Made in God's Image

“So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them” (Genesis 1:27)

Sometimes I find myself sitting back and viewing my small life in this vast world with complete wondrous awe. Why did God create me? Why did God create humanity? What are we all doing here?

Our existences can be summarized by one word: gift. The God who loved humanity into existence and who loved us as individuals into the world continues to love us with unconditional entirety. We are here because we are loved.

The striking reality that we are loved unconditionally by our creator is especially pertinent this week, as it is Love Your Body Week at Notre Dame and National Eating Disorders Awareness Week.

I had the opportunity to speak with an extremely courageous fellow Notre Dame student and friend last week about her battle with loving herself. For the sake of privacy, I will call her by my middle name, Ann. I am grateful and honored to share a bit of her story with you.

Ann was bullied in middle school: she was labeled a “band geek” because she loved making music and had a passion for learning. She was called “prude” for refusing to wear revealing clothing. She was deeply influenced by the objectification of women in the media. Ann found herself in an isolated, lonely place where faith in God and positive self-image felt impossible. She remembers declaring herself an atheist at one point.

The eating disorder developed gradually but steadily. Ann exercised obsessively and excessively, running 8-14 miles each day, and planned every meal down to the last calorie. Her condition can be described as exercising anorexia. Ann lost twenty pounds in a month and a half, becoming dangerously thin but veiling her malnourished body under baggy clothes. Gradually, Ann realized she needed help. She informed her parents about her addiction to exercise and her unhealthy relationship with food, and her parents took loving action by taking her to a doctor to find out what could be done.

A particular visit to the doctor became a sort of wake-up call. Ann was struck with the realization that she had two choices: she could continue down this road of self-destruction (and, as she bluntly states, die from it), or she could fiercely pursue healing. Though it probably seemed like an impossibly daunting task at the time, Ann chose the latter.

In the midst of her distorted self-image and confusion, Ann’s family’s devotion to their Catholic faith pointed her back to the Church. It became clear that God, who loves without ceasing, was the only answer. Ann committed herself to attending 6:45 a.m. Mass every day for the rest of high school, and relied on God to carry her emaciated body and mental state out of their weakest moment in time. It was her faith and her trust in God’s love that delivered the healing she so craved. She embarked upon a rigorous journey of discipline, which affected all of her habits: eating, exercising, praying. After months of being overwhelmed by desperation, she finally began to regain control.

“In our lowest points,” Ann insists, “we become closer to God” – if we open ourselves up, even the tiniest bit, to the love that is forever being poured out to and for us. When she was unable to see hope of her own accord anymore, she “let go, and let God.”

Ann’s transition to Notre Dame has been a “much needed” one, but an extremely difficult one all the same. She has continued her practice of attending daily Mass on campus, which has helped her through points in her time here when she has become complacent in her faith life. Ann tries to see God in everything, especially her weakest moments – every reflective surface brings back memories of her battle with self-image and self-love in high school.

Why is she sharing her story now?

Ann has noticed that we live in a culture where it’s expected that we’re always “good.” People are forever “fine” – “How are you?” doesn’t carry much weight in passing. No one says “bad” when they’re bad. Ann’s struggle to recognize the beauty and dignity in herself has not vanished since being in the throes of her battle with anorexia. But now, when reflective surfaces prompt thoughts of not being good enough or other life stressors take over, she has learned to turn to her faith and to share that she is overwhelmed with friends. This has been a refreshing change that has infused her relationships with authenticity, including her relationship with herself.

“Part of the beauty of humanity is learning to struggle with God,” Ann muses. God desires that we let His love penetrate every aspect of our lives. This week is an important reminder that each of us is uniquely made in God’s image and loved beyond the scope of our imagination. “How are you?” can make all the difference – for the worse, or for the better.

The Lenten Fast (why it matters and what you can do about it)

Beginning this Wednesday, more conversations than not on the Notre Dame campus will begin with the words, “So what are you giving up this Lent?” Lots of people will be posting peace-out-see-you-soon FaceBook statuses (“Be back in 40 days!”), enjoying their last sweets for a little while on Fat Tuesday, and renewing their workout or sleeping commitments.

All of this is fine and good, but so often we don’t do justice to the real meaning behind the act of giving something up for Lent.

The forty days of Lent are not recognized arbitrarily. One of the earliest stories we know about Jesus is that of his temptation for 40 days and 40 nights in the desert (see Matthew 4). Jesus was hungry, thirsty, dirty, and tired during this time, and on top of all these human struggles he was tempted three times by the devil. It took an immense death to self and reliance on God the Father for Jesus to overcome this trial.

During Lent, the individuals of the Body of Christ are called to enter into Jesus’ self-emptying in a special way through prayer, fasting, and almsgiving (see Campus Ministry’s Lent FAQ page for more information on Lenten practices).

In an accomplishment-driven culture such as ours, it is easy to fall into the idea that Lent is a time for improving ourselves. But this is a sort of disoriented desire. The practices of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving during Lent help us to allow things in ourselves to be crucified. So, what’s the best way to choose something to give up for Lent, now that the stakes are higher and this practice means a little more than self-improvement? 

Consider these scenarios:

Do you give up Instagram to save yourself time (self-actualizing), or do you give up Instagram to prevent yourself from the prideful/vain practice of refreshing the page incessantly after posting a picture to track the number of likes you get (self-emptying)?

Do you read scripture for 15 minutes every night during Lent just to speak to your friends about it and to check that box off the list (self-actualizing), or do you make this a personal habit in order to put yourself in a prayerful, right mindset at the close of every day while taking 15 minutes out of your social media routine during the day (self-emptying)?

Instead of giving up stress drinking to make yourself healthier (self-actualizing), give up an hour or two on Sunday night that you “study” – reserve those for Mass, prayer, etc., and be more efficient in your studying on a regular basis (self-emptying). 

Etc…

Lent asks us to put on a level of self-reflection that we might not have given time or attention to the rest of the year. The practices of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are guides that allow us to enter into the desert with Jesus (we have focused on fasting in this post, but we can also incorporate prayer and almsgiving into our Lenten promises).

If we’re going to the desert, we’re going to the Cross, too. We allow our disordered desires to be crucified during Lent, so that with Jesus we might say, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done” (Luke 22:42).

On Islands: Grieving and Moving Forward

As our campus grieves the loss of Daniel Kim, a fellow student at the University of Notre Dame who passed away this weekend, I am left reflecting on grief. It’s such a universal human emotion – we have all grieved at some point over some one or some place or some thing – and yet it can be such a personally isolating, desolate place to settle. You can “share your grief” with others and yet feel utterly alone.

Grieving is not just sadness. It can be. But it can also contain anger, frustration, joy, laughter, confusion, denial. It may involve a revival of faith or a wavering of faith. It can make the griever feel big and significant or small and inconsequential. Grieving is an acute sense of loss which can be accompanied by the entire spectrum of possible human emotions.

And sometimes, especially if we haven’t grieved in a while, we forget that all of this is wrapped up in the process.

January 21 was the one-year anniversary of the death of a high school friend and classmate of mine. One of my friends on the ND campus, who also lost a high school classmate during her freshman year of college, recently shared an important perspective with me. When we grieve for some one, we don’t have to try to move on. That’s impossible, and it simply doesn’t do justice to the life lived. Instead, the process we must embark upon is the process of first beginning to heal, and then moving forward – remembering, keeping in mind, and carrying with.

It took the event of my friend’s death and the subsequent intense despair and isolation that plagued me for a while to recognize what a communal experience grief can be. I felt like an island after receiving the news of my friend, separated by miles upon miles and states upon states from the others who knew and loved him. But once I turned to my family of friends on campus, I tapped into a community of support and love that I didn’t realize was necessarily so real and present before. I found a safe place to heal in the people right around me.

The dichotomy between needing to be alone and yearning for community during a time of grief can be exemplified through David Weale’s Introduction to his book Chasing the Shore:

“What I call my ‘self’ appears most days to be a very small island in an immense ocean, but I have discovered that what seems to be separate is not separate at all, but is connected beneath the surface of consciousness to all that is…we are all the tips of a concealed greatness that is, most of the time, beyond our abilities to discern…for those with eyes to see it turns out to be a place of infinite extension, and a portal to the eternal…”

I have discovered that the “concealed greatness” which Weale speaks of is God’s deep, unwavering love for humanity. It is this love that connects us all, from creation through life and death and into eternity. It is this love that grounds us, even amidst intense grief. It is this love that offers us a point of orientation to stand on as we start the process of healing, as islands connected within a community. Together, we begin the process of moving forward.

Retreat High…Why?

Retreat. What comes to mind in the context of this word? The best weekend of your life? The time when you felt most out of your comfort zone? Something foreign and scary? Something foreign and uninteresting? I’ve heard all of these responses and more in conversations with friends and acquaintances about retreats.

Some people love ‘em, some people don’t consider themselves “retreat people,” and some are indifferent. But no matter your stance on the matter, if you are reading this you have most likely been exposed to retreat culture in some capacity.

Regardless of the individual theme of a retreat, the length of time spent retreating, or the specific activities participated in, a retreat is typically designed to be an “escape” from “normal life” with the goal of powering off, focusing up, and working towards a goal. In the context of a religious retreat, this goal is typically to refocus on one’s relationship with God. On many Notre Dame retreats, both silent reflection/prayer time and communal small group time help to accomplish this strengthening, deepening, and renewal of faith. By looking for support in the Church around us, we are able to better engage in our personal spiritual lives and vice versa.

My Sophomore Road Trip retreat family from this past September

Many of those who answered “the best weekend of my life” to my original question can relate to the phrase “retreat high” – that incredible, floating-on-air-on-top-of-the-world-everyone-and-everything-is-awesome-and-life-is-perfect-and-people-and-especially-God-are-so-so-so-good feeling that accompanies many retreatants through an experience on Notre Dame- (and Jesuit-; shout-out to my Crusaders) esque retreats and follows them home. But how does one sustain that potential retreat high?

Welp. Bad news, folks. You don’t.

…to a certain extent. Retreat highs are incredible; don’t get me wrong. I have been on and led many, many retreats, and the feeling of being high on life and God and friends and fellowship has never and will never get old. But whether one experiences a “retreat high” or not, “real life” gets in the way (in the best way possible). Life isn’t perfect, and neither are people – especially me. Here’s where the good news comes in. God is. God is perfect.

So while retreat highs gradually (or abruptly) transition back into the highs and lows of everyday life, the really cool thing about such experiences is that they hopefully give us the opportunity to slow down and remove ourselves from our general busyness and human worries enough to catch a glimpse of ourselves and others in light of God and in light of His love.

That’s the real retreat high and the real retreat secret. What we bring home from retreats, and what we’re called to “bring home” in every day life (regardless of whether we have participated in zero or ninety nine retreats) is what we pray for in the Our Father: “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

On earth as it is in heaven.