The Jubilee Year happens every 25 years in the Catholic Church. In ancient times it had radical ramifications with its call to free prisoners and forgive all debt. Today it serves as a reminder of the Corporal Works of Mercy — calling pilgrims to come to Rome and reminding Catholics to renew our stance towards the Body of Christ. Each Jubilee has a specific theme, decided by the Pope at the time.
And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. – Kings 19:12
On our last night in Rome, our family processed through the Holy Doors of St. Peter’s Basilica. Fittingly, it was Thanksgiving, and this portal transmission felt like such an embodied, incarnate way to give thanks, a “eucharista” in the true sense of the word.
The Holy Doors are special entrances at each of the four Papal Basilicas in Rome. They are only open during the Jubilee year, typically once every twenty-five years. The special entrance can call to mind the purpose of the Church as the Bride of Christ and help to reset our posture as we enter our sanctuaries. As we processed, I looked at my family and thought how this symbolic journey represented something different to each of us.
Our family, like most families deep-down I suppose, is an interreligious family. Perhaps the famous Tolstoy quote should be changed to, “Each interfaith family is interfaith in its own way.” I am a practicing Catholic and my husband is a lapsed Catholic. We were both committed as lapsed Catholics together for many years. When I decided to re-commit to the Church five years ago, that was a big change in our family. My ever-patient husband who is always so flexible said in the wake of this decision, “Well…this wasn’t our plan.” A hilarious understatement – it really wasn’t. We had decided – after many church-related snafu’s both together and apart – to not get married in the Church and to not baptize our daughter. My return to the tradition of our youth deeply changed that united front.
Not only did I feel called to return to my faith tradition, but I also felt called to bring our daughter into the tradition. I desperately wanted her to pursue a Sacramental life, so she could experience a sense of belonging and be immersed in one of God’s languages. I wanted to avoid the dogmatism and catechetical focus that had hurt both of us and so many others, but I feared that without learning a faith life she might not be able to see God in the world. She could always choose later to not pursue an institutional tradition, but at least she would have tools to find God’s voice. This wanting was a deep thirst. And it was so different from my husband’s desire, and different from my original desire. It must have been so hard for him – this sudden, fervent change that consumed me.
And so we began, with unsure steps, a new direction in our journey. We began saying an Interfaith prayer at the dinner table. Our daughter began attending church with me on most Sundays and I started teaching Sunday school so that we could be involved together. We made space at home to talk about the different ways that my husband and I find God in the world, and we made space to talk about our childhood religious experiences – the hurtful and healing natures of them. We continued to make time in nature a priority and often discussed nature as God’s original church.
It has not always been easy. One Easter three years ago we were preparing to host family and friends for a celebratory meal, and my husband and I were not getting along. We were talking past each other, clearly on different pages about what the day meant. I burst out crying and shouted that I felt lonely on this path. He was stunned into silence – with every right to be angry, but he wasn’t. His eyes were so kind. I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but when I did, I realized the truth of my words. I was lonely – at church it felt weird to be known by everyone as my daughter’s mother without my husband by my side. Spirituality was taking up more and more space in my life and I wanted so badly to feel that together. I felt so bad hurting my husband with those words, but we talked through it – I did not need him to be there at my parish with me. But I did need him to articulate to us and to our daughter his experience with spirituality so that we could braid our common ground.
That Easter fight helped us. As Pope Francis said, “Families, we quarrel, and sometimes plates can fly.” And in the same line, he said that “families are factories of hope.” You don’t get the hope without the mess. I softened after that Easter fight, accepting that I would always be at church without my husband. And he softened and began to talk more about spirituality with our daughter, not viewing our goals as separate or at odds with one another. He began to set aside our church time as time he spent alone in nature at a nearby park, and discussed that ritual with our daughter. We sought out common ground – reading books and watching movies that explored life through a social justice lens that was enlightening to both of us. And we planned our trip to Rome – honoring the Jubilee for me and honoring my husband’s love of history & Italian.
My daughter has moved more towards a preteen disposition and her dad’s “anti-institution” stance is more desirable at this time in her life. Often, that is okay – I feel at peace knowing I’m showing her one way and I know that tool will help her as she navigates her own way in the world. But sometimes it’s painful. One night on our Roman voyage she asked, “Mama, do you like Rome so much because it is so ‘churchey?’” I laughed and said I am interested in its orientation towards God…She said, “But I don’t believe in God!” I responded immediately, “Don’t say that!” When she asked why she shouldn’t say that, I said, “You’re not even ten. You have your whole life to figure out what you believe. I want you to learn about the fabric of the world. You don’t have to call it God.” She looked to my husband for support. He looked down at her and squeezed her hand and said, “Your mom is right. She’s not talking about a guy in the sky. Don’t close your mind off.”
It is with all this history, and the many generations of history that came before us and built our epigenes, that we three stand here, processing from the Castel Sant’ Angelo to the Holy Doors of St. Peter’s. The sun has set and the sky is that miraculous blue that always makes me think of Joan Didion’s Blue Nights. My husband is smiling – he seems really happy we’re doing this. That’s some kind of miracle. My daughter seems…Preteeny about it all and is somewhat annoyingly singing Miley Cyrus to herself when the procession leader is trying to lead us in prayer. The prayers and singing switch to Spanish, to accommodate the majority of our group. I want to stop being annoyed at my daughter singing Miley Cyrus and to ground the moment in its profound symbolism. I think a Litany of Saints would be so nice, to give thanks to those “on whose constant intercession…we rely for help.” I ask my daughter to do the Litany with me. She looks the other way. My heart hurts a little, but I know I will continue. And then, my husband steps between us and puts his arm around me. He joins me, giving equal praise to the Litany. Together we go through the list – “St. Catherine of Siena, pray for us; Mother Theresa of Calcutta, pray for us…” I feel myself being held – by my husband, by these saints, and by our God all around us.
Our group walks through those Holy Doors. As I’m pushed to move through quickly, I try to memorize their golden engravings, imagining them sealed for most of each century. We enter St. Peter’s. My daughter stops singing Miley Cyrus and takes in her surroundings. “WOW!” She says, “Is that a real dead person?!” she asks as we walk by John XXIII’s tomb. “Yes, he was. And he was very good,” I tell her. She’s in awe, taking in his waxen, pale embalmed body, red robe and pointy red shoes. “Can I learn about him??” she asks. I tell her, “Yes, you can definitely learn about him.” My husband and I exchange a secret smile. A prayer lifts in my heart – oh my dear God, your still, small voice always finds a way. Thank you for making us whole.
RLC welcomes and encourages individuals who engage in critical thinking at the intersection of faith and justice to contribute to our blog. The views and opinions expressed by our blog authors are their own and do not necessarily reflect or represent the views and opinions of RLC, its staff, members, or officers.
