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The St. Louis Cardinals were down to their last out, about to lose Game 6 of the World Series to the Texas Rangers. And up comes David Freese. David Freese was criticized earlier in the game for dropping a routine pop-up. Throughout the series, and even throughout the entire season, Freese was criticized for being a little too risky. He played a little too aggressively, going for balls outside the strike zone. But in this game, as he was down to his last strike, he silenced every commentator out there when he hit a two-run triple that sent the game into extra innings. And if there was any doubt of his talent, two innings later he gets up in the eleventh inning and hits a walk-off homerun to send the Cardinals to a seventh definitive game and eventually to win the World Series.

Each week, you and I come around this Eucharist to give thanks for the gifts God has given us–talents and abilities, like the ability to play ball, to sing, to teach,to do business, to run finance. St. Paul lists all the spiritual gifts: the ability to administrate, to heal, to teach, to preach. These have been entrusted to us as gifts for the greater glory of God. In the Gospel parable we heard today, those servants recognized that those talents were not theirs, that they were entrusted to them while the master was away. What distinguishes the first two servants from the last? What distinguishes David Freese from all the other little players out there in the Major League Baseball? It certainly is not the talent. It doesn’t make a difference between five talents, two talents or one talent, because the master said the exact same thing to the one who made five more and to the one who made two more: “Well done good and faithful servant.” The difference was whether they were willing to take a risk. Risk involves understanding that there is a possibility of failure. Risk involves understanding that there is a possibility of rejection, injury, mistakes, people talking behind your back, second guessing, an uncertain future. Risk also depends on faith. Faith in knowing that God has entrusted the gifts and talents to you, because of you. He did not entrust them to anyone else, but to each “according to his ability,” with full confidence that we will bear fruit. The third servant refused to take the risk and thought he might play it safe. Yet God doesn’t give us gifts for us to play it safe.

David Freese could have walked up to that plate and cowed-down to all the criticism of all those commentators. He could have thought about that fly ball that he dropped. He could have thought about the injuries that he sustained. Instead, he walked into that batters box knowing full well that there was a championship one pitch away. He had the confidence of his manager and of all the other people who walked with him year-in and year-out. That’s what he was feeling as he hit that ball out into the outfield.

We have a decision to make. Are we going to cow-down to the criticisms of other people? To our own insecurities? St. Paul says God did not give us a spirit of cowardice, but of power, of love, of self-control. Friends, when we lack self-confidence, it’s because we’re focusing in on the possibility of failure rather than focusing on the God who has entrusted these gifts to us. The difference between an MVP World Series Champion and a loser is that the champion takes the risk. The difference between a Christian and others is that Christians take the risk of not only using their gifts, but of putting their faith in God, the Giver of the gift—who has every confidence that the gift will bear fruit if we only take the risk to use it.

I challenge that to be most secure is to risk it all, and to step into the unknown, with full confidence of who’s behind you, of who’s with you and who’s in you. We come around this altar to know what God has entrusted to us…but more than that, to feel the confidence of the God who has entrusted all this to us.

- excerpts from “Our Best Security: Risking It All In Christ” by Fr. Joe Kim

Before the toddler, I had a hard enough time paying attention during Mass. No matter my good intentions or how hard I try, I always ended up zoning out half the time. And now, with the toddler, forget about it. Mass is spent picking her up, putting her down, then picking her up again because she doesn’t want to go down even though her twisting and back-bending keeps telling me otherwise. I get distracted from the readings with her stepping on my toes, dropping Cheerios and crayons under the pews, whining for a pen so she can draw on the bulletin. I’m too busy shushing her and entertaining her so others can listen in peace to the homily that I rarely get to hear all the way through. I robotically recite the prayers as I’m eyeballing her running up and down the aisle. Between zoning out and Operation Toddler, sometimes I wonder why I even bother going to Mass.

The truth of the matter is that, daydreaming and toddler aside, I just don’t enjoy Mass. I mean, it’s not like I hate Mass. It’s just not on the top of the list of my favorite things to do. I have been known to try to weasel my way out of going every once and awhile. Did you hear me sneeze just now? Must be sick. Need to stay home and rest. Lily took a late nap? We can’t wake her! She’ll be grumpy! I should just stay home and let her finish her nap. It’s time to go already? But I haven’t finished Win a Date with Tad Hamilton! You name it, I’ve tried it. I just don’t feel like I get anything out of Mass. I truly wish I felt differently, because my brain knows how important Mass is, but my heart just isn’t in it.

So then, why do I go to Mass? Obligation. Obligation to God. God has blessed my life and my family, more than I deserve, so I try to do things that will make him happy–go to Mass, be kind to others, etc. Also, obligation to Steve. Steve genuinely tries to live faithfully and going to Mass as a family is extremely important to him. Which means it’s important to me, for him. And obligation to my kids. I want to be a good example to my kids. I want them to grow up rooted in faith and plugged into the Church.

To me, it seems like going to Mass out of obligation is a horrible reason to go. A couple of weeks ago, Steve and I had a long discussion about my struggle with connecting to Mass. I told him straight up that I go purely out of obligation and duty. That I was sorry I felt that way. That I wish I could change it. I thought he would secretly judge me and start plotting divorce. But his response surprised me. He thinks that me going to Mass out of obligation–to God, to him and our family, is borne from love. That out of love for God and my family, I make the sacrifice of my time and energy to attend a Mass that I otherwise would not attend. I never thought of it that way. I always felt guilty and ashamed of my feelings about Mass. But he suggested that, instead of seeing my obligation as a bad thing, to see it as a sacrificial love. So, in a way, my heart IS in it.

Of course I still wish that I enjoyed going to Mass. I revere it and know it’s importance. But I don’t feel connected and I don’t know if I ever will. Nevertheless, I will keep trying and hoping. And until then, my way of thinking about Mass is shifting. Maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about how I’m not getting anything out of Mass. Maybe it’s not in the getting, but in the giving. Giving myself. Showing up and letting God take care of the rest.

Carrying Driving my cross. Always trying to take the easy way out…

“Want to impress others? Talk about your successes. Want to impact others? Talk about your failures.” – John Maxwell

Due to the fickleness of my faith, some people question the kind of example I set for my kids and for those around me. That’s why this quote struck me when I read it on a friend’s Twitter feed recently. Much like the quote says, I find that I admire those who are strong and steadfast in their faith, but it’s the stories of those who struggle that really resonate with me. I’m not saying that one kind of faith or testimony is better than the other, but I do think both sides of the fence have something valuable to offer and teach.

My daughter is still a little young to grasp the whole concept of faith, fickle or otherwise. My son, on the other hand, has seen me in many stages of my faith.  When he was a kid, he saw me fired up about my faith and active in the church. I was a youth minister and he grew up in youth ministry. As we both got older, he saw my faith start to change. Over the years, my faith, though still strong, evolved to a more quiet and reflective one as opposed to the fanatical energy I had in my twenties. And now, as a new mom again and in a very different place than I was twelve years ago, he sees my struggle. He sees me resist going to Mass. The only time he sees me pray is at meals, if that. But you know what? He also knows about this blog, and how this is my attempt to open up about my struggles and reach out to others who might feel the same. He hears me talk to Steve about my faith–or sometimes lack thereof–and how I don’t want to stay this way. He sees me hanging on. However feeble it may be at times, he sees me trying.

I think my son grew up with a great foundation for his faith because of the example he witnessed when he was younger. We didn’t preach to him, he just saw us live our faith. When my faith changed to a more quiet kind of spirituality, I think my son learned that there are different expressions of faith, none better than the other. And now that he sees my struggles, I think–I hope–he is learning that we’ll all encounter our deserts, that it’s natural and inevitable, and that the important thing is to keep trying. The journey isn’t always smooth and faith is sometimes fickle, but it’s still faith nonetheless.

In Steve’s never-ending quest to help me find my way, he bought me a book called Messy Spirituality by Michael Yaconelli, wherein I found my answer. Yaconelli recounts the biblical story of Jesus healing the blind man, and how the religious leaders of that day tried to renounce this miracle by calling Jesus a sinner. The blind man responded, “Whether he is a sinner or not, I don’t know. One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!” Yaconelli relates this to a story of a modern day man who is criticized for knowing very little about his faith.

“You are right. I am ashamed at how little I know about [Jesus]. But this much I know: Three years ago I was a drunkard. I was in debt. My family was falling to pieces; they dreaded the sight of me. But now I have given up drink. We are out of debt. Ours is a happy home. My children eagerly await my return home each evening. All this Christ has done for me. This much I know of Christ!”

Likewise, I admit I don’t know much. But this much I do know:

I was alone. I lost my marriage. I lost my job and my apartment. I lost my son. My friends and family couldn’t help me. I lost me. I was homeless, depressed. I lost hope. I was literally at rock bottom. Until one evening I decided to go to church for no other reason than the fact that I had no where else to turn. And God’s love saved me. I got back on my feet. I got a job and a room. I got my son back. I found the love of my life. I found myself again, only a totally different self than I even knew existed.

I don’t know how to prove Jesus to anyone. I don’t have adequate words to explain why I have faith. All I know is that God has done amazing things in my life. And even though I’m sinful and fickle and still get lost along the way, my eyes can still see all the blessings God has given me.

When confronted with questions about Jesus, the blind man is not afraid to say, “I don’t know.” “I don’t know” is often the only reply we can give to explain the mystery of Christ…Our personal relationship with Christ is often the only apologetic we can offer. Our lack of knowing is the beginning of humility and the very essence of spiritual life.