Between today and the 6th of January, Christians everywhere will mark their doorways with the signs 20 + C + M + B + 16. Caspar, Melchior, Balthasar, the traditional names of three mad kings who went away and were never the same. Don't take my word for it. Hear it from T.S. Eliot:
I love this poem for its brutal honesty. Cause sometimes searching for God isn't all angels-on-high and rocks crying out. It's hard work. It's uncomfortable. It means tears and sleepless nights. It means traveling in the wilderness (waste land). We think of the wise men following the star like a lighthouse in a storm, but Scripture doesn't say anything about the star leading the way. They tell Herod, "We saw his star when it rose. . ." The next thing we hear in Matthew,
After they had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. (NIV)
The magi saw the star as a summons, not a safety net. They embarked on an arduous journey knowing neither when nor where the destination. There is no mention of the star until it appears again over Bethlehem. Between those two times, they made their way in darkness.
Remembering that they had seen the star, believing it, that's the epiphany. That is faith.
I think that as Catholics and Christians we are afraid to own up to mental health issues: anxiety, depression, OCD, etc. It's daunting by its very nature, and because we feel the responsibility to be the face of Christ to the world, we may think that we have no right to complain, much less admit a weakness. After all, aren't we supposed to be happy? It obviously means you just haven't prayed enough/found peace in your life/accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and savior, right?
Wrong.
If Jesus Himself could agonize in the garden, I think it's safe to say that "lesser beings" can expect their fair share of trauma. After all, Jesus didn't promise us that we'd be always happy if we followed Him. He promised us eternal happiness, and a peace that surpasses understanding. And that can look very different from what the world commonly calls "happy."
That said, I've noticed a peculiar sort of "Catholic mindset" when it comes to mental health issues. I'm not an expert, but I wanted to put these things out there for consideration. I know I've learned a lot of the following the hard way in my life and wish someone had approached me with them.
Remember, always consult your doctor or a professional before making any major life changes.
1 // Don't use religion as a crutch.
I still have difficulty sometimes seeing when I am manipulating my faith to do or not do something that I want. It's why it's good to have a trusted spiritual director, therapist, or healthy friend to talk things over with (see #4).
One (extreme) example of this would be staying in an abusive relationship because of Catholic teaching on divorce. It's hard to give more subtle examples because faith and our daily functioning are so nuanced and personal. I just try to ask myself, "Am I doing this because I really do care to about my faith or because I'm looking for an excuse to avoid dealing with the real issues?"
2 // Distance the people that hurt and don't help.
I know you want to balk at that. I still do. It sounds so mean. Opposite of what we're supposed to do as Christians, right? To be nice and love everybody? How can we make excuses to reject people?
Here's the thing: God made you you, and nobody else. That means you have a special responsibility to yourself. And if other people are detrimental to that most important of responsibilities, after trying reasonably to make it work, you are completely justified in limiting contact, or even cutting them off.
Let me say that again:
You are completely justified in cutting off the people whose relationships are poisonous to you.
That doesn't make you a bad Christian. Just a smart one.
3 // Take care of yourself.
Again, to those raised in a Christianity-saturated environment, this might set off alarm bells that they are a hair's breadth from hell due to sloth and wicked indulgence. There is a difference between being selfish and reaching your finite human limits. Know them. Embrace them. Honor them. Don't let other people shame you into thinking you are being lazy and selfish and a bad Christian. Remember Jesus stopped his preaching and His work and went up to the mountain to rest in prayer.
4 // Talk to someone.
If you keep things from airing out, you're likely to suffocate. Sin and evil can't live in the light. The truth shall set you free. Speak up. If all the people you know are too close to your situation, or if you feel worse after talking to them, find someone else--someone you don't know, but someone who will listen and care. Talk to a priest, a minister, a therapist. Go to Confession or schedule an appointment.
What do you think? Are Catholics and Christians in general harder on themselves when it comes to mental health? Do you have any other advice for navigating the treacherous waters of life and mental illness?
"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2015."
Afon: in his Easter best. He threw four eggs in defiance and was soundly scolded, then had his chocolate taken away. He was so dejected that I reneged on the chocolate ban. At which he promptly threw a fifth egg.
Roan: from Palm Sunday, a week ago; with the windows open, it was damp and a little chilly. I obviously like to prop him up on the rocking chair in the morning.
We made it in time for Easter Mass this morning and had a pew seat in the crowded church! The effort wore me out, so while the rest of the family took Afon to visit some friends in Orlando and swim at their pool, Roan and I stayed home and napped. We had a lot of invitations today, but I've committed to pace myself. The concept of the {spoonie} is true to form in this context. I really do have to measure how much I can give and what I will do with it from day to day. I find that even though I don't like to turn down invitations and miss out on gatherings, I'm calmer and therefore happier when I am more rested.
Easter Mass was beautiful; the priest and deacon wore vestments decorated with angels adoring the Host, spun in gold thread. Tall lilies framed the altar, and the incense took our prayers in clouds high up to the ceiling. Roan was docile and smiling, talking to angels of his own, and soothing himself into a sweet sleep.
After Mass, I hid Easter eggs in the garden and helped Afon find them. He cooperated with minimal enthusiasm, but I wanted to introduce the concept to him for next year. Now I am eating GF, dairy-free chocolate chip cookies, following the paschal festivities on Instagram, and binge watching The Big Bang Theory.
Bonnie has a good post about the use and abuse of Saint Joseph statues when trying to sell a home. I don't disagree with what she writes: putting Saint Joseph in a place of honor where you can see him and remind yourself to ask for his intercession seems like a better idea than burying him upside down and out of sight. Poor, cold Saint Joseph! And it's certainly not recommended that people with no faith or only passing faith partake of the superstition when they've no personal relationship with Jesus, let alone St. Joseph! But it got me thinking about superstition in Catholicism, what it means, where it came from and why, and what its place is in our Faith.
I've always been a Catholic, and there's never been a time when I haven't been. There are no moving reversion or conversion stories to be told, though I certainly came to a greater understanding of my faith as I grew older, and that "conversion" is still happening today, and much needed.
I'm also a poet. I've been a poet as long as I've been a Catholic. I'm also a poet because I'm a Catholic; and this is why. I remember feeling as a child what the poet feels (and have since discovered others who have experienced the same): the stirring of the soul where the divine reaches into nature and seeing with some hidden, heightened sense, but for a moment, as one whose vision has suddenly cleared, how things really are. C.S. Lewis called it joy. We partake of this joy in the Mass, the Communion of Saints, though it doesn't always feel so obvious to us. Now, imagine that kind of earth-splitting revelation occurring in the everyday. An Annunciation of nature, as it were. When the certain slant of light on the grass or a glimpse of cloud or a line from a song shatter one's mundane existence and show the true face of the world. It's so beautiful it hurts. And it disappears just as quickly as it came, or else one would die from the joy of it.
To those familiar with this world, superstitions make a good deal more sense. There are connections between the reality outside our physical world and this one, and we aren't able to fully understand them, not until we're in heaven. It was these seemingly unconnected connections that helped Chesterton to believe in orthodoxy, which he expounds upon in the book of the same name in the chapter titled "The Ethics of Elfland."
To grasp the essence of superstition one need only read fairy tales. Fairy tales are infested with them! Why else should cutting off a cat's head save a princess from a wicked witch? There's no natural connection between the cat, the cutting of its poor head, and the princess and the magic of her evil stepmother. And yet, intuition accepts the precept without question. It is the kind of intuition that we see in children, which survives past childhood, if we are lucky and humble enough to let it. If we don't let accusations of "what superstitious nonsense!" tell us to stop looking for otherworlds in the back of wardrobes or down rabbit holes. (Or stop hoping that a dying god somehow killed death.)
Through this lens, superstitions make a little more sense. I don't think it's coincidence that the Catholic Church is accused of having superstitious rituals. Why should lighting a candle somewhere halfway round the world usher God's grace to a friend in need? Why should chanting an ancient conversation between a girl and an angel at twelve noon each day be more appropriate than at other times? Why, for that matter, should repeated words work as a spell and transform simple bread and wine into divine Flesh and Blood?
John Collier, The Annunciation
Here is what dictionary.com has to say about the word superstition:
su·per·sti·tion [soo-per-stish-uhn]
noun
1. a belief or notion, not based on reason or knowledge, in or of the ominous significance of a particular thing, circumstance, occurrence, proceeding, or the like.
2. a system or collection of such beliefs.
3. a custom or act based on such a belief.
4. irrational fear of what is unknown or mysterious, especially in connection with religion.
5. any blindly accepted belief or notion.
Let's look at the first definition, which I think is what most people mean when they are talking about it in context with Saint Joseph. "A belief or notion not based on reason or knowledge." Well, then what is it based on? A feeling? How about an instruction, from an authority you trust? Ah, now we're getting somewhere! As Catholics, we know that the authority of the Church grants legitimacy to what might otherwise be superstitions--things not based on reason or knowledge per se . . . like the example of the candle I mentioned above. But we also know that God reveals Himself through his creation, and so those who have not been born into the faith, or who lived and died before the faith was available to them, can come to know Him through nature, and in this way are not exempt from salvation.
Materialists say that men imbue things with meaning willy-nilly, but we know that meaning is there, whether we are granted the sight to recognize it or not. Some people, I think, are more sensitive to this "sight" than others. Particularly the mystics. St. Thérèse of Lisieux was given a superstition of roses. St. Teresa of Avila, a castle. Other saints were sent animals as messengers. Many of them talked. These "superstitions" repeatedly point to relationships. One relationship in particular.
A "custom or act based on such a belief" arises in solidarity with these saints, and those devoted to her ask, with St. Thérèse, for a rose, which may or may not be given. And people who wear a little vestigial garment around their necks are promised heaven. Not because scapulars have any rational connection, in and of themselves, to eternal life, but because something, someone, beyond our understanding has designated it so.
All of the sacraments are superstitious in this sense. A splash of water repels the devil like the Wicked Witch of the West. Making a sign in the air and saying the words, "You are forgiven," actually makes it so. The laying on of hands apprentice young men to the profession of Christ. And it's a very physical thing that consummates a marriage.
A name causes the very rocks to cry out. God becomes a man and suddenly, nothing physical is ordinary. Nothing is coincidence. Everything is significant.
So, why put Saint Joseph on his head? Is that just a meaningless superstition? Perhaps. But I like to think it came from somewhere, from some shrewd, pious, superstitious old lady, who knew him well. Perhaps she said, "Put him on his head, turn him upside down! That'll give him a headache, and remind him to pray and pray for you!" And as she cackles and walks away, you fancy you can see the vague figure of a Jewish carpenter, as she swings an arm around him in what can only be the most intimate of affections.
A closing note for the concerned: should the Church ever make a definitive pronouncement against all things superstitious, I shall drop my stance at once, at a single word from the Magisterium. How superstitious of me! c;
♥
If you liked this post, you may also be interested in:
