve (we couldn't cook since we'd be on the road). And as faith would have it, when we arrived, we discovered that the dinner was held in the same building that housed a Polish school run by the same order of sisters who operate a retirement home next door to our school and assisted with the supper.

The biggest leap of faith came with the parish food bank I found. I had spoken over the phone with a woman about our coming to help at this site that she coordinated. When I made my confirmation calls and emails in the preceding weeks, I got derailed here. When I got through to the woman, she told me, through some stifled emotion, that she had been let go and no longer worked at the parish. She referred me to a parish phone number and the pastor, neither of which proved fruitful for confirming out visit.

The day of the trip came, and I made a decision: it's a Catholic Church; it has a food bank; and they could probably always use some help; so we're just gonna show up. We drove down into the Manor Park neighborhood and rolled into the gravelly, grassy parking lot of the adjacent school, walked around the corner to the courtyard, and saw tables and boxes being arrayed. I walked up to some men who seemed to be in charge and introduced myself. With a big smile, a fellow named Preston greeted us and immediately gave us jobs to get working on. He and his volunteers were wonderfully gracious, welcoming, and genial. They didn't want us to leave at the end of a busy morning, and as Preston and I traded phone numbers and man-hugs, I knew we'd be back. We've now made five different visits, including once in the summer outside of any school-sacntioned trip, to assist the food bank distribution at St. Columbanus.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the soup kitchen. When we initially signed up, I had asked if the kids could eat with the families that came after they served them their dinner, or at least sit with them to talk. The site coordinator shot down this idea as intrusive, so we simply served and cleaned, leaving me a bit unsatisfied at the minimal interaction, and the implicit demarcation between the needy and those who came to serve. Our two visits there proved to be a bit rough and tumble, as we were mostly hired hands forced into particular duties and bossed around a bit. The focus was on cleaning and serving and not on encounter and relationship.

Before the third rendition of this immersion, I was frantic. This site already had volunteers for the day we'd be in town, and I needed a new place. After trying a handful of different places, ready to give up, a Franciscan Outreach center replied and said they'd take us, even though it'd be more help than they needed. We arrived late, stuck in rush hour traffic, and I worried that this would sour a not-yet-started relationship.

But we walked in to a grateful reception from young volunteers - the center was run by a community of post-grad volunteers, who took turns with the various tasks in organizing their nightly supper for the needy. The other adults who had signed up as volunteers for the meal were grateful to have an easier shift along side all of us and even got to happily leave early when we took on the brunt of the end-of-shift cleaning work. It was a great night of interacting not just with the hungry clients but also the Franciscan volunteers. They had a system that was easy to follow and enabled the servers to plug in with ease and focus on interacting with everyone. A new relationship was forged that endures still.

Another addition that came on after the inaugural outing came from our school chaplain. The trip was still without any contact with gang populations, or at-risk teenagers. He plugged me into members from his religious community who ran a center in one of the roughest Chicago neighborhoods where they gathered local youth to dialogue, express themselves, and hang out in a safe environment, off the streets. We made our first visit to the Precious Blood Ministry of Reconciliation, and found a new favorite site at which we could hear from people who overflowed with gratitude for their safe haven off the streets.

Not to be outdone, others continued to heap on more and more help. On our most recent service-learning immersion - The Margins #4 (we're up to 4 already!) - we got a bonus site. My contact at Mercy Home, when I confirmed the date for our trip with her, told me that the one and only Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ, of Homeboy Industries would be speaking at Dominican University of the west side of Chicago. Not only was this clutch in terms of timing and content (witness to gang intervention ministry and the epitome of solidarity), I knew the director of university ministry from grad school. I traded emails with him, and he helped secure us tickets to what proved to be a sold-out lecture. Because of the enterprise of a dear contact and the generosity of a new/old one, we got this beautiful bonus event thrown into the middle of our trip.

Sprinkle in visits to the University of Illinois-Chicago St. John Paul II Newman Center, Mass at Holy Name Cathedral, and other bits and pieces as schedules fluctuate from trip to trip. Add in the Catholic Social Teaching seminar I open the trip with to kickstart students' reflection on solidarity and serving with, not just for, and seeking relationship. And we have a heckuva service-immersion!

Yes, I am terribly guilty of humble-bragging. I am very proud of what we've (me and these first 29 students) built in these first four trips. It's quite a harbinger at a school that was seriously lacking in retreats and service in previous years, not for lack of faithful faculty/staff but for lack of someone dedicated to these things.

However, the main point of this isn't to celebrate my awesomeness. It's to celebrate the relative ease with which such a ridiculous endeavor can come together with a significant level of coherence and seamlessness.

Ironically, this most recent group of students loved to joke at me when things were missed. I carry a string bag full of their journals to pass them out when I'd like to stop and reflect, and one time, I was missing one (she had left hers in the car); another time, I couldn't find the second box of granola bars I had bought for our breakfast (I had never bought it), and I left the fruit snack boxes at school. In each of these cases, my students liked to groan, sarcastically, "Geez, Mr. Masterton, you only had ONE job! That was your ONLY job." They appreciated the organization and coherence of the trip, that they were just along for the ride and guided down such a path.

The beauty of the trip is that I was just the temporary pilot of a triple-7 jet, the humble captain of a cruise-ship. I just had to guide a familiar vessel down a path I could see ahead. All of these site contacts who made each piece fall into place were my air traffic controllers, my navigators. I radioed in my coordinates to them, and they guided me in. Like lighthouses and those goofy dudes on the tarmac with the neon sticks - they helped me steer my precious cargo (students' faith lives) in for a landing.

The end result of these trips is beautiful pictures of service in action, of friendships and community being discovered and strengthened, and of life-altering service-learning experience. But the genealogy, the pedigree of it all are the people who facilitated our visits. And all of them are united in Christ, by the reality that they live and work to serve Christ by serving others. All it took to tap into their service outreach was to share in their mission. Our desire to share their ministry was the only key needed to get in with them.

We got to join in with many amazing ministries already happening in Christ's name, so that we could alter our DNA a bit more to live Eucharistically. We sought to become more profoundly what and who we receive - Christ. By the help of these servants, we got to bring Christ to others, and we got to receive Christ from them.

To see more from these trips, visit the Bishop Noll Campus Ministry social media:
Facebook - Twitter or search #TheMargins - Instagram

Also, a map of our most recent trip's visits can be found here.