I walked over a carpet of camellia flowers - some pink, some brown, some crackly, some squishy. They need to be collected and put on the compost to be transformed, and later, to transform.

I thought, I am a Catholic but … there is a time for even the most beautiful things to die off and become transformed.

Spiders, weevils, woodlice, cockroaches all scuttle and scurry as I lift chunks of wood. They will find new homes best suited to them.

I thought, I am a Catholic but … sometimes we need to 'rehome' ideas, people, practices as they become displaced or irrelevant to current needs.

The tuis feasting and singing above me in the camellia will only be there for a short time. Then they will move on to another source of nectar. To stay put would be a death sentence.

I thought, I am a Catholic but … rituals, doctrines and practices need to reflect the seasons of our lives - spiritual, physical, intellectual, social, economical.

The wheelbarrow I use to transprt the wood is fit for purpose. The tyre is pumped; the joints greased; the barrow emptied of detritus - no extra baggage.

I thought, I am a Catholic but … we all need regular maintenance, cleansing, purging even. Every individual, and the Catholic Church, need to continually and prayerfully ask, "Am I a fit vessel to reveal God's love?"

Stacking the firewood is not just about satisfying the needs of the present moment (clearing the driveway) but also looking to the future (drying the wood for next winter).

I thought, I am a Catholic but … rigidity and inflexibility and an unwillingness to hear and consider the needs of the present moment and of tomorrow may well be self-destructive.

If I thought only of the needs of the firew0od, the trees would never have been felled. They would still be growing strong in forests, generating oxygen, seeking the sun. But the trees are found and felled for the greater good, the Common Good.

I thought, I am a Catholic but … inward-looking, self-serving, power-hungry bureaucrats do not reflect God's unconditional, covenantal love.

I look at the stacked wood and am in awe. All these varieties, different ages, shapes and textures, side by side (except for the occasional tumble when I ignore the laws of physics!).

I thought, I am a Catholic but … I wish that we could explore our differences; cherish our unique identities; be open to changes in our world and in our relationships; deal pragmatically with collapse; and all enable the other to become what we are invited to be.

• Liz Pearce, a mother of three adult children, loves story, writing, and dollmaking www.heartfeltdolls.weebly.com

By the end of the half-hour episode, many had offered support and accommodation. My faith in humanity was strengthened. This world is full of good people.

Often, their goodness and charity is not revealed because they have not heard the stories; have not had the opportunity to say, "I can help." When people do respond, their generosity and goodness seem limitless.

Stories are shared in many ways. Conversation. Letter. E-mail. Blogs and websites. Local newspapers and community broadsheets. TV, with slots such as 'Good Sorts' and consumer watchdogs, such as 'Fair Go'. We are called to listen to these stories - attentively.

Sharing our stories is not easy. We have to put aside pride and admit that we are dependent, interdependent. We have to say, "I cannot do this alone." But as soon as we do, as soon as we have the courage to share our own story, we realise we are not alone. We open ourselves to receive grace - mediated through good people.

Sometimes the stories we hear demand urgent and immediate action.

Sometimes the story simply needs to be heard - the teller affirmed; given a witness to their life.

Sometimes the storyteller invites us to become an integral part of the story.

I can hear people saying, "Yeah. I hear you. But it's not my responsibility. I pay taxes. The government needs to step up to the plate." The government, both central and local, are our elected representatives. They do not always hear the stories. We are at ground level. We need to listen wholeheartedly, attentively, to the stories we are told. We must respond and become advocates for the dispossessed, the disenfranchised, the burdened.

Each of us must show government officials how we want them to act: we must model affirmative, compassionate action - with charity, with justice, with transparency and honesty.

Each of us must demonstrate by our everyday actions and reactions who we feel should be our priority: those who cannot speak for themselves; those who are hungry, homeless, helpless, disheartened.

Each of us must show how we want local and central government to spend our taxes by using our own monies to advantage the disadvantaged.

I can hear the cynics say, "If we keep doing it, Government won't, and the burden on charities and churches, families and individuals, will increase." They are probably right but it is not our problem. We are called, commanded, impelled by our baptism, to be the hands of God; to reveal the heart of God.

Each of us must do what is right.

We are called to be 'good people.'

• Liz Pearce, a mother of three adult children, loves story, writing, and dollmaking www.heartfeltdolls.weebly.com

Scaffolding is needed for major repairs and maintenance, such as replacing a roof, or painting a tall building. Sometimes, this scaffolding is then plastic-wrapped, to provide privacy, safety, and a weather-proof working environment.

Once work is completed the scaffolding is dismantled. Ladders, cherry pickers, or long poles are then used to effect minor repairs and on-going maintenance.

We are a building - Shekhinah, a temple of God. Well-designed. The intrinsic design and health of my temple will enable it to weather many storms. But it still needs regular upkeep … and sometimes a major overhaul.

How do I maintain the spiritual life of this temple?

There is an infinite variety of 'scaffolding' available to us on our spiritual journey. Sacraments. Prayer. Worship. Community. Retreat. Spiritual teaching and reading. Spiritual direction and companionship. The framework provided by different spiritualities, such as Marist, Benedictine, Franciscan, Ignatian. Silence.

Some of this scaffolding is designed for major events … initiation, marriage, ordination, death. It shapes us, moulds us, gifts us with grace … but then we take it down and allow that grace to become visible in our temple.

Sometimes we erect scaffolding and wrap it in plastic, to effect a major change. Entering a time of retreat or discernment, when we become especially attentive to the voice of the divine, is a time when we are particularly vulnerable. We need the protection and privacy that exclusion of the outside world offers. But then we strip away the scaffolding and the protective wrap, and slowly the metamorphosis that has taken place deep within, will become evident in our attitudes, our words, our actions.

There are many tools available to us to effect minor repairs and on-going maintenance. Communal worship and liturgy nourishes and sustains us. Reconciliation and conflict resolution repairs cracks and dents in our relationships with others and with God. A personal prayer discipline, unique to each of us as we seek to relate to the God-within and the God-without. Service to others … being the eyes and ears and feet and heart of God to others. Reflection on sacred scripture. Small group interactions.

Our institutional churches are also temples - literally and metaphorically. Well designed. Intrinsically good. But the scaffolding has been up for many years - and I wonder why it has not been taken down. Scaffolding in the guise of Vatican 2 enabled major renovations within the Catholic Church - a major transformation. But not only is this scaffolding being dismantled, many of the renovations have also been removed. A little counter-productive.

I wonder if ancient, ineffectual scaffolding is shoring up a crumbling edifice. Perhaps it is time for this scaffolding to be removed, and demolition experts invited in to remove all that is rotten. This is not a time for plastic-wrapping: everything must be done in plain view, open to inspection and inspiration.

Scaffolding is always a sign of hope; of new beginnings; of creativity and hard work; of attentiveness to what has been done, what needs to be done, and what needs to be protected. Scaffolding is always unique. It is shaped to the building and to the work that must be undertaken. Scaffolding can be used again and again but each time it will be different and will enable different work to be done. While scaffolding is designed to facilitate construction work and repairs, its primary purpose is ALWAYS the health and safety of those who use it.

Can we say that the scaffolding we use in our spiritual life is healthy - for us and for those who encounter us?

Can we say that the scaffolding our churches use is healthy - and considers first those who dwell within and those who are passers-by?

• Liz Pearce, a mother of three adult children, loves story, writing, and dollmaking www.heartfeltdolls.weebly.com

50 people all travelling in one direction: a pilgrim people.

50 people all in one vessel. Some in front: others loving the back. Some by the window. Some alone: others in pairs or groups. Some wanting interaction: others seeking 'personal space'. All adapting to their time in this vessel. Electronic toys and phones. Headphones. Books. Conversation and companionship. Sleep or observation.

Before boarding, each had to decide what to take for the journey, within the allowances permitted. Each piece of luggage needed a label with the final destination. Each had to decide what to take on board as hand luggage. Each had to state their name to the driver.

Entering the bus, we had to choose a seat. Many of the places were already filled by people who had been on the journey for a while. Other seats were newly vacated. How do I decide where I want to be? How do I quickly decide who will be an agreeable travelling companion? What do I do with my hand luggage - keep it close and feel cramped, or store it overhead and give myself room to enjoy the journey?

Once the bus drew out from the station, the driver spoke. He introduced himself. Gave a quick review of 'pit stops' and travel times. Briefly described how to use the vehicle's facilities. Informed us of legal (seat belts) and moral (disposal of rubbish) obligations.

At our first stop, we had a change of drivers. A new style. A new sense of purpose.

I was constantly entertained by the actions and sounds around me. Bop it! Twirl it! Push it! Spin it! Multiple conversations and sound bites. Music- loud -even through head phones. The sound of the motor. Now and then it was more of a cacophony!

I disembarked at my destination … but the bus was carrying on. Luggage was deposited on the platform. No farewells. I would now continue my journey in a different way. A new beginning.

We were all individuals.

We all retained our unique identity.

We all related and adapted in different ways.

We all continued our journey … a new beginning.

In this Easter season, many people have boarded the Barque of Peter: they have been received into the Catholic Church. They have joined the pilgrimage of the People of God. They chose a destination: the arms of a loving God. They have publicly stated their name and their desire.

Many had to carefully review the 'baggage' they brought along. Some is discarded or put aside for a while. Some decide they will not travel if they cannot bring all that they desire. All baggage is boldly labelled.

Some have come on their own. Others have come as a couple or in a group. All have had to choose a companion (or sponsor) for this journey. Have they been comfortable with this companion: challenged? supported? given space to grow? given a balance of group activity and personal space?

They have been told the rules. Given reasons why they can or cannot; should or should not undertake this journey. Sometimes the driver (Parish priest, catechist, sponsor) changes mid-journey. They have to adapt. Some cannot.

There are many distractions. Information from many sources. Parish groups seeking new members. Prayer cards thrust into unsuspecting hands. Unfamiliar words and actions. A new 'Church-speak' to understand. Sometimes the cacophony is too much. They disembark.

What 'pit stops' does the Barque of Peter offer? Spiritual nourishment for this journey? Retreats? Time for silence? Companionship? Direction? A listening ear? A prayer partner? Someone to sit with at Mass?

Newly baptised or received into the Catholic Church... is this their final destination? No … it is another beginning. The bus company has no responsibility for me once I disembarked. But the Church (you and me) is different … or should be.

We cannot welcome people in at Easter and then abandon them. What happens next? Are there people to greet, welcome and accompany them on the journey? Or do they have to make their own way: find a niche which suits their personality and spirituality? Do we celebrate and cherish all their life experiences or do we expect conformity and submission?

They are all individuals.

They all retain their unique identity.

They all relate and adapt in different ways.

They all continue their journey … their new beginning as beloved children of God.

Are we hospitable enough; expansive enough; generous enough; to share our journey with them?

• Liz Pearce, a mother of three adult children, loves story, writing, and dollmaking www.heartfeltdolls.weebly.com

"I am amazed how often I meet people who 'once were Catholics'. You never ask why they left the church. There will be umpteen reasons why just as there are umpteen people. But millions have remained true to their Catholic faith." Merepeka Raukawa-Tait in The Daily Post, March 19, 2013

I wondered …

"Why do I still call myself Catholic?

I was born into a Catholic family. Baptised as soon as possible after my birth, for fear I may end up in Limbo if I should die. My world was Catholic - almost a ghetto-like mentality.

So … I am Catholic by enculturation.

I was educated in Catholic schools, at great financial sacrifice. I did not have a lay teacher until I was 16 years old. Later, I participated in distance-learning courses; workshops and seminars. And, always, a commitment to self-learning and exploration.

So … I am Catholic by education (maybe even, indoctrination?).

At 15, I had a powerful, mystical experience which confirmed for me the existence of a loving, personal God. Catholic worship provided a vehicle for me to encounter this God, and a foundation from which to explore LOVE's nature. About 5 years later, I was told by a couple after Mass, that they were leaving the Catholic Church because of me - they wanted what I had: an intimate and loving relationship with God. I was bewildered - why were they leaving when the relationship I had existed within the Catholic Church?

So … am I Catholic because I didn't know anything different?

Years of self-doubt followed, compounded by attendance at a tertiary institution where there was no overt Catholic presence, and increasing social isolation. I became actively involved in parish ministry, partly as an escape from my situation; partly out of habit; and partly as a desire to belong and to be loved. I delighted in my varied ministries. I delighted in my daily encounters with God.

So … am I Catholic because it offers sanctuary?

Here I am - a woman of mature age - still Catholic, but a fringe dweller. No longer involved in active, parish-based ministry. No longer distraught at the decision of others to leave institutional church. No longer living in fear of a wrathful, punishing God. I use the foundational truths of the Christian faith, my Catholic faith, as a springboard for a love affair with God.

I believe that every human being is a beloved child of God.

I believe that every person, whether "Catholic", "once were Catholic" or "never were Catholic", encounters the divine. How we identify this encounter, name it or claim it, is unimportant.

I call myself Catholic because it is my culture; the ritual, metaphor, art and liturgy resonate with me; and I believe all the strands which connect me with the divine - Word, sacrament, silence, prayer, art, ecology, social justice - are present within the Catholic Church.

It just doesn't get it right all the time. It is a large, unwieldly bureaucracy which loathes change.

• I still practice as a Catholic because
• I need to sit next to others who also love God;
• I need to praise God, and remember God, in community;
• I need to see God revealed in humanity;
• I need to be immersed in God-with-skin-on.

Mainly, I think, I am still Catholic because it is familiar, known, a comfortable fit. Like a long-term marriage, or a favourite jersey well-used, frayed, holey, loved.

Liz Pearce, a mother of three adult children, loves story, writing, and dollmaking www.heartfeltdolls.weebly.com

Resources

www.rotoruadailypost.co.nz

John Main says, "Language may not be able to lead us into the ultimate communion but it is the atmosphere in which we first draw breath of consciousness."

I have spent more than fifty years acquiring language - a spiritual language, that is, not my native tongue - and suddenly it all seems a facade. It is empty, superfluous, 'white noise'. Don't get me wrong. I find the etymology, the lexicon of religion and spirituality fascinating.

For most of my life, I have listened to those more theologically literate, more erudite, with higher levels of education. I have hungrily devoured their definitions; their explanations; their theology. I have read voraciously. I am deeply indebted, and very grateful, to all who shared with me.

But I was short-changed.

What was offered, while encapsulating the Truth, presented as literal that which can only be revealed through metaphor, allegory, experience, art and silence. Ideas and practices presented as permanent, unchanging, infallible, embedded, I now see are transient, fluid, organic, responsive, reactive.

Consider the latest English translation of the Mass. I always considered the words and actions at the epiclesis and consecration as intrinsic to the transformation from bread and wine to Body and Blood. Those who love the Latin translation of the Mass probably thought the same. But the words keep changing. So the language becomes almost inconsequential, irrelevant. Whatever words we recite; whatever actions we make - it is that which is revealed that is important.

For me, now, that revelation is that God took human form. God is revealed in the actions and attitudes of human beings. God is creative and creator and is revealed in creation. God loves unconditionally and abundantly. I am known. I am loved. I am not alone. And this empowers and inspires me.

Scripture is rich in metaphor, myth, allegory, poetry. We learn about metaphor in English classes at school - but not a whiff is discussed in Religious Education. None of the names we give the divine are literal. God is not an eagle or a nursing mother or our father. These are metaphors to describe the indescribable - a divine presence so 'other' and so 'in-dwelling' that language can only hint at it.

I do not know if I was deliberately shaped, formed or taught in a certain way that kept me obedient, unquestioning, faithful. I do believe, however, that there is now a paradigm shift to acknowledge and name and embrace what has always been true: God is encountered and experienced in an infinite number of ways to ALL people - baptised or not; practising in an institutional church or not; religious or not. Artists, poets, storytellers, dancers, and musicians have always known this. Ecologists, feminists, and peace activists have always known this.

God can be experienced, but not entrapped in ideologies and dogmas. The language for God, and of God, has evolved. 
God can be encountered, but not explained. The language to describe God is now holistic and experiential. 
God exists outside of time and culture and language and is not constrained by these human constructs. The language reflecting God to us is the language of belonging and of relationship.

No-one has a stranglehold on God. Thank God.

And so I begin again …

Liz Pearce, mother of 3 adult children, loves story, dollmaking, writing and silence.

A metaphor for our churches perhaps?

"All I want is to talk with a 'real-life' person", we say. Not automated voices with strange accents. Do our church services offer encounters with a 'real-life' God in 'real-life' people? Are those with problems fobbed off to come back during office hours - Tuesday to Friday, 9am to 3pm? Do I put God on hold? Do we recognise the spirit dwelling within? Do we offer hospitality - being fully present to this person standing in front of me?

Many businesses (and church offices) now offer menus before you get to talk with a real person. 'Press 1' if you want x. 'Press 2' if you want y. 'Press 3' if you want z. By the time I have listened to all the options, I have forgotten which one I want or need. So I give up.

Do rubrics and traditions and canon laws impose unfair pressures and restrictions and difficulties on our access to to sacrament: an encounter with divine LOVE? Does institutionalism and bureaucracy and sheer bloody-mindedness put up roadblocks which discourage our full, conscious, and active participation in God's love affair with us?

The Call Centres I have dealt with all seem to be located off-shore. Are they conversant with our accent, our idioms, our attitudes, our culture? In a scene in "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel", Evelyn (an Englishwoman living in India) describes the ritual of 'dunking' a biscuit into builder's tea to a Call Centre executive … "Means lowering the biscuit into the tea and letting it soak in there and trying to calculate the exact moment before the biscuit dissloves, when you whip it up into your mouth and enjoy the blissful union of biscuits and tea combined." We grow best; we understand better; we communicate clearly when we speak the same vernacular, share the same story.

Not so in many of our churches. We stumble and trip over awkward words and phrasing in our liturgies. We stay silent during unsingable chants and refrains. We are human beings, born into a specific time and place and culture. Does our worship reflect our identity and our environment?

Call Centres are increasingly being moved 'off-shore' - centralising in massive buildings, trying to meet the needs of a global community. We should ask of Call Centres - and of our Church Communites - do we need to out-source; to centralise; to merge; to change or rebrand on a whim? What is the collateral damage: Relationship? Compassion? Belonging? Identity? Memory? Empathy? Trust? Intimacy? Are we shaping our spiritual practice on a corporate business model or do we need to reacquaint ourselves with the model presented by Jesus - empowering, inclusive, knowing, compassionate, challenging, human?

I think Call Centres are a physical embodiment of a growing desire for power; for control; for conformity; for commodification. They reflect an emphasis on quantity; on using 'correct channels'; on correct procedure. The entire process can be dehumanising and very un-Christlike. Jesus looked people in the eye; felt their touch in a crowd; didn't belittle people or put them on hold. He treated adults as adults - with dignity; able to make their own decisions, albeit with a little help sometimes.

Call Centres should enable me to express my concerns and get a reasonable response. Church communities should enable my relationship with the divine. Do either succeed?

Liz Pearce, mother of 3 adult children, loves story, dollmaking, writing and silence.

I worry about prayer - my prayer - my seeming inability or reluctance to pray as others do.

I was helping a youngster with her Religious Education homework - a page of prayers to learn by heart - litanies, 'old-fashioned' prayers with 'old-fashioned' words. And I felt bereft. I knew none of them by heart; had a passing familiarity with only one on the page. I don't pray like this - am I wanting?

I sat in a group, reading a prayer from a card. One word leapt out and settled in my heart. I wanted to sit with it; listen to it; honour it; let it guide me. But I could hear the collective voices of the group continuing, so I rejoined them. I didn't want to - is my prayer wanting?

I am in awe of those who pray in public. Muslims responding to the call to prayer; Buddhists climbing mountains on their knees; Christians following a cross on Good Friday; pilgrims walking the Way of St James. Such public affirmations of one's love for the divine make my soul sing … and I join my prayer to their coat-tails. But I no longer participate in these outward displays of prayer - am I wanting?

Intercessory prayer worries me. When I hear of someone with terminal cancer; or in an induced coma; or seeking work, any work; or struggling to survive below the poverty line, I don't know what to pray. I don't know who to pray to, or what to ask for. My mind warns me of fashioning a God in the image of a generous benefactor, bending to my will. I ask that God be revealed in the actions of all involved. I ask that each person be filled with grace and blessing. (I make no specific prayer requests.) My prayer seems empty - a cop-out, wanting.

I came upon a group praying the rosary. So fast (to my unaccustomed ear) that I can barely distinguish the words. Perhaps that is as it should be - a mantra occupying the senses so the heart can reflect on sacred scripture. I hear prayers for those who have no-one to pray for them, and prayers for conversion. I know these intentions and these prayers are good. But I have no desire to pray in this way - am I wanting?

I pause before a work of art. Time seems to stand still - my heart races. I feel drawn into a loving embrace. I succumb. But this is not a 'holy picture', a religious work of art. It is of the secular world - the beautiful, creative, verdant, peopled secular world - each cell reflecting the image of the creator. I am in awe of this picture - is my prayer wanting?

Jess continues, "We can't judge the fruits of any practice solely on the basis of our feelings."

I worry - because I am human and I compare - but I reckon there is no need to worry. There are as many ways to pray as there are people who desire to pray. No one form of prayer is better or worse than another. Every form of prayer - silent or spoken; public or private; old-fashioned or modern; conscious or sub-conscious - is an intimate tete-a-tete with LOVE.

Source:

• Liz Pearce, mother of 3 adult children, loves story, dollmaking, writing and silence.

I struggle to find a meaningful, significant, relevant means of living this season - consciously, authentically, deliberately.

Attending the Stations of the Cross is a traditional Lenten practice. But my recent experience seems to make a mockery of this devotional prayer. A formula recited at such a rapid pace that I barely had a moment for the Word, the Art, the Implication, to surface before I was walking, genuflecting, chanting again. It was almost as if there is an urgency to 'get it over and done with', to set Lent aside until next week, and get on with my usual life.

I want this faith story to be grounded in my life; to be contextualised. One of the things I love about Scripture is its polyvalent nature: the way it can speak at different levels, with different keynotes, to each individual in their unique context. A sprint through the Stations of the Cross on a Friday night just doesn't do it for me anymore. Jenny Green, in "The Art of Easter" (2006) wrote, "...the Easter story is no mere myth. It is the record of the very foundation of our faith, containing hope that has power to transform lives and situations."

I want to be challenged, confronted, provoked, confused, angered, filled with questions, empowered, transformed. I want to enter fully into the heart of Divine Love. I want time spent with the Stations of the Cross - with the art, the music, the words, the movement, the prayer, the silence - to be moments of grace; encounters with the Divine; to expand my vision; a gauntlet laid down by the Spirit. I want this prayer to blow away the cobwebs of traditionalism and institutionalism and motivate me to compassion and action.

How are the Stations of the Cross relevant to the man who has just lost his job? Here is the man standing before authority being handed down an apalling sentence. Here is the the man stripped of his dignity, his livelihood, his identity. Here is the the man who will now be dependent on the support of others. Do we recognise God's image in this man? Do we see that Jesus' way of the cross is reflected in his way?

How are the Stations of the Cross a meaningful prayer for the mother and wife diagnosed with terminal cancer? Here is a woman who trusts her husband and children into the care of others. Here is a woman whose body will be laid out and buried. Here is one whose spirit will be revealed in those she loves. Do we recognise God's image in this woman? Do we see that Jesus' way of the cross is also her journey?

Am I greedy or selfish, wanting public prayer to be freshly-prepared, current, relevant, reflective of those gathered and of the global community? Are my expectations too great? Am I setting myself up for a fall? Am I not trying hard enough to conform and uphold tradition? Do I demand too much from prayer and Scripture? The Jesus we remember and accompany as we walk the Stations of the Cross is an incarnational God - Divine Love in human form. How can I make Lenten rituals relevant and meaningful? Or is it time to walk another path, follow another way?

Source

• Liz Pearce, mother of 3 adult children, loves story, dollmaking, writing and silence.
  

Other resources

• www.stations.org.nz
• www.maristmessenger.co.nz
• www.heartfeltdolls.weebly.com