Modern Catholics sometimes preen ourselves on our stealthy infiltration of the secular world, by which we are constantly evangelizing our unchurched friends, when if fact all we’re doing is sitting around drinking beer and making butt jokes, which religious and secular people do in perhaps slightly different ways, but there is a lot of overlap. In other words, maybe your stealth evangelization is so subtle, there isn’t actually any.
Author: simchajfisher
What is your weak link?
So many people had lost beloved medals or crucifixes because the one little link that attached them to the chain just wasn’t strong enough. What a shame! And how baffling that Catholic jewelry companies so often make this mistake. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the medal is, how well-made, how expensive, how meaningful. It will only be with you if that one little link is strong enough.
It’s hard to resist the metaphor here.
Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly.
Image by Sean McGrath via Flickr (Creative Commons)
. . . and they’ll never let me forget it
Whenever my daughter Irene isn’t where we expect her to be, someone says darkly, “She’s probably sitting on the floor, playing with blocks.”
This is because, several years ago, she insisted on being the one to run into the city library and fetch the middle school kid while the rest of us waited in the car. And waited. And waited.
And waited.
It was punishingly hot, everyone was hungry and angry, the baby was screaming, and I was too low on gas to run the air conditioner. I didn’t have enough big kids in the car to stay with the little kids while I went in myself, and I didn’t have a quarter for the parking meter anyway, so we had to wait. And wait. And wait. No kid. Eventually I sent a second kid in to find the kid I had sent in to find the other kid; and when that didn’t work I sent a third — no, a fourth kid in. We had all read the story about Clever Elsie, and nobody liked where this was headed.
But no, just a few minutes after he had gone in, that last kid emerged with all the others in tow. He reported indignantly that he had found Irene just sitting on the floor playing with blocks. Just playing with blocks, while we waited!
Irene, of course, defended herself. There was a very good reason! She couldn’t find the first kid, and she looked in the computer alcoves, in the manga section, by the fish tanks, everywhere a boy might be. Having done her due diligence, she then sensibly wondered if maybe he was in the bathroom in the children’s room upstairs. But the bathroom door was locked, and no one answered when she knocked — a telltale sign that it must be her brother inside, because he never answers when you knock. So she plopped herself down on the floor outside the bathroom and passed the time by playing with blocks until the unreliable crumb would decide to stroll himself out and stop inconveniencing everyone.
What she didn’t know was that the children’s bathroom is always locked, and you have to go ask the librarian for a key. No one answered her knock because no one was in there. So there she was, blissfully building little castles outside an empty bathroom, while the rest of us steamed our brains out in the car while the baby screamed and screamed. And we’ll never let her forget it.
We cherish memories of abject failure by our loves ones, even more than memories of perfect birthday cakes, golden hours reading fairy tales, or happy meals with laughter and song. Why? Because twisting the knife is fun! I don’t know. I can only imagine how many happy evenings Adam whiled away, reminding Eve of that one tiny little mistake she made that one time, years and years and years ago. Never mind all the good times, all the hard work and dedication, all the nice loincloths she made for the family. No one wants to reminisce about the day she invented lentils. Nope, it’s always, “Hey, remember that time you doomed mankind?”
Parents, especially, are popular targets of this selective memory. My kids, Irene included, live for the chance to remind me that I once picked up the kids at school and drove all the way into the next town before I even noticed I forgot Sophia. On Valentine’s Day! They always forget that I was nine months pregnant and it was a certifiable miracle I could remember how to use a steering wheel, much less count heads, and I did go back and get her. It’s not as if I just washed my hands of her and got on with my life without Sophia like some kind of bad parent. Nope, it’s just The Day Mama Forgot Sophia . . . On Valentine’s Day. And they’ll never let me forget it.
Then there was the time when my own parents went into what I remember as a long and completely unreasonable tirade about careless children who knock over their cups at meals, causing untold frustration and inconvenience for everyone else at the table, who just want to sit down at the end of a long day and enjoy a meal without having to jump up and clean something every five minutes, if people would just be a little bit more considerate and take the extra two seconds it takes to move their cup out of the way of their elbow so it doesn’t get knoc–
and then, of course, my father knocked over his cup, and my mother knocked over her cup. It was glorious. Glorious. And we’ll never let them forget it.
Now you tell me about your public shame. I want to know what they’ll never forget about you!
In which I answer anything!
Seeing as I was so far behind in all kinds of all work of all kinds, I said “Ask me anything!” on Facebook. Here are (most of) the questions, with my answers. By the way, “Ask me anything!” is commonly abbreviated as “AMA,” and so is “against medical advice.” MAKE OF IT WHAT YOU WILL.
If you could take a weeklong vacation in another country, which would be your first choice?
For most of my adult life, I would have said “Italy” without even considering anything else; but today, the thought of walking on cobblestones fails to compel. Plus, I remember how Rome smells. So I’ll go with somewhere trite, predictable, and full of white sands, clear waters, hammocks, and cocktails. I don’t even care where, as long as someone gets me to the right gate.
Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Because rods are horrible? Everyone likes Easter, but nobody wants Good Friday. Everyone thinks the Eucharist is great, but nobody wants to think about how Jesus felt when He decided to get devoured.
If you could learn any art medium you don’t already know how to use, what would it be?
Pottery. I want to make a nativity scene where Mary is taking a nap and Joseph is holding the baby.
Were you born this way?
No, but it came upon me suddenly along with my first teeth.
How do you REALLY feel about Texas?
If it were possible to relocate UD to some more reasonable state, I’d do it.
Cantelopes: bad idea or good idea?
They bulk up fruit salad and make it more economical, but I draw the line at honeydew.
Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?
If sitting in the snow and drinking Rolling Rock counts as dancing, then yes.
Top ten favourite things to eat!
Not in order, or in combination: Sourdough bread, shrimp, mango, dill pickles, tzatiki sauce, mint chocolate chip ice cream, salt bagels with lox, steak, most things with cilantro, key lime pie.
What is the airspeed velocity . . . Oh, never mind.
Phew.
Why?
Because, because, because, because, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.
If you were pope for a day, what one doctrine would you change?
Trick question! Doctrine doesn’t change. It just sneaks forward a little bit when you’re not looking, like in “Red Light, Green Light.”
How are you? Lots of life change in your home.
I’m so effing tired. But I want to be Lucy when I grow up.
We hope that God will bless us with many children. What is your best tip (of any kind) for those with large families?
Be ready to change your mind about all kinds of things. But go easy on yourself if you’re having a hard time changing your mind, because change is hard.
Next time you’re in Michigan, would you like to come for dinner?
In theory, yes. In practice, I’m much too shy, and will have to be trapped into it, but then I’ll be glad.
How do we deal with the really really bad times of NFP? I love your book, but there’s a specific situation that I’ve seen come up that you didn’t address, and that’s the feeling that women sometimes get of being “used”. For example, if a woman can’t have a very “enjoyable” time during the available days, so only the man is experiencing full pleasure, she can sort of just feel like a receptacle for semen. I’d love to know how you think we should personally deal with this (besides the obvious of prayer/communication) and how we can support friends who deal with this.
Great question. I think it deserves its own post, so I’m working on that now.
Should I take the undercarriage wash option at the car wash?
I never do, and how that works out is, my mechanic really had to squint hard before he passed my car for inspection, because you can put your finger right through the rocker panel, boop! What is it, an extra five bucks? Yeah, definitely don’t spend that extra five bucks. That’s what I would do.
What’s 2+5
Need context. Is it days past peak? Is it carbs in chicken nuggets? If not, I don’t understand the question.
Imagine you’re a queen in a beautiful country where you are loved and can do whatever good you want without being criticized – What would your favorite queenly ensemble and jewels be? Money is no object.
Let’s also add that I have a waist again, have somewhat better posture than Tony Soprano, and have lost sixty pounds and grown my hair long again, and the answer is: Italian Renaissance for the dress, with acres and acres of velvet and brocade and seed pearls. But for jewelry, I’d go straight to India. When I feel bad about everything, I google “Indian wedding jewelry” and just wallow for a while.
Will you pray for me and my family?
Sure.
Are you planning to answer?
Yes, but I’m also planning to put together that six-cube storage unit I got on clearance, because it will make All The Difference, and it’s been leaning against the dining room wall, still in the box, for two months now.
Is the plural of platypus platypuses or platypi?
It would be either platypuses or just platypus, or possibly platypodes. The one thing to avoid is trying to sound fancier than you actually are.
Sometimes people think you can make any word that ends in “-us” plural by changing the “us” to an “i,” but that only works if the word is derived from Latin and the pluralized form in Latin ends in “i.” So, the plural of nucleus is nuclei; the plural of fungus is fungi; the plural of alumnus or alumna is alumni. But there are words which end in “us” for which the correct plural ending is not “i,” like chorus or hummus or hippopotamus or callus.
Octupus, for instance, was Greek before it was Latin, and so it makes no sense to say “octopi” for the plural. In general, if you see a word that ends in “pus” meaning “foot,” the correct plural ending will be “pods” or “podes,” or simply “puses.” Changing it to “-i” is the equivalent of saying “between you and I.” I realize it doesn’t really matter, not like kindness or ethics or good quality shoes matters; and I’ve probably got some detail wrong. But still. Just say “platypuses.”
Urn A has 7 red and 3 orange ping pong balls and Urn B has 7 orange and 3 red ping ping balls. An Urn is selected at random and a ball is selected at random from that urn. If the ball is orange, what is the probability that the selected urn is Urn A?
After skimming this question and concluding that it is mathy, my answer is this: I always recommend that you skip the first four urns and go directly to Urn E. There is an importance in being Urn E.
Almost a joke! Almost!
More serious question: What was the most surprising thing you learned as a result of your child’s Type I diabetes diagnosis?
I answered that in part here. Other than that, I can’t get over how many carbs there are in garlic powder.
Who is your favorite child?
Another trick question! No one is currently cleaning out the car or making supper, so they’re all on equally thin ice.
How do you do it? I have half as many kids and I’m burned out. Yet you’re so creative and spiritual and wise. I spend all my time in the car!
Oh lordy. Remember what my mother said about homeschooling: It’s impossible. If you keep this in mind, it’s easier to do.
Did this question result from breakfast gin?
Nope. Three times in the last week, I fell asleep on the couch before finishing even one evening gin. Once I fell asleep while actually holding my drink. But I did not spill it! There’s life in the old dame yet.
What is the kitten’s name?
Lando. He totally earns it, too, if you skip the part where Lando redeems himself and turns out not to be a complete asshole.
When are you going to write a book about confession?
I would like to, as I have written more about confession than any other sacrament, and also I need the money. Would people put up with a book of collected essays? I’m so tired. But I need the money.
Would you be willing to join Fans of Simcha Fisher and make it official? I created it but didn’t add you because I know you hate that.
But I’m not a fan of Simcha Fisher! Or if I am, it’s in the bad, sledgehammer way.
when are you going to record another podcast? I miss them!!
This week! I’m sorry. We’ve just been so exhausted. Did I mention that? I’m afraid I may not have mentioned that. It warms my heart that you actually listen, though.
How are you so adorable and I love you so much?
See above, where I spend three paragraphs on insisting on “octopodes.” That should take care of it.
What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?
African or European?
Somechop?
Some do.
You are starting an MLM. What are you selling?
Underwear my kids will wear. I don’t even care if I end up on the bottom of the pyramid. Someone needs to make this underwear.
What is the most dangerous item in your house, right now?
A set of walkie talkies we gave Irene for her birthday. The kids now have unlimited power to say, “What? . . . over!” as much as they like.
Will my children ever STOP EATING EVERYTHING? (The 2yo was licking the fridge yesterday. WHY???)
Your children are simply listening to their bodies. Unfortunately, their bodies are telling them to drive you out of your gourd. Then they will eat the gourd, too.
What’s the best strategy for defeating a dragon?
Procrastination. The dragon will eventually wander away in disgust to find someone who’s more engaged, and then you can shrug holily and tell yourself it’s God’s will.
While sitting quietly before a Tabernacle, praying your heart out… have you ever thought about opening that little Tabernacle door and freeing Jesus?
No, but I’ve had to keep myself from crawling up there and climbing inside with Him.
How do you go from accepting the Real Presence in your mind to having your heart know it?
I don’t think my heart knows it, most of the time. It’s not the same thing as feeling it, if that helps. I think if we felt it for more than a moment or two at a time, it would be unbearable and we wouldn’t be able to live.
But yes, it’s hard to go on never having that breakthrough. My father says that when he converted to Christianity, he told his landlord about it, and the man said, “You saw the light, huh?” My father said yes. And the man said, “I never have.” He was a Catholic. That was many decades ago, so I pray that, at some point, that man not only knew about the light but did eventually see it, at least one time.
I’ve found it less helpful to try to flog myself into believing, than to simply and quietly thank God for being present. Talk to Him, not about Him; and then be at peace, and let Him do what He will.
Why is your child not making more stop motion videos to entertain my kids?
I don’t know! We need more Elijah the Introvert. He would love more subscribers. That might light a fire under him.
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That is, as you well know, nobody’s business but the Turks’.
Can you run by Costco and pick up hamburger and milk and chicken nuggets? We’re out.
Even though our family could singlehandedly be the business model for a local Costco, we don’t have one. I’m stopping at Aldi, though. Every day this week. I don’t know what this week’s food post is going to say, other than “arrrrrrrrgh.”
How can I convince my five-year-old that Trader Joe’s really does only sell his favorite “gingerbread mans” cookies at Christmas?
First go convince Alex Jones that Emma Gonzalez is the best thing that’s ever happened to this dang ol’ country, and then move on to your five-year-old. It will be a breeze in comparison.
Favorite saint and why?
Currently Francis De Sales. He always has something sensible and solid to say. He knows what kind of traps he lays for ourselves, and he takes that into account while constantly redirecting us to something better.
Favorite verse from Scripture and why?
John 16:33: “These things I have spoken to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.”
Would you take a (nonordained) position in the Curia if offered it?
[quickly looks up “Curia.”] No way. Honestly, I’ve worked for some nightmarish bosses, but Pope Francis? Brrr.
Easter and other people
We made it to the Easter Vigil most years when I was little, often bundled in down jackets over our frilly Easter clothes.
We could just barely hear Fr. Stan‘s voice, muffled with age and with an aging sound system as he read the opening prayers. Then there was silence while we waited inside the church, twisted halfway around in our pews, wanting to follow the action outside but feeling so odd to turn our backs to the tabernacle. There would be swishing and clanking noises as the fire was prepared, and sometimes a whispered warning to the altar boys with their wide, flammable sleeves. Then more silence, and then . . .
“Christ our light!” would come crackling from the twilight outside.
Then a kind of magic that made you forget your awkwardness: Here came the flame. First we could only see a few points of light in the dark, then a few dozen, then enough to make the dark stained glass flicker, and then only a few pews were left separating you and . . .
some guy with a Bic lighter. Every single damn year, one of our well-meaning brothers in Christ thought he could speed things up, make Easter a little more efficient. No sense standing around waiting for that one flame to make its way all the way ovah heah! Here ya go, yut, no problem.
It makes me laugh now, but it didn’t seem funny at the time. We wanted the real Easter flame, not the fake butane one! Here it comes, contaminating the entire church! Somebody do something!
Well. It’s surely not in the spirit of the risen Christ to get all snippy and say “No thanks” when someone offers you a little light in the darkness.
On the other hand, every other single damn day of the year is a day for substitutes, for good intentions, for not-the-point, for whatcha-gonna-do. Surely we can get it right on Easter. Surely we have that much coming to us. What is more pure than the light of Christ? What is more simple and searing than a candle that divides itself but is not dimmed? When are we allowed to experience this loveliness except in the middle of the night in fragile, early spring, with the ground still trembling from the stone as it was rolled away?
And . . . what if there was more than one guy with a Bic out there, and we just didn’t know it?
I hope you’re not looking for a lesson here, because I don’t have one. We were way too tired to go to the vigil Mass this year. I spent most of Easter yelling at everyone I love the most, and I don’t even know why. I was sorry afterward, if that helps. I was even sorry during. Still, if I were all alone, without all these damn people, I’d get it right. I know I would. Would I rather be alone?
Christ plays in ten thousand places, better in the face of someone who just wanted to help than in someone who loves beauty and is enraged when she doesn’t get it. The idea that hell is other people made me laugh then, but it doesn’t seem funny now. To be alone, getting everything the way I want it: That is Hell.
Come to think of it, I can’t remember a single year when the Easter candle wasn’t adulterated with a helpful, dopey Bic lighter or two. Whatcha gonna do. Even though there never was even one time when we did it right, I still have it in my mind that there was something pure and holy there in that congregation, or else there wouldn’t have been anything to be spoiled.
We don’t want to miss His approach, but we don’t want to turn our backs to Him, so we plant our feet on the ground facing East, we twist at the knee, and we wait for someone else to get it right. And the Lord, too gracious to sigh at yet another night of missed-the-point, came to us without delay.
“Christ our light!” comes to us over an aging system. But it does come. Next time someone offers me a dumb little butane flame, I’ll try to accept it with thanks, in honor of the undimmable loveliness of the Lord. Because ten thousand places is so much better than none.
***
Photo: Steve Moses via Flickr (Creative Commons)
The Catechesis of Diabetes
Catholics ought, by rights, to be prepared to have things turned on their heads. Christ Himself is the great breaker of categories, up-ender of comfortable rules, the disrupter of plans. Sooner or later, Christ will toss you in the air to be sifted, your wheat from your chaff, and it is terrifying.
Read the rest of my latest for The Catholic Weekly.
Photo by Hans Splinter via Flickr (Creative Commons)
Mary and her darlings
“I once saw a lady on a train,” said John Paul I, “Who put her baby to sleep in a baggage holder [a net above the seat]. When the little one woke up, he saw from above his mother sitting facing him so that she could watch over him. ‘Mamma,’ he would say to her.
“‘Darling,’ she replied, and for a long time the dialogue between the two did not change. ‘Mamma,’ from above, ‘Darling’ from below. There was no need for other words. ”
How to ruin Holy Week for your parents
This year, I had no trouble at all with Light Saber Sunday.
Normally, when you bring a bunch of kids to an extra-long Mass and give them each their very own blessed palm branch, that’s what you get: furtive duels with blessed light sabers. Also blessed viking swords, blessed mustaches, blessed Harry Potter wands, blessed baby ticklers, blessed back scratchers, and blessed old-lady-in-front-of-us-neck-pokers, and of course blessed Wolverine knuckle blades. At first you think your kid is miraculously giving the responses in ecclesiastical Latin — and then you realize he’s using the cover of the sign of peace to put a cutting curse on his little brother. “Peace be with you!” – “Sectumsempra!” No.
As I say, I managed to sidestep all that this year, with the simple method of having a three-year-old who really only visits the inside of the church as as courtesy. If by “courtesy” you mean she screams “I DON’T WANT JESUS!” loud enough to make the usher’s ears bleed, and then bolts out the door, to spend the rest of the hour eating grass and rolling around in the snow like a medieval pilgrim with an especially hardcore confessor.
But I’m pretty sure the rest of the little creeps were being palm branch Wolverine.
It’s far too late to change the culture of laxity and irreverent hooliganism in our family’s pew. But maybe at least I can get a little company in my misery? To that end, here are some tips, from my evil children to yours, about how to ruin this, the most holy time of the year.
Know your stuff . . . .until it counts. You’ve probably spent the last several months doing some heavy-duty catechism, yes? Your poor mother realizes that the sacraments aren’t going to prepare themselves, so you are actually getting regular religion lessons for once. You can reel off the corporal works of mercy without stopping for a breath. You can come up with the definition of imperfect contrition and transubstantiation and sanctifying grace without skipping a beat. You might even know that when the bell rings, you’re supposed to look at your bellybutton.
But just wait. Fr. Happy is going to ask the First Communion kids some questions, isn’t he? He’s going to wait until everyone’s quiet, and he’s going to demonstrate just how well-prepared the angelic tykes really are. He’ll go with something really basic, so as not to embarrass anyone.
“Who can tell me,” he will say, “Whoooooo can tell me . . .who made the world?” And your kid will shoot up her hand like she’s volunteering for a tour of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. And when the priest chooses her, she will proudly say, “Odin! From the dead body of Ymir the Frost Giant!” High fives, pagan.
Learn all the wrong lessons. On Holy Thursday, our kids watch The Ten Commandments while I finish up the cooking for Passover, which we celebrate on Holy Saturday before making Easter eggs. Okay, fine, that is a tiny bit confusing even for kids who have grown up thinking chopped liver is a sacramental.
But still, some things seem really clear. Like that scene in The Ten Commandments, where the Hebrew slaves are dragging those big old stone blocks around in the hot, hot Egyptian sun, and just sweating and suffering and just having the ever loving tar whipped out of them by Edward G. Robinson? That’s kind of a striking scene, right? So my son is watching this, complete enrapt, eyes as big as saucers, clearly moved to the core at this spectacle of man’s inhumanity to man.
And then he speaks. “Boy,” he says, “Ohh, boy. I wish I had a whip.”
Just go ahead and throw up. Why the heck not? You just got a haircut, you cleaned your ears for once, your nails are trimmed, and your mother is pinning all her hopes on getting one single, lousy family portrait. Just one, that’s all she asks. She is just going to flat out beg you to pretend, for the tiniest fraction of a second, to be a decent human being — one who is not crossing his eyes, nor licking his sister, nor screaming, nor clutching any unseemly part of his anatomy. Just really quick, guys! Here, under the lilac tree! Scoot in so all those old tires aren’t in the shot! Sweetie, get your braids out of your mouth! Honey, you’re holding the baby in front of your face, I can’t see you! No no no, don’t put her down in the mud. Yes, perfect, that’s perfect, now hold it —
Let it go.
And that’s why Jesus said, “Let the little children come unto Me.” Because He was afraid their parents were gonna deck them in this, the holiest time of the year.
***
A version of this post first ran in the National Catholic Register in 2014.
Helping our children see paradise
In New Hampshire, the incessant cycle of birth and death and rebirth is inescapable. You cannot ignore the ancient story of desolation and consolation, the ever-present hope of new life. No matter how cold, how dark, how hard, how closed-off the world becomes, there is always reason to hope, deep down. Every twig bears witness to this hope. Trim off a branch of the lilac in the deepest day of winter, and you’ll see it: a tiny shaft of green. It’s hard to wait in the middle of February, but by God and his Grace, it’s better than having nothing to wait for.
The great (and tragic) comedy of going to confession
My husband and I both went to confession one afternoon. I got out first while he was still in line, and he asked me who was in there—the Nigerian nit-picker, the almost-deaf crank or maybe Father Distracto? I reared back in mock horror, rolled my eyes heavenward and whispered, “Um, it’s Jesus.”
Read the rest of my latest for America Magazine.
photo credit: Freaktography Confessional Booth in Rural Ontario Abandoned Church via photopin (license)