all you need is love, love is all you need

On the Thursday before Easter known to Catholics as "Holy" or "Maudry" Thursday, the gospel reading for the mass is about the Last Supper. When Luke, Matthew and Mark recount the story of the Last Supper, the focus is on the   covenant Jesus speaks of ( "This is My body...This is My blood.").
John, on the other hand, gives us the only account of the Passover meal where Jesus gets down on the ground and washes every body's feet.

Every parish does this next part differently, but in each church after the gospel and then the homily, there's  usually some literal foot washing. It's often the priest who washes the feet of some lay ministers. One year at the church I attended at college I was asked to be one in a handful of parishioners to have their feet washed. I sat rigid in my chair as my feet got washed. It felt weird. I hoped no one would ask me about it later.
This year, at St. Cecelia's in Boston, Fr. John closed his homily by introducing the foot washing saying, "For those of you who don't know us, here at St. Cecelia's we don't just wash the feet of the twelve men on the church board." The congregation chuckled knowingly and my mouth opened as I realized what was coming next.

Father John reminded everyone that they didn't have to participate, but he invited everyone who wanted in to ditch their shoes and socks in the pews. I shook my head in disbelief.

As the choir sang and bowls of water were set up, I reflected on the first half of Fr. John's homily. He had pointed out that in the midst of everything else going on with that Passover night Jesus told his disciples to wash one another's feet. "That's it," Fr. John said in his comforting Boston accent, "that's all it comes down to. Washing each other's feet."

He urged us to think about the feet we've washed, literally and figuratively. And to think about whose feet we should wash next. He asked us to think about those in our lives who need to be "scrubbed" by our forgiveness, or our compassion. He implored us to try to "rinse" those around us by being refreshingly positive in every day small talk rather than respond to those around us with sarcasm or negativity.

My thoughts tumbled as I stepped into the aisle and got in line with the other bare foot men, women and children. I thought about the people in my life who need compassion, patience and positive energy the most. I thought about the people in my life who provide me with the compassion and love I need to survive.

Then I couldn't help but start to think about the literal feet I've washed as a CNA and then as an RN.  For that reason alone I imagined this ritual was less scary for me  than for some of the other strangers in line. (Or the ones sitting with their shoes securely tied on in the pews).
That made me remember about the man who wouldn't let me wash his feet.

As I stepped up to the bowl to have my feet washed by the stranger in front of me, who had just had his feet washed by the stranger in front of him I thought about the people I met in Haiti. I remembered how most of the people doing the "foot washing" in those tents weren't blood relations of the injured or dying patients - they were just neighbors who were responding to the need they saw around them.

After the man at my knee was finished washing my feet he patted them dry with a clean towel. He put it down, and an altar server appeared to refill the bowl and replace the towel. As she did so, the man and I embraced and I thanked him. Then I took my place at the bowl and washed the feet of the next seated stranger. After I dried his feet he thanked me, and hugged me goodbye. I padded back to my seat, struck by a lack of discomfort in the whole thing. Mine and everyone else's too.

"We belong to a church with a ton of hierarchy, huh?" Fr. John had challenged at the top of the homily, "sometimes it seems like people are more interested in getting their feet washed than washing other feet."

He continued, "We have a lot of ways of describing the hierarchy and power and ritual, huh? High mass? Low mass? But no matter how you understand religion, or what parts (pahts) of it are attractive to you... in the end it is all about washing one another's feet."<

That, as it so happens, is actually exactly how I choose to understand religion.

Holy Week

I sometimes have a bad habit of creating narration in my head as I experience my day to day life, and at least for this week I'd like to try to be more present as I go about my day.

Two days ago Palm Sunday, marked the beginning of Holy Week. And so for the next few days, the time I usually spend packing my life into interesting anecdotes I'd like to dedicate to more thoughtful prayer and meditation.

Some if it I will do on my own, and some of it will be part of community, but in the end I want to come out on the other side of Holy Week feeling like I seriously observed it.

So updating is going to be short and sweet this week, and probably spotty at best.

I'll be back after Easter.

 In the meantime check out Stephen Hough's thoughtful post kicking off the Holy Week meditation: the three greatest fears.

World Religions 101

It was night time and the air in the tent had cooled off considerably. Everyone had quieted down and were talking softly among themselves, reading Bibles, or sleeping. One man in the corner was singing a hymn very quietly that had gone on for quite some time.

"Michelle," my patient called out, "can you help me please?"

I stopped what I was doing and approached his bed, thinking he needed his pain medication.

"Please, can you help me understand this?" He was speaking in English and pointing to a passage in a Bible that was also in English. This particular young man had been enrolled in school for many years and proudly spoke both "higher" and "lower" English fairly well. I know this because he once explained to me that "maybe" was lower English but "perhaps," was higher. I was impressed.

"I am reading this and I need to understand," he said. "Ok, shoot," I responded.

“Speak to the people of Israel, saying, ‘If a woman conceives and bears a male child, then she shall be unclean seven days. As at the time of her menstruation, she shall be unclean," he read.

Oh boy I thought.

"What is conceives?" he asked, "does it mean have a baby?"

"Yes, it means have a baby."

"And... menstruation? How is that?"

Words failed me. "It means..." I stalled for a minute, "well it means..."

"Is it like when a lady has her bleeding?"

"Yes. Exactly." I began to get suspicious of his need for my tutorial, but his question wasn't about feminine body functions.

"Ok... then it says a woman will be unclean for seven days if she has a baby and it is a boy. And she is unclean for seven days if she has her bleeding."

"Mmmhmmm."

"Ok. 'If she bears a female child she shall be be unclean for two weeks.'"  He looked at me. This isn't my favorite part of Leviticus* so I just nodded, waiting.

"If a lady has her bleeding or a boy baby she is unclean for one week and a girl baby she is unclean for two weeks, so what is unclean?"

"Oh wow. Ok... well the Jewish people had a lot of rules for things," I stopped, wondering how far in over my head I was about to get. "And there were rules about when you could and couldn't enter a temple. Having a baby is one, touching a dead body is another."

He stared at me, not blankly, but waiting for more explanation.

Guessing his question I said, "Temple for the Jewish people is like going to church for Christians."

"So if a lady has a baby she can't go to church? If she is unmarried?"

I had no idea where the last part came from. "No, I said, "whether or not she is married. She has to stay away for a certain amount of time. Then there are things you have to do to get clean again. Rituals."

"But we don't do that here," he said, his brow furrowing. "We don't say that."

Realizing I was about to deliver the most diverse theology lesson he may have ever heard, I tried to chose my words sensitively, "It's a different religion.  Jesus was Jewish. When Jesus came, some people started a new religion. That's where Christians came from. They don't follow all the same rules of the Jewish people."

 For good measure I added,"We have the New Testament."

He looked relieved. "Ok. Because I was surprised to read that. We don't do that here."

He was just worried that they weren't following the Bible as closely as they could be. I shook my head in wonderment. Across the tent, the hymn continued.

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* I do not have a favorite part of Leviticus.

Lenten Dread

The true focus of Lent is on a renewal of Baptismal promises. A turn away from sin and a return to true Life offered in the Gospel. However, many of our Catholic Lenten rituals come to us from pre Vatican II, when the focus of Lent was more on the suffering and death of Jesus.

And that is why I have been dreading Lent.

 I find it hard to focus on that for very long. The reason used to be a childish one. It was because I felt guilty for my own shortcomings.  As a child I remember a certain elementary school teacher vividly describing the mechanisms of a crucifixion and then reminding us (as we pondered things like hypovolemic shock, mind numbing pain, and asphyxiation secondary to the body's inability to expand the thoracic cavity efficiently) that it was for our sins that this human sacrifice occurred. That stuck with me a long time.

I have since processed a lot of this guilt into a much healthier faith life, a topic for a whole other conversation.

But the reason I now find it hard to concentrate on this suffering for very long is because there is still so much suffering in the world. Jesus' death and Resurrection bought us all everlasting Life after death, but it did not wipe out the darkness and sorrow in this life. It wasn't meant to.

I find it nearly impossible to  bear witness every single day to the personal tragedies of the individuals I work with, and then meditate on even more suffering when I get home without getting deeply depressed. 

Watching The Passion of the Christ in 2004 did not inspire me, or help me feel closer to God, or turn me away from sin. It traumatized me because I can not watch senseless violence inflicted on a living creature without a great deal of mental anguish. It effected me the way Requiem for a Dream did and I have only seen each film once because of it.

Working as nurse has only augmented my aversion to thinking about suffering for the sake of just thinking about it.

What I find brings me closer to God is focusing on the promise that He will "wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore" (Rev 21:4).

I always rationalized it as "we need the forty days to really appreciate the miracle of Easter".  But I don't buy that anymore. Why does Death get 40 days and the Resurrection only get Easter Sunday?  How can anyone expect me to manufacture sadness for this long? Why isn't anyone else going crazy with this gloom? 

Then, at the 8pm Mass at St. Clement's on 2/21 something amazing happened. Father Peter gave a sermon that made me think of Lent in a refreshing new way.

"In forty days," he said, "you'll be watching the Red Sox play baseball. Think about that." We thought about it.

"In forty days," he continued, "you'll hear birds outside your window. In forty days the bulbs I planted will be growing and in forty days that tree outside will have buds."

I have been taught about mentanoia, and the deep change we are supposed to go through during Lent, but my own experiences with Lent have been too wrapped up in a focus on the darkness to really feel a change within me. 

But Father Peter put it this way. He told us he's been cranky recently. Irritable. It's hard to do service to others when you're irritable all the time. So he gave up answering email at night and started reading books.

Sounds selfish, right?  Sounds less like a sacrifice and more like a leisure. Not very "Lenten" at all. 

But it made him stop being cranky. It made him less likely to be short with his loved ones. It made him happy to get up and go to work in the morning. It made him better at helping people.

He asked us to replace one undesirable behavior or habit with a good one some how.

"In forty days," he asked us all, "everything will look different. What will you look like?"

I like his take on Lent because it matches the beliefs I am newly forming. Which is to say:

I believe that Lent doesn't have to be about gloom and doom and pain and hurting. 

It's about finding new ways to combat the gloom, doom, pain and hurting we see every day.

Lent is a training season for putting our own needs second, and the needs of others first. 

It's a challenge for us to seek out the suffering of others and to find ways to relieve it.

Because then and only then do we imitate Jesus' victory over evil and death.

So as Lent marches on I find myself still having some problems with the ways the Church goes about observing the season. Many people have to go into the Dark place to find the Light. The long Latin prayers, and the stripping the church of decorations, and the songs about bleeding and dying bring them there. 

 But  I am beginning to  understand that I personally do not have to go into that dark place if it will actually be more harmful than useful. There are other ways to glorify God, and those are the actions I must identify and engage in. For that will bring my personal mentanoia. 

Behold, now is a very acceptable time

Lent started on Wednesday. 
I had prepared this really great post on the history of ashes to mark the start of the Lenten season.
And an argument on whether or not the use of ashes to mark people's foreheads was contrary to the traditional Gospel reading read in Catholic churches all over the world on the first day of Lent.


The post started like this:  

Today at church we read the standard Gospel selection from Matthew 6: 1-6, 16-21 in which Jesus warns His followers to give alms secretly, and not to call attention to oneself while praying or fasting. 

It's a message that made a lot of sense to me, growing up and now. Performing good works and praising God are things that should be done for their own good. Our relationship with God is personal, private, and certainly not a show we're performing for those around us.

Yet then as a child I noticed, after this Gospel reading, we would all get to our feet and have the cross marked on our foreheads in ash. A clear sign for the rest of the day that we are fasting, and that we had gone to church. 

So isn't that exactly what Jesus warns us against? 

Today I argue, no. Not at all.


 Then I went to to explain the use of ashes by the Catholic Church throughout her history, and how that's changed. And then I explained the contextual significance of Jesus' words. And then I brought the whole thing together with what the modern Church believes the emphasis in Lent should be about.

But. Here's the thing. If you want to know those things you can certainly look them up. You found this blog. You know what "Google" is. The point here is that I have a really great sounding argument for people who say "hey aren't those ashes on your head hypocritical??" but I no longer feel the need to post the argument preemptively in my blog, as though I am approaching Lent defensively.


Because that is exactly what I was doing, you know. Approaching Lent defensively. 

So, no more of that. From here on in I will be entering Lent honestly and thoughtfully. 


I will even explore the reasons I was feeling defensive about Lent.
I am absolutely open to questions, and if I get very interesting ones I may even blog about them, but I'm not going to field imaginary attacks to justify my own growing unease with this solemn Church season. 


I promise.

Having A Dream

When I went to college my first major was Social Thought and Political Economy. My hunger and thirst for justice were fueled by one of the best teachers I had in high school, Judi Freeman. But my first sense of why I should care about the rights or lives of others came from my faith based upbringing.

I believe that we are all called by God to serve one another. Serving others is a common theme in several major world religions, leading me to believe that no matter which one you practice, we're probably all on the right track when it comes to that particular point.

Christians are taught that we're all different parts of one Body. We're each called to a unique and different vocation, and we are meant to utilize our own gifts as well as we can so the body is complete. It follows, although this is not part of the verse I am thinking of, that different parts of the body should protect and care for one another. I use my hands to wash my face, my nose stops me from eating rotten foods in my fridge (or purse), and if my immune system starts to attack me instead of intruders, there's a serious problem.

It's an analogy that works well for most non Theists too, I think. The reason I should care about your lot in life is because ultimately your lot and mine are inextricably connected.

I left the Social Justice and Political Economy program because during my dad's illness (and after his death) it became increasingly necessary for me to do something immediate and tangible to save people. "I needed to get my hands dirty," was often how I'd answer the unavoidable questions from professors about my change of heart. When I made that (admittedly rash) decision to change my course of study I had no idea how hard the next four years would be. I also didn't know how much being a nurse would change and shape the way I view the world every single day. I don't regret that decision one bit.

Still, when I made that decision I also left behind a wonderful network of people who really do believe that they can make a difference and leave the world a better place than when they got here. I miss that zeal. I miss rising to meet the challenge of making change happen. I miss the implicit expectation within that community of rising above selfishness and apathy. Every day.

I am humbled by the perseverance of those who dedicate their lives to human rights.I am floored by the hope that they carry like a lamp for the rest of us.

Today we celebrate the life of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.. Let's also celebrate the lives of all those who have given themselves in the constant struggle for justice and equality. While we're at it, let's celebrate each other for the fullness of life we bring to one another and to the world when we act out of love instead of hate. Let's celebrate how far we've come, and let's vow to go even further. Let's celebrate God. And Love. And let's vow to use our own unique gifts to fill the world with beauty, peace and compassion.

Rehashing Advent: the dark, the light and the Hallelujah

I challenged myself this Advent to think about my Faith in new ways, and to open myself up to unexpected changes in my relationship to others and God. I also made a rather secular deal with myself to do at least one fun thing every day until Christmas in the hope of rekindling the spirit of the child who waits with hope and joy (and without stress) for December 25th each year. So I give you the Dark, the Light and the Hallelujah of my Advent journey.

The Dark

On the fourth Sunday of Advent I overslept. Still, I wasn't concerned, knowing I could catch a 5pm service at St. Paul's in Harvard Square. After sledding most of the afternoon with a friend, we grabbed a cup of cocoa at Diesel in Davis Square. We got to talking and before I knew it, I was running late. My watch read 5pm exactly as the train pulled into the Harvard Square stop. I realized that I still had about a ten minute walk to the church. Thinking quickly, I decided to play things safe, stay on the train to Park Street and then take the Green line to a 6pm Mass at St. Cecelia's. Better to be early than late, I reasoned, the events of the previous week fresh in my mind.

I was freezing when I finally got to St. Cecelia's. While we were sledding I had failed to bail out of my saucer on one unlucky run and ended up in a small brook, which had soaked my clothes through. Still, I was early, and consoled myself knowing I'd have time to warm up and meditate before the service. But when I got to the door a sign posted read "Silence Please."
The church was full of candles. And empty of people.
"Welcome to Taize," a man greeted me warmly.
My dismay showed on my face and the man's face fell too.
"There's no 6pm Mass today because the students are all on break," he explained, "but you're welcome to join us for prayer."

The week before, as I partially alluded to, I was late to church and missed the Gospel reading. On top of being late, when I got in line for Communion, somehow the priest looked me over and returned to the altar without administering the Sacrament. I was left standing alone in the center aisle like lost toddler or a forgotten bride. God's unwanted child. No Gospel. No Eucharist. Essentially no Mass on Gaudete Sunday.


I'm a pretty terrible Catholic in plenty of ways but weekly Mass is a discipline that I practice the way some people play an instrument or do martial arts. I have attended Mass in many different cities, states and countries in all sorts of languages with all sorts of people.

And now, this Advent, at a time when I have been focusing more instead of less on my faith... I somehow managed to miss church two weekends in a row.

I thanked the man and took a copy of the music. I walked down the center aisle, my snow boots creating jarring noises in the silent room. The candle light danced all around me and I tried to remind myself of how much I love Taize services. I tried to tell myself that it would be good for me to just listen to God for an hour instead of just reciting all the traditional prayers. I tried to clear my mind. Then I knelt down and tried to stop myself from crying.

a bit of light Advent Reading

Over the past four weeks of Advent one of the things that has kept me the most on track with staying spiritually mindful has been the writing of a man whom I have never met.

I found Stephen Hough's blog on the first Sunday of Advent when I googled the phrase "darkness to light," which led me to the first of his four Advent posts.

Four sentences in, I was hooked.

Hough, an internationally acclaimed professional concert pianist, decided to choose a new musical piece each week, and explain it in a seasonal context.

It wasn't what his entire blog has been about during Advent. I'm guessing that religion is not a subject matter he speaks of often since in that initial piece he writes "for the next four Sundays, atheist, agnostic and freethinking readers might want to avoid posts with the word ‘Advent’ in the title - you have been warned!"

I have become a regular follower of his blog (and recommend that you do to), because he is a truly engaging writer no matter what the subject matter is, but for now I'll focus on the four Advent pieces. It's been fascinating to read about the season through the eyes (and ears!) of a professional musician who is also extremely well versed in Church theology and doctrine.

The musical pieces he chose to write about are as follows:

1. Prelude Chorale and Fugue, Cesar Franck
2. The Fountain and The Bell, Federico Mompou
3. F minor piano sonata (specifically the second movement), Brahms
4. Ave Maria, Franz Liszt

The pieces he chose to explain are not explicitly religious. In fact, the only one I immediately registered as liturgical was Ave Maria. But Hough writes of the composer's backgrounds as well as the historical context of the pieces. He also focuses on the music itself, the notes, the melodies and the instruments. The way Hough connects each musical masterpiece to the themes of Advent reminded me of the way someone else may find God in a sunrise, or in the ocean waves, or the movement of an electron.

I also took the time to read some of the conversations taking place in the comments sections of the four Advent pieces. Because I do not have a large or steady faith community of my own here in Boston*, I found myself drawn to these discussions between Catholics, Protestants and atheists. Together they've created conversations in which Hough's ideas were questioned, built upon and further explored.

I was amazed as I read through the various conversations. Everyone who comments, it seems, is genuinely interested in creating dialogue to further each individual's understanding of Advent. Hough also takes part in these conversations, explaining and defending his own views when necessary, but very open to the ideas of his peers and readers. People don't always walk away from it agreeing. But everyone comes to the table willing to listen and interested in hearing what was said in response.

I will certainly be posting more about my own thoughts on the season in general, and especially on Advent 2009. In the meantime I hope that if it interests you at all you will click on one of the links above and read some of Hough's insight into how these four pieces capture the pre-Christmas season.
He has certainly been an inspiration to me these past four weeks.
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* the subject of an upcoming post for sure

Starting Advent - ex tenebris lux

This Sunday was the start of the season! Advent marks the beginning of the Church year! A time of starting over, and making ourselves new again! Happy New (church) Year!

It may come as a surprise to people who know me but I usually don't pay attention to Advent at all.

Growing up in a Catholic town it seemed that Advent was for children, and Lent was for adults. Advent was cheerful, warm and fun. Every day we opened a new door on the Advent calendar at home. Every week we lit a new candle on the wreath at school. We sang carols at church. We gave each other secret gifts.

In contrast, Lent was cold, dark and scary. The music at church was about blood and death. And although I participated in abstaining from meat, and putting money in the rice bowl instead of spending it on sweets, I dreaded Lent coming each year, and couldn't wait for it to all be over. I had no idea why the adults didn't just cancel it.

As I grew up, I began to appreciate Lent more for its spiritual benefits, but I became removed from Advent. Preparing for Christmas became stressful the way it is constantly depicted in secular culture. My Christmas ends up being wonderful and magical, but I always arrive there wondering where the hell I've been for four entire weeks. At Christmas Mass every year I am a little sorry that I skipped Advent, because I feel like I've been dropped off on Christmas instead of finding my way there.

But not this year. This year I want to recapture some of the actual anticipation and joy I felt as a kid before Dec. 25th. I want it to come from an honest place so that my energy isn't forced, and my holiday spirit isn't sicky-sweet or abrasive. I want to be able to share that energy and renewal with other people when they need it the most.
And I'm going to do it all by observing a mindful Advent.

I know a lot of my friends and family have no interest in religion, and rest assured I don't mean to force (too many)* angels and shepherds on you in the next four weeks.

But I am going to try to check in here at least once a week on how I'm doing with Advent. It's a resolution that I'm hoping will keep me on track with my other resolutions.

Advent is a journey from darkness into light. I could use some light. And if you could too, I hope you'll come with me.
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* Angels and shepherds still included, and the qualifier "too many" to be defined on an individual basis by participating bloggers while supplies last. Management is not responsible for rogue shepherds or rowdy angels.

Father Richard Cleary 1932-2009

This is Fr. Cleary dancing to "Baby Got Back," at the Newman Semi Formal my freshman year of college. He was not an ordinary priest. Then again... what Jesuit is?

Yesterday I found out that Fr. Cleary passed away. Ever since then I have felt anxious and heavy hearted.

The more I read about his life outside of the few years I got to know him, most notably the time he spent as University Chaplain at Boston College the more astounded I am, and the more awed by how many lives just like mine he touched.

My five years at UMass were formative in many ways, and I often overlook religion because I was a Catholic before I showed up and I was a Catholic when I left, but what took place in between can only be described as turbulent growth.

Father Cleary was the leader of many programs for students at Newman. Notably, he the championed the 48HOURS retreat, and ran the Know Your Faith program, designed to encourage young Catholics to ask why, and seek answers. Fr. Cleary was also the person responsible for bringing taize prayer to the Newman Center, a now weekly tradition for the community. My first year at Newman I took on co-directing The Passion Play for the Palm Sunday masses., with my roommate Jen. Fr. Cleary oversaw the production and was the one who gave us the confidence (and the go-ahead) to break from tradition, write a brand new script and even add music to the program.
Well, of course, music. Father Cleary could sing, and loved to sing. He often sang during his sermons, encouraging the entire congregation to sing along, a cappella. His favorite song to sing was "Lights of the City." And when he sang, his voice was so full of joy that you couldn't help but join in.

But perhaps my most important memories of Fr. Cleary are more private. We used to have long talks, sometimes within the structure of the sacrament of reconciliation, but often times not. A close friend of mine from college summed it up when I told him about Fr. Cleary's passing. "I did not meet him" he said, "but I do remember you being upset and going there, and talking to him and coming back a lot better."

I was always better after talking to Father Cleary. Sometimes he told me things that were hard to hear. Sometimes, I admit, I didn't take all of his advice. But he was always right on. I remember wondering, while we were on retreat one night, a retreat which included many silent components, if my loud personality was a test from God. If I was meant to overcome my tendencies to become a smaller, more humble lady. And Father Cleary told me no. That I was not meant to be anyone but myself.
His mentoring helped make me who I am. I hope I was able to express how grateful I was, but of course I wish now I could have said or done more to make it clear.

Father Cleary was an amazing energy force within the student faith community at UMass Amherst, and also at Boston College. Everyone who met him couldn't help but walk away feeling happier, and more at peace.

I lost touch with Father Cleary when he left the Newman Center, which I regret deeply. I do not know how much he suffered in the end but I do know that he is in a better place now. And I am comforted by the knowledge that his memory lives on in the hearts of all who knew him. Any time we reach out to spread the joy God's love, and the knowledge of God's acceptance and saving Grace we are continuing Fr. Cleary's work. And that, plus a little more singing, is exactly what he would want.


Brady Fallon Funeral Home and Cremation Service - Obituary

I was underneath the tree and thinking about the stars.

For Catholics in the Unites States the official Christmas season began three weeks ago, at the start of Advent. Although for many people Christmas ends the next day, in my culture Christmas lasts until January 6th. I knew a wonderful priest by the name of Father Douglas, and he preaches at the Newman Center in Amherst, Ma and he used to stand really firm on this. He would "order," us with a gleeful look on his face to not stop the celebrating and the joy and the dancing and the carols until the 6th.

However, I'd like to take it even further than just five weeks.

In the book Jesus and Buddha As Brothers Thich Nhat Hanh writes about the Buddhist tradition of "Beginning Anew," and compares it to the Christian idea of baptism and being "born again." In a chapter called "Let the Child Be Born Unto Us," taken from an address he gave December 24th 1996 he asks all Christians to recognize that

Jesus Christ is born every moment of our daily life- not only on Christmas day, because every day is Christmas day, every minute is a Christmas minute. The child within us is
waiting each minute to be born and born again.

(A bit more info: The Globe recently ran an interesting article about the intersection of Buddhism and Christianity and reactions to the concepts from everyone to lay people to the Pope. Since I have been studying this intersection since high school when Grandminister of Funk Toro wrote me one of the nicest letters I have ever received, I found this small media piece interesting.)

I live my life mindfully. At least, I try to. It's takes discipline, and it's something that needs to be actively practiced. Because of this practice I hold the belief that Christmas and the idea of Christmas can be every moment of every day. You can interpret that secularly to mean that every day should be filled with the goodwill and inclinations of generosity that permeate "the holidays." I think that's fine and can certainly cause more good than harm. On a more theological level I would also add that every moment can be rebirth of spirit, a confirmation of purpose and a redefining of salvation. And although I experience it as a Christian, I also believe you don't have to be any particular religion to live your life that way.

Merry Christmas Saturday, everyone!

All of this is here with me.

Here, because I'll lose all of this otherwise:

The last Saturday we spent in Tokyo we went shopping. We believed this day to be John's birthday. It wasn't but we believed that it was and so we acted accordingly. Meaning, of course that we ate sushi four times that day. At different places. And drank. No matter what. Actually, I only went twice because then Steph and I got into a cab and gave the driver the address of the church I wanted to go to. Yes, even in Japan I was able to find a Catholic mass in English! Meanwhile the guys and Casey explored more of the city's sushi and sake population.

Catholic Mass outside of the the Northeastern part of the US is very different. I hadn't been expecting the sermon to be so conservative. It was hard to sit through, and made me question a lot of my faith. It made me wonder if I am really Catholic anymore or if I shouldn't really take those steps towards a Christian religion that is more in line with my beliefs. Those of you who know me best will say, "same old story, Misch." And the age old arguments I have against leaving are all the same. Steph actually walked out during the sermon, it was that bad. Afterwards I found solace in a long talk with John about organized religion versus Faith.
And although it was uncomfortable I am glad I went because in a week so full of moving and acting, I had done little in the way of meditating or praying and I needed the discipline of a full hour just for that.

When we all joined up again we traveled to Roppongi. Now, Gavin, our Australian friend whom we met on Friday had told us we had to go to Roppongi Hills. He showed us amazing photos he took from there of the whole city. Naively, I led the rest of my friends to busiest night club district of Tokyo. A place where Dave instructed us firmly to not talk to any men outside doorways and above all to NOT GET INTO ANY ELEVATORS. This was because all of the establishments on the first floor were legitimate, but just one look at any sign post could tell that decadent sketchy places dominated every other floor.

Nevertheless we imagined that Roppongi Hill must be a magical sacred mountain somewhere tucked behind the buildings and lights where we would meet some monks and sip on green tea and play tag with monkeys.

So we sent Casey to talk to one of the men in a doorway with whom one should never speak lest one find oneself on an elevator. She returned unharmed and laughing told us she would lead us to the Hill. We followed her across a busy street, around many corners, through some oncoming traffic, and ended up at a huge building with the words Roppongi Hill on it.

Yep. It's a skyscraper with an observation deck 52 floors up. Unfortunately the outdoor sky deck was closed so we all paid $15 to go to the top floor and look around. It was well worth it and we took some really great photos.

In our usual fashion we got lost on the way home, bought some sake in the Family Mart and had an epic pillow fight. The photos from which will never see the light of day. What happens in Sunshine City stays in Sunshine City.