Showing posts with label klejeski. Show all posts
Showing posts with label klejeski. Show all posts

Monday, July 9, 2018

Adulting Like a Child

by Jenny Lippert
(the now-married artist formerly known as Jenny Klejeski)

“Look at the birds in the sky;
they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns,
yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are not you more important than they?
Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span?”

-Matt. 6:26-27

My recent wedding brought with it an extended visit from my sisters and their families, meaning my parents’ house was taken over by 7 nieces and nephews, ages five weeks to seven years. There is a particular kind of joy and exhaustion that comes from over and over bumping down the stairs with a 2-year-old, or doing the same sleight-of-hand magic trick for the endlessly stupefied 4-year-old, or soothing a floppy 5-week-old, or repeatedly letting a toddler use your body as a jungle gym, climbing up and flipping upside down.


My oldest nephew, Linus, likes to express himself in superlatives. When I gave him a big push on the swing: “I didn’t think it was possible to go so high!” “I’m a cardinal! I’m a blue jay!” “This is the most fun I’ve ever had!” I think I could have pushed him on the swing 50 times in the same way, and each time would have been the “most fun” for him. He also enthusiastically declared my wedding cake as “the best wedding cake he had ever eaten!” and my wedding dance as “the most fun wedding dance ever!”

His fervent accolades made me giggle, but in another way, caused me to see life through the profoundly genuine, childlike eyes of a 7-year-old. His innocent sincerity made me realize that he really did mean that it was the most fun, or most delicious, or most {insert adjective}. There was a newness and a freshness to each experience for him—an acceptance of things as a wonder-filled gift. It also made me realize how often I use superlatives for cheap effect, as a means of getting a reaction from my audience or as a tired way of trying to imbue meaning into otherwise shallow experiences (e.g. “that is literally the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen,” “you are the worst,” etc. etc.). Reality, rather than being treated as God’s sacramental self-revelation, becomes an arbitrary occasion for me to express myself, to define myself and my own experience, to make of the world a closed-circuit of self-expression.

Linus and his expressions of childlikeness have been bouncing around in my mind in a particular way during these first few weeks of married life. Certainly, these days have been marked with the delighted realization of having joined my life to that of my best friend and the novel excitement of setting up our new home together. Newness is everywhere. But also creeping in are the subtle anxieties of unprecedented adult responsibilities, the desire to categorize and control, and the temptation to fear that I’ll be an inadequate wife.

I want to be the best wife, the best homemaker, the best teacher I can be. And the best Christian. That’s an overwhelming burden. It makes me feel at every moment as if I’m supposed to be doing something else, or being someone else, accomplishing some other goal which feels impossible. Out of this anxiety, I find myself neglecting how God is speaking to me in the moment while frenetically attending to fringe duties with a sense of panic and anxiety. In doing so, I forget entirely what it means to be a child of God, failing to receive the gift of God in the moment, failing to work with the methodical peacefulness and joy, alongside Christ, that life affords me when I approach it rightly. Jesus promises me peace, peace not as the world gives, but as He gives. And He promises it to a disciple still on the journey—to a still-growing child.

My new husband shares my nephew’s childlike tendency to speak in superlatives. Like my nephew, he doesn’t do this, I think, as a mere rhetorical device, but as an authentic expression of how he experiences reality. Just the other day, as we were driving home from dinner and admiring a beautiful sunset, he declared it “the most beautiful evening I can remember.” It was a beautiful evening, to be sure. Was it literally “the most beautiful evening?” Well, it didn’t strike me as so, but maybe that’s simply because I wasn’t paying attention. I wondered if I even had it as a mental possibility to experience things in superlatives anymore. I’ve experienced so many beautiful evenings; is it possible even to expect to have a most beautiful” one? Or do I just have a category for “beautiful evenings” now, that each new addition gets tossed into, without a moment’s appreciation of its uniqueness and possibility?

What to do about this?

In the Gospel reading at our wedding, Jesus commands, “learn from the way the wild flowers grow. They do not work or spin. But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them.” Jesus is inviting me to recognize myself as a flower, a lovely creature that he himself sustains. He is inviting me to enjoy the rains and the sunshine of his grace, and to know that His providence is providing for all that I need. He is inviting me to trust that, with His grace, He is gradually unfolding me, petal by petal into what He desires me to be. He wants me to pay attention to the gift of now and to allow now to be the now-iest now that ever now-ed.

"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
-Luke 12:32

Monday, June 4, 2018

The End of All Things

by Jenny Klejeski
Image result for book of the gospels

You know, sometimes the readings at Mass are strangely apropos.

Case in point: this past Friday, at our second to the last school Mass of the year, we heard from St. Peter,

“Beloved: The end of all things is close at hand.”

When I heard those words, I thought of the impending end of the school year, all my grades being due shortly, 8th grade graduation; I thought of going to get the keys to the new apartment the next day, marking the end of living in my childhood home; I thought of my last few weeks as a Klejeski and all the things that need to happen before then.

Not literally the end of all things, but okay, God--I’m listening.

“Therefore be serious and sober-minded
so that you will be able to pray.”


A good friend of mine recently asked me what he could pray for on my behalf. I thought about it for a moment and said, “attention.” I have realized that it is far too easy, in any season of life, but particularly in the especially busy ones to cease to pay attention, to drown in details, and just to lose perspective.

In the midst of end of year grading, it is easy to forget how blessed I am by my job, what wonderful students and co-workers I have, and even what a gift the mundane slog of assignments is.

When I am moving box after box of wedding shower presents into our new apartment, it is easy to forget about all the beautiful people who love us and are ushering us into married life with these gifts.

Even for two low-key people (or maybe I should say, especially for two low-key people), the process of wedding planning involves a lot of potentially stress-inducing details that distract from the real purpose of the whole process: i.e. receiving a SACRAMENT.

Perspective. Attention. Gratitude.

Image result for to do list“Above all, let your love for one another be intense,
because love covers a multitude of sins.
Be hospitable to one another without complaining.”


At my school, we have a virtue of the month that we focus on. My principal, in her wisdom, strategically made our virtue for this final month forgiveness. Life is messy--especially when people are involved--and I am grateful for the reminder to go gently, both with myself and others. As my students miss final deadlines, and I miss final deadlines, and there’s a miscommunication with our caterer, and we’re trying move a heavy couch up a narrow staircase in 90° heat, and my students are antsy to get out of the classroom, and I’m antsy to get out of the classroom, and so-and-so hasn’t RSVPed yet, and on and on and on…I am humbled by St. Peter’s exhortation.

Love. Love intensely. Don’t complain.

As each one has received a gift, use it to serve one another
as good stewards of God's varied grace.
Whoever preaches, let it be with the words of God;
whoever serves, let it be with the strength that God supplies,
so that in all things God may be glorified through Jesus Christ,
to whom belong glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen.


How often I can lament whatever task is before me as an “obligation” or something burdensome. How hopeful, then, are St. Peter’s words to help me realize that I have been not only entrusted with a task that is particular to me, but also been equipped to carry out that task. And all for God’s glory! What freedom!

And finally:

Beloved, do not be surprised that a trial by fire is occurring among you,
as if something strange were happening to you.
But rejoice to the extent that you share in the sufferings of Christ,
so that when his glory is revealed
you may also rejoice exultantly.


All of it--the struggles, the blessings, the joys, the mundanity--is a gift.

Monday, May 7, 2018

When God Gives You a Nickname

by Jenny Klejeski

“A slave does not know what his master is doing. I no longer call you slaves but friends, for I have revealed to you everything I have received from my Father in Heaven.”

In 47 days, God willing, my fiancĂ© and I are getting married.1 Now, I have never been married before, nor has my fiancĂ©, but I hear that this involves quite a few life changes. To be more precise, it’s a sharing of everything. It requires a lay-it-all-on-the-line commitment. You know, just small things.

This is signified in many ways, not least of which is changing my name.

In Scripture, a name change marked a new mission from God, a new identity in God, a new understanding of one’s relationship to God. It means a conversion, an acceptance of a vocation, a whole-life-game-changer. Abram became Abraham, Jacob became Israel, Simon became Peter, Saul became Paul2—and neither the person, nor the world was never ever the same again.

When I was baptized, I, Jennifer Marie, became a new creation in Christ. I became an alter Christus—another Christ—with a distinct vocation that can be fulfilled by no one but me. Later, when I was confirmed Francesca Pio, the gifts I received at Baptism were sealed in the Sacrament of Christian maturity. These signified my new status in the family of God—a supernatural change of identity.

Another "Squib."
There are natural changes of identity, too. I have been the recipient of many nicknames over the years. Among these pseudonyms are “Squib,” “Jenethian Puffercake,” “Jennitori, Jennitoque,” and to my dad, I’m “Squeaker.” Each nickname means a specific thing to a specific person. Each represents a memory, an inside joke, or a term of endearment. They are all part of my past, and are woven into my identity. Names are signs of relationship—agreed-upon symbols representing the mystery of the person him-or-herself.

When I take a vow before God and man in a few months, I will be accepting a new name—the name of my future husband—a name that I believe is given me by God—as a gift. It means to me an acceptance of a new mission in life, a profound call to radical self-gift, and a surrendering of my will to another.

“For this reason, a man leaves father and mother, and cleaves to his wife and the two shall become one flesh.” What’s worth it? What relationship could make me willing to leave my family name, everything associated with my old identity, and to be transformed one step further? What mission could God possibly offer me that would transcend the blessings of my childhood and young adulthood? Only a deeper share in the mystery of Christ’s love.

It seems to me that, deep down, Saul was always Paul and that, deep down, Simon was always Peter. Not that they couldn’t have rejected these new names and identities, of course, but that the potential for radically following Christ was always there for them. The name I take in marriage is one more step in becoming who I am, who God is calling me to be. It is taking my universal call to holiness and particularizing—incarnating—it. It is taking on the responsibility for my future husband’s salvation, and that of our children, God willing.

Christ is the model. In His mission, His marriage to the Church, He gives us HIS name along with Himself—we become what we receive, the Body of Christ.

So, in preparation for my name change, a prayer:

Saul-Paul—pray for me that I might be able to evangelize my husband and family in my thoughts, words and deeds, and to persevere in running the race and fighting the good fight.

Jacob-Israel—help me to wrestle in prayer with God and man so as to achieve the fullness of God’s plan for me, and for my family, regardless of obstacles and my own past (and future) failings.

Abram-Abraham—pray that I too, along with my husband, might be a source of life for all whom we meet—a figure and fountain-head of faith by putting God first in our lives and trusting in His promises, and not our own plans for life.

Simon-Peter—you rock. Pray for us and help us to follow Christ despite knowing it will cost us—and to follow Him unreservedly, without comparing ourselves to others, or asking God what we can expect, like mercenaries. Let us be lovers of God. Let us be lovers of God. Let us be lovers of God. And let us love Him more than these.


1 WHAAA?!!?



2 Though this was technically not a name change given him by God, we still generally refer to the pre-conversion man as “Saul” and the post-conversion man as “Paul.”

Monday, April 16, 2018

On Chreasters and God's Mercy

by Jenny Klejeski



"The creche is gone and all these lilies are here! It's a miracle!"
-The Chreasters' mystical experience, according to one of my professors.

A few years ago at Easter, I found myself particularly annoyed with the Chreaster (Christmas and Easter) Catholics. Writing that down makes me realize anew how horrible that is, but it's true. I'm not perfect.

My reaction to them was not unlike the semi-annual phenomenon that would take place in undergrad during finals week when all of the study spaces would be packed with people. Oh, *now* you feel like studying. How nice for you. Where were you all semester? And all those cozy nooks and crannies that I had called my own were filled with strangers, who—I don't know—had decided to stop fooling around or partying or whatever and get serious about their studies or something. Of course this was not true of everyone, but these were the thoughts in my stressed out, annoyed, sleep-deprived mind.

And I have sometimes experienced the same thing at Christmas and Easter. I have to come to Church early just to get a seat? Who are all these strangers? Is someone sitting in MY pew? Ugh...

Again, I'm not perfect.

I became self-conscious about my cynicism fairly early on and made a deliberate choice to be charitable. But even when I tried to do that, it was very disingenuous. Aw, that person keeps using the responses from the old translation; that's cute. It's so "great" that you're here!

And so, I prayed the only prayer that I could think of, which was "Lord, help me to see these people as you see them." And how does God see the person who hasn't been to Church in months, or years? As the prodigal. As the lost sheep. As the missing coin. With the unharnessed, unconditional joy of a child.

And who am I? The older brother, sulking outside because of some hurt sense of entitlement. The Levite, keeping a safe distance from the uncleanness. The rich young man, confused as to why my strict adherence to the law hasn't merited me eternal life.

I think of the parable of the workers in the vineyard.1 The workers come at various points in the day (at sunrise, the 3rd hour, 6th hour, 9th hour, and 11th hour) and work until sunset. Those who worked the shortest amount of time get paid first and get the full day's wage. The other workers are excited because they think this means they'll get even more than a full day's wage, but are upset when they get the exact same pay as those who worked the least. (Let me tell you, if you want to get a room of high schoolers worked up about the Bible, use this passage. They'll be mad.)

The Landowner in the parable has a wonderfully pointed response: "Friend, I am doing you no wrong; did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give to this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?"

And it's then that I realize YES! OF COURSE I AM ENVIOUS! Why the hell do I even bother if You're so generous??

I need to be reminded often that we're not Pelagians. No matter what I do, I cannot—by definition—earn grace. It's freely given. And it's just as freely given to me as the person who hasn't been to Church in months. The saving mystery of Christ our Passover slain for us, and His triumphant victory over death is proclaimed to all people of every nations, and not just those of us who have kept the pews warm on Sundays.

As John Chrysostom reminds us, “If any have tarried even until the eleventh hour, let him, also, be not alarmed at his tardiness; for the Lord, who is jealous of his honor, will accept the last even as the first; he gives rest unto him who comes at the eleventh hour, even as unto him who has wrought from the first hour.”2

Now, of course, none of this means that we shouldn't go to Church, or follow the law, or perform acts of charity, assuming that hey! God will give us a big party anyway, as long as we repent at the last minute. Grace is, as I said before, freely given. But it must be accepted. Grace is not imposed upon us against our will. We accept the gift of grace in our observance of the law, in our reception of the Sacraments, in our loving interactions with others. In so doing, I am properly disposed for the grace to take effect in my life. It's not pointless. It is efficacious.

But as soon as I start to tally up my works subconsciously, as soon as I check boxes, as soon as I find myself annoyed at the people at Church who haven't "earned" their spot there...That is when I have effectively put God, and His mercy, into a little box to fit my small-minded definition of what it ought to be. And thank God (literally) that His mercy is not that limited, because if it were, we'd all be screwed.


1 Matthew 20:1-16



2 Sermon by St. John Chrysostom

Monday, March 12, 2018

The Artificial and the Organic

by Jenny Klejeski

The first year I lived in Salt Lake City, our apartment was within walking distance of a park which, every Saturday morning from June to October, would be transformed into a spectacular farmers’ market. Interspersed between the rows and rows of fresh produce were local artists, musicians, and food trucks galore. It became a ritual of mine to meander around the farmers’ market on Saturday mornings after Mass. I rarely bought anything, but I loved to experience the variety of humanity. To me, as an introvert, there is something peculiarly life-giving about walking around a place full of people by myself.



Local pastries, honeys, kale, pluots, flowers, coffee, soaps, art, music—a veritable cornucopia of delights to the senses. Everything felt fresh and alive. Smells, sights, and sounds—all seemed orchestrated to be pleasing. People from all walks of life were there—families with little kids, young adults, old adults, farmers, city people, hippies, and hipsters. It was a microcosm of the pleasant parts of the city. I liked to wonder how it would feel to be a person carrying their cute, reusable bags to the market each week, buying local produce, cooking healthy things, composting, growing herbs in their kitchen….

Even more remarkable than the farmers’ market was the incredible transformation of the park. This neighborhood was on the edge of the gentrified area of Salt Lake City, home to a number of the homeless shelters. At any other time than the farmers’ market, this park is not a place that I would walk unaccompanied. It had earned the nickname of “wino park” because of the usual crowd of homeless people, some of whom drank. In fact, it’s one of the most concentrated areas of crime in the entire city—not so much because of the homeless people committing crimes, but because of criminals who prey on the homeless. Drug deals, violence, theft, and harassment are common activities there.

Astounding, then, the transformation to this clean, well-organized, respectable community event, at which people could support local business and be environmentally conscious.

I had never seen people setting up for the farmers’ market, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the process was like. Were the homeless people asked to leave? Were they physically forced? Did they just prefer to leave at a certain time, understanding that their presence wasn’t welcome?

However it happened, they didn’t go far. In looking for a parking spot, I would sometimes drive around the other side of a nearby complex of buildings, just out of sight of the market, and would find myself faced with a long line of homeless people. They were sitting on the sidewalks, stretching out for blocks and blocks and blocks. All of these people camped out, surrounded by their earthly possessions looked a bit like how I imagine a refugee camp.

Occasionally, there would be one or two homeless people who would dare to sit close to the market, even asking for food or money. The contrast was striking: a hungry person begging while surrounded by an abundance of healthy, inexpensive produce. It was clear that this was not produce for the poor but for the privileged. Sensing this disconnect beneath the clean, friendly façade bothered me. This simple, healthy living was cosmetic. The perfect, wholesome, integrated life that had seemed so attractive now seemed so empty, distasteful, and fake.

I know this tendency in myself, this tendency to push aside the more unpleasant social problems in order to live as I please. If I make a certain lifestyle my idol, does it prevent me from seeing the Christ in front of me? Do I dismiss the way Christ is really and truly incarnate before me in order to pursue a politically correct, pleasing, clean-living ideal exterior? Do I dismiss the hungry, thirsty, needy parts of others or myself, out of a desire to falsely idealize them, to deal only with the “civilized” parts—seeing only what I want to see? Do I refuse to see Christ in my brother and sister, when my brother or sister needs a bath, or a listening ear, or a handout? Do I reject the God who cried out “I thirst” in favor of the god of pleasant chance-acquaintances, small-talk, sound bites, pious, clean exteriors, and assumed privilege?

Yes, we would like to pretend we are “there” already, in our perfect utopia—that there is no more work to be done. And yes, the poor will always be with us, and to be confronted with them will disturb our sense of complacency, our guiltless self-indulgence. But if we pretend that they are not here—that there is not more work to be done—then we are deceiving ourselves and making sure that our illusion of the ideal life is just that—an illusion. And it will always be an illusion based on a self-serving lie, one with a desperate need to shut out the suffering Christ who is begging for our love. Don’t look away.

“Once, on being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, Jesus replied, ‘The coming of the kingdom of God is not something that can be observed, nor will people say, ‘Here it is,’ or ‘There it is,’ because the kingdom of God is in your midst.’” - Luke 17:20-21

Monday, February 12, 2018

Here. Now. Love.

by Jenny Klejeski
“Do whatever He tells you.” - John 2:5b
Mary made this simple request to the servers at the wedding in Cana. Her words feel very significant, particularly when taken on their own. In these words, I often hear a grand call, the emphasis falling on the word “whatever.” Whatever thing Jesus tells me to do, I must do; whatever sacrifices He calls me to make, I must make; whatever life He calls me to, I must live.

This is true. We owe God, literally, everything. And we should do whatever He tells us to do.

However, as I recently meditated on this episode in John’s Gospel, I thought about the recipients of this command and how perplexed they must have been. And, frankly, they were probably annoyed, too. Here, the waitstaff is facing an embarrassing catering crisis, and this woman gives a cryptic request without any explanation that they should do whatever her son tells them to do. Sure, lady.

And then comes Jesus’ actual request: fill up 6 stone basins (20-30 gallons each) with water—an arduous task, even by today’s standards, to say nothing of their lack of running water. This is the point at which I would say, “ummm….I’m going to need to speak to my supervisor.”

Now, I don’t intend to take liberties with the Scripture. Perhaps all of the servers reverently and piously followed Jesus’ requests with no questions asked and with hands folded devoutly; the Gospel does not indicate any protests from those involved. On the other hand, at this point in the Gospels, Jesus hadn’t shown Himself to be anyone special. This was to be His first (recorded) miracle. And here He was requesting something that was tedious and probably seemed pointless.

Regardless of what the servants were actually thinking, we do know that they fulfilled Jesus’ request. They were obedient. And what came of it? A glorious sign of God’s presence in our midst—a sign of God’s reign.

There is a story of St. Teresa of Calcutta in which a Jesuit priest named John Kavanaugh visited her in the sisters’ Home for the Dying in Kalighat. He asked Mother Teresa to pray for him that he would have clarity to know what God wanted him to do. Her firm response was “no.” He was taken aback; it seemed to him that Mother Teresa had an abundance of clarity for God’s will in what she was doing. She said, “I have never had clarity. What I have always had is trust. So I will pray that you trust God.”

When considering our vocations, we often want clarity. We want to know exactly what it is that God is calling us to. This likely comes from a very good intention to follow God. However, it is also linked to a desire, in our brokenness, to control. We want to know what is coming next. We want to see the plan. We want to know that we’re serving a purpose and going the right way. And when this is not clear to us, it is easy to feel discouraged, frustrated, and despondent. It may feel that we are missing our calling.

Caryll Houselander addresses this very fear: “Sometimes it may seem to us that there is no purpose in our lives, that going day after day for years to this office or that school or factory is nothing else but waste and weariness. But it may be that God has sent us there because but for us, Christ would not be there. If our being there means that Christ is there, that alone makes it worthwhile.”

Through the mundane, the painful, the frustrating, the seemingly pointless, say yes anyway. Nothing is wasted if we love. It is from small obediences that God calls forth great abundance. Do not be afraid that you are missing your vocation or that you ought to be somewhere else. Trust that your vocation is wherever you are.

Rather than longing for the whatever that we want to be called to, let’s ask for the courage to listen for the still, small voice saying, “Here. Now. Love.”

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Beauty beyond Aesthetics

by Jenny Klejeski

Perhaps you, like me, have participated in discussions regarding beauty in the liturgy. Perhaps, also, it has been your experience that these conversations often devolve into superficial arguments about the right vestments to be used, the type of music that is appropriate, and whether or not we should hold hands at the Our Father. Of course, these discussions have a place, as nothing in the Christian liturgy should be seen as incidental. However, when the argument deteriorates into the “progressive” Catholics accusing the “traditional” Catholics of being out-of-touch, materialistic, and stodgy and the “traditionals” accusing the “progressives” of being touchy-feely, modernist, and iconoclastic, the point has been missed entirely.

In considering the role of beauty in the liturgy, I would like to look at beauty as more than merely aesthetics—rather as an unseen reality that finds expression in the visible. The invisible God is in Himself, Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, and yet we only know of these things through concrete manifestations. The Vatican II document Sacrosanctum Concilium states that within the Church “the visible [is directed and subordinated to] the invisible” (§ 2). The document does not say that what is visible is unimportant, arbitrary, or unnecessary, but only that what is visible must be ordered toward the invisible.

Humans are both physical and spiritual beings. It is natural for our brains to respond positively to that which is aesthetically pleasing, but we also know instinctively that true beauty is something that goes deeper than externals. If you were to show this picture of Mother Teresa to any number of people and ask them if them if it is beautiful, I think you would be hard-pressed to find someone who said no, not simply because people are afraid of being perceived as wicked, but because they actually perceive something beautiful in it, even if they have difficulty naming that beauty.



If this image is beautiful to us, we must concede that external beauty (at least as it is commonly defined by society) is not the only measure of true beauty. What we see here is a moment of love–a tender embrace, a concerned expression, a certain humble simplicity. And, of course, most people who see the iconic face of Mother Teresa immediately call to mind what they know of her: a life of service that witnessed to a great inner beauty.

If you were to perform a similar experiment with a picture of St. Damien of Molokai, you would perhaps have a different experience.



The natural instinct when looking on this picture of the leprosy-stricken Damien is probably pity, perhaps even disgust. While his story is somewhat known among Catholics, his face is likely not recognized by most (in contrast to the image of Mother Teresa). If, however, one is to learn Fr. Damien’s story–how he devoted his life to the care of the lepers of Molokai, how he offered hope to the outcast, how he sacrificed himself in service to others–perhaps, then, one would admit the image to be beautiful. The horrible deformities on his skin, the pained look on his face, the cage under his clothing, are all marks of love. As we learn his story, our idea of beauty shifts. The internal, invisible reality of sacrificial love that Fr. Damien lived out became incarnate through the scars borne on his body.

Beauty, then, it seems can present itself paradoxically. That which at first does not strike as beautiful can become so when paired with Truth and Goodness. This is what Christ shows us in the Eucharist; there is nothing spectacular or eye-catching in what appears to be a small circle of bread. And yet, we know in faith that it is through the liturgy that “the work of our redemption is accomplished” (SC §2). The invisible reality of our redemption, the highest love, the most beautiful Truth, is made visible in Christ.



This image is, by most standards, repulsive. There is nothing externally beautiful about a man covered in wounds, nearly naked, suspended by nails in his hands. Those of us who know the story, however, and have been touched by the reality it expresses, recognize the most profound beauty of this image. It is Beauty incarnate.

Christianity, in its own paradoxical way, asks us to reexamine our paradigm of beauty. It does not ask us to abandon what we know by instinct is beautiful–the symmetrical, the proportional, the grand. Rather, it asks that we expand our definition of beauty. It is not a matter of either/or, but both/and.

Is beauty necessary in Christian liturgical practice? If, by beauty, is meant our feeble (though admittedly important) efforts to add material beauty to the liturgy, then no. We should always strive for the externals of the liturgy to worthily express the unseeable reality; however, even the most transcendent painting, the most ethereal singing, the most beautifully orchestrated motions cannot amply express the beauty inherent in the work of our salvation. The most ornate and the most sparse liturgies are both beautiful, by virtue of the fact that we have partaken in the work of our salvation.

Monday, December 18, 2017

Waiting in Darkness

by Jenny Klejeski
“Advent is the season of the secret, the secret of the growth of Christ, of Divine Love growing in silence.” - Caryll Houselander, The Reed of God
There are few sights that fill my heart with hope more than a lit sanctuary lamp.

In college, I would often wear myself ragged with studying into the wee hours of the night. I would trudge from the library back to my dorm in the dark, across long, open quads, weighed down by my backpack and mild existential despair. Sometimes I would come back so late that the first birds of the morning would be merrily whistling away, even though it would still be dark out for several more hours. Upon hearing them, I didn’t know whether to laugh or to curse.

Regardless of how tired I was, I would always make a brief visit to the chapel of my dorm—the Chapel of the Annunciation—which was conveniently located right off the entryway. Shuffling in and genuflecting, the stillness and silence of the space cut through the noise of my bulky winter coat, clumsy boots, and overfilled backpack. In those dark nights, the only light visible was the lit sanctuary lamp, casting bold, red warmth against the darkness.



These visits to the chapel were rarely a consolation to me on a natural level. I still felt weary and stressed out and overwrought. But there was a deeper consolation in those moments. I was receiving something supernatural. I found hope in His constancy. He was—even at that late hour—still waiting up for me to come see Him.

During Advent, as the days become shorter and often busier, I think of these moments in my dorm chapel, these brief moments of vigilance, of waiting to receive something, of hoping for a coming—for an encounter—in the midst of my anxieties.

The Presence of Christ concealed in the tabernacle, and signaled by the sanctuary lamp, is a poignant image of Advent to me. It is like the Christ in utero, hidden in the body of his mother, small, silent, unknown, yet powerful. It is the image of the Messiah Who does not swoop in to solve all my worldly problems, but rather makes Himself known in silence and hiddenness and constancy. And Who wishes to find a home within myself as He did in Mary.

He shows us the power of weakness and vulnerability and smallness. He reveals the richness in poverty, the beauty in simpleness, the fullness in self-emptying. The God of all the Universe comes in the form of a tiny wafer, hidden in a box. And before that, as a tiny child, hidden in the womb of His mother.

Caryll Houselander beautifully writes, “The psalmists had hymned Christ’s coming on harps of gold. The prophets had foretold it with burning tongues. But now the loudest telling of His presence on earth was to be the heartbeat within the heartbeat of a child.” What was asked of Mary was her humanity, which gave Christ His humanity. Bones, blood, cartilage, skin, all organizing themselves (literally) within her, a vital, mysterious, silent, life-giving force.

Christ comes to us in the Eucharist, small, silent, vulnerable, and asks the same of us as He asked of Mary—he asks for our humanity. He requires our fiat in order to give Him shape and form in the world. “We are all asked if we will surrender what we are, our humanity, our flesh and blood, to the Holy Spirit and allow Christ to fill the emptiness formed by the particular shape of our life” (Houselander). He desires to come into the secret of our hearts to teach us wisdom, a wisdom that is foolishness in the eyes of a world that always has more for us to do or worry about. It is the wisdom of smallness, of silence. It is the wisdom of a power not our own.
“In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” - Luke 1:78

Monday, November 20, 2017

The Creed and Our Mundane Martyrdoms

by Jenny Klejeski

Martyrdom comes up with surprising frequency in my classes (particularly given that I teach English). Young people, in my experience, have a particular fascination with the topic. Most recently, a discussion in my 7th-grade class arose on the feast of the dedication of St. John Lateran as I described the larger-than-life statues of the apostles, who each hold the symbol of their martyrdom. We talked about the various martyrdoms of the apostles, the favorite, of course, being St. Bartholomew, who is often depicted holding his own skin because he was flayed alive. (“EEWWWWW!!!”)

I always try to walk the line between “keeping Catholicism weird” and not becoming fixated on the morbid. When the conversation falls too far into the realm of “Ms. Klejeski, what’s the grossest way to die?” I like to redirect to the conversation to the meaning of the word “martyr,” which literally means “witness.” What were these people witnessing to? Why do we depict them with the instruments of their martyrdom? Not because we have a bizarre obsession with torture and execution; in fact, we morally condemn those things. If we become too preoccupied with the signs themselves, they can become idols of voyeurism. Rather, the martyrs hold the instruments of their martyrdom as a sign of victory, as a sacramental. These witnesses are silently proclaiming that their faith was stronger than the most abhorrent things that the world can conjure up—that nothing was able to separate them from the love of God.

I also like to remind my students that the path to sainthood is not a one-time decision, but is made up of hundreds of fiats (“yeses”) made again and again every day. 1 It is a matter of denying oneself, taking up one’s cross, and following Christ each day. The martyrs were able to hold fast to the Creed in their final moments because they lived the creed every day. They could say “yes” to God under torture and death because they had been saying “yes” to Him in small ways each day, over and over.

The creed is a funny thing. It’s a beautiful statement of our beliefs, the entire story of salvation history, the sign for which hundreds of thousands of men and women have sacrificed their lives….and yet it’s the part of Mass during which I almost inevitably zone out.

What does it mean to say “I believe” in the Creed? After all, I can ascribe these words to lots of things. “I believe 2+2=4.” “I believe the Earth is round.” “I believe my mom loves me.” etc. etc. Are these statements of belief the same as when I say “I believe in God the Father Almighty…”?

The Catechism beautifully tells us that “[t]o say the Credo with faith is to enter into communion with God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and also with the whole Church” (CCC §197, emphasis mine). Thus, to pray these words of the Creed, is not merely to give intellectual assent to a list of lifeless propositions, but actually to enter into the life of God.

Faith is both a divine gift and a human act. Similar to a human relationship, one person extends an invitation to another person, and that other person must freely choose to accept the offer. There is no scientific proof that a person is being authentic in their desire for friendship. If a person says “I love you,” it requires an act of faith 2 to believe them and say “I love you, too.”

So, too, God extends to us friendship through His Church. And my saying “I believe” in the Creed is to accept that invitation. In a way, our statement of belief on Sundays is akin to marriage vows. We publicly profess our acceptance of God’s invitation to relationship.

So, too—as with marriage—the “yes” that we give in public must necessarily be substantiated in our day-to-day life. The “yes” given between bride and groom manifests itself as the “yes” of changing diapers and visiting extended family and paying bills and long nights and any number of small deaths to self. The “yes” that we give to God on Sundays must manifest itself as hundreds of little “yeses,” little deaths to self, wherein we witness to, and become martyrs for, the Love in which we believe.


1 This is an idea that I’ve written about before.



2 FOOTGranted, this act of faith in another person is categorically different than faith in God, but the analogy stands.

Monday, October 30, 2017

That One Time I Was Perfect

by Jenny Klejeski
“Be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect.” -Matt. 5:48
This command of Jesus has often produced in me a sinking feeling of discouragement.

Me? Perfect? C’mon, Jesus -- you know me better than that.

It seems an impossible command.

Then I begin to wonder: would Jesus ask something impossible of me?

There becomes a temptation to qualify his words. Well, maybe he meant “try” to be perfect, or “strive” for perfection.

But that’s not what he said. The words of Thomas Aquinas (translated by G. M. Hopkins) come to mind here: “What God's Son has told me, take for truth I do; Truth Himself speaks truly or there's nothing true.” Now, certainly there are certain things that Jesus said that we can wonder about. When He says that the Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, we can wonder what He means by that. There is a wealth of fruitful interpretations of parables.

In this case, though, coming at the end of the Sermon on the Mount, it doesn’t seem like there’s much room for interpretation. And any attempt to dilute the text feels uncomfortably like eisigesis, imposing my own meaning on Jesus’ words in order to make them more comfortable for me to hear.

My hearing of this Scripture totally changed this summer when I heard it presented during my Catechesis of the Good Shepherd training.1 In one type of lesson, a saying of Jesus (called a maxim) is presented and reflected upon. The second maxim given in the schedule of presentations is “Be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect.” One of the first questions our instructor asked after reading the above maxim was, “have you ever been perfect?” My first response in my head was, “no, of course not,” but someone else chimed in, “yes--at our Baptism!”

WOAH. Of course! Now, it certainly wasn’t a revelation to me that we become perfect at our Baptism, that we are totally cleansed of original and committed sin, that we become a new creation in Christ. But I had never before connected this reality with Jesus’ command about perfection.

Maybe I’ve been approaching this passage wrong all along. Maybe the perfection Jesus is calling me to is not something that I achieve if I work really, really hard. Maybe, rather, this perfection is a gift that I receive, not through my own effort, but through the Lord’s totally gratuitous love. Maybe the perfection does not originate in my own merit, but is completely received from the One Who perfects all things.

And being a part of the Body of Christ, I am, already, a “saint” in a true, though yet imperfectly realized way. 2 The Church is, paradoxically, both unfailingly holy and constantly being sanctified. I think what I too often forget is that this process of sanctification is not a work of man, but wholly a work of grace.

With our culture’s constant emphasis on doing, there is an impoverished sense of being and receiving. There is a tendency to think that everything rests on our shoulders and that the work of our salvation is something we have to do. Perhaps the only doing we need is to become what we are.


1 I’ve written about CGS previously on this blog. You can also get more information about it here.



2 CCC 823

Monday, September 18, 2017

Filthy Catharsis

by Jenny Klejeski

Perhaps you are aware, if you’re inclined to follow such things, of the ongoing feud between Taylor Swift and Kanye West (and, apparently between Taylor Swift and most people). I, because I am not inclined to follow such things, was unaware until a few weeks ago. My younger (and cooler) brother who helps me keep up with the better--or at least more interesting--parts of pop culture wanted me to watch the lyric video for Taylor Swift’s new song “Look What You Made Me Do.

I’m not qualified to offer an in-depth commentary on the song or the story behind it, 1 but it’s quite obviously a dark turn of style and content for Swift. She even coldly states in the song that the “Old Taylor” is dead and satirizes her past self as seeming naive and fake. The overall tone of the song is vindictive and sinister as she throws shade at just about everyone, including herself.

It’s not my purpose here to make a judgment about Swift or her music, per se. The reason I bring it up is because I was reminded of it during the Gospel reading at Mass a few Sundays ago.

Jesus says, "If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have won over your brother.” 2

It struck me that, though what Jesus commands is common sense, it is so incredibly countercultural. In an age of celebrity worship, it seems there is nothing people enjoy more than the schadenfreude they feel at someone’s downfall. If you are in the spotlight in any capacity--whether as an athlete, a politician, a religious leader, an actor, a musician--there will likely be little compassion if you slip up. And even if you don’t, someone will probably make up a story that you did.

While this tendency is not peculiar to our generation, 3 I would still argue that there has been an explosion of this type of content with the advent of television, and now social media, which provide us with entire structures dedicated to lurid busybodyness. Tabloids, reality shows, and social media outlets all stand to make money on our desire to know who’s cheating on whom, who just got checked into rehab, who’s got a kinky past, who came out as gay, etc., etc., etc.

It’s not unlike our compulsion to rubberneck at an accident scene. We find it difficult to look away when something bad is unfolding, but rarely do we stop to see if we can help.

Why do we do this? Why are people so obsessed with watching the ruin of other people?

I’m sure there are a number of psychological studies on such phenomena that could give us an insight, but I would like to posit that this propensity simply stems from a desire for catharsis. We live in a broken world with fractured relationships and fragile peace, and we often carry the weight of that within ourselves. We seek to relieve some of that pressure by blaming. Brene Brown has a short, entertaining video about blame in which she describes blame as “simply the discharging of discomfort and pain,” which has an “inverse relationship to accountability.” Basically, to blame gives us a sense of catharsis.



Even though we want to experience emotional catharsis, we are often not willing to deal with our own relationships or our own authentic emotions; rather we ogle the mistakes or misfortunes of others. There is a kind of voyeurism to it. We engage in a kind of unholy cultural scapegoating that distracts and numbs us, that offers us some sort of release, while disregarding the human dignity of the people involved. In some way, it’s unsurprising to me how pornography has become such an epidemic because, really, it’s just the same process applied to sexuality.

Our culture runs after license (what is mistakenly considered “freedom”) with a voracious appetite; the right to do whatever we want, whenever we want, with whomever we want is guarded at all costs. This culture, however, is also devoid of forgiveness. If you make a mistake with your “freedom,” it’s game over. Once your reputation is dead, there is no resurrection, except perhaps a kind of undead existence as you find ways to pull your enemies down with you.



Cardinal Francis George once wrote, “The world permits everything and forgives nothing. God and the Church do not permit everything but forgive everything.”4 The truth offered by the Church, though, is one of true freedom. Not permission to do whatever we want, but a freedom that leads us to our real telos. And when we sin--as we all have--we are offered mercy, offered resurrection. Christ is the one Who gives us true cleansing, real healing, genuine catharsis. Rather than leering at the sins of others, and airing our grievances loudly, let us cast our cares upon Him Whose yoke is easy and burden light.




1 In preparation for writing this post, I attempted to educate myself about the Swift-West vendetta via youtube and wanted to gouge my eyes out after about 4 minutes.



2 Matthew 18:15



3 In Confessions, Augustine describes a similar phenomenon, both in his love for the theatre (Bk 3, Ch 2), and in his friend Alypius’ love of gladiatorial games (Bk 6, Ch 8). He cautions against both things, concluding that they are both empty spectacles that cause us to experience negative emotions for no particular end.



4 There are a number of variations of this quotation floating around that make it difficult to verify, but the sentiment still stands.

Monday, August 21, 2017

The Slow, Painful Death of Martyrs

by Jenny Klejeski


Without sacrifice there is no love.   –St. Maximilian Kolbe

I think anyone who was raised in a Christian tradition must have, at some point or another, day dreamed about being martyred. Perhaps this was my own macabre pastime, but I’m guessing others shared in this activity. How could we not? We’re told these stories of heroic virtue: the early Christians fed to the lions, Joan of Arc burnt at the stake, Isaac Jogues hacked to death by a tomahawk, and maybe when we were older, Agatha whose breasts were cut off. They’re hero stories–they’re meant to inspire courage. It’s not for nothing that we keep telling these stories over and over again (even ones with dubious historical credibility). And just as we do when we hear any hero story (Christian or secular), we ask ourselves the question, “what would I have done in that situation?”

This is not a bad question to ask per se, but doesn’t it miss the point of these stories?

The feast of St. Maximilian Kolbe (which we celebrated a week ago), always reminds me of a homily I heard several years ago on his feast day. The gist of the homily was this: Maximilian Kolbe would not have been able to sacrifice his life for the other man in Auschwitz had he not been practicing it his whole life. In other words, we tend to think of the heroic sacrifice of Maximilian Kolbe (and other martyrs) as grand, isolated events, when in reality, they are simply the logical culmination of a life of sacrifice.

This, I believe, is much more convicting than the idea that martyrs simply made one major decision for Christ at the very end of their lives. It shifts the question from the entertaining, day-dream hypothetical “if I were faced with death by [lethal injection/firing squad/burning at the stake/beheading/gladiatorial games/etc.] for the sake of Christ, would I accept it?” about which we probably concoct a heart-wrenching scene, and to which we will probably answer ‘yes,’ depending on how pious we’re feeling on a given day. Perhaps we share the sentiment of Flannery O’Connor’s unnamed girl in “A Temple of the Holy Ghost:” “She could never be a saint, but she thought she could be a martyr if they killed her quick.”

Instead, the real, much more mundane (and yet somehow more gut-wrenching) question that the actual lives of the martyrs should prompt us to think on is “what am I doing right now to die for Christ?” If a martyr is a witness for Christ, how am I dying so as to witness to Christ? This is where real martyrdom lies. It is a movement away from an individualized spirituality and pride-masked-as-sacrifice. It is continual death to self. Slowly and painfully chipping away my wants and whims so as to be filled with self-effacing, self-emptying love. And as we practice self-denial in the small, everyday matters, we find ourselves more ready and able to say an obedient ‘yes’ when the stakes are higher.

Christopher Nolan’s latest movie Dunkirk explores this very idea. The film recounts the events that took place in the French village of Dunkirk during the Second World War when the British army, surrounded by the Germans, attempted to evacuate their troops. Nolan’s take on this event is fascinating because he chooses not simply to give an historical tribute to the affair, but rather to create a character-focused masterpiece.

The story takes place through three different perspectives: the battle in the sky, in the sea, and on the beach. Nolan creates a sense of suspenseful waiting and eerie monotony by having scarce dialogue as troops on the beach helplessly await rescue. These long stretches of monotony are harshly interrupted by violent outbursts of bombs, torpedoes, and machine gun fire.

Nolan’s portrayal of the event is much less about an historical event and much more about the choices that lie within every human heart. Yes, there are certainly great acts of heroic self-sacrifice (martyrdoms of a sort), but the majority of the characters are incapable of actually doing anything. They’re trapped in Dunkirk, waiting—hoping—to be rescued by some external force. And other characters, who are in the midst of making heroic choices, are given every reason and every opportunity to turn back. There is a great drama to even the most mundane moments of the film as you see the characters make choices out of great selfishness or out of great love, and these choices impact their capacity for heroism.

In some ways, this is what we all face. We’re all in need of an external, transcendent salvation and we all have choices to make in the interim. We can choose what is self-serving or what is self-emptying. And while we may crave to perform a grand, heroic act, it’s probably not what we’re called to at this moment. I’m willing to be burned at the stake, yes, but somehow emptying the dishwasher without recognition seems impossible. Probably because the latter is real. In For the Life of the World, Alexander Schmemann warns against the temptation to oversimplify the drama of our redemption to one moment:
“The fight of the new Adam against the old Adam is a long and painful one, and what a naive oversimplification it is to think, as some do, that the ‘salvation’ they experience in revivals and ‘decisions for Christ,’ and which result in moral righteousness, soberness and warm philanthropy, is the whole of salvation, is what God meant when He gave His Son for the life of the world. The one true sadness is ‘that of not being a saint,’ and how often the ‘moral’ Christians are precisely those who never feel, never experience this sadness, because of their own ‘experience of salvation,’ the feeling of ‘being saved’ fills them with self-satisfaction; and whoever has been ‘satisfied’ has already received his reward and cannot thirst and hunger for that total transformation and transfiguration of life which alone makes ‘saints (79, emphasis mine).
If we desire the crown of sainthood, we can’t wait to be thrown to the lions or asked at gunpoint if we believe in Christ. It begins today. Wherever we are, whomever we’re with, however silently and unseen. Mary’s glorious Assumption required her quiet fiat. Let us ask her intercession to spare us from the ‘one true sadness:’ that of not being a saint.

A version of this post first appeared under the same title on I Smile, Of Course in 2016.

Monday, July 17, 2017

Confessions from Undergrad

by Jenny Klejeski

I have a confession to make:
I did not love my college experience.

Let me go further to say that I believe my college experience, in many ways, was destructive to me as a human being. For much of it, I was quite unhappy, unhealthy, and anxious.

Before I say more, let me clarify what I don’t mean. I don’t mean that I’m not immensely grateful for the opportunities afforded me by my education (and grateful for the chance to even have an education in the first place). I don’t mean that I don’t value the friendships I made, the things I learned, the professors I had, and many of the things I experienced. I’m not even bitter about the tremendous amount of debt that I accrued (honestly).

So, what was it that made me so discontented those four years? And why do I think it’s worth mentioning now?

To put it simply, I was seeking an experience rather than an education. And in some ways, I missed out on both. I didn’t really understand what I was at college to do, and that lack of purpose and the places where I (wrongly) looked for that purpose led me to some deep unhappiness. The reason I’m writing about it now is not simply because it was my experience, but because I believe it belies a deeper crisis in higher education that needs to be brought to light.

In order to better understand this problem, allow me to paint a picture of my high school self. I was your average over-achiever (is that an oxymoron?), taking college classes at our local community college, participating in extracurriculars, volunteering at my Church, etc. And for the most part, I was doing these things for the right reasons; I did them because I was interested and I wanted to.

As high school went on, ambition began to creep in. Perfectly innocent ambition, too. What did I want to do after high school? Go to the University of Notre Dame, of course!

So, what did I need to do in order to apply for my very competitive dream school? Guard my 4.0 a little more closely. Tally up my various extracurriculars, awards, and service experiences. Try to add a few more into my schedule to pad my transcript. Write essays about my passions and aspirations. Actually study for standardized tests.

I needed to define myself in terms of my accomplishments. Now, this is not a bad thing in and of itself; this is just part of interacting with the world. But let me say this: in the process of receiving two letters of rejection from Notre Dame, I learned very well how to define myself by my accomplishments. How to guard my GPA much more zealously. How to make time for yet another extracurricular to prove how well-rounded I am. How to write eloquent, convincing essays about how much I really wanted a more rigorous education.

By the time I was actually accepted as a student at Notre Dame halfway through sophomore year, I didn’t know how to do anything other than achieve at a high level all. the. time. I felt as though I had spent the past several years trying to convince people that I could achieve this thing and now that I had been given the opportunity, I needed to work doubly hard to prove it. Besides having the “transfer student inferiority complex” (i.e. thinking that basically everyone here was smarter than me because they got in the first try), I fed into the cultural narrative that these were supposed to be some of the best years of my life—that I needed to try (ALL THE) new things—that I needed to figure out definitively my passion in life.

As the rigor of my academics increased, as I took on more and more leadership roles, as I looked for opportunities to figure out what I wanted to do in life, I slept less, ate less, and had less of a social life. By my senior year I was president of the Liturgical Choir, secretary of The Children of Mary club, on the planning committee for a the Edith Stein Conference, had an internship at Ave Maria Press, had two work study jobs (one at the Law School and another in Campus Ministry), and was finishing up a double major in English and theology. While none of these things was bad of itself, It’s no wonder that off the top of my head I can count at least a dozen distinct locations that I pulled all-nighters. I was anxious and stressed out constantly. I had embraced the persona of the frazzled, exhausted intellectual—a martyr to my studies and activities.

Thankfully, through God’s grace and the help of friends, I stayed close to the Sacraments during undergrad—attending Mass every day, making Chapel visits, going to Confession—and was eventually able to emerge from that darkness. But many do not have the positive support I had. It’s unsurprising to me that we see such high rates of anxiety, depression, casual sex, drug and alcohol use, and suicide in college-age people when we, as a culture, have demanded an unsustainable lifestyle.1

My purpose in writing this is not to elicit sympathy or air grievances. I write this to point out that we have a major problem in our educational system. We have lost a sense of education as being an activity of leisure. Not leisure as a “time off” or a “break,” but leisure as the state in which contemplation of higher things is made possible. In Leisure, The Basis of Culture, Josef Pieper remarks that the “‘liberality’ or ‘freedom’ of the liberal arts consists in their not being disposable for purposes, that they do not need to be legitimated by a social function, by being ‘work.’” In other words, the real purpose of a liberal arts education is not a utilitarian one. The liberal arts are meant to be an end in and of themselves. Our problem is that we have fed into the lie that the only things worth doing are things that can be commodified. The liberal arts have become a victim of the transactionally-minded meritocracy we live in.

The English word “school” comes (through the Latin) from the Greek word for “leisure.” An institution of higher learning ought to be a place in which, born of true leisure, students are given the opportunity to contemplate truth, goodness, and beauty simply because, in itself, it is a worthy pursuit. Many people (myself included) miss out on this precious gift because we prioritize “experiences” over education and fill our lives with so much activity that we have left no room for contemplation. Study must retake its place as the primary vocation of the student.

Schools are producing students who are capable of achieving and doing, but are incapable of being and contemplating. I can’t propose an easy solution to this problem. It’s a complex issue whose roots run deep in the American educational system. But it’s a conversation that we need to be having.


1 Editor's note from Dan: The casual sex and hookup culture on college campuses is oddly self-perpetuating because of social norms and perceptions. This podcast from NPR's Hidden Brain pulls back the curtain and points out how only a small number of people are actually comfortable with this weird and backwards culture.

Monday, June 26, 2017

The Restless Hearts on... Social Media

In "The Restless Hearts on...", we as a community of writers will tackle a topic or question communally, weighing in together in conversation. We'll offer a discussion like this every so often, and we invite your suggestions for topics/questions to discuss. Send them along to Dan via email or Twitter. In the second installment, we discuss the social media:

In installment number two of “The Restless Hearts on…”, I wanted to put the realities of social media to the group. We are constantly connected to each other in so many more ways than before, taking the old limited norms of face-to-face meetings, phone calls, and letters/telegrams and cranking it up to include Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, FaceTime/Skype, and so many more. As bloggers, we try to utilize social media in positive ways but are certainly still vulnerable to its pitfalls and shortcomings. So I asked the group:


What's the point of social media? What are its implications for our spirituality, relationships, and community?


Rob:

I don’t think social media is inherently bad. I think there are, however, two significant problems it presents. I’ma call these the “False Self Problem” and the “Echo Chamber Problem.”

The “False Self Problem” is the tendency, whether intentionally or unintentionally, to fabricate a false self by carefully curating an online persona that is, at best, a warped version of who I actually am. On one level, I think that this is kind of unavoidable—@rgoody33 isn’t actually Rob Goodale, because I only tweet my cleverest thoughts and my most beautiful or attractive photos, and @rgoody33 is therefore a much better, cooler, and smarter person than Rob Goodale, even though @rgoody33 is kind of a fictional character.

Though this is both real and a problem, I don’t think it’s a particularly damaging one—we do this with in-person interactions, too, after all. I try to only speak my cleverest thoughts, and try to wear clothes and have hygienic standards that make me seem beautiful and attractive. The problem, in my estimation (and this is one that is particularly significant for the teenagers and young adults we all work with) is when no attempt at authentic or honest representation is made, or when deception becomes a conscious and intentional decision. The most extreme examples of this would be cat fishing (RIP, Lennay Kekua) or identity fraud, but we don’t need to be that drastic or sensational to acknowledge that, as a rule, online profiles should accurately represent a real-life identity.

The “False Self Problem” undercuts the possibility of cultivating authentic relationships or creating intentional community, because it implicitly encourages a cognitive and emotional connection with something that’s not real as if it were real. Anecdotally, it also seems like the “False Self Problem” could have a negative impact on self-esteem and identity formation, especially for young people.

The “Echo Chamber Problem” is a bit different. No matter what social media platform I'm using, there’s a tendency to populate my own feed with people who are like me in their thoughts, their interests, their values, even their sense of humor. I’m not here for Sean Hannity or Rush Limbaugh on Twitter, nor am I here for high school classmates still posting their Farmville updates to Facebook.

The danger here is that I segment my community, systematically removing people who are going to make me angry, sad, or confused. Now, on one level, that doesn’t seem all that bad—this also happens in real life, after all, and building community in this way doesn’t seem sinister or dangerous. But on a deeper level, barring from my circle of people those who think differently sounds an awful lot like discrimination.

Moreover, the “Echo Chamber Problem” leads to ignorance and confirmation bias. If all of my people on social media say that Notre Dame is going to win 10 games this fall, or that Des Moines is one of the top five cities for young professionals, I’m going to believe that this is true, whether it is or not. I think we’re seeing this problem play out in the political sphere as we speak, with far-right news media outlets like Fox News, Breitbart, and InfoWars accusing mainstream media outlets such as the New York Times, Washington Post, and major television networks of circulating false narratives about President Trump, his campaign, and his administration. If all of my information about the world is coming from one side of this narrative, then anyone on the “other side” seems to be trading in absurdity and conspiracy. Social media can exacerbate this problem, too. The solution, I think, is to make a conscious effort to fight the “Echo Chamber Problem” by choosing to follow people who don’t always confirm my own notions about the world. This is very hard to do.

Sorry for the long diatribe. Thoughts?

Dan:

Ditto to the "False Self Problem." I think social media attracts heavy usage because we are the curators not only of the content we consume but also the content we produce. We don't have to share anything; instead, we choose to share those parts of ourselves that are most attractive, most witty, most cheeky, most informed. In short, we create an image of ourselves that we want others to see. Sometimes, this can be rather harmless, perhaps for users who mainly are just sharing some photos or periodic life updates; other times, this can facilitate the creation of a facade that may or may not reflect the authentic person behind it. A dangerous implication of this is the control we gain. I can see, both in myself and others, the desire to control the timing, manner, and subject of everything I consume, which is wholly impractical and has to be unhealthy. Teenagers, among other heavy users, struggle to adjust to a non-controlled, non-curated version of the world -- you know, the real one. Intensive, super-frequent use of such a medium skews perception so significantly.

I think a wider implication beyond the apps and feeds themselves is the impact social media can have on relationships. I think the strength of this technology comes when it gives us complementary ways to interact and complementary ways to create and sustain relationships, a way to bridge the gap between face-to-face meetings or between lengthy phone catch-up's; I think its downfall is when it becomes the way that we interact and relate. As I see the number of media proliferate -- and as I scratch my head at people who Snapchat when they could simply text or people who FaceTime when a standard phone call is certainly sufficient -- I feel that even as we gain more ways to connect to each other, we simultaneously gain more ways to ignore each other. This is so evident when you see someone's home screen is full of red notification numbers or their lock screen is full of notifications or they’re blitzing through Snapchat stories at an alarming rate; it becomes white noise that fades into the background or a box to check to ensure an interaction has been "made," to get a read receipt or checkmark back to the sender but to do nothing to actually receive the message and respond specifically to the person. I come real close to verbal confrontation when I see people rifle through Snapchat messages and stories with such speed that it's impossible that they've actually gained anything in interaction or relationship via this absolute compulsion.

I'll get more positive as we work through this, I promise.

Dave:

My issue with social media is that it becomes idolatrous in the worst possible ways; while it is a mere thing, it seems potentially a bit more dangerous than most things in how readily it replaces the stuff that actually matters. There are a number of ways we can approach this, but I'll do so through the lens of meaningfulness, along the lines of Viktor Frankl, the Holocaust survivor and therapist who wrote Man's Search for Meaning.

After his experience in concentration camps, and throughout his career as a therapist (he developed a form of therapy centered around meaning-making, called "logotherapy"), Frankl came to believe that there are three primary sources of meaning in a human life: labor, relationships, and suffering. Human beings can dedicate themselves to completing their labor to the best of their ability, can come to view it as a source of meaning; this is universally true of all human work, regardless of income. Second, we find meaning in our community and relationships (and one does not need to be married in order to develop meaning-making friendships, as evidenced by those priests and consecrated religious who live their vows most healthfully). Lastly, even though we might not understand why we suffer, any suffering can be redeemed and beauty can emerge from tragedy.

Where's this going?

Well, social media potentially messes up all three of these realms of our existence. First, it distorts our understanding of work's intrinsic value by inculcating within our collective consciousness the notion that work is only good for money. We become consumers extraordinaires. Second, it damages our relationships by superficializing human connections, as y'all have already discussed. We abandon real human heat for the glow of the OLED screen. Third, we project false images of ourselves, pretending that life is perfect and that we are not wounded creatures; or, at the very least, our tendency is to avoid advertising the difficult bits of our existences.

In short, not only does social media become an idol, but the tool with which we forge other idols. As Rob pointed out, we can certainly use social media to complement our lives, and in our pursuit of meaningful existence. However, as a high school teacher, I really only see the negatives. Teenagers raised on overly abundant screen time develop inordinate attachments, literal addictions to things that don't matter. I've had kids flip out on me when I've taken their phones away for a class period. They bully one another; they become less capable of focusing for prolonged periods of time; they lose a great degree of discipline. My best students are undoubtedly those who use their phones the least.

I've decided that I don't want my (future, God-willing) kids to have tablets or smartphones until they're well into their late teenage years. I've seen too many deficient minds to encourage their broad, limitless usage.

Jenny:

I'm inclined to agree with what's been said already. To add, I would suggest that social media changes the way in which we view the world around us and disposes us to view it through a lens of consumption. Social media is very much about passive consumption. We find things that we deem palatable and consume them, without necessarily thinking about them or really even enjoying them. A major problem with this is that, in terms of social media, we don't just consume things; we begin to consume people as well.

In one of my grad school classes, the professor challenged us to go 24 hours without social media. He included himself in the challenge. One of the collective discoveries after this short experiment was our inclination to commodify our experiences. When withdrawn from our usual outlets, we realized a tendency to reduce our experience into something digestible -- a pithy tweet, a perfectly composed Instagram photo, a funny Snap. Rather than enjoying a moment for its own sake, we perfectly frame, capture, and caption it and wait for likes, loves, and retweets to roll in. This changes the way that we interact with our world and the people in it.

Additionally, more and more, social media outlets are designed to jettison those perfectly captured moments after a short amount of time (e.g. Snapchat, Instagram Stories, etc.). These platforms seem to me to be an apt example of our ephemeral throwaway culture that Pope Francis rightly criticizes.

As I wrote about before, I believe social media inhibits our ability to pay attention and consequently weakens our ability to pray. It gives the illusion of making us connected and informed, but in reality, if we're not careful, does the exact opposite.

I'm with David: my kids aren't getting phones or tablets until they are older teens.

Dan:


I think an interesting phenomenon that reflects some of the things touched on here is, what could we call it, the public private message? When a significant other posts a litany of gratitude and excitement over an anniversary, when someone wishes a happy birthday with great wordiness, when someone writes a thank-you post to another person, it's a message that could -- and I'd say should -- just be communicated from one person to another, perhaps by private message, text, call, letter, card, or in-person conversation. Yet, it's shared quite visibly and publicly for everyone who's friends with all people involved to see and consume. To me, it's been a weird way of turning private moments public, presumably because they're most interesting for others to interact with. Sure, there's some value to celebrating good things and affirming others’ goodness in public, especially in sparse and intentional language, but it often feels forced and contrived for attention. Why not just take stationery and printed pictures and send a private note? Personally, the private public message is something I consciously avoid. [Note: I will admit my Open Letter to Cardinal Cupich sort of violates this, but I did write it directly to him, send it directly to him, and receive a reply from him; I then shared the letter to bond and resonate with other parents, employees/employers, etc.]

Yet, on the other hand, there's a utility and joy -- as I try to go more positive now -- to sharing life updates with others. Facebook, especially, trail-blazed a new and interesting way of staying in touch, or at least up to date, that is especially helpful for those friends who you appreciated but who didn't stay a close part of your life due to graduation, job change, moving, etc. You can remain passively a part of their lives and have mild, occasional interactions once in a while; this I think is social media at its best, when it's a complementary way to communicate that isn't replacing true interpersonal contact or when it creates contact that wouldn't otherwise happen.

I try to moderate this by devising posts sparsely, both in length and frequency. When we got married, we posted one status when we landed in Puerto Rico for our honeymoon and took a fast from social media; when our baby was born, we shared one post with the usual details and assurance of healthy mom and baby and let it be; as our baby has grown, we share occasional photos via texts or show off our Groovebook mini-albums to people we see, but we don't want Lucy to become "content" beyond those bits and pieces that help give little updates to our friends. It's so tempting, especially with a baby, as I know her cute little smiles will get more engagement from others than anything I post on my own. To remind myself that life isn't about notifications, I actually have the push alerts, noises, and little red numbers disabled on all my phone apps. Checking my feeds is great for getting up to date on news, commentary, reflection, and friends' lives, but when it becomes blather and addiction to noise and notifications, it's time to close the tab or put my phone down.

Jenny:

I think an obvious positive feature of social media is that it can actually help people be connected. For example, my sisters and their families live in Indiana, Massachusetts, and California, respectively, and my parents, brother, and I live in Minnesota. Social media is a convenient way for us to see and share updates of each others' lives. So long as we don't fall into the temptation of becoming "consumers" of one another, or treating social media as a replacement for more genuine communication (phone calls, letters, visits), I think it serves a good purpose.

In addition, I have definitely experienced moments that the Holy Spirit was clearly at work by means of social media. Sometimes social media has directed me to an article that I really needed to see at a given moment in my life. Other times, I've had people tell me that something I posted was what they really needed to see at a given moment.

Social media is a tool, and like any tool can be used for good or for ill. The Church has affirmed the potential for social media to be a tool of evangelization. So long as we use it in moderation and are aware of the pitfalls, I think it is another means by which we can give glory to God and make Him known, loved, and served.

Rob:

I might be veering slightly off-topic, but I think there's a subtle but important distinction to be made between social media and, I dunno what to call 'em, technologically augmented communication apps (TACA, because acronyms are cool). I think most platforms and programs can be used for both purposes, but when Facebook or Snapchat or whatever is used well, its technology augments the communication that is happening.

I've been dating a girl for almost two years. In that time, we've spent at least 75% of our days living in different states and/or countries. Without Snapchat and Skype, I would have largely been in a relationship with words on a screen or piece of paper, or with my own imagination—neither of which sounds particularly good or healthy. Being able to, as we would say, "see your voice and hear your face," augments our experience of communication and leads us deeper into relationship.

Believe it or not, using these apps in this way is somewhat sacramental. (I'm stealing this entire analogy from Jenny and my former community member, Tom—shouts to you, Tom.) Sacraments exist because God desires to be in relationship with us human beans, only we have these cumbersome bodies, and since He was the one who gave them to us, he knows that we have to use these bodies to be in relationship—there's an inherent and indivisible connection between what we do with them and who we are in all of the non-physical ways. Sacraments utilize "stuff" like water, oil, bread, and wine so that we can experience Love with our bodies—we smell the chrism oil, we feel the water on our forehead, we taste the bread and wine that become the hidden presence of the Creator.

The more sense we engage in this experience of love, the stronger we feel it. So if I read a text from my mom or listen to a voicemail from my boss (because the poor chap still leaves voice mails even though he knows I'm never going to listen to them), it's fine, but the experience is strengthened if I can both see and hear the other person. And of course, simply hearing and seeing without being in the physical presence of the other is a purgatious sort of way of relationship that I am quite eager to leave behind.

Social media apps can facilitate relationship building that would otherwise be much more difficult, both logistically and emotionally. The ability to engage multiple senses at once is beautiful and important, even if this might not be the primary use of these apps for many users. Technology is at its best when it is used in the service of the relationship—and not other way around.

And let’s give the last word to… Dave:

So, continuing the train of thought regarding relationships...

I tried several dating sites over the years, and met and dated some wonderful women while living in California. However, after several years and one semi-stalker, I had sort of given up on online dating, but left a profile up on OKCupid for funsies.

A stupidly beautiful, intelligent, and all-around lovely blue-eyed and ginger-haired Oregonian set her search criteria for "anywhere" and stumbled upon my profile. We had each responded to around 300 of the site's questions, and according to their algorithm based on these responses, we were a 99% match. Sarah dropped me a line, we swapped some correspondence, and I peaced out, because trading messages with someone I would probably never meet proved somewhat depressing; unlike Sarah, I was never daring enough to investigate beyond a 50 mile radius. However, that summer I was teaching a course on the thought and theology of C.S. Lewis, and inspired by his breathtaking written correspondence, I asked if she might want to become pen pals.

Those letters eventually turned into a 14 hour first date at Disneyland, which in turn morphed into a long-distance relationship, which resulted in my moving up to Portland (much like Will Hunting, although the comparison stops there as I am no genius) to pursue a relationship, and as of yesterday, all this resulted in a proposal at a whiskey library.

Clearly, I cannot be entirely hostile toward social media. Various modes of communication via the interwebs enabled Sarah and I to feed our nascent relationship. Without OKCupid, I wouldn't be getting ready to spend the rest of my life with this amazing person.

I dunno if I have any theological commentary to add to this. However, I will say that as dangerous and bizarre and odd as online dating might seem to the uninitiated, it does have its upsides. Rather than meeting a total stranger at some epicenter of social mingling, OKCupid and other dating sites allow folks the opportunity to figure out if they'd even want to date someone, based on the priorities that one holds. I could maintain a degree of selectivity, and figure out if a potential first date held certain non-negotiable values and principles at the center of their lives. Then again, it does remove some of the charm and romanticism that came with courtship before the advent of the internet; online dating makes things a bit mechanical, and for someone who's old-fashioned, this is a potential psychological barrier to overcome. It's worth a shot, but patience and a certain suspension of preconceptions is required. It's just a venue to meet people. You gotta wade through some nonsense (especially for women), but that's true of anything.
Dave and his lovely finacee, Sarah, fresh of Dave's successful proposal.

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