An Open Letter to Gift-Givers from a Clumsy Minimalist

by Dan Masterton

Dear Gift-Givers,

I am hard to shop for, and I know it. I don’t really like stuff and things; I like places, people, and experiences. I’m not drawn to the fancy, the luxury, the high end; I am more pleased by bargains, efficiency, resourcefulness, and utility. I am also a horrible recipient of gifts; I do not frequently offer the sort of major visual reactions that creative gift-givers hope to elicit. I’m a real piece of work.

At our core, I feel like most minimalists don’t hate gifts. I swear -- we really don’t. I think one of the major problems is that the types of gifts we minimalists prefer are not the type of gifts people want to give or think they’re expected to give, and trying to break that social expectation and convince people it’s ok to go rogue in this way is pretty tough. People often think they need to spend a certain amount of money or procure a certain magnitude of thing in order to have sufficiently pleased their friends and family. When it comes to minimalists, don’t worry! In my case, let’s just say my Amazon wish list of a new tape measure, carabiners for my stroller, a dustbuster, and new bowling shoes didn’t knock any gift-givers’ socks off.

I guess my hope as a minimalist is always that -- while I know a gift giver should be free to gift as the conditional love of their gift-giving sees fit -- they’ll consider the type of gift I’m hoping for as they creatively decide. Some gift-givers are wonderfully considerate of this. At my recent birthday party, one of my friends gave me a gift card to a movie theater to help treat my wife, Katherine, and me to a date and flatly declared that this gift of a bought-and-paid-for experience was chosen “because you don’t like stuff.” However, folks frequently insist instead on the more conventional gift route; thus, the considerations a minimalist might hope for can get easily set aside in favor of the things and the stuff.

But rather than rambling on about simplicity, minimalism, and aversion to materialism, I need to admit the problems I introduce and aggravate in this equation with my imperfect attitude, chiefly that my outlook clouds my ability to be grateful. Rather than receive a gift and express gratitude and appreciation before all else, my mind jumps all too quickly to my thoughts and opinions on the gift.

Just the other day, my dad brought me a rally towel from the Bears-Packers game, a big win he witnessed in person by which the Bears clinched their first division title in eight years and eliminated the Packers from playoff contention (with help from the Vikings). Rather than immediately thank him for thinking of me by grabbing an extra towel off the seat next to him, I responded, “I already have one of these from a game earlier this year.” My mind leapt instantly to the rally towels already on my office wall, in my daughter Lucy’s toybox, and sitting in piles in my bedroom, a portrait of the excess of possessions I’ve incidentally accrued. Rather than fixating on excess, my priority should be gratitude. Say “thank you,” Dan. UGH. Facepalm emoji. The idealism in my mind wishes the world would meet me closer to halfway than I think it tends to do, but by worrying too much about that, I mess up the most important part -- expressing love by my gratitude first and foremost.

So, to all of you creative, thoughtful, selfless, others-oriented gift-givers:

First, SORRY! Minimalism can get us tied up in austerity so intently that we’re not attentive to the love, generosity, and thoughtfulness demonstrated by others. Please accept my apologies for how such a perspective can spill over and extinguish gratitude. You don’t deserve such a poopy reaction.

Second, please keep trying to challenge your creativity to meet a minimalist halfway. Tickets to a show or concert? A membership or subscription to a great periodical or event venue? Admission to a museum, zoo, or neat attraction? A donation to a favorite charity? A custom coupon promising a future experience together? Any effort toward the gift of a shared experience and new memory goes a long way.

Third, THANK YOU! Even though we minimalists may not give the effusive, demonstrative reaction to gifts that you may hope for, thank you for doggedly attempting to love us and care for us nonetheless. Your earnest attempt to bring love in the world by giving of yourselves is worth doing, even if we as recipients can seem a bit grinchy. While we hope we can work toward healthy, moderate ways to live out minimalism, we also need your creative warmth to temper us and love us.

Sincerely,
Dan, a clumsy minimalist

Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Immaculate Conception

by Laura Flanagan

I have a college acquaintance who is now a fairly successful Catholic artist. This week, she unveiled a series of canvases with detailed images of Our Lady of Guadalupe’s vestments, and noted she went down a rabbit hole discovering the image’s symbolism.¹ After reading her statement, I chose to fall down the same rabbit hole.

On the tilma of Guadalupe, we see Mary with her eyes bowed, and her hands in a prayer of supplication. This contrasts with the Indian goddesses, whose depictions showed their power by looking directly at the viewer with their (often large) eyes. Our Lady at Guadalupe reveals by her posture that there is a greater God above her, while wearing the symbols often attributed to those indigenous goddesses, showing that her Lord is greater than they.

There are many more beautiful symbols to this image, but one stood out to me the most. Mary’s black sash and a bump in her gown indicate pregnancy. This style signals that she is appearing as the Immaculate Conception. Not coincidentally, this is the same name she gave upon being pressed by Bernadette at Lourdes. I imagine Mary likes this title because, like her posture in the image of Guadalupe, it’s meant to point directly to Jesus. Saying, “I am the Immaculate Conception” means, “I am not myself important, except to magnify the greatness of the Lord and the extraordinary preview of grace He has given to me.”

The solemnity in celebration of this gift occurs on December 8, normally a holy day of obligation. However, if you check your calendar, you’ll find that this year it falls on a Saturday, which under most American circumstances would mean a waived obligation for the holy day.

However, apparently I was incorrect last year in stating that the combination of the 4th Sunday of Advent and Christmas was the only time we maintain the consecutive-days obligation. We maintain it again this year for this December 8 feast, but only in the United States. The reason? Our Lady, under her title of the Immaculate Conception, is the patroness of the U.S.A. Like Christmas last year, we are asked to participate in Mass for both the special feast and our usual Sunday oblation.² Both feasts are so important for us.

Mary’s veneration as the Immaculate Conception, both here in the United States and within her groundbreaking appearance as a mestiza girl in Mexico,³ points to the deep connectedness between the entirety of the Americas. The bishops seem to have come to this conclusion before me, as Our Lady of Guadalupe is the patroness of all the Americas in addition to the country of Mexico in particular.

Mary appeared in Mexico to the indigenous person with the symbolism of the Immaculate Conception. She sent an image to the Spanish in Mexico with that same symbolism. Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Immaculate Conception, gives her patronage to indigenous peoples, Mexicans, and persons of all races and countries. She loves and intercedes for all Americans, and desires us to love one another and serve the Lord.

St. Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin, to whom she chose to appear at Guadalupe, was considered a macehualli - essentially a native without a social category other than “poor.” The Lord is found with the poorest, and to them his Mother also gives her special favor. If our Lady were to appear today at the border between two of her beloved countries, she would likely be weeping from the tear gas with her Son’s beloved poor on the Mexican side.

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1 See this Instagram post for the original image.^↩

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2 Should you need a guide to this request from the Church:
In order to fulfill both obligations, you must attend TWO Masses - no double-dipping!
1) A Mass to fulfill the Immaculate Conception obligation is ANY Mass (regardless of the readings and prayers used) that is celebrated between ~4 PM on Friday, December 7th and the end of the day on Saturday, December 8th.
2) A Mass to fulfill the Sunday obligation is ANY Mass (regardless of the readings and prayers used) that is celebrated between ~4 PM on Saturday, December 8th and the end of the day on Sunday, December 9th.^↩

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3 Mestiza is a Latin American term for a woman of mixed race, especially one having indigenous and Spanish descent.^↩

The Words to Pray

by Dan Masterton

As long as I can remember, I’ve known and regularly recited the Hail Mary and the Our Father. I cannot remember when or how exactly I learned them. I remember saying these prayers in elementary school classrooms with my classmates. I remember joining hands during Mass as a child to say the Our Father. I remember learning the rosary and raining Hail Mary’s down over the rolling beads as we prepared for May Crowning. In a time when rote memorization is giving way to the short-term recall named Google that lives in our pockets, the ingrained words of these prayers endure deep in the unforgettable memories of my brain. As a punk teenager, I remember feeling critical toward the especially frequent use of these all too often robotic prayers. If we say them so often that we barely pay attention to their meaning, what’s the point?

At times as an adult and professional minister, I’ve seen our go-to prayers utilized with particular laziness and/or misguided intention. My all-time favorite (or least favorite) has to be a dean of students with whom I formerly worked. He possessed a particularly booming, monotone voice, which he utilized regularly to call for attention, scold kids, and in some cases, (mis)use prayer to quiet a crowd. He’d step up to a microphone at an assembly or before an all-school Mass and belt, “Quiet, please. Let’s begin with a prayer. OUR FATHER. WHO ART IN HEAVEN…” The droll, flat recitation the kids offered back was indicative of the fatigue often felt about these prayers.

Another time I see this trend rear its head is when young people are asked to pray before a group. While they possess varying degrees of comfort with speaking extemporaneously, they have no shame about leaning on their memorized prayers. In this case, it is often far from welcome piety. You’ll regularly hear something like this: “Uh, dear God, thank you for everything you’ve given us. We appreciate it. And, um, let’s just pray an Our Father…” Good hustle, kid.

This brings me to the retreats I direct. We pray frequently on retreat, from small-group blessings to before-meal grace to student-led prayer. The latter unfolds primarily as a precursor to witness talks, when the leadership team steps out of the room and offers a private blessing over the speaker with hands extended. Over the years, I have struggled to get young people to approach this as a prayer of blessing; instead, they often use it as a time to tell stories, offer the person compliments, or crack jokes to loosen the mood. These things can be helpful in relaxing the speaker, but they fall short of inviting God’s grace intentionally to the person being blessed, and often seem like a way to garner cheap laughs or even steal the spotlight from that person. As much as I try to give narrower parameters that focus our blessings toward God, grace, and the person being blessed, detours and tangents arise. So I’ve more or less resigned myself to laying out my hopes for that blessing once, loud and clear at the start, and hoping we stay on that track.

This brings me to the last retreat I directed. Initially, it followed the same trends I mentioned, but the first student who prayed kept his spontaneous reflections brief and efficiently transitioned into a request for everyone to pray the Our Father together. And we did. And I liked it. Sure enough, as teenagers are wont to do, the next person’s blessing followed the same shape – a short but sweet ramble and an invitation to that old familiar prayer. And so the next and the next until our pattern incidentally became focusing and aggregating our prayer behind the words that Jesus taught us. It was really nice and shifted the focus toward where I always hope it will be – a solemn, communal blessing for the speaker.

Back in those often doubt-filled teenage years, I remember being set straight when we learned about prayer in junior theology class. As we reviewed these rote prayers, our teacher called them “familiar prayers,” a nicer title that doesn’t connote such roboticism. By her estimation, these prayers were an essential ingredient to our prayer tradition. She explained that the familiarity of these prayers was a blessing in that they give us the words to pray when we may otherwise struggle to find them.

In the case of my young people serving as leaders, the familiar words of the Our Father were not so much an escape hatch from thoughtfulness but an inviting, warm place to go where the blessing they desired for their teammates could be conveyed with love. As they continue to grow and mature in their faith, they met God halfway, opening with some of their own words and then Christ’s words carry them the rest of the way. It’s a fine line between familiar prayer as a crutch and familiar prayer as an asset, but these kids embraced the words they knew by heart. They used familiar prayer as a way to orient their earnest desires for blessing toward the person for whom they prayed.

Five years ago, as my dad, brothers, and close family members encircled my dying mother, we were overcome with the emotions of saying goodbye to our most loved one. As she passed and we confronted the magnitude of grief in that moment, the only thing we knew for sure is that we wanted to pray. And as we babbled our way to a family blessing over our dear mother, my older brother found his way toward the Our Father and managed to get us praying together, “Our Father…”

There will always be moments when those familiar words come to mind out of convenience, lack of creativity, or even, God forbid, crowd control. But there are also times when the familiar words we know before thinking, or when we cannot even think, will draw us into prayer when we otherwise may not know how to get there. The Our Father comes to us as Jesus’ answer to his friends’ question about how we ought to pray. And this blessing from Jesus endures as a way for us to pray, especially when our own search for words may fall short and the words of Christ come when we may most need them.