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Disability and Catholic Feminism: The Wide Reach of Ableism Narratives

In the first part of this series on disability and Catholic feminism, I wrote an introduction to disability advocacy and vocabulary. As you engage in online spaces, you will often see disability advocacy label itself as working against “ableism.”

Recognizing Ableism

“Ableism” is a broad term that refers to treating others (and ourselves!) better or worse based on physical ability, health, or capacity. It is important to recognize that ableism is always a functional negative — even if the things you say seem positive — because it insinuates that the opposite (disability, sickness, or injury) is negative. For example, my brother Matthew uses a wheelchair when we are out of the house. This is not because he can’t walk, but rather because he can. And he is fast and strong! Since he doesn’t understand boundaries and the differences between things we do and do not own, if we go to Target and he’s not in his wheelchair, he would tear toys from their boxes faster than lightning! He would grab people we don’t know thinking they are friends, and if we heard an unexpected loud sound, he might become frightened and collapse onto the floor, unwilling to move. He knows that he is safe and secure in his wheelchair.

However, many of my friends first meet him when he is in his wheelchair and assume that he can’t walk. If they find out he can walk and say, “Oh, good! He’s not as disabled as I thought!”, we could consider that statement to be ableist, because it assumes that people who can’t walk are “worse off” than those who can. Even if such a statement is well-meaning, it sows a seed of looking down on others.

The Intersection of Ableism and Feminism

Ableism and feminism intersect in many ways, in no small part because for centuries, women were treated in medical settings that viewed men as the standard and, therefore, saw women’s bodies as “atypical,” a word often used nowadays to refer to disabled persons. Women’s bodies are still treated in many medical schools as the non-normative, or non-standard, version of the human body. Gynecology and obstetrics are specializations not all residents choose to pursue in depth, and even then, many issues of women’s health may actually be more accurately housed under other specializations. Not all doctors have experience with the unique components of the female body, and not all women’s health problems are traced back to the womb.

We see these issues in the ways that birth control and weight loss are viewed as the catch-all solutions to a variety of women’s health concerns, replacing exploration into their root causes. Women’s pain is often taken less seriously, and these issues are even more likely to occur for BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, and people of color) women. The maternal mortality rate is astronomical in the United States, particularly for women of color. These problems can be situated under the umbrella of ableism and can be masked when we settle for the narrative of “strong women” without asking why they have to be strong in the first place.

In my last article, I talked about vocabulary and how we can be disability advocates in ways as simple as changing the terms we use and share online. When we discuss social narratives, we are talking about the stories, feelings, and beliefs we cultivate through experiences and media. Beyond interpersonal relationships, larger narratives are at work in the entertainment we consume. When we think about the pressure placed on women’s bodies, it is easy to see how the media impacts our opinions. Hollywood actors, fashion week models, and Instagram influencers all present, through their success, narratives about which “kinds” of women are beautiful.

Feminism and ableism also intersect prominently in the areas of weight loss and wellness culture. Women are constantly sold ableist lies:

“You’re always healthier if you’re skinnier.”

“You can achieve perfect health on your own.”

“You’re a better mother if you do things naturally.”

As we continue to unmask how beauty standards are both racist and sexist, we can also see how they are ableist. Not all bodies are skinny! Not all bodies move in the same way! Not all bodies work as we’re told they should!

Fat phobia (the fear of being at a larger weight or clothing size) is deeply ableist and hurts women of all sizes. Women who struggle with eating disorders have a more difficult time recovering, women who are larger feel pressure to slim down in order to be taken seriously, and women who find themselves at our culture’s “ideal size” face immense pressure to stay that way — when, as women, our bodies are not meant to “stay” any way. We cycle and flow on purpose.

The “Need” for Healing

It is also important to recognize that the media functions in ableist ways regarding physically and cognitively disabled persons. More often than not, cognitively disabled characters in movies and television function in stereotypical and harmful ways. We call them “tropes”: common, clichéd narrative devices. Some tropes of cognitively disabled persons include being childlike, being frequently confused, pining after a romantic partner who will never return their affections because of their disability, being untrustworthy and having to prove their worthiness, being the subject of miracles or the impetus behind the protagonist’s personal growth, and (most frequently) being killed or sacrificing themselves after proving their worth in order to elicit emotion from the audience.

This is a reflection of “inspiration porn,” and it is deeply harmful, especially in media directed at children. Our kids need to know that people with disabilities are kind, trustworthy, and no one to be afraid of. We need to teach our loved ones that disabled people do not exist solely to inspire us and that disabled persons are just as worthy and capable of familial and romantic love as anyone else. We need to see disabled characters as heroes in their own right.

We also need to accept disabled persons regardless of whether or not their story includes healing of any kind. This acceptance can be difficult within church settings, where we often focus on healing narratives. Some priests might use stereotypes of healing in their homilies when expounding upon Gospel readings that feature Christ’s healing miracles, especially of the deaf and blind. We must be careful not to assume that all people experiencing disability desperately yearn for healing. Some do, but others don’t!

Disability and illness can be so challenging, both for the person experiencing it and for people who care for them. It can be painful, ostracizing, and confusing. But this should not mean that the end goal for all persons is perfect healing. It is neither realistic nor helpful to assume that a person’s existence should be oriented toward perfect healing, because there’s no such thing as perfect health in this life. Sickness, disability, and injury are a part of human life. Even if you are fortunate enough to have perfect health and live until a ripe old age, you will likely experience disabling conditions as a natural part of aging. What’s more, God is no less good and no less present in the life of a sick, injured, or disabled person if he or she never receives healing.

We also need to be careful about how we frame our discussions of Heaven. Some people in my extended family say things like, “I can’t wait to see what Matthew will be like in Heaven,” or “In Heaven, Matthew will be exactly as he should be.” Statements like these ones hurt, because they suggest that Matthew is some sort of mistake that God will work to rectify in this life and the next. We don’t know what Heaven will be like, nor do we know exactly what our bodies will be like when our souls are reunited with them. We do know that Jesus retained his wounds after his resurrection. We also know from Scripture (John 9:1-3) that disability is not a function of or punishment for sin (though some Christians still think so).

We should stop using disability as the go-to example of worldly suffering that will be rewarded with perfect healing, because doing so creates a narrative that we can somehow achieve or earn perfect health. But what happens when we don’t? We might feel we have failed, that our faith isn’t strong enough, or that God doesn’t love us.

Ableism and Our Own Bodies

The most insidious ableism is often the ableism with which we treat ourselves. Even as an able-bodied person with a disabled family member, I often catch myself being hard on myself when I’m not as productive, physically active, or alert as I think I should be. I catch myself saying, “If only you’d do X workout, take Y supplement, lose Z amount of weight, then you’d feel better and be a better person.”

Negative self-talk is often deeply ableist. When we expect ourselves to prove our worth through high levels of productivity, earn bodily autonomy through diet or exercise, or look like others in order to be accepted, we’re operating with the  assumption that one type of body is best — which suggests that all other bodies, whether yours or someone else’s, are bad. The first and best way we can fight ableism is by changing the narratives in our head around our own bodies. We are called to love our neighbors as ourselves. How can we love our disabled neighbors well and be anti-ableist if we perceive ourselves in an ableist way?

The first and best way we can fight ableism is by changing the narratives in our head around our own bodies.

Much of the work to combat ableism comes down to fully accepting bodies that won’t become the bodies we think of as “normal,” “healthy,” and “beautiful.” One way of doing so is offering a prayer that sounds like, “Lord, help me see that all bodies are good, exactly as they are.”

Self-hatred can run deep, as can grief around ourselves or our loved ones’ being disabled. Accepting all bodies as good can begin with working to think neutrally about our own bodies by not passing judgment on them. It means starting from “I am” or “It is” and moving to “I am good” or “It is good.” It means simply thinking, “This is how it looks and feels to be in this particular body. This is my body.”

I am.

I am.

This is my body.

This is my body.

It is good.

It is good.

Read Part 1 of the Disability and Catholic Feminism Series on FemCatholic HERE

*When I originally wrote this series, FemCatholic was a free publication. As of October 2021, FemCatholic is now behind a paywall. In the spirit of access, I believe it is important for my writing to remain free-to-read. FemCatholic is an incredible space, and I am thrilled every time I have the chance to write for them! If you have the means to do so, I encourage you to subscribe to one of their passes ($5-$10/month.) Their collection of writers, videos, and events are creating much-needed space for Catholic women to come as they are. However, all of my writing for FemCatholic will always be free to read here on TheologyForEveryBody.com

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Disability & Catholic Feminism: Including Disability in Our Vocabulary

As Catholics, we are called to build community with and advocate for the marginalized. There are several populations of people who may come to mind when we think of those who are marginalized: BIPOC communities (Black, Indigenous, and People of Color), women, the poor, the sick, the homeless, LGBT persons, the imprisoned, the immigrant. Catholic social teaching and Scripture outline how we ought to build community with persons from these populations.

This teaching is part of what helps us understand how someone can be both Catholic and feminist: Working toward just treatment for all people necessitates doing so for women. It is important to remember that women’s collective experiences are not homogenous, which motivates our advocacy for intersectional feminism. Our work toward just treatment for all persons ought to reflect this diversity within feminine experiences. Women from every marginalized group not only deserve a seat at the table, but they also should be the leaders we look to in order to fully understand the diverse challenges that women face.

One group of people that we often neglect in discussions of marginalization and inequality are people with disabilities. If we are to achieve truly intersectional feminism, we must include women with disabilities and women who care for people with disabilities. Over the coming months, we will dive into a series that addresses how disability advocacy is both Catholic and feminist. We will begin with vocabulary: common terms and pitfalls.

Words for Disability

Why do I and other disability writers spend so much time clarifying terms? Because words are powerful! They can hurt people or make them feel loved and seen. It is important to use words thoughtfully and intentionally, especially in a society where it is so easy to broadcast and weaponize them.

As with any other topic, there are varying opinions about how we ought to discuss disability. For example, some don’t like the word “disabled” because it suggests a negative orientation toward living and ability (“You are dis-abled.”). They might use the phrase “differently-abled” instead. While this latter phrase is well-intentioned, it can also suggest that we’re all differently-abled and, therefore, that we all experience similar limitations when it comes to our differences — which is simply not true.

Some people prefer to use person-centered language, such as “person with a disability” or “person experiencing disability” rather than “disabled person” in order to emphasize humanity, rather than the characteristics that qualify humanity. A person’s level of need or ability does not constitute their whole identity! Person-centered language also allows for the possibility of these experiences being temporary; after all, a person may not always be homeless, disabled, or sick. That being said, some disabled persons do view their disability as an expression of part of their identity and prefer “disabled person.”

The most important thing is that you are engaging in conversation with the disabled person directly! It is always better to speak toward the person in question, even if a caregiver, accompanier, or family member is present. Doing so shows that you acknowledge the individuality and dignity of the person, even if it does not appear that he or she is verbal or conventionally communicative. Corrections and preferences are much more likely to be given in kind, with no offense taken, if you start from a place of respect.

Several words used to be common when describing people with disabilities but are less so today. Words or phrases such as “handicapped,” “impaired,”  “crippled,” and “special needs” have fallen out of popular use for a variety of reasons. The first three words call to mind physical disabilities and were popularized after the Vietnam War, when there was a surge of physically disabled post-war veterans. While some people still feel comfortable using them, others may consider them to be insulting. “Special needs” often refers to people with cognitive disabilities; some now see this phrase as infantilizing, while others are comfortable using it. For example, when I talk about my own brother, Matthew, who has two genetic disabilities, I sometimes use “special needs” when speaking with people who are unfamiliar with disability, because it can help them understand that his disabilities are not solely physical in nature.

The language we use to discuss disability most often depends on the preferences of the individuals who live with disability. As we can see, there is some room for different, well-intentioned decisions about the vocabulary we use. However, there is one word we should never use, whether or not we’re describing a person with a disability: “retard.” Our refusal or decision to use this word is, frankly, a matter of respecting human dignity.

The word “retard” was used to describe people with intellectual disabilities in the early 1900s. It has since become used colloquially to mean “stupid,” “unfair,” “slow,” “ridiculous,” “upsetting,” and so on. This term is no longer used in medical settings, because we have a fuller understanding of what cognitive disability is; it isn’t just being “slow” (which is what “retard” means in French). Unfortunately, some still use this word as slang. One simple way to be a disability advocate is to lovingly correct friends and family who use this word and remind them that it is offensive, because it equates being disabled with being the terms listed above.

Personally, I use “disabled persons” and “person with a disability” interchangeably. I prefer “persons” over “people” for the same reason the Church often uses “persons” in her documents: It highlights individual, personal dignity over the homogenous notion of “people.”

Disability and The Word

As Catholics, we believe that the most powerful words are the Word of God: Scripture. As such, our engagement with Scripture ought to shape how we perceive and treat members of marginalized communities. In the Gospels, we see Jesus heal people experiencing a variety of disabilities: blindness (Mark 8:22-26), deafness (Mark 7:31-37), hemorrhaging (Matthew 9:20-22), paralysis (Matthew 9:1-7), and more. This inclusion shows us that disability is not just a modern phenomenon, even if it is a modern term.

When we read the stories of Jesus’ healing miracles in Scripture, we should remember the people involved and accurately situate the stories within their historical context. During Jesus’ time, people with disabilities were viewed as “unclean” and were, therefore, shunned by society. Others could not touch or dine with them, and they were not welcome at religious services. Keeping this context in mind, we can see that Jesus’ engagement with persons with disabilities was a radical upheaval of social norms.

Aside from healing their physical ailments, Jesus’ interaction with these persons — especially given His use of physical touch — is, itself, a form of healing. Jesus healed the aching wounds of an excluded person. It is also this relationship and His love that heal them.

Both forms of healing are important and, in fact, parallel the two foremost models of disability as understood in secular disability study: the medical model and the social model. The medical model defines disability as a primarily medical phenomenon. It says that disability is something that can be scientifically understood and, therefore, that solutions to the challenges of disability are medical in nature. The social model understands disability as a primarily social phenomenon. It asserts that the challenges of disability are the limitations in access, political protections, and community, and so the solution is to increase access, protections, and opportunities for genuine connection with others.

In the early 1900s, disability was largely viewed through the medical lens. With the rise of disability advocacy on behalf of physically disabled veterans after the Vietnam War, disability came to be seen through a more social lens. Today, disability scholars largely agree that disability is a combination of both the medical and the social models. It shouldn’t surprise us that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, provided us with a model that integrates both, long before explicit disability advocacy existed.

One of the most important passages in Scripture regarding disability is found in the Gospel of John. Jesus comes upon a man who was born blind. His disciples ask Him, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Christ responds, “Neither he nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him” (John 9:1-3). This passage demonstrates that disability is not a result of sin. Furthermore, it positions disabled persons as conduits of God’s goodness and power.

Not all interpretations of this passage are helpful, however. Some people without disabilities interpret this passage as meaning that the purpose of disability is to make others feel close to God. This interpretation can lead people to think that the reason for the existence of disabled persons is to “be inspiring.” But people do not exist to make us feel a certain way. Disability does not exist simply to teach those who don’t have a disability. We must remember that disabled persons are whole, unique persons with aspirations for their own lives.

Words Online

The notion that disability exists to inspire is described by a term you might see when involved in disability advocacy: “inspiration porn.” The phrase draws a parallel between the way pornography seeks ot make us feel good and how we’re made to feel when watching a video or applying a meaning to a person’s life or actions that we are not participating in. Simply put, the phrase “inspiration porn” highlights how videos and other media can exploit others, even if unintentionally. I personally use the term “inspirationalizing” instead of “inspiration porn,” but I mean the same thing: We don’t know the people in the video. We aren’t those people. We have never been in their particular situation. Using their life or experience for our own purpose offends their dignity, because it reduces them to how they make us feel.

For example: Have you ever seen or even shared a viral video on Facebook of a teen with autism being asked by his classmate to prom? Or of a baby with Down syndrome giggling, accompanied by a caption saying that abortion snuffs out the joy of seeing that smile? While these videos make us feel good and do work against the exclusion of people with disabilities, they can support the idea that the core of a person’s worth is the joy they bring others. We should never base a person’s right to love, life, and acceptance on the way they make us feel. Furthermore, these types of videos and photographs are often used to propagate political messages and can treat a human person as a prop.

Using Words Thoughtfully

I have three suggestions for how we, as Catholic feminists, can begin including persons with disabilities in our advocacy:

  • When sharing a story or video, make sure the featured disabled person consented to its sharing.
  • Work in our own lives to engage with disabled persons and teach our children about disability.
  • Use language that emphasizes human dignity, rather than a political or inspirational message.

God’s examples of healing in Scripture can invite us to understand the lived, real experiences of disabled persons in our own community.

Suggestions for Further Reading

If you want to learn more about language, Scripture, and the history of disability advocacy, I recommend A Healing Homiletic by Kathy Black and Copious Hosting by Jennie Weiss Block.

Read Part 2 of the Disability & Catholic Feminism Series on FemCatholic HERE

*When I originally wrote this series, FemCatholic was a free publication. As of October 2021, FemCatholic is now behind a paywall. In the spirit of access, I believe it is important for my writing to remain free-to-read. FemCatholic is an incredible space, and I am thrilled every time I have the chance to write for them! If you have the means to do so, I encourage you to subscribe to one of their passes ($5-$10/month.) Their collection of writers, videos, and events are creating much-needed space for Catholic women to come as they are. However, all of my writing for FemCatholic will always be free to read here on TheologyForEveryBody.com

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A Letter to Caregivers

This is the first piece I wrote and had published on the internet. It was spring of 2018, I was living in Tulsa, and had entirely lost myself in religious community and the 10 hours of teaching I was doing every day and as such, felt like I had lost my ability to envision myself in the Church. I’m feeling pretty similarly, today.

I found so much solace in the letters being compiled at The Catholic Woman, a then-new online space for women to write letters to women who had had similar life experiences, encouraging them that there is space in the Church for their unique experiences and wisdom.

When considering the spaces I felt were lacking then, in 2018, and what I might contribute to this library of letters, I reflected back on the previous times in which I didn’t feel there was space for me in the Church, that doing so might enlighten where I could discover space amidst my then-present wanderings. I’m doing similarly, today.

I wrote my letter on disability. Specifically, disability caregiving. I had yet to go to graduate school. I hadn’t even decided where I would go! I hadn’t encountered secular Queer and Crip Theories about the body. I hadn’t jumped head-first into Christian disability theology. All I knew was my own experience as a caregiver of a sibling with profound cognitive and physical disabilities, and I was emboldened by the sliver of theology I had learned in undergrad. To be frank, I was at the peak of that pesky Dunning-Kruger bell curve (which I write about here.)

When I was growing up, not-belonging in Church (and in many other social spaces, like in stores and barbecues and friend groups) was almost entirely contingent upon Matthew not belonging. I didn’t feel comfortable at Mass because Matthew would be loud, people would stare, and he would potentially kick the paten out of the priest’s hands at Communion time, scattering Jesus across the floor to a chorus of gasps. When we moved, not belonging at Mass looked like not being able to fit his wheelchair into the old Church and down the aisle. There was no place for him to sit without taking him out of his wheelchair and wrestling him into the pew (which, with his behavioral difficulties, is not realistic.) At that early age of not-belonging, my youngest brother Michael was also young and impatient. At first he was a baby, crying and pooping and screaming and needing my mother’s comfort. At the later stages, he was whiny and insatiable and tantrum-ridden.

My perspective on all of this not-belonging was a place of young shame. Of immense responsibility as my mom’s primary caregiving support. Of anger that my dad was deployed or working or not wanting to come to Mass with us (though, he eventually came around and even ended up converting.) It was also my fledgling notice that disability was not welcomed in the Church, despite being present in so many Gospel messages of Christ healing the blind, deaf, and paralyzed. It was the beginnings of the fire that would be ignited about the hypocrisy of loving those on the margins while scoffing at them when they laughed loudly during the consecration because they found the tinkling of the bells enjoyable. It was the beginning of my questions about welcoming all to the table while not looking Matthew in the eye.

These were my first tastes of not-belonging at Church, and it was these moments that brought me solace in 2018 as I sat to write my letter. It was that not-belonging that I wanted to speak to.

As such, the title of my original Letter to Women was “Making Space for the Disabled.” It was meant as a riff on the lack of physical space made for Matthew and others like him, in so many situations, some of which I spoke to in the letter.

And it worked! I found a space for myself in writing and studying disability and Catholicism, a belonging I continue to lean into today. I went on to study it in graduate school. I pursued volunteer opportunities that would foster relationships with disabled persons. I wrote more about it on the internet. I combatted my not-belonging by writing about not-belonging.

But now, as I look back on the letter, as I attempt to house the sum total of my writing these last 3 years for various publications on this blog in some form or another, with the experience I’ve gained in my study and work and friendships, I can see that in some ways I was conflating the experience of the disabled person with the one giving them care. These experiences are not the same.

However, the experiences of giving care to a disabled family member are some of the most intimate you can get when not disabled yourself. You feel the stares, you recognize the inaccessibility of a space, you field the ignorant questions if your loved one is nonverbal, and you advocate on their behalf if their cognition limits their self-determination. This was, and in some ways still is, my experience.

I also recognize that some may bristle at the idea that I, as a sibling, would in some ways equate myself with other kinds of caregivers, whether they be parents or teachers or nurses or aides. I recognize that the ways my parents have given care supersede some of the ways I was required to give care (but it was a requirement, because of the relationship I had with my parents and siblings, even if others might view it as my choice to serve my family.) But as I learn more about being a sibling to disability, and as more and more siblings share their own stories online, I invite the patient consideration from both outside and internal voices that I did experience a comparable pressure and responsibility to give care that many don’t experience until they are the parents of their own children. That I did experience a comparable responsibility for another individual’s safety, health, nutrition, and happiness that draws me into conversation with similar responsibilities from various walks of life.

My experience of responsibility was then and remains today valid.

For these reasons, if I could go back, I think I’d change the title of my letter to what I’ve named it here: A Letter to Caregivers. Nowadays, I could write a different and better letter on what it would take to make space for disability for disability’s sake, and it would start by passing the mic to a disabled person and going from there. I still think my letter speaks to the heart of making space for disability, for the caregiver’s sake. For that reason I’m still proud to host my letter here. And it continues to prod me to write more here about what it was really like being a sibling to Matthew. (So more on that is coming soon.)

Here’s the opening of the letter, and I invite you to read the rest of it at The Catholic Woman:

“Dear Family,

This ones for the caretakers. For the people who don’t buy white clothing because it’s just going to get dirty. 

My younger brother Matthew was born with Cri du Chat and DiGeorge Syndromes. Combined, these chromosomal mutations look a little like Cerebral Palsy, and a lot like cognitive delay, a compromised immune system, a pacemaker, a lack of consistent toilet use, and a love of crackers, cereal, and a good restaurant. 

I have always been involved with Matthew’s care. I have confronted the stares, the lack of a wheelchair ramp, and the soiled bedsheets alongside my parents and other younger brother Michael.

Lesson: Taking someone in a wheelchair to the movies requires two spaces. A space for the wheelchair, and a seat beside them…” To read the rest of the letter about how I LEARNED this lesson, click here.

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Rethinking St. Joseph

St. Joseph is a saint who follows me around. I’ve belonged to more than one St. Joseph parish, and my eyes always well up a little when I happen across a statue or a prayer. To be honest, I’m not happy about St. Joseph’s lingering presence. I have often thought of him as a shadow I didn’t understand (which is, interestingly, one of the ways Pope Francis charactered St. Joseph in his most recent letter, as a saint “in the shadows.”)

So when Pope Francis announced the upcoming year as the Year of St. Joseph, I had that familiar tingly “he showed up again!” excitement, followed by confusion. What does it mean for a year to be St. Joseph’s? Who is he? Why do I gravitate towards him so much?

I let the first months of the new liturgical year roll by and then like a whisper, while kneeling during the Eucharistic prayer at Mass a few weeks ago, after having my first panic attack in years just before the service began, I felt it in my chest: He’s the dad saint.

I decided that this whisper was enough for me to finally pay some attention to the liturgical year’s designation. I remembered seeing the Consecration to St. Joseph by Donald Calloway being advertised last year and felt like a deep dive and commitment to getting to know St. Joseph was the right move for me to make.

Now, I hate “consecration” language. Not because I don’t think the notion of being consecrated is a beautiful or good thing: it is. But most commonly in the circles young Catholic Madison swam in, “consecrated” has always been paired with “virgin” (and I don’t really like the history and use of that word either.) I hate that so often, discussions of consecration and women’s sexuality revolve around the most interesting thing about a woman being her virginity. It’s the least interesting thing about Mary, it’s the least interesting thing about the single people you know, and it’s the least interesting thing about vowed religious too. Even with St. Joseph, his liturgical designation is “most chaste spouse.” I bet there are a million things more interesting about St. Joseph than his sex life. Consecration is a commitment, and it’s a commitment to more than virginity. It’s a commitment to the vocation you’ve chosen, that God has set on your heart.

So what would it mean to be “consecrated” to St. Joseph? There was (and is) still a little part of me that says, “Is it not better to just talk straight to Christ instead?” I haven’t felt a single nudge towards a Marian consecration, despite its greater popularity. But St. Joseph has followed me around. And after that teary Mass, there’s a not-so-small part of me that yearns to rewrite the feelings that arise when considering the phrase “you’ll have to tell your dad.”

For my non-Catholic friends who still aren’t sure what it means to be consecrated to a saint (or maybe you’re still confused about what the Catholic relationship to Saints is in the first place): Saints are really cool holy dead people who did something awesome on Earth and now hang out in Heaven with Jesus. If you were friends with a famous person who had a lot of money to spend on causes you care about, you would tell them often about that cause to drum up support banking on your mutual respect. If something comes up in your life that you want someone to be your prayer wingman on, you can pray to the Saint who cares about that something and they put in a good word for you with the Big Man Himself.

For example: If you’re a Wiedenfeld-Chastain grandchild who lost their favorite baseball hat, you pray to St. Anthony, the patron Saint of lost things, and you find it two months later in your parents’ vacation Yahtzee bag.

That was maybe one too many family jokes for one blog post, but hopefully you get the picture. You have a need, you pray to the Saint who cares about the subject matter of that need, they advocate for you to God.

Now consecration is a commitment on your end to give special consideration to a Saint that means a lot to you. So in doing a consecration to St. Joseph, I’m committing to praying to St. Joseph regularly, and entrusting to him ALL the things, with the understanding that he is real and present and cares for me.

Having a better understanding of this definition of consecration, I bought the Consecration to St. Joseph book, and was pleased that I hadn’t missed the most common start date: Today (as I write this), February 15th. I will complete the 33 day of prayers and meditation on St. Joseph’s life on his feast day.

But I also plan on spending the next 33 days (and then some: Hallow has dedicated their whole Lent challenge to St. Joseph!) offering up my commitment to a relationship with St. Joseph for the sake of some unusual intentions that have risen in my heart as I’ve begun my preliminary preparation for the consecration. I read Pope Francis’ letter on St. Joseph, “Patris Corde,” and found myself reflecting on who and what St. Joseph seems, to me, to have a soft spot for. And many of these things seem, to me, to not have many other places to call home in the Church.

St. Joseph is the patron of the UNIVERSAL Church. Like I write about in Theology for EveryBody’s “Why” Statement, Catholic might literally mean universal, but what we think of as universal—equal consideration, equal participation, and diverse and fair treatment—are not actually reflected in our church spaces or in our society. To that degree, St. Joseph is the defender of those for whom a universal church home is most desperately needed.

St. Joseph is entrusted the Holy Family, and thereby entrusted with our notions of family writ large. Family looks different than it did back then. And while many Catholics, the author of the St. Joseph consecration book included, like to use language of “war on family” or “family being under attack,” I vehemently disagree that this is what is happening.

Let’s be extremely plain: When Christians, especially Catholics, speak about “losing family values” or “war on family,” they’re talking about gay folx. End of story. I mean, maybe they’re also talking about families with children resulting from sex outside of marriage, but for the Church, these sins are the same.

Perhaps no one has ever laid it out explicitly, but I am happy to do so: The core reason homosexuality is a sin in the eyes of the Church stems from the Church’s beliefs about the components of sexual intimacy. For a Catholic, sex must be both 1.) unitive and 2.) procreative. Gay sex can’t naturally be both. That’s it. That’s the problem.

Well, the problem Catholics and Christians generally make of it is that “gay culture” promotes behaviors that lead to non-procreative sexual intimacy. Dating someone of the same sex, expressing any sort of physical affection, having children, etc. The slippery slope actually slides back even further; anyone who behaves “conventionally queer” is considered to be “flaunting a sinful lifestyle.” But that has more to do with conventional notions of gender norms #HarryStylesInADress. For the sake of this article, let’s keep with the sex problems.

What this all ultimately means is that LGBTQ+ people who identify as Catholic but pursue romantic relationships and families have an extremely difficult time being welcomed into the Church. Even though the sins they have technically committed are no greater than a straight couple that has non-procreative sex or who pursues assisted reproductive technologies, because of the stigma against LGBTQ+ folx, their sins are cast back in their faces as far more egregious.

What might our Church look like if the pews were filled with queer folx? With families whose parents were the same sex? Would we be uncomfortable?

As I was reading about St. Joseph, these are the families that came to my mind. These are the families truly under attack. And if I could invite you to think imaginatively with me, not only do I think there is precedent to entrust St. Joseph with these families, but I also don’t think working for this vision of the Church “encourages lewd behavior.” Jesus came to dine with sinners. All of them. The straight ones and the gay ones, amen hallelujah.

This is certainly not the only unusual community, family, or issue I think we might entrust to St. Joseph. St. Joseph’s own life, the precious little we know of it in Scripture, shows a man largely abiding by societal norms, but willing to quietly bend them for the sake of Mary’s well-being. It is through the message of an angel that St. Joseph fully breaks with the societal tradition and welcomes a woman pregnant with a child that is not his into his home as his wife. (Matthew 1:19-25)

St. Joseph is an example of what it looks like to believe what a woman says about her body and her sex life, without shaming her.

St. Joseph is an example of what it looks like to father a child who is not biologically yours (whether via adoption, fostering, or as a stepfather.)

St. Joseph is an example of a spouse whose wife and child are more famous than he is! And he doesn’t seem particularly threatened…

St. Joseph is an example of someone who works quietly, tirelessly, perhaps without adequate recognition, to support an unusual family dynamic. He is someone who perhaps dreamt of a family situation different from the one he was given.

St. Joseph is patron of workers. Of craftsmen, artists, those skilled in some sort of trade. You know, the work that kept us hopeful during this pandemic. Patron of the #RatatouilleMusical, if I may.

St. Joseph is called the “Terror of Demons.” Might I invite us to consider our actual demons? The public shame and oppression of women and their sexuality. Physical, sexual, emotional, and spiritual violence against women. Our refusal to accept unconventional families, like those named before, or those who look, vote, or pray differently than we do. Those children who are excluded or rejected from their families, especially those who are LGBTQ+. The rejection of arts and craftsmanship produced by skilled small business owners in favor of soulless, mass-produced items that only make the rich richer and the planet deader.

Might these be the demons St. Joseph cares for? To be certain, they are things Christ cares about, for He is ultimate and perfect love. It is reasonable to believe Christ learned what it meant to be a protector from His father, and so it is reasonable to think that same father might teach us a thing or two as well.

In the Consecration to St. Joseph book, St. Joseph is described as “alert to God’s wonders.” At the very least, I am looking forward to spending these next 33 days praying for greater wonder and awe. I will be praying for an increase of willing tenderness that I might show my partner and my family. I will be offering up my current crossroads of professional discernment, that the patron saint of workers might place my work at the foot of Christ for Him to kick down the road He wants me to set out on. And I will be praying for all unusual families. For families who don’t see themselves reflected in our pews. Who are what our favorite Instagram counselors might identify as dysfunctional. For couples and parents and children.

There’s a part of me that thinks, if I’m misinterpreting what St. Joseph might mean for me and for the church, that he’ll just stop showing up. But that’s not what a loving father does. And so I’m 1 day down and 32 to go, already blessed by the consistency of a commitment between father and daughter.

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Oh Good, Another Person is Engaged

I’ve reached that age: Every day a new person on my Facebook feed is pregnant or engaged. It can seem, in the rat race of social media, that we are falling ever-more behind our peers. I am keenly aware of how I have now crossed the threshold into participating in this phenomenon: I am recently engaged.

The proposal was, simply put, awesome. Guy put thought into so many details. He said such nice things when he asked. We found $11 on the ground. What more could you want?

People have come out of the woodwork to celebrate with and congratulate us. Sharing the news with loved ones was one of the best parts of our engagement weekend. We have no shortage of support from friends, and I have already received countless offers for wedding-planning assistance. (No. We don’t have a date. We’re in a pandemic. We’re going to ride the waves and see what happens!)

I am also keenly aware that any and all announcements of major relationship news can be eye-roll-worthy, to everyone but especially to women. (I have a post on feminine milestones and why our culture would be better with an expanded idea of family, friends, and vocation coming soon!) I am genuinely sorry if I announced my engagement and you felt a pang of resentment, jealousy, FOMO, etc. What a shitty world we live in when we reach this age and can already hear the holiday conversations with extended family about why we haven’t found a nice boy to marry yet.

If you’re Christian, one response reverberates from all corners of the internet: Pray, and enjoy your time of singleness.

During this New Year’s time, after the holiday marathon of diamond rings and newborn babies flooding your feeds, combined with the resolutions and “wellness goals” many are making in January, it is not uncommon for people, especially in Christian circles, to adopt spiritual commitments that are designed to soothe these pangs of “I’m behind.” I’m also conscious that Lent is right around the corner, during which Catholics will give up certain things as a 40-day offering in reminiscence of Christ’s 40 days in the desert and in preparation for His crucifixion and Resurrection. I anticipate that many women in my faith community may be on the brink of making certain spiritual commitments in order to feel better about wherever they sit in regards to love (and today, I’m going to try and talk you out of the most common ones, just a little bit…)

I learned about the 54-Day Novena from the same Catholic woman’s talk you probably learned about it from. 27 days of asking, something absolutely incredible and unexpected happens (or not) on day 27, and then 27 days of “thank you”s, no matter what God wrought. I don’t doubt that this novena has worked miracles in the lives of many people. I am confident it has also been a wishing well for even more.

I prayed my first 54-Day Novena during my sophomore year of college. After a tumultuous summer of what was, at the time, my brother Matthew’s biggest surgery, coupled with the will we/ won’t we of a new and troublesome boy from my home town, I returned to campus exhausted and ready to just MEET MY HUSBAND ALREADY. This “getting to know a person” and “seeing if they’re the right fit,” was too soul-crushing when the answer was “no they are not at all the right fit.” One YouTube rabbit hole of Catholic women’s talks later, and I was signing myself up for 54 daily rosaries.

In this novena, we are invited to imagine each prayer as a rose being offered to Mary, in exchange for her intercession on behalf of whatever we’re wanting. Rose after rose I offered Mary, asking that I meet my husband-to-be in college, and soon. When the first 54 roses I offered Mary didn’t bear fruit, I offered a second set of 54 later that year.

Meanwhile, I was starting a second on-campus job, leaning into the incredible friendships I formed freshman year, and beginning what would become a two year journey of making my first real, tangible goal possible: Leading a group of my peers on pilgrimage to Poland for World Youth Day 2016. I had all of these magnificent things unfolding in my life. Yet, night after night, I sat in front of my laptop, using my homework break to pray for my future husband. Looking back on it, doesn’t that seem… a little odd?

Around that same time I first heard the phrase “dating fast.” Not fast as in “quick,” fast as in “giving up” or “abstaining.” This practice of setting aside a certain amount of time where one does not date has become increasingly popular as post-graduate volunteer organizations like FOCUS, NET, and more increasingly require abstaining from romantic relationships in order to focus on one’s temporary ministry. Outside of organizations like these, many young Catholic singles adopt a temporary dating fast in order to focus on one’s present season: singleness.

Spoiler alert: I have never once heard a person say that a dating fast lessened their thoughts about dating and romance. I have heard from many people that they kept running into amazing, attractive, funny, faithful, smart potential partners during their fast. That it was torture wrestling with the feelings and not being able to do anything about them. Sometimes the other person was also committed to a dating fast, which made the workplace rife with tension. I have heard from many people that it felt like a deep offering to the Lord to show their commitment to a promise they made to Him, but I have never heard a person say a dating fast made them less interested in dating. It should be a clear sign that most people I have known who have tried dating fasts could not stop talking about the fact that they were on a dating fast. For all these reasons, I myself never tried one. It sounded miserable, and it didn’t seem to actually work.

What’s more, the belief that a romantic relationship impacts your ability to do your job well suggests to me some… concerning things about relationship norms in these programs and our Church, and the role these organizations believe they have to play in guiding young people through the process of dating and discernment. It’s certainly true that, for most people, maturity brings greater ability to balance work and relationships. But there is also something to be said about how experiences in dating help you mature.

When I was a post-grad volunteer, a dating fast was not required, though they did “encourage us” to end our romantic relationships and not pursue new ones for the duration of our volunteer year(s). This was intended to increase our reliance on intentional community and strengthen our focus on our ministries. Guy and I navigated whether or not we were going to pursue long-distance as I began my volunteer year, him in Canada and me in Oklahoma. In the beginning, my accompaniers never missed an opportunity to offer our relationship as the reasons for the hardships I endured. “You’re struggling to feel connected and happy in community. Might it be that you’re spending too much time talking to Guy?” Um. No. It’s that one of my community members just lost her husband to a heart attack and I am accompanying her in grief, and another community member tells me every night at dinner that my brother should be institutionalized so he stops burdening my family, but I can’t punch him in the teeth because he’s an old Christian Brother.

Eventually my accompaniers got on board with the truth of the matter: Guy was my one constant source of support. This is one of the dearest things we are robbing young people of when we require them to fast from dating while they embark on Church ministry: The opportunity for real, true support during what will inevitably be deeply challenging and demanding.

If these programs aren’t interested in accompanying young people as they navigate romantic relationship, then that’s a problem. Shouldn’t they be? Shouldn’t young people feel comfortable approaching Church leaders with all of their challenges? Might this expectation of “just fast and pray for relief from these pangs of attraction” echo the stark lack of resources the Church provides vowed religious, the LGBTQ+ community, and more when it comes to feelings of attraction? Might we be setting all sorts of Catholic people up for failure by not modeling healthy communication about relationship struggles, and by not holding religious leadership accountable to this accompaniment? It is damn near impossible to make a person stop thinking about romantic relationship simply by suggesting they focus on something that in all senses continue to imply it.

As with many things, “singlehood” is a concept that is necessarily defined by the shadow presence of its opposite: romantic relationship.

“Singleness” does not make much sense outside of the context of that opposite. Up until we learn about the idea or the term, we have probably been living in adolescent singleness without much thought to it as an identity. It only becomes visible–and disappointing–when we name it! Only then does it occur to us that we’re living in a time of lacking what singleness is not: Partnership.

Recently, online communities have made a concerted effort to distance the newest generations of Catholics from the emphasis on marriage as the pinnacle of a woman’s vocation. The increased opportunities for women’s involvement in Church organizations, publications, ministries, and other efforts has certainly contributed greatly. And yet, the increased presence of Catholic women, online and in-person, conveying messages to young people implicitly through the filters of how their particular life has gone seems to double down on these untruths: “Marriage is the biggest thing you have to look forward to in life. Then it’s children. Then it’s Heaven.” Who we elevate and what their lives look like inform what we think our goals should be!

Part of the problem stems from desires to universalize personal experiences that do not have their roots in Scripture. When a Catholic woman with clout begins public speaking on how “singleness can be joyful!” young people who have only just begun to consider their interest in romantic partnerships and would have never thought otherwise begin to assume that, without work, singleness will be the opposite. I bet far fewer women would be miserably single if we stopped implicitly telling them every moment of their lives from age 14 onward that singlehood is miserable. The only reason I returned from that difficult summer my sophomore year of college with the thought “meeting my husband will fix my problems” is because all the women I had to look to in my Church were telling stories wherein, implicitly, marriage seemed to fix all of their problems.

This emphasis on normative, temporary singlehood additionally excludes our LGBTQ+ brothers, sisters, and others, for whom a life of singlehood may be an important commitment. Our Queer Catholic family members will receive additionally painful mixed signals if they ever do commit themselves to a forever partnership, as they’re likely to be met with comments about the inappropriateness of their feelings or relationship. We should use this tension to motivate us towards both greater community with and amplification of Queer voices. If we, straight cis Catholics, have established the normative summit of vocation and preach to all young people about not-focusing-on-that-normative-summit while ourselves standing blissfully on the summit shouting down, we are not only neglecting but actively oppressing those who we already know we will never give tools to climb it themselves.

In my humble opinion, the 54-Day, I-Want-My-Spouse-Now Novena and the dating fast are just two ways contemporary Catholic culture continues its stronghold on creative, beautiful, talented, smart, giving, athletic, involved, faithful people’s time. Think of what you could accomplish towards your goals if you spent 30 minutes for 54 consecutive days working on them! Think of what you could learn about yourself and your preferences if you allowed yourself to date when dating felt right!

To be sure, the novena was not intended to become The Future Husband ritual. The baseline purpose of the novena is to commit yourself to praying for a 1). Big intention 2). That could have a clear outcome. If you’re using it as a genuine discernment tool, with defined options, whether about a relationship or not: Righty-o! Keep doing your thing. If you’re using it to offer up a deeply concerning intention–like for someone’s health or for a global circumstance–obviously that is very different. I am writing, today, out of concern for the way this set of prayers has been appropriated into a tool for demanding the acceleration of one’s unique vocational path. Giving somebody a bouquet of roses solely because you expect them to do something massive for you in return is not trust, it’s manipulation.

The dating fast is ultimately similar. If you find yourself in a constant cycle of relationships, without giving yourself any space at all to be single, taking a designated time to not date very well may be an opportunity to re-center. And like my Mom always said during Lent when I asked if granola bars with chocolate chips counted as a “sweet” to be given up: There are no fasting police. I certainly am not one of them! If you feel called to fast, either for a certain cause or for your own renewed relationship with the Lord, you go girl. You do that thing. However, fasting for a certain amount of time and expecting that 1). No persons of interest will cross your path and 2). God will bring your soulmate into your life the moment your fast concludes is not actually a sacrifice of goodwill, it’s manipulation.

We are demanding God act without acting ourselves. This is one reason I was so grateful for Kelsey’s takeover of Live Today Well Co. a few months back. In it, she emphasized the importance of going on dates if your goal is to date. We get so wrapped up in sitting in discernment, waiting for God to plop that handsome man right down in front of us while we’re looking *very interesting* at the grocery store, that we forget that the Holy Spirit moves, and so can we.

Often times, we talk about discernment of dating and marriage like we’re handing our relationships over to the Lord, when really we’re just ringing God’s doorbell because we feel He’s forgotten us. If we truly trust God’s timing and intention for our vocation, we don’t need to remind Him that we ordered a handsome, Catholic boyfriend a couple years ago that has still yet to arrive.

We make plans and God laughs. We demand an itinerary for 54 days straight, how do we think God is going to respond?

This doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t examine our habits, our health, our traumas, or our goals. Do you want to have the chance to live on your own? Do you want to have a certain amount of money saved? Is there solo travel you want to do? Who would you like to be before you are married?

But we must, must remember that these are not boxes to check before God blesses us. If we are going to slam the coffin lid on the problematic Prosperity Gospel, we have to stop viewing our future spouse as a reward for our good behavior. Especially because that line of thinking neglects to identify that we will still be imperfect and exhibit “bad” behavior when we are married. The patterns and habits you are working on now may very well be things you continue to work on with your spouse. They do not make you less worthy of love, and working on things with a partner doesn’t mean you’ve failed as an “independent woman” either.

These timelines are all BS, so don’t submit yourself to them as a New Year’s Resolution or a Lenten observation. If you’re feeling poorly because every single one of the people you were hoping to flex on at your 10 year high school reunion has more dogs, more money, or more babies than you, please know that it’s all arbitrary.

If you want an idea for a New Year’s Resolution or a Lenten observation that doesn’t implicitly uphold oppressive and sexist timelines and milestones, know that there are a million and one ways to invite the Lord into your present season that aren’t secretly transactional, and that invest in yourself in ways that aren’t self-absorbed. Would a post with a brainstormed list be helpful? Let me know in the comments, and if you have any practices you’ve found helpful and that meet those criteria DM me or comment them too! Let’s crowd-source our way to more authentic relationship with the Lord and more authentic singlehood (maybe even banishing that word from the lexicon all-together.)

Also you may be wondering: Now that I’m engaged, what was my future husband doing while I was praying my 54-Day Novena for him? He was making out with my college roommate.

Yes, my fiancé dated my roommate for a couple of years before he and I started dating. And while I sat in our dorm room eating Captain Crunch without milk, miscounting Hail Mary’s, he was definitely NOT thinking about me…

And that’s completely and utterly normal. We won’t always marry people who have been single before we came along. We won’t always marry people who fasted before dating us. We might marry people who were married before marrying us! We won’t always marry virgins! Maybe you’re not a virgin! We won’t always marry people who prayed for us, and the person we marry may not always believe in prayer.

We won’t always marry people who were anxiously anticipating us as much as we were anxiously anticipating them! And if it feels weird to talk to your partner about how much you anxiously anticipated them, let that be a sign unto you that these practices of constantly orienting ourselves towards a futurity that is not guaranteed is actually kind of weird, and far, far less fun than just living your life.

When it came time for Guy and I to actually fall in love, two and a half years after Day 54 of Novena round 2, the things that fed the flame were our independent experiences and projects. He was working on his senior project and I wanted to know more about the physics of photons and how sometimes light doesn’t go where it’s supposed to. I was working on my senior project and he wanted to know about the Gothic elements of Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events.

I would love to hear what projects are filling you up right now. I would love to hear what life-changing experiences you’ve recently undergone. I would love to know what you’re looking forward to. I would love to swap SMART goals. Those are the building blocks of a vocation. Roses dripping in love potion? Far. Less. Sturdy.

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Categories
health

Wheelchairs and Chandeliers

During my year of service as a Lasallian Volunteer in Oklahoma, over dinners of salad, rolls, and some sort of meat mixed with some sort of cheese, one elderly Christian Brother I lived in community with would ask about my family. He had asked many times before, but his memory was going. I told him about my parents, my military father and my stay-at-home mother. I told him about my younger brothers, about Matthew’s special needs. He listened, wide-eyed, responding with the occasional guffaw as I recounted Matthew’s tendencies, likes, and dislikes. And then he concluded his questioning with the statement he always concluded with: “He sounds like a burden. I’m amazed your parents didn’t institutionalize him. Your poor mother.”

He sounds like a burden, he sounds like a burden, he sounds like a burden. My eyes would well up. My throat would close. Sometimes I tried to explain, gently, that the world treats disabled persons differently now. Institutions are not as popular. There are more resources for family. Other times I tried to explain that his statements were uncalled for; “He’s not a burden, Brother. He’s amazing. He has the most fantastic sense of humor. He lights up my life.” Even if these strategies worked and I was able to teach this Brother something, by the next dinner that spot of short-term memory was gone, and a rehashing was inevitable. Eventually I just stopped talking at dinner.

I am still healing from those dinners. My family not being welcomed at a dinner table they weren’t even at left me feeling like the fullness of my person wasn’t welcome in community. But I think about that word often: burden. Not only because it offends me, but because the truth is, I use it all the time. About myself.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever gotten sick or injured and felt like a burden? If you’ve ever apologized for being in need of someone’s assistance? If you’ve ever felt more upset by the inconvenience of being sick than the actual symptoms of the sickness itself? If you’ve ever felt ashamed of your depression, anxiety, or grief because it makes you feel helpless and reliant upon others?

It’s hard when our culture of “being on a health journey” is supremely individualistic. We don’t think of it that way, because it’s marketed to us as being better for the planet (turning the attention outside ourselves) and better for our children (turning the attention outside ourselves.) But this wellness culture is not communal! It is built on the idea of personal habits, personal research, and personal improvement. “Self” care, rather than community care. It’s no wonder that feeling sick or being injured feel like failures! We are told at every turn that there’s a ritual for that. We simply neglected to manifest it.

Then we do ask for help and we immediately feel worse. “Because she had so many other things to do today.” “Because he had to take time off work.” “Because I had to take time off work and inconvenience my team.” “Because I missed an important test.” “Because he’s already been so stressed, and now this.”

I think back to high school sick days. At first, the thought of lying burrito’d on the couch while eating spaghetti o’s and watching endless hours of daytime television gave me a feeling of immense relief. But soon after, the relaxation wore off, and I began to panic about everything I’d missed at school that day. I also felt guilty for how much additional work my mom had to do in order to tend to me, all the while still caring for my younger brothers, one of whom needed regular one-on-one attention due to his disabilities.

Other times, taking sick days was a reprieve for my mother, who enlisted me in helping her with the day’s tasks and care needs for my siblings. Me being home meant another set of eyes and hands, even if I was injured or unwell. On these days I felt far less guilty and burdensome, but I also wasn’t actually able to rest.

I would argue we are all vacillating between one side and the other when we experience feelings of burden. We are embarrassed by our own mental, emotional, and physical impediments because they leave us less capable of doing the things that have come to be expected of us from school, work, friends, and family. We get tired of relying on other people. Our inner voices reprimand us for being so needy. We begin to panic about what resting means for our independence and success. We jump into compensating for our rest. We push ourselves to do more, more, more.

It’s our social system of constant productivity, and uneven distribution and recognition of labor, that make us feel like burdens when we are simply being human.

Your partner had a million other things to do today and now they’re caring for you. What makes tending to a loved one equally or comparably burdensome to the other things in one’s life? Is it the pressure placed on them by these other things? A parent who’s overwhelmed by child care now has one additional child to tend to who would otherwise be in school. Might it be that the onus of this burden actually falls on our lack of communal supports for parents? You miss work or school and are now irreparably behind. Might it be that our systems of education and work require so much of us, all crammed into a single day, that we feel the immense pressure not to miss even one? Your unclaimed sick days and vacation time are calling to you, reader. They’re yours for the taking!

We can turn this conversation from the negative and accusatory into the positive and imaginative in a way The Nap Ministry has been pioneering: What might rest, recovery, and health look like if we had robust systems of support in place? Less to do in a day? How would you relax if you knew you didn’t have anything else to do? What would you permit yourself to do? How would it change your relationships? Your relationship to your body?

Thinking imaginatively about how the world might look and how we might feel if we prioritized interdependent care and rest is central to working against ableism.

If you’ve read up until this point positively identifying with our cultural standards that demonize the occasional, human experience of illness and injury, I invite you to consider what this means for persons who identify as disabled and/or chronically ill. Earlier I said, “We are embarrassed by our own mental, emotional, and physical impediments because they leave us less capable of doing the things that have come to be expected of us from school, work, friends, and family.” What about the people who…always feel that way? You injure a limb and experience the inconvenience and shame of limited mobility until you heal and are back to work, double time. What about a person who will never experience normative mobility? You experience a moment of panic while out on a date and then immediately feel guilty for the way your emotions impacted your partner’s experience. What about persons who do not have the ability to emotionally regulate, ever? Should they be embarrassed? Are we embarrassed of them?

This is a tricky line to walk. For some caregivers, caring for a person with a disability or chronic illness does feel like an immense burden. Caregiving requires additional resources of money, physical assistance, emotional care, and time. Sometimes disabled persons do things that do embarrass their caregivers without intending it. These feelings might be exacerbated by crushed expectations of an able-bodied child or life-long partner.

Individuals experiencing disability may themselves identify their life experience as extremely burdensome, to them and to their loved ones. Especially a person who, for a portion of their life, experienced what we would consider normative health. Accidents and the onset of illnesses and diseases all contribute to feelings of burden.

How do we resolve this tension? Say it with me: “A situation can feel burdensome. People are not burdens.“

We consider injuries and illnesses burdens to our selves and our to-dos. We consider our injured and ill selves to be burdens to others. It’s a conflation: “This illness is burdensome so I am burdensome.”

This is dangerous for people with disabilities. While you work your way out of feeling burdensome by proving to yourself and others that you can not-be-that-way by doing what is expected, people with disabilities face this slippage within their own minds like we do and from others who project this idea of burden onto them (like the Christian Brother I used to live with) because of the expectation that they cannot do what would prove otherwise.

What’s worse, when it’s status quo to work despite being unwell, but we speak with tones of amazement when we see a disabled person working despite their disability, we are betraying our preconcieved assumptions about who we thought could work. When we celebrate a disabled person getting a job because it shows they are more capable than we thought they were, we are showing exactly what we value (and it’s not humanity, it’s work.)

In returning to our imagination before: How might these feelings and experiences be ameliorated by greater resources? Greater support? Less pressure to be productive? Fewer things pulling us in fewer directions? How might a family receiving news of a child’s diagnosis feel some alleviation of their disappointment if met by robust commitments from medical professionals, family members, community partners, religious organizations, and friends to the shared responsibility of supporting the child’s wellbeing? What would our world look like if all challenges were met with these responses of togetherness?

One thing’s for sure, we would rightfully blame society for lacking sufficient resources, not the individual for lacking sufficient self-reliance. Alleviating burden means establishing and amending systems around the realities of bodily-ness, rather than contorting our bodies to fit the systems.

With this in mind, I invite us to consider why people are upset by the latest news about singer-songwriter Sia, and her new movie portraying a protagonist with autism.

For the lead role, Sia cast Maddie Ziegler, her everything-starlet, rather than an actress who actually has autism. When prodded by Twitter users and activists asking why she didn’t cast someone with the experience to portray someone with the experience, her responses can be summarized as, “It would have been burdensome for the actress to perform the requisite tasks, and it would have been burdensome for the rest of the cast and crew to adjust to the increased needs of an autistic lead actress.”

Note: the word Sia actually used was “compassionate.” Apparently, she had worked with an autistic actress before hiring Ms. Ziegler, but due to the stress this autistic woman experienced, Sia found it most “compassionate” to cast someone else. What if Sia thought she was being compassionate when really, this woman was heartbroken?

It is right for alarms to immediately blare in our minds when we see “compassionate” and “disability” in the same sentence. Especially if the compassionate action is a removal of opportunity or rights from a disabled person. Throughout history, the mistreatment, institutionalization, and even death of disabled persons has been oft-labeled the “compassionate” decision. Sometimes the words used are “merciful,” or “dignified.”

Real mercy, dignity, and compassion will never strip away the rights and humanity of any person.

The Church stresses the centrality of intrinsic human dignity to all things. This human dignity is rooted in the image and likeness of the God who created us, a God who we are told is merciful and compassionate. Any action labeled “compassionate” or “merciful” that does not pursue or protect the sustenance and fruitfulness of life, the foundation of God’s own Creation of us, is a contradiction. [CCC 1700] And remember, life can be fruitful in ways other than birth too! Your labor, your art, your service, and your prayer are also fruit that demands the fullness of this same protection.

We also need to be aware of how individual words can virtue signal. Compassion, mercy, and dignity make us think of Scripture. For me, they evoke (and invoke!) the God of Mary’s and Zechariah’s canticles:

“He has mercy on those who fear Him, in every generation. He has shown the strength of His arm. He has scattered the crowd with His conceit. He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly.” [Luke 1:46-55]

“He promised to show mercy to our fathers, and to remember His holy covenant…In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” [Luke 1:67-79]

I have memorized these canticles. During my year in Oklahoma, we prayed them at morning and evening community prayer. Every day, immediately after sitting through a meal where I defended my Matthew against accusations of burden, I sat beside the same Christian Brother in our green-carpeted home chapel, reciting these words over and over.

Community that year was overshadowed by disaster: A tornado that narrowly missed our home, the unexpected death of a dear friend to community, a life-altering illness. The months were a parade of injury, sickness, grief, and pride. The words we prayed twice daily never seemed to come to fruition.

This is how I know for certain: Just because you say a word doesn’t make it manifest. Saying “compassionate” doesn’t make you compassionate. Especially not when, in your very next breath, you tell an autistic woman sharing her experience, “maybe you’re just a bad actor,” instead of having true “compassion” and considering the bias that might be operating against her…

Now, we have no way of knowing the fullness of the Sia story. When we don’t ground statements (and movies) about disability in the lived experience of actually-disabled people, they will always be speculative and open to the influence of bias. We can operate under a lens of true compassion and assume that, with Sia’s commitment to featuring disabled, queer, and trans performers and characters as it is, her intentions were probably good. However, we are also right to operate from a lens of suspicion, and be bothered by the continuation of a narrative that working with a disabled person is burdensome. Sia is maintaining harmful expectations of labor, asking the autistic body to conform to the system of Hollywood, rather than demanding Hollywood conform to the reality of an autistic body.

“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart…” [Matthew 11:28-29]

The annotations in my New American Bible, Revised Edition expound upon this Biblical discussion of burden in its societal context: The burden to which Christ was referring was the burden of the Law. When we see “The Law” in Scripture, we should assume the referent is the Law of the Hebrews, which we know from the Old Testament was a vast and encompassing code of conduct that formed the entirety of Hebrew society. We can interpret this passage, accurately, as Christ speaking to people for whom the demands of society’s present structure and expectations are exceedingly heavy.

Christ Himself calls us to take up His mission of breaking down barriers between those burdened by society’s expectations to create a New Kingdom, one where all people, especially those outcast because of illness, are welcomed.

We start by recognizing intrinsic human dignity. We distinguish between the onset challenge and the person experiencing it. We think imaginatively about what a world might look like with greater supports. Then, we build those communities. We ask for help. We humble ourselves, remembering that humility and self-deprecation are not the same. We commit to being present to those who need assistance. We permit ourselves to be imposed upon (which is one definition of the word “meek”) and do so with gladness. This is how we lighten the load.

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