Weaving One Heart: Contemporary fcJ Voices

Setting Our Hearts Upon the Deep

2023-01-08T23:15:00.002-07:00

“So, I leave my boats behind/ Leave them on familiar shores/

Set my heart upon the deep/ Follow you again, my Lord”

(from The Galilee Song by Father Frank Andersen, Missionaries of the Sacred Heart)

A teacher friend recently posted a picture of herself on Instagram; she was out for a winter walk in Edmonton, Canada. I felt an unexpected tug at my heart upon seeing her and the familiar, deep snowbanks. Living in the Philippines this year has meant that I’ve experienced only green scenery and hot temperatures. The wintery scene reminded me that I am very far from home indeed, even as I continue to delight in the many opportunities that I enjoy in this vibrant country.

Mark Twain wrote that a man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way. What I’m experiencing now is that a Canadian teacher temporarily residing in Metro Manila learns something about herself and many of her former students that she could not learn in any other way.

I have listened to stories about the Philippines for most of my teaching career. Long before I ever arrived in this warm and welcoming country, former students had educated me about jeepneys and tricycles (common modes of transportation here) and Christmas celebrations that begin in September. I had heard about favourite local foods, including roasted pig and babinka and balut. On countless occasions, Filipino students have shared about the place of their birth with a wistfulness that made me even more curious about this faraway nation.

Now that I have had the opportunity to live in Manila for a few months as part of my International Year (a part of the formation of FCJ Sisters in Temporary Profession), I have discovered that I am inspired by all those who have dared to leave this tropical, archipelagic nation to live in North America. In the process of settling down here, I have come to experience more deeply that living in a new country is about much more than adjusting to a different climate and an unfamiliar language. While the opportunity to live in a foreign place can seem like an adventure to be sure, once the ‘honeymoon period’ wears off, the day-to-day lived experience can test one’s understanding of how one fits into the world.

To the homeless people who ring the bell at our convent in Quezon City, I am referred to using the adjective ‘matangkad’; that is, I am the ‘tall’ Sister. By Canadian standards, I am of average height, but when I walk on the sidewalks here, tree branches are trimmed in such a way that I must duck my head. When I travel in standard jeepneys (small public buses), I sit too high to be able to see out the windows. The tricycles (a kind of motorcycle with an attached passenger cab) are perhaps only a little larger than my coffin might be someday. This is a city that, on the whole, was not built for people of my ‘great’ height.

My size is just one way that I can feel like a fish out of water. My first week here, I was reprimanded by security for talking to another Sister on the light rail train as Covid protocols here require silence from passengers. On another occasion, during a meal together a student asked me if I always used a fork when eating rice. My affirmative response was clearly surprising (and even a little bizarre) to him as many people here routinely eat with their hands. Even asking for help finding an item at the grocery store can turn into a frustrating interaction when it becomes apparent that the foodstuff I’m requesting goes by a different name in the Philippines. The occasional cockroach wandering into the house can, on my worst days, feel like the stuff of nightmares.

There is something about living in a different place that can, at times, strip us of our sense of belonging. It can seem like a lifetime of learning has not prepared us for current circumstances and we are children again, learning everything for the first time. Sometimes, it is utterly exhausting and even deeply emotional. When, I can not understand or be understood, when it’s a struggle to perform even simple tasks, it can invite the question: was coming here the right decision?

In the Scriptures, little is said about the reactions of the fishermen that Jesus called on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. In the Gospel of Matthew, their response is encapsulated in eight words: “Immediately they left their nets and followed him.” And yet, these men were leaving nearly everything they knew: their livelihoods, their homes, and surely many family members and friends. Some of them, the New Testament later tells us, even went on to travel all over modern-day Europe. This cannot have been an easy thing, so what sustained them in those moments when they were feeling far from home?

In reflecting on their experiences in his hymn ‘The Galilee Song’, Australian priest Frank Andersen, MSC, writes “I feel my spirit called like a stirring deep within/ restless ’til I live again beyond the fears that close me in.” In these lyrics, I recognize something of the process that has helped to sustain me during my transition to life in a new country. Firstly, to start trying to ‘live beyond the fears’, it has been necessary to name the anxieties that ignite within me when my height or my limited Tagalog (the predominant language in the Philippines) or my ‘strange’ Canadian customs result in embarrassment or difficulty in the routine of my day. Naming them has meant being honest with myself, sharing about them with the members of my community, and taking them to God in prayer.

It is in the silence of prayer, that I can become more deeply aware of the ‘stirring deep within’, the voice of the Spirit, inviting me to a place beyond my insecurities. It is in this place before God that, gradually, I start to see that the worries that plague me have no foundation, that they are formless and without substance. It is here, too, that I experience gratitude for the companionship of God who intimately knows my anxieties and gently challenges me to release them. This process of letting go takes time and deep-rooted honesty and humility. It is the work of a lifetime. Thankfully, God has the patience and persistence to be with me every step of the journey.

As I recall my former students and think of all the people who have relocated to Canada, I am inspired by the courage so many have shown in leaving their “boats behind” on “familiar shores.” As millions of immigrants have learned to find their way around unfamiliar cities, taste new foods, adjust to language differences, purchase heavier clothes for cooler weather, and make sense of a different political landscape, they have also been invited to acknowledge their insecurities and move beyond them in a challenging, exhausting process.

However, God’s challenge is for everyone: we all carry anxieties with us in the ebb and flow of our everyday lives, whether we are living in new places or not. Perhaps you, too, are aware of the ‘spirit deep within’ inviting you to reflect on uncomfortable insecurities today. What ‘familiar shores’ is God calling you to leave behind, even if only for a few hours? How are you being encouraged to ‘live again beyond the fears that close [you] in?’ In the quiet of prayer, listen for God’s invitation to greater freedom as you, too, set your heart upon the deep.

By Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Originally written for the Religious Moral and Education Council Journal, ATA, Alberta, Canada

Some suggestions for teachers who are welcoming immigrants/ refugees into their classrooms:

Adjusting to a new language can be exhausting. It is okay to encourage students to ‘take a break’ when they go home in the evenings and speak their first language at home.

Pictures make a big difference. Using word walls to help students learn new vocabulary is good for immigrants and can help other students who struggle with vocabulary. Invite your students to help you create a word wall in your classroom.

Many Filipinos learn some English in the Philippines, but there will still be a lot of English terms/ idioms they may not understand

Consider finding the flags of your students on-line, printing them, and putting them up in the classroom. A country’s flag is like having a piece of their ‘homeland’ in the room.

Consider having a word of the day posted in your classroom, using the first languages of your students as a starting point. ex. Salamat (means Thank you in Tagalog)

Encourage students to talk about their difficulties living in Canada; what is different for them? What things do they find hard? Using gentle humour when sharing about our fears can sometimes be a big help.

Ask your students to share about their countries. What do they miss? What was their favourite place? Knowing that someone is interested in hearing about their country of birth can be a great support.

Consider bringing in a food from another country to share; places like TNT can have good options. Or if you see students eating different kinds of food, ask them about it.

Cultivating Hearts of Hope

2022-11-12T05:34:00.003-07:00

In “The Letter”, the most recent film release from Pope Francis on the topic of Laudato Si and Care for the Earth, there is a moment where he pauses during his remarks about climate change, apologizes and acknowledges that he has been speaking in Spanish without meaning to. Why? He says its because “I’ve spoken from the heart. My heart is in Spanish.”

Our FCJ community house in Quezon City (Metro Manila) hosts monthly Taize prayer services. The Scriptures are read in Tagalog (the most common spoken language in the Philippines, also known as Filipino) and the Christian chants that we repeat are sung in Tagalog, Indonesian and English. However, it is when individuals share their prayers of intercession that I am moved most deeply. Voices are soft and hushed. Each person speaks for one, two, three minutes. They pour out the cares and concerns they want to bring before God. The gathered community listens without interruption, a sacred space of invitation for all who feel the need to connect to God here. With my limited knowledge of Filipino, I can understand only the occasional word, and yet I find myself touched by these intimate and sincere supplications. They are spoken from the heart.

When we share from the heart, we talk about things that we care about. We acknowledge the difficult circumstances that are hurting us or those we love. We are vulnerable. We know our weakness and need. We communicate about the things that matter. We are profoundly aware of our helplessness before God. When we speak with our heart, we connect with others in ways that go beyond the spoken word; at some level, we can be understood by anyone with a willing and open spirit.

I learned recently from my Tagalog teacher that there is no word in Filipino for ‘hopeless.’ She tells me, Filipinos can only encourage someone not to be without hope. I believe, that when we speak from the heart, hope is inherently present: in ways that go beyond human understanding, both God and our community can hear and understand us.

As I listen to Pope Francis plead again for the plight of the Earth and as I hear Taize participants offer their prayers to God, I cannot be without hope, for any time that people have the courage to speak with their hearts, hope burns brightly. Let us continue to pray that more people will dare to do the same.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Summer Break and Eucharistic Remembrance

2022-06-23T15:01:00.000-06:00

Warm, sunny days, flowers blooming, greening grass. Summer has arrived!

Another sure sign of the season is being experienced in Edmonton's schools as I write: students vibrating with excess energy and pushing back against every rule on their way to two months free from classrooms and books. The end of the school year is nearly here and social media abounds with memes comparing the vibrancy of educators in September to their exhausted, hollow shells in June. As the natural world springs to life around us, educators are limping to the end of another trying year during the Covid pandemic.

An important part of this time of the year involves saying many goodbyes, especially to the oldest students at our sites. For the first time in three years, we were able to celebrate a Grade 9 Farewell in person at our junior high school. The evening included a Mass for educational staff, students and their families.

It is a powerful experience to celebrate the Eucharist in a gymnasium with the school community. Looking around the room, I could identify students whom I’ve known for years and ones that I’d never had the opportunity to work with. There were family members from a huge diversity of cultures and backgrounds. Our population included Christians and people of no religious background alike. As the priest consecrated the Communion bread and murmured the familiar words of the Mass, it was moving to be reminded that I was seeing the Body of Christ in all its diversity and beauty in that plain space. As a group, we were flawed and ordinary and sacred.

During the Consecration, we hear the priest repeat “Do this in memory of me,” Jesus’ words from the meal he shared with his disciples before his death. In this phrase and the mystery of the Eucharist there are many deeply theological layers of meaning, but I wonder if there isn’t also a sense of personal longing. After his three years of ministry, after all of the hours spent building relationships and healing the sick, after the endless days of travel around the region, did Jesus reflect upon what he had hoped to accomplish through his obedience to God? Did he wonder if his friends would pass on the stories he had shared with them, or if he had really made a difference at all?

As we say our goodbyes to those moving on from our schools, what will we will remember of them? Are there moments of hilarity that have left a lasting memory? Maybe eye-catching masterpieces gifted to us by aspiring artists? Have there been episodes of tragedy this year that will spark bittersweet thoughts within us in the years to come? Whatever the case, these are the “pieces” of people that we’ve loved, pieces that they will leave behind, consciously or not, that will enable them to remain a part of our lives. These are the eucharistic ways that students and colleagues have given of themselves: the stories that will continue to influence our behaviour, the material items that will stir our awareness each time our eyes settle on them or our hands touch them.

I am one of those members of the school community who is being farewelled this month, as I, too, will move on to new opportunities in September. As I pack up my classroom, watching the shelves and walls become more and more bare, I wonder about whether or not God has been able to use me, flawed, ordinary and sacred, to make any meaningful difference here. Will students remember me and repeat my stories? What will colleagues do and say in memory of me? What pieces of myself do I leave behind?

May we continue to deepen in our understanding and experience of the beauty and wisdom that the Eucharist offers in the ordinary moments of our lives.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Originally written for the Religious and Moral Education Council Newsjournal

The Grace That Comes After the Calm

2021-12-30T12:51:00.001-07:00

Just over 200 years ago, an Austrian Roman Catholic priest named Josef Mohr penned the words to what would become a Christmas classic. A couple years later, a teacher and organist, Franz Gruber, would add music to the poem. The result: the German version of Silent Night, Holy Night. I have cherished memories of being in various parishes over the years during the Christmas season, singing my heart out with hundreds of parishioners, straining to hit that high note (/sleep in heavenly pea-ce!/) and experiencing a sense of great reverence for what transpired that night when Christ was born into our world as a baby.

From the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem to the Epiphany, the Christmas liturgical season is filled with many heartwarming images of the Holy Family. In Christian art, we generally see an infant Jesus that is calm and unruffled whether it is in the first night of his life in a stable or on the flight to Egypt. So, when Pope Francis invited Catholics to meditate on the image of baby Jesus during the Christmas Eve Mass from the Vatican this year, this is where my reflection began: with a quietly cooing child, happily relaxing in his mother’s arms.

Of baby Jesus, Pope Francis said: “The One who embraces the universe needs to be held in another’s arms. The One who created the sun needs to be warmed. Tenderness incarnate needs to be coddled. Infinite love has a miniscule heart that beats softly. The eternal Word is an “infant”, a speechless child. The Bread of life needs to be nourished. The Creator of the world has no home. Today, all is turned upside down: God comes into the world in littleness. [God’s] grandeur appears in littleness.”

Having recently spent some time with a friend and her five-month-old child, I found that the natural evolution of my musings progressed to the next bit: the happenings after the “silent” parts of the “night,” when “speechless” babies loudly and insistently communicate their need for warmth or coddling or nourishment. Did the “holy night” become any less holy when Jesus’ cries pierced the “heavenly peace” that first Christmas?

For someone like me who has relatively limited experience with crying babies, they can be a bit terrifying. When the quiet calm of a content and smiling baby turns on a dime into wailing and tears, when the sequence of soothing words and swaying movements that I use to re-establish peace fails, these panicked moments don’t feel very holy. As we head towards the newness of New Year’s Day this year, though, I believe that there is value in staying with the image of the needy baby as we contemplate how God is calling us to growth.

The month of January is named for the Roman god of beginnings. Cultures throughout the world have viewed this as a time for personal and collective rebirth. As the pharisee Nicodemus asked an adult Jesus in the Gospel of John, we might also question how we can be reborn.

I wonder if a starting point doesn’t lie in recognizing and befriending the helpless babe that lies inside each of us. At times, I can be like the quiet and calm infant, contentedly receiving love, kindness, and nourishment from those around me. At other times, I am the (at least, inwardly) screaming, frustrated and red-faced child, vulnerable and unsettled, unable to articulate my needs to myself or to those around me. In his homily, Pope Francis encouraged us to ask God for the grace “to love littleness,” and it is a grace, because it can be hard to love this needy, frustrated, “weak” part of ourselves.

Why ask for the grace to love littleness in this context? Because it is in those moments of recognizing my littleness and need where I am most open to meaningful change or “rebirth” in my life. As the baby cries to be fed so that it can develop physically and emotionally, the instants where I see that my needs are beyond what I can handle by myself, these are the moments when I am most ready for God to take over and nourish me into new growth.

In 2020, Pope Francis was quoted as saying "It is a beautiful homily when a child cries in church, a beautiful homily." There is still room and need for the silent, holy nights in our lives. We rejoice when they are upon us! However, we remember, too, that holiness and grace don’t stop when our inner silence and calm is pierced by needs, desires and vulnerabilities as we live out our everyday lives. Let us pray for the grace to love our littleness, the littleness that calls us to growth in God.

(With credit to the National Catholic Register for printing the full text of Pope Francis’ Christmas Eve homily- https://www.ncregister.com/cna/full-text-pope-francis-christmas-homily)

This reflection first appeared on the Around the Well website, a blog for Young Religious in Canada, http://www.aroundthewell.ca/

The image is from www.pexels.com

by Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Honouring a Mother’s Eucharistic “Yesses”

2021-05-07T06:47:00.001-06:00

One of my earliest memories of my mother takes place in our kitchen in Churchbridge, Saskatchewan when I would have been three or four years old. Having baked a cake of one flavour or another, an inconsequential matter to me at my young age, she had completed the much more important job of whipping up my favourite frosting with egg whites, vanilla and sugar. Even then, as young as I was, I knew that hanging around near the kitchen when Mom was baking could pay off in a big way. Sure enough, I was rewarded with frosting covered eggbeaters and a mixing bowl that had the tasty, sweet leftovers that she didn’t require for the cake. While that may be the first of her “yesses” to me that I can remember, today I am being graced with new insights into the many “yesses” that came before.

Over forty years later, and twenty years since Mom’s death from Non-Hodgins Lymphoma in 2001, I am lucky enough to be journeying with two good friends, one who is currently pregnant, and another who has given birth very recently. It is a wonderful opportunity to hear the incredible challenges that are part of motherhood. That there are so many women who engage in this process which distorts and transforms their bodies so that they might carry, nourish and deliver children cannot be celebrated enough. That some women welcome this process more than once certainly rates as a miracle in my books!

The sacrifices that mothers are asked to make are as varied as they can be difficult. I think of one friend who made the decision to suffer through painful and debilitating migraines during her pregnancy, concerned that pain medication might harm her unborn child. Another is far enough along in her pregnancy that the privilege of finding a comfortable sleeping position and a good night’s sleep is long past. Often, too, a mother’s body can change in ways that last well beyond the actual pregnancy.

The Feast of Corpus Christi comes a few weeks after Mother’s Day in the calendar. Nevertheless, it provides us with a beautiful lens through which to view the Eucharistic nature of motherhood. Catholic tradition recognizes that Jesus’ words at the Last Supper, “This is my Body which is given for you,” are meant to be taken literally, and certainly we see this reality in the life of service that He offered to the people of His time, in His broken body on the Cross, and in His Presence at Mass in the Eucharist today. However, it is certainly no stretch to also see this Eucharistic offering in the sacrifice of our mothers’ bodies as they bring us into the world. In order to sustain us in our most vulnerable moments, our mothers take on the challenges of nausea, fatigue, swollen feet, sleepless nights, breathing difficulties, joint pain, bleeding gums and much more, and all of this lasts for months before the agony of delivery.

My relationship with Mom was complicated and imperfect throughout the first twenty-five years of my life and it was difficult to lose her to cancer at such a young age when so many issues between us remained unresolved. However, as I get older, I cannot help but to have an ever-greater understanding of all the momentous “yesses” she had to commit to in order to birth and raise me. As a child, the offering of her cake frosting seemed like a tremendous sacrifice to my eyes. Now, as a middle-aged adult, I am graced to be able to see that this was just one in a long line of beautiful, Eucharistic “yesses.” As we celebrate Mother’s Day this year, let us see the humanity and the godliness of our mothers with clearer eyes.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

This reflection was originally posted on Grandin Media.

The Womb of God: Inspired by Psalm 23

2021-04-10T15:59:00.000-06:00

God is the Womb of all that I am

She is extravagantly generous and attentive

In Her loving and warm embrace I know that I am cherished and sacred to Her

She invites me ever deeper into the mysteries of Her Love

In my most painful experiences

I remember that I am cradled within You

You envelop me, wholly

Your response to my selfishness and fears is to bless me,

Showering me with gifts of the earth and spirit

I have so much more than I could ever hope for or need

I am overcome

As I continue on this life journey

I give thanks that I am cared for so tenderly in the Womb of God

by Michelle Langlois, fcJ

When Martha Self-Isolates

2021-01-24T13:31:00.000-07:00

When I disclose that I teach in a junior high school, it’s not unusual for me to receive clucks of sympathy or kind words of appreciation; I suppose there are many people who don’t look back on their middle school years too fondly. While it’s true that teenagers are not always angels, they do often offer a lot of wonderful surprises.

One of my classes especially warmed my heart this week. In self-isolation due to close contact with a student who tested positive for Covid-19, I was teaching virtually from home with a slightly dry throat. I ended up coughing a few times and was the recipient of some very sweet expressions of concern: “Sister, are you all right?”, and “You should take some tea with lemon and honey,” and “Make sure you rest after class is over.”

As I reflected on how lovely it was to be the recipient of my students’ loving concern, I began to think about how a lot of the kindnesses sent my way this week only happened because I had been forced to spend more time at home doing less. It was like I was living my own version of the story of Martha and Mary from Luke’s Gospel.

You see, like many of you reading this post, I tend to be a doer. I enjoy taking my turn at cooking supper and helping out with household chores and regularly leading the evening prayer. At work, I have a strong sense of wanting to do my part in the life of the school community. I take pride in generally being fairly well-organized and competent. You might say that Martha and I would have gotten along just fine.

And yet, due to reasons outside of my control, I find myself much more like Martha’s sister, Mary, these days. Unable to supervise students at school, temporarily banned from cooking, and unable to complete most of the regular chores for my Community, there’s not nearly as much “doing” in my life at the moment.

With an intensity that cannot be ignored right now, I am asked to accept what God sends me through the hands, hearts and voices of those around me, but at a distance. With each beautifully prepared meal left outside my bedroom door, with every thoughtful phone call from a friend, with every message of encouragement and promise of prayer, I become more like Mary, sitting at the feet of Jesus, receiving from God. As it turns out, unsurprisingly, God is so very generous!

When Pedro Arrupe, a former General Superior of the Jesuits was very sick, he wrote: “More than ever, I now find myself in the hands of God. This is what I have wanted all my life, from my youth…. but now there is a difference: the initiative is entirely with God. It is indeed a profound spiritual experience to know and feel myself so totally in his hands.”

While I don’t pretend that my experience of self-isolation matches that of Arrupe’s illness, I do understand his words in a new way this week. It is indeed humbling to be “in the hands” of my FCJ Sisters and the larger community of people that know me. It is a sacred place to sit before God as a recipient of the loving kindness of so many.

During this time of pandemic, let us pray that we all can sit still and be in touch with our inner “receiver”, our inner Mary, able to see the generous gifts that God offers through the hands, hearts and voices of those around us.

By Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Waiting for Emmanuel

2020-12-24T12:21:00.002-07:00

When I was a child, there were a couple of times that I found the waiting time of Advent to be too much to bear. I had to know the identities of the colourful packages and so I found time, late in the evening, to secretly and carefully pull at the scotch tape holding the wrapping paper together on each of my gifts. Knowing the trouble I’d get into if the presents actually disappeared, I returned them carefully re-wrapped to the Christmas tree, and so there were a couple Christmas mornings that held no surprises for me.

I’d like to think that I’ve improved in my ability to wait as an adult, but I’m regularly reminded that I’ve a long way still to go. There are occasions when I’m sitting at yet another red light on my way home from a long day at work that I find myself bemoaning why it’s so difficult for city workers to synchronize the lights on a street when humanity has managed to put a person on the moon! In other words, waiting is not always my strength. As I see the struggles that we as a province and country are living through these days of Covid 19, I know that I am not alone in this.

Perhaps the toughest struggle in the waiting is the inner dialogue that happens, dialogue that illustrates to me how the truths of my Catholic faith sometimes sit up in my head as “interesting” knowledge, without somehow making the trip down to my heart to transform and permeate the way I live. The interior moaning might go something like this: “Why me? What have I done to deserve red light after red light? I mean, yes, I could have been more generous to this colleague and I was a bit sharp with that student today, but really, does that really mean the world has to be against me now?”

Two thousand years ago, the Jewish people were having a similar dialogue with themselves and God. They had a fair amount more to concern themselves with than city traffic: a Roman occupation that many Jews struggled to abide at the time. “Why us?” they asked themselves. “Why should our region be run by the Romans? Yes, we could have obeyed the laws of our God more faithfully, we have been untrue and thoughtless at times. But is Roman rule really justified?”

The birth of a child was God’s response to years of agonized waiting. The birth of Jesus, the Messiah, is also God’s response to me today. It is a truth that is simple to know, and yet utterly profound to understand and live. Emmanuel, God is with us.

Every frustrated encounter with a traffic light can serve as a call to me from the depths of my heart, a reminder that I need God’s grace to help permeate my very being with this truth: God is with us! God is with me! It is God saying: “Red lights can’t take away from your worth. Unkind words and acts, pandemics, corrupt politicians, these can neither add nor take anything away from your preciousness to me. I give you your worth. God is with you!”

As we hear the Christmas story again at Mass this year, let us pray that its wisdom moves a little more from our heads, working its way ever deeper into our hearts. We are extraordinarily precious. We are profoundly loved. God is with us! Let us know it, live it, and breathe it!

by Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Sacred Giving

2020-08-22T11:41:00.000-06:00

“I’m so happy! I’m so happy!” These words were repeated over and over by a ten-year-old Camp Encounter attendee two summers ago and remembering this moment still brings a smile to my face (Camp Encounter is one of two camps run by the Catholic Archdiocese of Edmonton.) What had brought her so much joy? A fabulous new bicycle? An iPad? News of a trip to Disneyland or a new puppy? Nope. None of the above. This lovely young lady was ecstatic that a bracelet she’d made for one of the other camp participants had been delivered and very much liked by the recipient (If memory serves, his response was something like: “This is so cool!”) Can you imagine being as joyful as she in the act of giving?

Its taken me some time to really understand the important lesson this young person’s actions (and reactions) were trying to teach me that day, but I think I’ve got it figured out: I am a terrible giver. That is not to say that I don’t give; I do give of my time and possessions and energy, although I’m sure I could do more. But no, I focus here not on how much or how little I give. Instead, I focus on the quality of my giving.

Come on, we all do it. When someone thanks us for a kindness that we’ve done, our response is often something like: “It was nothing” or “Don’t worry about it.” I know for me, whether I’ve spent five minutes or five hours on a task, I’m very quick to say that it was “No problem” when any gratitude comes my way. I will confess that there have been times I’ve been relieved to drop off a gift when the recipient is unexpectedly out as it won’t be necessary to suffer through the embarrassment of being thanked. My acts of giving can seem so small and unworthy. However, what I’m beginning to understand from this camp attendee’s beautiful example is that this attitude misses the point.

Our Catholic Tradition teaches us about the reverent, sacrificial love that exists between the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. The relationship of the Triune God is such that there is a constant and joyful giving and receiving between the Three. And we are taught, that their love is so all-encompassing that it cannot be contained, and so it must be shared with us. The sacred flow of giving and receiving between the Persons of the Trinity serve as an example to us of what right relationship with God and each other looks like.

The young giver from my story above was able to recognize the joy of this divine flow and enter into it fully. It hadn’t been her idea to make the bracelet. She wasn’t the one who’d driven to the store to purchase the necessary beads or threads. The assembly process had not taken her hours. However, she had accepted the materials and the time that were gifted to her by God, passed these onto another, and then appreciated the gratitude that had naturally flowed from the next recipient of God’s gifts. She had, at some level, recognized the sacredness of the act of giving. She had instinctively and completely participated in the sacrificial love of the Trinity, allowing extraordinary joy to enter her day.

Being able to give is a privilege. The act of giving allows us to participate in the sacred flow of love that exists through the Persons of the Trinity. During this time of pandemic, there are so many opportunities to give of our time, our energy and our love. Let us ask God to help us fully experience the joy that comes with sharing the gifts that our Triune God has given to us.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Recognizing Our “Grievous Fault”

2020-06-07T10:39:00.000-06:00

It has not been an easy thing to be following the riots in the United States on the news. It is an uncomfortable truth for us to face that we still have so far to go in evolving towards a society where everyone is treated fairly regardless of their skin colour or race. As a teacher at a school where the majority of the students are visible minorities, I want nothing less than a future for these vibrant young people that allows them to freely share their gifts without fear in our country and in our world. At times, this reality seems so far away, and yet perhaps these latest protests will be the starting point for real, systemic change.

It can be easy for me to forget how privileged I am as I go about my daily life, although listening to the stories of my students can ground me occasionally. They’ve told me about being berated in coffee shops for speaking their first language; after all, “they live in Canada now.” A fourteen-year old student spoke about walking down a local street while a man shouted racist slurs at her from his car. One young person told me about being followed around a store by a security guard to ensure he didn’t steal. Of course, sometimes, teenagers are targeted only because they are teenagers. His Mexican heritage may have only partially contributed to the extra attention paid to him. So, yes, my blood boiled for a time after hearing each of these anecdotes before I returned to my life: going out around the city, free of taunts and mean-spirited slights, mostly oblivious to racism.

In the Introductory Rites of Mass, as part of the Penitential Act, we are asked to reflect on how we fall short of being our best selves, both personally and as a community of believers. We confess that we “have greatly sinned” in what we have done and what we have failed to do through our “most grievous fault.” I suggest that we who have enjoyed some privilege in this country are being called by present day events and our Catholic faith to consider the ways we have failed to acknowledge that privilege, and how this has led to the more vulnerable among us being hurt through no fault of their own.

How many times has someone smiled at me or shown me other kindnesses for no other reason than because I looked like them? How often has someone put my job application form on the top of the pile because of the colour of my skin? Has my opinion been respected over others because I wasn’t a visible minority? If I can answer yes to any of these questions, how have I responded to that privilege? Perhaps I’ve been oblivious to it because I’ve been wrapped up in my own troubles? Or maybe I’ve seen it as my due? Have I ever just assumed that I was somehow more deserving?

An Indigenous man spoke at Teacher’s Convention in Edmonton a couple years ago on the topic of Truth and Reconciliation. One of the things that stayed with me were his words to the Caucasians in the room near the end of his talk: “It is not your job to fix us,” he said. “‘Fixing people’ is White Man’s thinking.” It is a painful thing to face: I can’t fix the racist experiences my students will suffer during their lifetimes or change the fact that people will treat me differently because I’m white. I can’t control what others think or how they behave. What I can do is acknowledge that I have been given a ‘leg up’ by a system that I am a part of. I have been complicit in the “most grievous fault” that is keeping others from being fully accepted members of society. And I can avoid getting in the way of just and necessary change as our country strains to move into a future where every person is recognized as an equally valued member of the greater community. “May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.” Amen.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Pondering The Precious, Spirit-Filled Moments

2020-05-15T06:00:00.000-06:00

This past year, before all of the Covid-19 mayhem began, some of us were sitting around the staff room at lunchtime one day. Somehow the stars had aligned and there was a bigger group of us than usual. As can sometimes happen in a Catholic school, the conversation turned to the topic of religion and God, and while I can’t remember the details of what we talked about, I do remember that a sense of sacred space grew between all of us. As we talked and shared our thoughts, the presence of the Spirit seemed tangible. When the bell went at the end of the lunch hour, someone said, “That was great!” We left feeling alive and ready to enter into the rest of the day.

A lot has been written about the value of Catholic Education but, in this reflection, I am choosing to focus on what some might call a more selfish end: how working in Catholic Schools has fed me as a Teacher/ Chaplain. I grew up in Winnipeg, where my parents couldn’t afford to send me to the private Catholic girls’ school. It wasn’t until I began teaching that I had any knowledge of the inner workings of Catholic School Districts and it was only when I came to Edmonton Catholic as a Religious Sister that I really appreciated the opportunities that we have as Catholic educators.

The fact that staff-room chitchat can quickly turn into beautiful discussions about God is just one of the ways that I often find myself spiritually nourished in my work. Every now and then, students will write or say something that makes my heart smile as I relish the wisdom of their insights. For a Religion assignment, one student wrote: “God for me is not just a person, He is everything. God is love, hope, faith. I am happy and proud to believe in God.” Another printed: “God is in my heart. I would be just a human without God in my life, but now I’m a human of God with Him in me.” A “human of God”: I love that turn of phrase! And a third from a student who was born in South Sudan: “What I drew here is what God looks like to me. It is a face with no eyes, mouth or lips. Just a face full of colour: different colours.” What a joy to see the Holy Spirit alive and flowing through our young people today!

And the most profound conversations about God seem to happen in the most unexpected of places. Returning from a field trip last year I sat with a group of students that I didn’t know very well. A question came up about whether or not God used natural disasters to punish people. A thoughtful discussion ensued and I remember thinking how strange and wonderful it was for that discourse to happen on a school bus of all places. And yet, it’s often been outside the classroom where students have turned to me and suddenly asked about my life as a Religious Sister and what it’s like to live in a church (which we don’t, by the way.)

In the course of our daily school routines throughout the year, there are many other moments that will suddenly bring our minds, and perhaps our hearts, back to God: watching a student pause in the chapel doorway to make the sign of the Cross, another sharing about the peace that came into her heart during a class prayer, a grandson requesting that we pray for an ill grandparent. Do I remember to stop and recognize these events as the precious gems that they are? I hope, at least sometimes, that I do.

Cardinal Bishop Luis Tagle has referred to teenagers as our unconventional prophets and evangelizers. It is time well spent to make the space every so often to sit and ponder how God is nourishing us through the students and staff that we meet in our Catholic Schools. What a gift to meet the Lord each day in buildings where God is actively welcomed. Let us pray that we will never lose sight of the varied ways God continues to bless us!

This reflection was originally written for the Catholic Dimension, a publication of the ACSTA for the occasion of Catholic Education Week in Alberta.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Productivity at All Costs?

2020-05-06T02:04:00.001-06:00

A friend of mine has a 2.5-year-old son who used to go to pre-school on weekdays while both his parents worked. When the circuit-breaker measures against COVID-19 recently took effect in Singapore, he and his parents found themselves - like most Singaporeans - confined to the house. As part of the nation’s home-based learning drive, his pre-school teacher emailed worksheets to his parents every day, which they ignored for a week while trying to juggle working from home and taking care of their toddler. Then, the teacher called and asked them to submit the worksheets. Nowadays, the parents (who thankfully still have a dose of common sense) take turns to do the daily worksheet and then let the child doodle on it before submitting it online, in what they call a “team effort”.

A 2.5-year-old's homework

When I heard this story, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The idea of 2.5-year-olds having homework to submit everyday - not to mention in the middle of a worldwide pandemic - simply boggles the mind. Stories also abound of stressed-out parents trying to organize intensive online learning for children of different ages, with limited equipment, all the while still being expected to work at the same level of productivity as they did before the lockdown - the bulk of the work, of course, falling on the shoulders of women. One article I read about this phenomenon had a section aptly titled “The Quest for Productivity at All Costs” (surely you can imagine what costs this would include).

Some questions come to mind at this point. “What is the point of all this stress and whirlwind of activity?” is one of them. “How on earth did we get to this point?” is another. But more pressingly, perhaps: Why did we make productivity our god, and lose sight of the human?

The constant, urgent drive I feel to be productive is something I first became aware of when I joined religious life 6 years ago - when I was first forced to let go of that as a marker of my own self-worth - and is something I have continued to struggle with since (as in previous posts on this blog like this one). Working from home in this pandemic has brought that feeling back to the fore as I struggle with the inability to work at the same level as before. Seeing that same drive for productivity explode so acutely now on a national level in Singapore (though I am sure this goes beyond just one country and is perhaps a by-product of modern society) has made me more aware of the systemic causes of this personal struggle, and how the desperate need for productivity has pervaded all levels of our society.

While productivity is unquestionably a value to be lauded at a certain level, the current state of things suggests that it has grown to eclipse all those more essential things that make our lives matter. This pandemic and the disruption it has caused has opened the way - or forced us, really - to step back and re-evaluate our ordinary ways of doing things. Pope Francis articulated this beautifully in his “Urbi et Orbi” message on March 27:

[This] storm exposes our vulnerability and uncovers those false and superfluous certainties around which we have constructed our daily schedules, our projects, our habits and priorities. It shows us how we have allowed to become dull and feeble the very things that nourish, sustain and strengthen our lives and our communities. The tempest lays bare all our prepackaged ideas and forgetfulness of what nourishes our people’s souls; all those attempts that anesthetize us with ways of thinking and acting that supposedly “save” us, but instead prove incapable of putting us in touch with our roots and keeping alive the memory of those who have gone before us. We deprive ourselves of the antibodies we need to confront adversity.

Strangely, instead of accepting the disruption that the pandemic brings and reflecting deeper on what its message might be to us, both individually and collectively, some of us seem hell-bent on forcing our usual patterns onto the changed fabric of our lives and societies, regardless of whether the fragile fabric itself will still hold. Why do we do that? Are we afraid of what we might find - or not find - when we look beneath the surface of our everyday productivity?

This is certainly a question I asked myself in 2014, and something I still ask. What is left - and who am I - when all that I do is stripped away? Who are we?

The Christian scriptures, with its images of humanity as beloved children of an infinitely loving God, offer much to ponder and relish as we seek to understand what it is that gives our lives meaning and worth.

A saying by the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh has also been nourishment for me of late:

We have a tendency to think in terms of doing and not in terms of being. We think that when we are not doing anything, we are wasting our time.
But that is not true. Our time is first of all for us to be.
To be what? To be alive, to be peaceful, to be joyful, to be loving. And that is what the world needs most.

While the truth of this resonates with me, there is still the hard fact that those of us who struggle to work in these strange times are being paid not to “be” but to “do”. What do we make of that? Perhaps it also points to the need to build an economy that is more centered on people rather than on what they produce. In any case, this pandemic has also shown us how we have valued wrongly in today’s economy: such that those who perform essential services for the rest of us, like cleaners and grocery store workers and garbage collectors, have been exploited and paid pittances not at all commensurate with the value of their service to our communities. Perhaps this pandemic also offers us an opportunity to consider putting into practice that core principle of Catholic social thought on labour: that the person is more important than the work.

But if this talk of social change sounds all too much to digest, perhaps we can start with ourselves: by being exceedingly kind to ourselves and those around us in these uncertain times, recognizing that we are far more important than anything we do or don’t do!

*****

By Audrey fcJ

This post first appeared on her blog Surprising Grace.

Entrusting all to Mary

2020-05-01T19:19:00.001-06:00

Country singer Kenny Rogers died a couple months ago. I grew up in a household where his records were played often, at least in my younger years, and so it was not without some twinge of emotion that I followed the related headlines. As the tributes poured in for him, snippets of his biggest hits were shared and re-shared, including these famous lines: “You've got to know when to hold 'em/ Know when to fold 'em/ Know when to walk away/ And know when to run.”

Now, you may wonder what country music lyrics from “The Gambler” are doing in a Catholic post about Mary, the Mother of Jesus. Well, to my way of thinking, while these words may hold good advice for poker players, in them also lies a kernel of wisdom about how to make our way through the inevitably painful events that sometimes arise in our lives.

While Covid-19 entered the lives of billions of people all over our planet this year and took over nearly every news headline, a relatively smaller scale event happened in my own life: a valued relationship ended. And in the midst of a world that saw the onset of restrictions, self-isolating behaviour and the death of thousands from a highly contagious virus, I also grieved the loss of a friendship.

In many of the dilemmas that present themselves to us on our life’s journey, it is often a struggle to know the best way to cope. Is it helpful to try to fix a situation or mend a relationship? Or do we need to recognize that some issues are too big for us to repair? With the coronavirus, much of the world, including Canada, has taken the stance that we should battle this flu pandemic, that we should “hold ‘em,” and so we have seen measures put in place all over the country to do just that. And it seems to be working, thanks be to God, although not without the loss of many lives and jobs. In my own situation, though, I faced the painful realization that the friendship could not be saved, and, after countless tears and much heartache, I had to learn to let go. I had to “fold ‘em,” so to speak.

Often in my life when I’ve struggled with painful situations, I have turned to Mary and the Rosary. This year, it was the fourth Glorious Mystery that gave me special comfort in my time of grieving. Generally, I have always considered the “Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary” as an invitation to pray for the graced end of days for myself and loved ones, but for me, there was a shift. Praying for Mary’s intercession in death also became about asking for her help in letting go: letting go of my attachments to a relationship that was ended, turning over to her care all of my concerns for someone that I still have affection for, and waiting patiently for the grace of transformation that comes with every death in all of its many forms.

As Catholics, turning over our needs to Mary is not the same as giving up. We are not saying that nothing can be done or that a situation is hopeless. “To fold ‘em” is not to despair. However, it is an acknowledgment that there are circumstances that we cannot control, that there comes a point when trying to “fix” something is detrimental to us and others, and that there are people we need to walk away from in our lives, no matter how much it breaks our hearts to do so. We turn these people and situations over to Mary, knowing that her deepest longing is to see God enter more fully into all of our lives and into our world. She will do everything possible to care for those that we cannot. She will watch over those who no longer want us watching over them.

We are seeing many deaths in our world at this time. There are so many things that we have no control over. Let us release the tremendous weight that comes with trying to alter circumstances or people that it is not in our power to change. Let us learn to “know when to fold ‘em/ know when to walk away” in the most hopeful sense of what this means and entrust everything and everyone to Mary, our loving, heavenly Mother.

Which Pandemic Are You Living?

2020-04-26T20:24:00.003-06:00

In the past weeks, I have often felt as if I was living in two worlds. When on the phone with family and friends in Singapore, while listening to international news, or joining in various prayer events against COVID-19, I am in a world where anxiety over the COVID pandemic is front and center, with its grievous toll of thousands dying alone, overburdened health systems, and the valiant sufferings of frontliners. This is a world of masks, hand-washing, daily case number updates, and - thankfully - inspiring acts of kindness between people.

Some of the people around me in Metro Manila, though, live in another kind of world. I became acutely aware of this on the first day that we were locked down. Jose (not his real name), a homeless man whom we knew, rang the bell. I had never seen him so terrified. The local officials were asking him to get off the street or be arrested. But where could he go? The street was where he lived and collected recyclables for a living. He needed rent money, and money for food, and to continue his daily medication for tuberculosis. “This is how it always is,” he commented bitterly. “People don’t care about the poor.” I asked if he knew about COVID-19 and how dangerous it was. He waved it off nonchalantly with a hand gesture. “That’s a disease for the rich.”

Nowadays, poor communities here have become more aware of the dangers of COVID-19 and are taking precautions against it. Every informal settlement (or “squatter area”, in colloquial terms) we have visited as part of the local parish’s relief efforts has put up barriers in each of its little alleyways or entry points, usually with a table at which sits a volunteer guard who checks IDs, bars the entry of non-residents, and sprays each person’s hands with alcohol. Everyone wears masks outside their houses, even though physical distancing is usually not possible in the narrow spaces. They know they cannot afford to get sick in a place where healthcare is expensive and often inaccessible to the poor even at the best of times.

The main concern on everyone’s minds in these places, though, is not COVID-19. It is how to survive the lockdown that has so abruptly taken away their livelihoods. “No work, no pay” was a phrase that you heard everywhere after the lockdown announcement. As most of the poor work in the informal sector, the lockdown has meant that they have no way to put food on the table. This is a world where the prospect of falling ill with COVID-19 is far more remote than the urgency of hunger pangs, or of not having milk for one’s children. A few days after the lockdown started, trickles of relief goods started coming in: rice and tinned food, mostly. Some people received financial aid from the government. The private sector, religious groups and NGOs pitched in to help. Incredibly, we have now survived 40 days of lockdown with only one protest by hungry residents in the city who had not received food aid. The mood in each community we have visited has been different: in some, especially when everyone was receiving aid, there was a peaceful atmosphere and a strong sense of community spirit. In others, there was more of a sense of desperation and louder demands. But even in those places I was touched by the humanity of people who advocated for needy neighbours not on distribution lists, and the integrity of those who returned extra vouchers that were accidentally given to them, even though no one would have known the better if they hadn’t.

Poor communities here have faced this crisis so far with the resilience that they have faced all others. But the fact that they have to, as they have always had to, makes me both sad and angry. Dominant media discourse has sometimes tended to “COVID-ize” everything, assuming that the COVID-19 pandemic is most people’s main concern, with numbers of infections, deaths and recoveries as indicators of societies’ success. But while everyone is susceptible to the disease, the ways in which people experience the pandemic differ widely. There is another, more pervasive pandemic plaguing our world that we don’t so often talk about: the pandemic of poverty and exclusion. For sure, no one is immune from the economic impact of lockdowns, but some people will suffer much more egregiously than others. If anything, this COVID-19 crisis has just accentuated the plight of the most vulnerable, and exposed more clearly the fault lines that exist in our societies.

I hope the greater awareness of this that we now have will drive us to do something about it. There has been much talk about the pandemic being an opportunity for conversion; a “portal” into a new future (as writer Arundhati Roy puts it). My own country Singapore was initially lauded for its effective response to the pandemic, only to suffer an explosion of new infections later among migrant construction workers living in crowded dormitories. There is still a lot of “us” and “them” talk there (i.e. “the new numbers are only among the foreign workers, but the community is quite safe”), but at least some people are waking up to the fact that “their” fate is entwined with “ours”. No one is safe until we are all safe.

Would that this realization take root, not only within countries but also between them! When family and friends from “developed” countries ask me about the situation where I am and I tell them about people struggling to eat, the first response is usually an embarrassed silence as they suddenly realize that being able to worry about COVID-19 is actually a privilege. Then, thankfully, many step up to the plate with unsolicited donations and offers to help. This is the kind of humanity and sharing that we need on a global scale, which will make cancellation of foreign debt and international cooperation real possibilities. None of us are safe until we are all safe.

What kind of world do we want the portal of this pandemic to open into? Will we let the falling away of our usual blinders “[uncover] once more,” as Pope Francis hopes, “that (blessed) common belonging, of which we cannot be deprived: our belonging as brothers and sisters”?

Lest we feel discouraged by the immensity of the change we have to bring about, perhaps it is good to remember that we can only change ourselves. So I pray for myself first and foremost, for the grace of conversion to live in a way that includes the other, most especially the poor among whom Christ counted himself.

By Audrey fcJ

This post first appeared on the blog Surprising Grace.

Jesus Breaks In

2020-04-20T13:57:00.000-06:00

On Holy Saturday of this year, our convent had an unexpected visitor. A young man kicked in the back door with a loud noise that reverberated throughout our house. He entered, hammer in hand, mumbling to the FCJ Sisters that met him near the door about needing to find a way through. He was told, firmly, that he could not get through and so he ran back out the way he’d come in. The police arrested him a short time after that and we were left with a shattered door to fix and a mixture of feelings to process.

It was with new eyes that I read again the words from the Gospel of St. John the next day. Disciples in a locked room? A man appearing unexpectedly in the midst of them? That sounded eerily familiar, all right. However, Jesus’ visit elicited very different reactions from his disciples: joy, reassurance, peace. Perhaps it was the violence of our unwelcome intruder that prompted me to spend some extra time reflecting on this particular account of Easter Sunday: How had Jesus breached the locked doors of my home during these days of Covid-19? Where had the presence of the Risen Christ brought joy, peace and reassurance as I grappled with living in a pandemic-stricken world?

For me, the face of Jesus has appeared repeatedly through the laptop which I use to virtually teach my junior high students from our convent. These past weeks I have chatted with young people sporting unkempt hair and patterned pajamas speaking to me from cluttered bedrooms with unmade beds. I’ve had the opportunity to get to know more about the day to day existence of my students than I could have done within the walls of a school: I’ve heard the hungry cries of baby brothers, the shenanigans of younger sisters, the songs of pet birds and seen some interesting home décor choices. There is something about working from our homes that seems to give us all permission to put on less of a persona and to present to our friends, colleagues and teachers more of the grittiness of who we are. It’s unavoidable, really. To me, there is something lovely and reassuring about this. We are united in our ordinariness and humanity. There are no Snapchat filters or carefully worded Facebook posts to disguise the genuine Body of Christ.

On another level, our vulnerabilities emerge in ways we may not be used to. We miss the physical presence of each other, and so we make contact in the ways that we are able. Students message teachers, just to reassure themselves that there’s someone who will answer. Colleagues initiate video conferences for no other reason than to chat and catch up at the end of a virtual day of teaching. These moments where we become aware of our need and reach out, seeking connection and intimacy with each other, but at a distance, have touched me. In these instances of yearning for human contact, we are the human face of Jesus, the broken Jesus who whispers “I thirst” from the agony of the Cross. And when we respond to this need for companionship from our students, friends, families and colleagues, we resemble the Risen Christ, breaking through walls and crossing vast distances (via Wi-Fi) to share the reassuring presence of God.

Sometimes, it seems there is so much to fear in this time of pandemic and there are good reasons for us to spend more time in the relative safety of our homes. Yet, Christ still comes in unexpected ways, breaching our locked doors and bringing us peace and love that shine through in the humanity of others. Let us pray that we don’t allow our fears to hide these Christ-moments from our awareness. Alleluia, He is Risen! He is Risen, indeed!

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Honest Fear

2020-03-30T08:42:00.001-06:00

I’m a Religious Sister and I feel afraid. That’s right. I’ve said it.

I am a prayer-saying, Mass-attending (via livestream, anyway), Jesus-loving FCJ Sister, and yet I find myself living with a pulsating core of anxiety in my inner depths. It seems to delight in drawing my attention to the eerily quiet streets outside my bedroom window, the apprehension I experience regarding my changed role as a “virtual” teacher and the ever-increasing number of Covid-19 infected people in my province and beyond. “There’s no end in sight,” it likes to whisper to me. “Who knows when life will return to normal?”

I don’t like being afraid. Maybe you know some people who are the same? One pious Catholic recently shared with me that only people without religion or spirituality could truly be fearful of the pandemic. After all, “we know that there is more that comes afterwards,” he reminded me. And of course, he has a point. Christianity subscribes to the understanding that death is not the end, and so how could any Religious Sister fear the uncertainty that this virus has brought into our day to day existence? Right?

Besides, who could forget that the Scriptures remind us 365 times to not be afraid? In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus took an arguably scolding tone with his disciples when they were fearful: “Why are you afraid, you of little faith?” I mean, if the disciples weren’t supposed to fear a raging storm on the sea, why should I fear the effects of a worldwide viral infection?

And yet, the reality is that I do feel fear. I’m informed enough to know that it’s unlikely I’d die of the virus myself, but that doesn’t mean that Covid-19 can’t massively impact the lives of the people around me. Denying the fear doesn’t make it disappear. Pretending that it doesn’t exist doesn’t mean it stops murmuring to me. And reminding myself that eternal life awaits me and my loved ones on the other side of suffering makes the anxiety no less alive inside me. So what to do?

For me, help with this question lies in the Book of Psalms. In Psalm 22, King David cries “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.” There is no denial of anxiety here. David touches his fear, he acknowledges it, he cries out to God for help. He suffers through the pain of his “unfaith” and his feelings of separation from the Creator. Who knows how long that sense of disconnection from God lasted for him? Days? Weeks? Only after he had suffered through this experience could he say later on in the same psalm: “For [God] did not despise or abhor, the affliction of the afflicted; he did not hide his face from me, but heard when I cried to him.”

Many of us are afraid during this difficult time of illness and uncertainty and separation. Our lives are turned upside down. People are becoming ill and some are dying. Others are losing their jobs and are concerned about losing the ability to look after their families. We are physically isolated from our social circles and many of our loved ones. It doesn’t help anything to say that we shouldn’t be afraid, or to tell each other to stop being anxious. Instead, like David, we are called to acknowledge and touch this dread and to cry out to God in our pain. It is only through this honest awareness within ourselves and ongoing candid conversation with our God that we can develop compassion enough to engage with the anxieties of those around us. Let us walk with each other authentically through our collective pain and fear, knowing that this pandemic will eventually end and the joys of the Resurrection really do await us on the other side of Covid-19.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

The Beauty of Diversity

2020-03-20T20:21:00.003-06:00

By Maria Khaing fcJ

As a social work student, I have been doing my fieldwork in an agency which helps to rescue trafficked women and men from bars. The agency does transformative work with these women and men, helping to restore their dignity and hope through providing college education, psycho-social support, and other basic needs. This agency is a Christian organization and actively networks with many other Christian Churches.

Last week, I was so blessed to volunteer in a big event organized by the agency. Members of many Christian Churches were invited to join. The event advocated a stop to sex trafficking through various activities, including praise and worship sessions. Several courageous women shared their stories about how they were transformed through journeying with the agency. Their stories inspired the crowd.

What struck me the most was the way the different Christian Churches invited by the agency came together, even though their ways of praying were so different from each other. During the event, everyone worshiped and praised God in the same place and with the same purpose. At first, I was shocked to see so many ways of praying and worshiping God which were different from my own. Some people were lying on the floor, crying, some were shouting with joy and dancing, some just moved their bodies slowly and waved their hands in the air. The music was loud and while I was watching them I couldn’t understand how they were connecting with God. My mind was full of confusion.

However, I began to realize that quickly judging these new things I saw based on my own expectations was stopping me from really seeing and valuing their difference. While the unfamiliarity of the scene made me experience confusion, once I caught my own judgmental thoughts, I realized that the experience of difference was actually inviting me go deeper into myself to understand my own reactions. Only then could I begin to accept and value the other.

This incident really challenged me not to judge, and to accept people who come from contexts that are really different from my own. I thank God for placing me there and showing me the beauty of diversity, which goes beyond what the eye can see. This Lent is inviting me to accept other people who are really different from me. It requires a deep listening both to myself and to the other.

Living in God’s Kingdom, Now

2019-11-22T21:01:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I listened to a homily given, primarily, to a group of elementary school children. It was a diverse group, to be sure, and not of an age where they could have handled any complicated theological teaching and so the priest speaking to the students stuck with this message: God loved them, God was All-Powerful and if they prayed to him, God would always take care of them.

It seems, on the surface, like a fairly stock message to deliver to a group of young people attending a Catholic school. Certainly, we know that God does love us, and we all have at least some sense of the importance of prayer. And yet, I remember feeling uneasy with the talk because it left so many things unsaid. It failed to approach even the child-sized complexities of life. If God takes care of us in the way the person seemed to be implying, how then to explain the difficult experiences that cropped up in the course of any normal childhood: things like the death of a pet or bullying by other students or parental divorce? In such cases, would we suggest to kids, or to anyone else, that the reason these things happen is due to their lack of prayer?

At the end of the liturgical year, the Church celebrates the Feast Day of Christ the King. It is my favourite of the year and has had a special meaning to me ever since I participated in a 30 Day Spiritual Retreat as a Novice. However, remembering Christ as King needs a bit of nuancing. I don’t imagine Jesus as some version of Aragorn from Lord of the Rings, battling my ‘enemies’ and keeping me safe from all harm. Nor does my idea of King Jesus involve dazzling vestments, ruby studded crowns, or a massive army reinforcing his every decree. I’ve lived enough life to know that taking prayers to God are not a kind of magic cure to ensure that everything that I’m hoping happens does. Life is messy and challenging at times, no matter how much I pray.

So in what way do I see Christ as a King? John’s Gospel says of Jesus the Christ: “All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.” These beautiful words resonate with me deeply. In paraphrasing them, I might say that all of us, just by virtue of coming into existence, bear the imprint of Jesus in our being. Our bodies, our cells, our very atoms are all carefully crafted by God to carry God’s Essence, God’s Light, God’s Fragrance. So, in what way is Christ the King of this world? This world and everything that is in it utterly belongs to and is integrally marked by God.

When I pray, it is not because I’m worried that if I don’t pray enough, God won’t do what I want God to do. Instead, I pray so that I have a better sense of my connection to that inner Essence of Christ that I have inherited. When I am grounded in that Essence, I can move through my days aware of the countless ways that God is at work in the people around me, rather than being transfixed by the hurtful ways we can treat each other. When I am grounded in that Essence, I can experience the dark and painful ‘Gethsemane’ events in my life prepared to look for any of the many ‘angels’ that God sends to minister to me, rather than supposing myself to be alone, forgotten by God and the world.

Jesus told the Pharisees that ‘the kingdom of God is among you.” Recognizing Jesus as my King helps me to recognize the truth of His words: we are living in God’s kingdom, now. There are miracles and graces happening all around us, now. God is sending us ‘angels’ in disguise to love and support us, now. In the moments or days (or weeks) that we struggle to see this, we can enter into prayer and ask God to open our eyes to these truths. As we celebrate the Feast Day of Christ the King this month, let us pray that we deepen in our sense of connection to that inner Essence of God that is integrally part of us. May we recognize that we are truly living in God’s Kingdom and that Christ is King. Now.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Finding Meaning in Work

2019-11-16T00:50:00.000-07:00

I spent the last 8 days making a “silent retreat” at a beautiful Jesuit retreat centre just outside of Manila. Such a retreat – Ignatian-style – involves quieting oneself and giving time for a certain amount of prayer and reflection each day with the aim of reconnecting with God, oneself, and nature, usually with the help of a guide to whom you talk each day about your inner process.

Going on retreat, it occurred to me this year, is a bit like going up a mountain. In the whirlwind of work, play and activity that fills our days, we sometimes lose track of where we have come from and where we are going – or why we are going anywhere at all! It is only when we are on the mountain, gazing down at the road we have travelled in our daily experience, that we regain a sense of the bigger picture: yes, I have travelled that road, and look how far I have come! Looking down at the paths by which we have come gives a deeper sense of meaning and direction to the daily grind; the flurry of busy-ness, the mixture of eager anticipation or sometimes yearning emptiness that seems to fill our days.

This year I went into retreat after a period of feeling overwhelmed by work and its anxious demands, stretched to the limits of my capacity and yet feeling a strange sense of emptiness in the midst of it. Taking the time to reflect on all this reminded me of the deeper meaning behind it. Pre-occupied with the struggle to achieve, to perform competently and effectively, I had lost sight of the reason why I do this work at all – and, more importantly, who I do it with and for.

In the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius there is an intriguing imaginative exercise sometimes known as “The Call of the King”. (Bear with the medieval terminology!) In more modern restatements, you are first asked to imagine a charismatic figure that you like and whose life and work you admire very much – maybe Mother Teresa, or Nelson Mandela, or someone from your own life, for example. Imagine them calling to you and saying, “Come follow me. Come share in my life and work – live with me as I do, and work with me in my mission.” How appealing is that to you? Of course you would want to follow this person. And then, now imagine that it is Jesus who calls to you – the Lord of all the universe whose mission is larger and deeper than any one human person’s life work; whose love envelopes all of creation. And this Jesus calls to you in the same way: “Will you come follow me? Come be with me; come share in my life and my work…” How much more would you desire to say yes?

This image of being called by Jesus to be his companion was very significant for me in this retreat. I remembered that I had started out on this work as a response to the love of this One who is so dear to me, whose love is the reason why I live and move and have my being. In the light of this love I know that in the end the results of my work are not why I do it. My life and work could from my meagre point of view seem a complete failure – as Jesus’ own life did when he died on the cross – but the only thing that matters is that I have walked with God. More and more tools have developed nowadays in the social sector as a means by which to evaluate our work, and these are important. But there is nothing yet that can measure the forces of love and grace that go far deeper than we can see – and that will save us in the end. In the light of faith, all that matters is that in my work, I have walked with God as a response to God’s generous love.

And how wonderful it is to be called – in spite of the weaknesses and imperfections I am so aware of – to be God’s companion!

*****

Food for thought: What is the reason why you work?

By Audrey fcJ. This first appeared in her blog, Surprising Grace.

A Prayer to the Sculptor (Pemahat)

2019-11-10T01:06:00.000-07:00

Pemahat

Engkau Pemahat
dan aku batu
dengan tatah dan paluMu
ubah dan jadikan aku bagiMu

*****

Sculptor

You are the Sculptor
I am the stone
with your hammer and chisel
change and shape me for You

By Tyas fcJ (translated by Audrey fcJ)

Listening for Truth

2019-11-01T12:41:00.000-06:00

A couple years ago, while I was visiting my spiritual director in Calgary, I did something really dumb: in trying to park my car on a residential street, I backed into a pickup truck. Twice. (Yes, you read that correctly.) As it happened, the owner of the truck was in his vehicle and I was soon treated to a stream of curses and insults that I shall not repeat here. I do not defend my poor judgement in trying to negotiate this parking space blindly; there is no doubt that I messed up.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the angry barrage of words hurled at me that afternoon, something wonderful happened, gifting me with a warm memory that I cherish even today. In the midst of the rage and accusations, from somewhere deep inside of myself, came a gentle, yet firm voice that said this: “You are not defined by this parking mistake today. This man’s insults do not speak to who you are. You are worthy of dignity and respect and honour, even in this moment of stupidity.”

It was a voice that calmed me amid my feelings of embarrassment and shame. It brought me peace in the face of anger. It left me feeling grounded. It absolutely clarified for me the truth of who and what I was in the eyes of God. It was what I would describe as the voice of God.

From time to time, in my job as a junior high school chaplain and Religion teacher, a student will ask: “How do you know if God is talking to you?” This can be such a difficult question to answer, because my experience has been that God speaks to each and every one of us in a way that is lovingly adapted to us, our personalities and our backgrounds. However, the beginnings of an answer to this question can, I think, be found in Paul’s letter to Timothy where he writes: “For God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but rather a spirit of power and of love and of self-discipline.” To me this means, in part, if the voice that we hear speaking to us in prayer degrades us or leads to feelings of worthlessness, then we can be certain that this is not the voice of God. God’s voice brings us peace, a sense of knowing that we are loved and cherished, and the knowledge of our inherent dignity as children of God. It gives us courage and leads us to be more loving to ourselves and to those around us.

Martin Luther King Jr., an American civil rights activist, once said “A lie cannot live.” On that residential street in Calgary two years ago, I knew, through the grace of God, that I was listening to a stream of lies, lies that could not stand before the power of God’s truth. Somewhere inside all of us is that place where God speaks, calmly contradicting the many voices in our world that tell us that we are somehow not enough and that our mistakes define who we are. Let us strive to listen to the voice that gives us life and courage.

Michelle Langlois fcJ

Listening Beyond Words

2019-10-25T19:00:00.000-06:00

Several years ago, two exhausted and somewhat frustrated looking Grade 9 students came to debrief with me after visits to the Grade 1 and 2 classrooms. They had been sent to share with the younger students the news that the school’s Student Council was organizing a “Hat Day” later that week. The children had listened to the older students explain what would be happening, but then, “They just kept putting up their hands!” the Grade 9 boys told me with pained expressions. They had eagerly asked a succession of questions: Can we wear a fireman’s hat? Can we wear a baseball cap? Can we wear a cowboy hat? And it had gone on. “We told them over and over that they could wear any kind of hat!” the boys exclaimed, at a loss as to why these children had asked so many questions.

Sometimes, maybe even most times, what we seek to communicate is not expressed adequately or fully by the words that we speak. If we look for them, we recognize many instances in our daily lives where one thing is said, but the meaning or the intent behind the words is very different. Take a common expression like, “I had such a busy day.” In my experience, this phrase can have many different meanings, including “Please ask me more about what happened today; I want to talk,” or “Please help me with the task I’m doing; I’m exhausted.”

Recently, I was waiting in a very slow line up at a fast food restaurant, when I heard the soft grumbling and cursing of a man behind me. Guessing that he must be frustrated with the poor service, I finally turned to him after a minute or so and offered to let him go in front of me, as I was in no hurry. He refused my offer, even when I pressed him, but continued to complain about the service, about the political leanings of our province and about the lack of leadership in the country. It took me a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t asking for better service in the restaurant, but for something much more fundamental: He wanted someone to hear him. My first instinct had been to solve a problem. As a Faithful Companion of Jesus, though, I was called to respond to a “thirst.”

Marie Madeleine d’Houet was inspired to found the Faithful Companions of Jesus by a number of events in her life that moved her deeply. One such event was in 1817 when she heard Jesus speak the words “I thirst” from a crucifix that she was praying before in a chapel in Amiens, France. The desire to respond to Jesus’ thirst in the people that she met motivated her for the rest of her life, and it is what motivates us as those who have joined her Congregation. Part of the challenge of responding to that thirst is about trying to listen to those around us, especially for the hidden yearnings underlying the words that they say.

If those young children listening to the Student Council members had had a different level of awareness, they might have been able to say: “I matter,” or “I need to be heard,” or “I want your approval” to the Grade 9 students standing before them. Or, at a more fundamental level, they might have expressed “I thirst for love and companionship,” just as all of us do. As we strive to accompany a world that thirsts for love, let us pray that we will be able to hear the yearnings and desires that lie beyond the words of the people we meet.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

How Can I Keep From Celebrating?

2019-10-18T20:56:00.000-06:00

I turned 45 years old this past Friday and I celebrated the occasion with gusto. Besides the face to face birthday wishes from Sisters, friends and colleagues, I took pleasure in replying to every Facebook and WhatsApp message, every birthday card, email and text. I relished every one of the dozens of students who passed me in the hallways at my school and shouted out a birthday greeting, and thoroughly enjoyed the classes that welcomed me with a rousing rendition of the “Happy Birthday” song. By the end of the day on October 11^th, I felt like no one could have been better celebrated than I had been. What a blessing!

Now, we in North America know more than a few people, men and women included, who hide any evidence of their birthday after the age of 29, if not before. Aging is not always well celebrated in our Western Society. So how to explain my reaction? Am I simply a product of my genetics? Was I born with the ability to enter into celebrations with joy and excitement? Or you may be thinking that I was raised in a family that always celebrates birthdays with this much delight. Perhaps I’ve recently survived a bout with a serious disease and am treasuring life all the more? How could a woman, entering more deeply into middle age find such cause for happiness on, of all things, her birthday?

200 years ago, God invited a middle aged woman named Marie Madeleine d’Houet, a mother and widow, to be God’s instrument in founding a ‘little Society’ called the Sisters Faithful Companions of Jesus. She said ‘yes’ to this invitation, knowing that she was weak and imperfect, but also trusting that God would be able to use her weakness and the imperfections of all the Sisters that joined this Congregation to found a Religious Society that would joyfully journey with those most in need of God’s companionship.

This year, the Bicentenary Year, the Society is celebrating these 200 years in diverse ways around the world. Here, in Edmonton, we are remembering the legacy of the courageous Sisters who braved mosquito swarms, brutal winters and vast distances to found the first Catholic school of the Edmonton Catholic School District in 1888. In other parts of the world, FCJ contributions to the Church, to Catholic Education, to Retreat Work and to various initiatives supporting refugees, immigrants, the poor and the underprivileged are being remembered with gratitude and enthusiasm. The Bicentenary is a birthday of sorts, and a time to celebrate this Society of women who dedicated their lives to God. By embracing their own invitations to be the instruments of God, they have left a lasting gift to the world.

This small, but mighty, group of Sisters entered into my life in a personal way eight years ago. I first met the FCJs in Calgary, and over the course of the next few years, God used this group of women, with all of their many gifts and imperfections, to help me more deeply experience the transformative love that Jesus has for me. This gift of God’s love that the Sisters shared with me changed the course of my life, eventually leading me to want to devote myself to God in a new and exciting way. I stand with them, now, a Faithful Companion of Jesus, too. It is with a sense of humility, but also not without some pride, that I walk in the footsteps of the women who have come before me, teaching in this District that our Society helped pioneer more than 130 years ago.

Knowing and experiencing the companionship of Jesus cannot leave one unchanged. Our Sisters, through their faithful companionship of the people around them, have impacted countless lives. I know this, because they have impacted my own life in a profound, long lasting way. And so, it is not because of my genetics or my family upbringing or the survival of any major disease that I have learned to celebrate the blessings of my life. Rather, it is because of the determined and faithful efforts of this group of women who have companioned with me, helping me to deepen my relationship with Jesus. They have created the space for me to find my strengths and they have loved me in all of my weakness and with all of my flaws. And so, as I celebrate 45 years of life, I can’t help but think of Robert Lowry’s hymn “How Can I Keep from Singing?” Or, in my case, how can I keep from celebrating?

During this Bicentenary Year, as we rejoice in 200 years of the loving companionship of the Sisters Faithful Companions of Jesus, let us pray that we can continue to build on their efforts, ever bringing that gift of God’s intimate companionship to all those that we meet on our journey.

Michelle Langlois, fcJ

Senyuman Allah

2019-10-11T16:01:00.000-06:00

Hari ini hidup kacau balau!

Antara drama dan impian,

Duka dan suka,

pertentangan and rengkuhan,

kenyataan dan harapan,

kerja-keras dan bersantai,

kebisuan dan keluwesan bicara,

kelelahan dan rekreasi,

tragedi dan perayaan,

ketakutan dan keberanian,

antara engkau dan aku.

Lalu , aku menengadah, memandang Allah,

bertanya-tanya

penuh rasa ingin tahu dan ketakpastian

Allah memandang ke bawah,

dan tersenyum

pada mu dan pada ku

tanpa tanya, tanpa permintaan

hanya memberi senyuman

sebungkah hati yang hangat

menunjukkan kasih

untuk mu dan aku

Melbourne, Mei 2019

Dewi, fcJ

The Smile of God

2019-10-11T15:59:00.000-06:00

Life is crazy today!

between dramas and dreams,

sorrows and joys,

fights and hugs,

realities and hopes,

hardwork and playfulness,

silence and eloquence,

tiredness and leisure,

tragedies and celebrations,

cowardice and courage,

between you and me.

When I look up to God,

questioning

curious and uncertain

God looks down

and smiles

at you and at me

Without question, without demands

Just a smile

and a warm heart

brimming with love

for you and me

Dewi Gallang fcJ

Melbourne, May 2019