Crossing the Threshold: Mary Encountering Elizabeth
Christine Haider-Winnett, St. Hildegard Catholic Community
December 19, 2016
I’ve always found it interesting that the Gospel of Luke doesn’t say why Mary came all the way out to that small town in Judea. All it says is that after the angel Gabriel told Mary that she and Elizabeth would both give birth to these world-changing babies, she set out with haste to see her cousin.
Some scholars have argued that Mary rushed to see Elizabeth because she wanted proof that what the angel said was true. Others say that she went to celebrate these miracles with her cousin.
There might be a little bit of truth in both of those statements, but when I hear that story the first thing that comes to mind for me is that Mary is scared.
This pregnancy must have been terrifying for an unwed, teenage girl who was engaged to be married to a man that believed she was a virgin. She had everything to lose. When the angel Gabriel told Mary she would bear a child, she responded with “let it be done according to God’s will.” She said yes, but she didn’t exactly say “What fantastic news!”
And so, in her fear and uncertainty, Mary runs to her cousin Elizabeth. Elizabeth, who, like Mary, is facing her own surprise pregnancy—but in very different circumstances. Married and older, Elizabeth’s pregnancy seems like something to celebrate to her friends and family—a long awaited gift—while Mary’s pregnancy could be looked at as a source of shame and gossip. Young and unmarried, with an unlikely story of an angel and a miraculous conception, Mary must have been scared to show up on Elizabeth’s door. She must have wondered if her cousin would welcome her in.
A little more than a year ago, I attended my first retreat for RCWP priests, deacons and candidates. I had just become a candidate two weeks earlier, and had over the last few years met a handful of RCWP priests and deacons. But I still entered into that gathering with a great deal of dread. In particular, I was nervous about what it would mean for me to join a movement where the average age of its members was 60—nearly twice my age. How would I be able to enter into community with these women in such different life stages than me?
Like Mary, I crossed that threshold hoping to be seen, welcomed and valued for who I am. I wanted to encounter sisters who would hear my story, who would make room for my needs and ideas. I prayed that the things we had in common as women who had been called to the priesthood in the Catholic Church would be big enough to bridge all that divides us.
On the last day of our retreat, our group facilitator asked us to pair ourselves up with another woman in the community to share our stories. I ended up getting paired up with a priest, Juanita. Juanita and I come from different generations, different life experiences, and at times have very different ideas of ministry. But as we walked around the retreat center gardens, I felt a connection I’d felt with few other people as she told me the story of how she’d met her husband, a Jesuit Priest, while she was a Catholic sister. She talked about how their love story was so tinged with loss as they were both barred from doing the ministry they were called to do. As I told her about Alex and my struggles to balance our own calls to ministry with financial concerns and our hopes to someday have a family, I felt like she was able to hear me in a way few other people have been able to. In that moment, as we related to each other’s similarities, I think we also both gained new appreciation for our differences, our unique ministries, and the different ways God had called us.
It took courage for Mary to show up on Elizabeth’s threshold, young, unmarried, afraid. But it also took courage for Elizabeth to let her in. To trust that that young, teenage Mary would be able to appreciate everything that she was going through, too.
This elderly woman who had for years prayed for a child, only to get pregnant after she’d given up hope. I’m sure Elizabeth rejoiced in the miracle of her pregnancy, but she couldn’t have been too thrilled with the timing. It almost seems like a cruel joke on God’s part. After all the years Zachariah and Elizabeth spent trying to become parents, once they were at the end of their lives God supplied them with a son. Even while Elizabeth’s community celebrated the “miracle” of her pregnancy, she must have had her own worries about how she and Zachariah would care for this child. I think she was scared, too.
Mary came to Elizabeth’s door in need, only to realize that Elizabeth, too, was in need. She needed someone that could understand her, someone that could accompany her on this journey. Maybe that’s why Mary stayed for three months, waiting for John to be born. Because she saw that Elizabeth needed help, too.
When Mary crossed Elizabeth’s threshold, both of those women were changed forever. As they shared stories, supported each other in times of need, and learned from each other, they were able to build solidarity across generations. They learned that in order to work for justice, we must be able to work for the liberation of all people-- not just people who seem like us.
How are we, as a feminist and inclusive Catholic community, able to work for the liberation of all people, while we also work for our own liberation? How can we, like Elizabeth, welcome people who are different from us—people from different cultures, races, genders and religious backgrounds, and allow ourselves to be changed by that experience? Like Mary and Elizabeth, who were able to use their common experience of unexpected pregnancy to help them bridge generational divides, how can we use our own experiences of marginalization to help us empathize with others who experience injustice?
As a young woman working toward ordination, I have found this community to be such a liberating space for me. A place where I can feel safe to bring my whole self. A place where I’ve been able to work toward my own liberation and healing. But in order for St. Hildy’s to really reach its full potential, we can’t only be working toward the liberation of Catholic women who are called to ordination, like me. In order for St. Hildy’s to truly reach its full potential we have to, like Mary, take the risky journey through the hills to reach out to those who are different from us, and to learn from one another.
That means using our commitment to ecological justice as a way to stand in solidarity with poor people who are most impacted by environmental destruction. It means using our feminist theology to reflect on the ways that patriarchy does violence—often deadly violence—to trans folks and those who don’t fit within the gender binary so that we can reflect on how St. Hildy’s can better include all people—including those who don’t easily fall in the categories of “men” and “women.” And while so many Catholic leaders are using the excuse of “religious liberty” to attempt to legalize discrimination of LGBT people and prevent women from accessing health care, it means taking a strong stand for true religious liberty by walking in solidarity with our Muslim friends who are living under constant threat of discrimination and violence.
When Mary shows up on Elizabeth’s door fearing rejection Elizabeth looks at that poor, scared girl and says “blessed are you.” You are not sinful or wrong. Your pregnancy isn’t a cause for shame. You are blessed, faithful, holy.
And when Mary hears Elizabeth call her blessed, and she responds to that good news by expanding it—by saying that both of them—and all of us-- are blessed. By encountering Elizabeth’s blessedness, Mary is more able to appreciate her own blessedness, and to proclaim the blessedness of all people. In the Magnificat, she invites us to join her in proclaiming a Kin-dom where the powerful are brought down from their thrones, and the lowly are lifted up. A place where both she and Elizabeth can find the liberation they seek. A place where all of us—all of us—can be called blessed.
Kate Dougherty, St. Hildegard Catholic Community
3rd Week of Easter, C:B
April 9, 2016
I had the rare pleasure of entertaining 2 close friends this past weekend. We’ve all known each other since we were 13, and they were both bridesmaids in our wedding.
We are women of a certain age, and wax philosophical not just for hours, but days at a time when we are together.
As we reflected on our time together on this journey called life, I was struck by the fact that we all dedicated ourselves to the social revolution that started in the 1960’s and continues on today. Even as high schoolers we worked for social change through volunteering at head start one summer, when that program was in its infancy. We worked for a Pennsylvania candidate for the US house, Doug Walgren, on phone banks. We created an underground newspaper in the high school focusing on the issues of the day. Coincidently, I met my husband Paul, working for that same candidate, on election night as freshman in college. November 2, 1970. Our candidate lost that election, however Paul and I found each other, and have been together ever since.
On our second date, Paul accompanied me to a Students for a Democratic Society event, where I had to correct the spelling on a protest sign I had made, for a Vietnam War demonstration. We went to that demonstration, and as we marched with our protest signs, we were threatened by police dogs who were literally nipping at our heels.
That was a time when desegregation, women’s lib and the antiwar movement collided in a perfect storm of effective social change. We ended the war, women broke the glass ceiling in every field, except the Church, and people of color were integrated, so they too could join the ranks of the middle class.
In retrospect we did good. We made progress. Things changed for some, but not all. We were revolutionaries. We were seditionists. We rocked the boat in a big way.
But there was another revolutionary. There was another seditionist. There was another boat rocker. He was Jesus the Nazarene .
Jesus teaches us when it is time to be a revolutionary in the name of Justice. Jesus has his Sanhedrin’s, and we have our right-wingers. Jesus had his Hypocrite’s , and we have our Presidential candidates. Jesus had his Sadducee’s, and we have our Holy See.
So what does Jesus teach us about how and when to be a revolutionary?
The woman at the well was shunned by her whole town, which was the reason she was collecting water mid-day. That revolutionary statement from Jesus was, it’s okay to talk women, even if she is a Samarian. Radical thinking.
Her community, ostracized the woman who hemorrhaged, because she had a perpetual menstrual period. Jesus taught us that a woman with that affliction was loveable too, and deserved to be treated with dignity.
At the Annunciation, Mary found herself pregnant, unwed, and a teenager, still today, seen as scandalous by some. But she was a revolutionary too, and said “Yes” to the Angel, Gabriel. She could have been stoned to death, but said yes anyway.
I believe the bottom line of Christianity is to stand up and speak your truth when you see injustice. But how and when do we do that in today’s world?
In my mind the time to be a revolutionary is when you see an injustice, and get that visceral reaction in your body. For me my heart races, my blood pressure surges, and I feel compelled to speak out. It’s like the Holy Spirit shows up, and won’t stop accosting me until I take some kind of action. It could be a dog in a car on a hot day, where I just can’t stand by and do nothing.
It could be a letter to the editor of the Catholic Voice, where I speak my truth in the face of challenging doctrine or Cannon Law.
St Hildegard Catholic Community is an incubator for the Revolution, supporting inclusivity and the women’s ordination movement.
When the Holy Spirit calls you to a cause, it is disrespectful to ignore her. Just by your presence here today, you are answering that call from the Holy Spirit. You are part of the revolution to include all members of the body of Christ. You are the Church. You are the Body of Christ.
Crucifixion as Interruption
Christine Haider-Winnett, St. Hildegard Catholic Community
September 12, 2015
A few nights ago, I had a dream that I was having lunch with some friends-- old friends that I hadn’t seen in years. As we laughed and caught up on each other’s lives, I suddenly saw one of my theology professors run up to me. He interrupted our conversation, grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted “DON’T FORGET THE CRUCIFIXION.”
Needless to say, it was a shocking end to what had been a pretty pleasant dream.
Like my dream, this week’s readings seem a bit off-putting and out of synch with the liturgical calendar. Here we are humming along in ordinary time, talking about bread and journeys and miraculous healings and then BAM! All the sudden, it seems like we’re in Lent again: We read about the Son of Man being rejected, suffering and being killed. We hear Jesus promise us “those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”
Like in my dream, it feels a little awkward to be thinking about the crucifixion right now—as we wade through a heat wave and some of us head back to school for a new academic year.
We might be looking forward to the Feast of All Saints, or Thanksgiving, or even beginning preparations for Advent. But we probably aren’t thinking much about Lent, yet. Amidst our busy, ordinary lives we want to focus on happy things, and not get bogged down thinking about Jesus’ suffering. We don’t always want to remember the crucifixion.
And yet, here are these Lenten-sounding readings confronting us in September, asking us how we are remembering the crucifixion all year long. How we are taking up our own crosses and following Jesus?
In today’s readings, we experience the crucifixion as an interruption of our ordinary lives. The crucifixion breaks through ordinary time to shock us, to remind us of the suffering of the world, to challenge us to live our own lives differently.
These readings are a reminder for us that the crucifixion wasn’t just a one-time event, but that happens daily as the Body of Christ on earth suffers from isolation, violence and oppression. The Crucifixion doesn’t just happen on Holy Week, but happens every day in the deaths of Syrian refugees trying to make it to Europe, in the lives of black people killed with impunity by a police system that sees them as less-than, and in people suffering from war, violence and poverty around the world.
Today, Jesus asks us not to tune out the tragedy of the crucifixion-- not to become numb to it– but to allow it to interrupt our daily lives so that we can take up our own crosses as well. What would it look like if we allowed ourselves to become attentive to the suffering of others, to notice where Christ is being crucified today? What would it look like for us to take up our crosses and join the Body of Christ crucified in our own communities?
Last month, my husband Alex traveled with other seminarians from the Graduate Theological Union to Ferguson, Missouri, where teenager Mike Brown was killed by a police officer last year, which became a turning point for the Black Lives Matter movement. Alex and his fellow seminarians were there for the first anniversary of Mike’s death to participate in protests and vigils, and to meet activists on the ground who have been working for justice and ministering to the people of Ferguson.
One of the seminarians Alex traveled with, Marvin K. White, preached a few weeks ago on their experience. He said that one of the stories they heard over and over again from activists was about how neighborhood churches responded—or failed to respond—to the events in Ferguson. Activists told them about how during the height of the protests they went around to neighborhood churches asking for sanctuary—for a safe place to escape from barricades and tear gas and rubber bullets. But time and again, they would be turned out by these churches, who were worried that letting protestors seek refuge would raise their insurance premiums.
Honestly, part of me (particularly the part that worked in non-profit administration for years) relates to these churches that I imagine had small budgets and overworked staff. These churches that had to worry about how to put on a good worship service that Sunday, how to deal with a declining membership, how to build their youth ministry. They had so many every day concerns, how could they drop all of those to respond to such an extreme situation?
And yet, I worry about their inability to be present to the crucifixion happening in their own backyard, to minister to the crucified Christ in their neighbor. I worry that they may have gotten so wrapped up in their own “ordinary time” of committee meetings and line items and insurance premiums that they failed to be attentive to the reality of the crucifixion, which had come to interrupt their everyday lives.
Pope Francis once said, “I prefer a church which is bruised, hurting and dirty because it has been out on the streets, rather than a church which is unhealthy from being confined and from clinging to its own security.” I worry that these churches were so focused on clinging to the security of their church building that they forgot their mission to be the church, which might have been calling them to risk getting hurt or dirty by taking up their crosses to join the crucified body of Christ on the streets of Ferguson.
As we celebrate the incredible growth that St. Hildy’s has experienced in seven short months—the growing community, the meaningful liturgies, I think this is a reminder to us to not get so wrapped up in running a church that we forget to be the church, forget to notice where the crucifixion is happening in our own bay area communities, take up our crosses and be present with the suffering Body of Christ. It’s a powerful reminder that church budgets and liturgical planning is not what makes a healthy church– discipleship is: the ability to allow ourselves to be interrupted by the crucifixion in today’s world.
As I imagine the future of St. Hildy’s I know I have a pretty big wish list: a bigger budget, more members, and weekly liturgies. I’m so excited about all those things, but it’s important to remember that none of those things are what Jesus asked of us—he simply asked us to take up our crosses and follow him, to be present to the suffering in the world and allow it to transform us. To allow our ordinary lives to be interrupted by the crucifixion of the Body of Christ.
Of course, that’s a terrifying idea. It was understandably terrifying to those churches in Ferguson, and maybe it’s even more terrifying to us as a new, fragile community. But the gospel teaches us that by taking up our crosses and following Jesus we aren’t following him to death, but to new life. It is only by allowing ourselves to be interrupted by the tragedy of the crucifixion that we can be transformed by the mystery of the resurrection. It is by going out into the streets to risk getting hurt and bruised that we actually allow ourselves to be healed.
Seven months ago, we gathered in this upper room for the first time to sing Hosanna and wave palm fronds. We chose to leave the supposed safety and security of the institutional church to seek out new life in an unknown place.
As Catholics, we had witnessed the crucifixion happening in the institutional church: to women, to LGBT people, to indigenous communities, and had allowed our hearts to be broken by it. We felt the Spirit calling us outside those walls to take up our crosses and follow Jesus into the unknown. It was scary, and it’s been hard at times, but seven months later, I can honestly say I’ve found new life in this place, and I hope you have too.
By responding to the crucifixion happening in our church, taking up our crosses and following Christ into uncharted territory we have encountered resurrection.
I wonder what resurrection those churches in Ferguson might have encountered if they, in Pope Francis’ words had chosen to risk getting hurt and bruised by entering the streets to join the hurting, bruised Body of Christ. I wonder what new members they would have encountered, what powerful street liturgies they might have experienced.
I’m heartbroken for the people of Ferguson that these churches failed to let themselves be interrupted by the crucifixion happening in their midst, but I’m also heartbroken for these churches that they missed seeing Christ resurrected in the people of Ferguson.
My prayer for St. Hildy’s is that we never get so concerned about insurance premiums that we miss the resurrection when it comes. That as we continue to grow, as we continue to stabilize, we never become so comfortable that we forget to take up our cross and follow Jesus into the streets where people are being crucified today. In our quest to build a church, may we always remember to be the church: hurting, bruised, holy. May we have the faith necessary to follow the Crucified Christ into new life.
Anonymous Homily
St. Hildegard Catholic Community
April 25, 2015
Fourth Sunday of Easter
Acts 4:8-12; Psalm 118; 1 John 3:1-2; John 10:11-18
In today’s first reading, Peter is responding to a question before the Sanhedrin. How did he get there? I’d like to provide a little context.
Context
This is post-Pentecost. The disciples who fled, and then locked themselves in a room, are now speaking with parrhesia (boldness): Freedom and confidence in the Spirit, despite dangers. They are not just talking. They are continuing the healing ministry of Jesus. They are setting people free.
Peter and John are before the Sanhedrin today because yesterday, as they went to the temple area for 3 o’clock prayer, they had an encounter with a man who was unable to walk and begging for alms. He sat outside the temple gate because he was excluded from the holy place of God.
Peter told him, “What I can give you is Jesus. Rise up and walk.” The man got up and went into the temple, “jumping and praising God.” This liberation was a cause for celebration. But the religious authorities, those who claim to speak for God, decided to arrest Peter and John and to examine them: “By what power or by what name have you done this?”
Today’s reading is Peter’s answer to that question. And Peter’s answer is: Jesus. He invokes Psalm 118: “He is the stone rejected by you, the builders, which has become the cornerstone.”
The religious authorities, feeling threatened and afraid, order them to remain silent. Peter responds, “It is impossible for us not to speak about what we have seen and heard.” So they continue speaking with parrhesia, boldness, and they continue setting people free.
Rejection and resurrection
“The stone rejected by the builders has become the cornerstone.” In my prayer the two words that have emerged are rejection and resurrection.
So much of the ministry of Jesus focused on those who had been rejected. He healed them. He gave them life. He restored them to the life of the community.
Jesus also took it on in his own body—in his bodily death and bodily resurrection.
Today we hear about the healing and salvation of a man who was forced to beg at the gate and who was denied entrance to the Temple. When he was healed, he immediately went into the Temple. People were amazed.
How have we experienced rejection and resurrection—in small or dramatic ways, in others or ourselves?
Janine Denomme
I’d like to share a brief story about a fellow parishioner of mine when I lived in Chicago. Her name is Janine Denomme. She was well known in the parish for helping lead our Good Friday service. She was ordained a deacon, and then priest, with Roman Catholic Womenpriests. She also had Stage IV colon cancer, and died just five weeks after her ordination.
The archdiocese intervened and said she could not receive a funeral at our parish. Janine was rejected. It was a really painful rejection.
Janine knew it was coming, and she was the one who encouraged us! “The church is more than a building. It is the community, and we will gather and celebrate together.”
Her funeral Mass was celebrated at a local Methodist church. Our parish filled the church. A woman-bishop presided. I experienced a flood of tears—tears of grief, tears of joy—for two hours. Janine was present. She was alive in our community. At the beginning of the Mass, Bishop Joan said, “Janine was too sick to celebrate her first Mass. She planned this as her first Mass, and all of you are concelebrating with her.”
Janine bore a horrible illness. Janine was rejected by church authorities. They asked, “In whose name do you minister?” It was God who healed her and raised her from the dead. And as a priest she ministered to us, her community.
How have you experienced rejection and resurrection—in others or yourself?
ST. HILDEGARD
CATHOLIC COMMUNITY
An Inclusive Catholic Community