The Martyr Thing, or--How Many Times Can I Cross My Fingers Behind My Back to Avoid Death?

Is anyone else out there as creeped out by martyrs as I am? As a Catholic convert, I still find parts of the church strange and alien, but martyrs are right at the top of "strange and alien" for me.

Maybe it's because I love my life so much. Maybe it's because I cannot understand a God who would require that kind of bloody sacrifice. Maybe it's the idea of people singing (hopefully on key) as they go to a gory death. Just to mention a few: today's martyr is Maximillian, an early Christian who refused to fight in Diocletian's Roman Army (of course, this dude was famous for his widespread slaughter of Christians...), saying to the Roman, "I serve in God's army and will not fight in this one." Something to that effect. I like that, I just hate the death part. If, like Eddie Izzard, I had a choice between "death and cakes," I so would so choose cakes.

Then there's Perpetua and her slave Felicity, who were torn apart by wild beasts in an arena in Cathage. I suppose we should be grateful they were not ravaged by wild or rabid cows, as I have read some other martyrs were. (This makes the mind furiously to think: how does an herbivore become rabid? And a cow?) Perpetua, as you will remember, had a baby at the time and was tormented by being separated from her baby. When someone bribed the jailers and brought her infant to her, she found "the prison was made a palace for me." Those are bracing words, and I admire her courage. But she refused to recant, despite her papa's pleas ('Please, honey, I will buy you a Pandora bracelet with ten trinkets if you just say 'I don't'...') and she and Felicity were killed.

Other martyrs spring to mind: Agatha of Sicily who was persecuted by Decius (he obviously had gotten his MBA in persecuting early Christians), and when she refused his less than welcome advances, he handed her over to a brothel where her breasts were crushed, then cut off. Boys, boys--if they've been crushed, I don't think they could easily be cut off, but that's a minor point. Oh, she also--after having been brought back to life by St. Peter--was rolled over hot coals. An earthquake then ensued, as in a play direction: "Roll of thunder heard off stage."

It's not that I'm against honoring those who have died being faithful witnesses, like the 7 monks in the new French film, Of Gods and Men. After all, "martyr" comes from the Greek word martys meaning "witness". I like witnessing to my own faith and try to do so with some regularity without causing people to either drool excessively or fall into comas. But in the long run, I just don't get it nor could I do it.

It's the whole idea of what are we willing to give up for God that nags at me. I'd so much rather come down on the side of, what can we give out for God--how can we be more merciful, more compassionate, more understanding, more forgiving? Like that.

Here's a starter: I am willing to give up bad knees to God; I am willing to give up distracted drivers to God; I am willing to give up food poisoning, rude people, cruelty, genocide, child slavery, abuse of women, and anything else which diminishes our humanity.

And, if that doesn't do the trick, I could be persuaded to give up March to God. I'll wrap it up in a neat and snowy package, tying the freezing nights and laggard days together into one bulky package, and sent it post haste to heaven. That's the kind of sacrifice I can get behind!

Lent or Whatever?

Ah, I think I've figured out how to do new posts. I'm such a techno-boob! I actually think that creating a blog could be a spiritual discipline, sort of like fasting and giving alms; it makes one so humble. It reminds me of how not in control I am of my life and thoughts and just about anything else.

Here's what started me thinking about Lent: I went to bed Tuesday (Shrove Tuesday, and I should have made pancakes, but that didn't happen...) full of good intentions. As usual. I am a veritable balloon of good intentions. A vast and complex garden of good intentions. Perhaps even a small moon orbiting in space, full of good intentions. I would--eat very little for breakfast, dining on weak and unadulterated tea. (I'm sure it says in the Bible somewhere that unadulterated tea is a spiritual practice.) I would have toasted English muffins with nothing on them. Huh, nothing? My mind reared up in disbelief. NOTHING? As in--no butter, no margerine, no jam, not even that wussy-puss stuff only flavored with fruit juice?

I lay back on my pillow, panting slightly, panic beginning to twinge in my toes. Ok. I can do this, I told myself sternly. Remember Jesus in the desert. Remember that not eating thing for 40 days and being tempted by the Great Dude of Tempters. Hah.

Such fine and sturdy thoughts seemed to have no effect on this incipient panic, which was all about, YOU MEAN I CAN'T HAVE WHAT I WANT WHEN I WANT IT???

Damn. I lurched forward onto further plans for Ash Wednesday, only slightly deranged in my thoughts. I would eat a small salad for lunch. (Small?" my mind twinged.) Yes, indeed, with no crumbled bleu cheese on it. Only a sprinkle of olive oil, vinegar, and maybe some salt and pepper. And no crisps or toast with it. My mind sighed. Clearly, I was in for a difficult time, and no resolutions, no prayers, no reminders of Jesus' journey to Jerusalem were going to have much of an effect.

So, why such a Lenten Wuss, you might ask yourself? Here's one thing, which is serious, and not to put off my readers, but having been sexually abused one summer at the age of 6, certain things were branded into my bones. Number one was, Don't let anyone try to make me do anything! For any reason at all! It's why losing weight is always such a loaded (sorry) proposition for me. It's what happens when writer friends of mine give me books they have written, with gentle hopes that I will actually read them, instead of putting them into a guilty and not-read pile in my study where they will shout reminders at me, all of which I will ignore. Anything, anything at all that smacks of having to do something is probably doomed to failure. I should know this about myself at the far age of 65.

So, here's a thought: I think I can get my mind and twitchy will around alms-giving and prayer. I can do that. Giving up food and fasting will have to go into the spiritual trash can. It ain't gonna happen. Makes me too crazy, and that is not a good spiritual practice for Lent.

Fr. James Martin, my favorite Jesuit priest, author of "The Jesuit's Guide to (Almost) Everything," talks about giving out for Lent instead of giving up. What thing(s) can I do which speak of God's abundant love and mercy? I'm working on this, but one thing I am doing is what I call my "Ministry of Kindly Chat." So many people work for us, laboring in Big Y, crouched uncomfortably over the floor, cleaning, stacking things, and just whizzing around making the place happen, that I make sure I speak to at least one person in the supermarket. Chat up the Fish Lady. Ask, "How DO you keep warm back there?" Talk about our kids leaving home. Speak to the lady kneeling on the tiles, wiping up someone else's mess. "Hey, I bet that's hard on your knees? How do you do it?" Just recognizing someone as a person with dignity and worth is a spiritual practice I think. I definitely think Mercy comes into this one. And it's something I can do which has a small impact on the world, but maybe alleviates some of the rush, the rudeness, the mindless cruelties of everyday life.

I'm in, Jesus. I'm in with "Kindly Chat" and am throwing out the fasting thing. Let me know about your Lenten Spiritual Practices, if you have them, and what seems to work for you.