Genius of the Call

As a Catholic mom, I love the story of Mary and Martha. One of the things I most enjoy about this story is imagining all the details. I think many of us forget that the disciples would have also been witnesses to this event, so Martha was not only preparing a meal for Jesus and her sister, but for the disciples and probably Lazarus as well.

I picture Martha hurriedly trying to get everything ready (and doing it up as fancy as she could). She was serving the Lord after all, and all the while glancing at Mary, trying to get her attention to convey the message that she could use some help! I can imagine that for a while she uses that passive aggressiveness that I am all too familiar with myself . . . maybe she starts banging pots and pans to get Mary’s attention. I do not know about you, but few things make me more frustrated than when I am trying to get someone to take notice, and they do not pay attention. No wonder poor Martha blew up. I am sure many of us mothers can relate to the feeling of the anxiety that Martha was feeling in that moment. 

At first glance, we might elevate Mary as the good guy and Martha as the one who did something wrong. If we reflect on both sisters, we see that there is not only good to be gleaned from Mary’s part of the story. Of course, Martha’s side of the story reminds us that we must slow down. But there is more here to be learned from Martha.  

Martha spoke with frankness to our Lord. She did not try to beat around the bush or water down what she wanted to say; she just said exactly what she was feeling to him, and he answered with the same type of bluntness. There is a lesson here to be learned about prayer, and that we can come to our Lord with extreme honesty, and he takes us as we are. He may correct us, but most importantly, he receives and loves us. Martha does this again at the tomb of Lazarus when Jesus asks her if she believes who he is. Martha may take some heat in the mom-world for her busyness, but we all have so much to learn from her bold faith and closeness with Jesus.

Last week, in celebration of the feast of St. Ignatius, I reflected upon the circumstances of Ignatius’s conversion and how God worked—through the reading of particular books—to reshape Ignatius’s desires. This week, let’s take a look at some of the fruits of this dramatic conversion and see how God continually called Ignatius to greater holiness through his own imagination.

It has been four hundred ninety-nine years since a cannonball shattered Ignatius’s leg and forced him to convalesce, bed-ridden, in a Christian home. God fulfilled his desires to become a man of renown but in ways his secular ambitions could never have imagined nor attained. His name is now proclaimed at the altar of churches in the litany of saints, not engraved upon monuments of war. His Spiritual Exercises and the subsequent formation of the Society of Jesus, or Jesuits, are, I’d wager, among the greatest contributions to the Church’s mission of evangelization and education in the last five hundred years. They’ve inspired thousands of Jesuit missionary priests to spread the Gospel in places and among peoples where the name of Jesus had never before been proclaimed, often at the cost of life or limb. Even more Jesuits have offered their lives as teachers in service of countless students, providing education to both the poorest among us as well as powerful elites.

What is it about the Exercises that have had such a profound impact on priests and laity alike? It is that they provide a means of encountering Jesus in such a real, powerful, and personal way that it truly changes lives. As a prelude to one of the exercises—and I might argue that it could be a prelude for the Exercises as a whole—Ignatius instructs, “Here I ask for an intimate knowledge of our Lord, who has become man for me, that I may love him and know him better.”

It is within the imagination that such knowledge is both sought and gained. More than any other facet, the Spiritual Exercises exercise the imagination. The imagination becomes holy ground. It, like all other aspects of ourselves—our intellect, our emotions, our work, our  sexuality, our motherhood—can be sanctified to become places of divine encounter. Ignatius instructs us over and over “to see in imagination.” And then to hear, to smell, to taste, to touch the things and scenes recounted in the Gospels. In filling in the details of Scripture with one’s own imagination, it creates a way to interact with Jesus and Mary and the disciples that reading of the Scriptures alone doesn’t typically foster. While this type of imaginative contemplation is certainly not unique or original to Ignatius, I like to think he did perfect it.

Ignatius’s imaginary world then, if you will, ranges from the screams of hell to the quiet bosom of Our Lady at the nativity. It is the smell at the tomb of Lazarus and the touch of mud at the healing of the blind man. It is the feel of the breeze from the river Jordan at the baptism of Our Lord, and it is the taste of fish and bread at the multiplication of the loaves. It is the shouts and bustle of the crowd at Jesus’s sentencing and that eerie lack of light at the moment of his death. It is the hot dusty road to Emmaus and the smell of refreshment when the table is set for supper. But most of all, it is the face and voice and touch of Jesus. It is his gaze of love. And that encounter changes people.

As a final note, I’ll mention that while any good Jesuit would not recommend undertaking the Exercises without a spiritual director as guide, the practice of imaginative contemplation is accessible to anyone at any time. This Jesuit website provides a helpful start: https://pray-as-you-go.org/article/imaginative-contemplation-exercises.

St. Ignatius, pray for us and make holy the landscape of our imagination and those of our children.

The Saint of the Imagination: Ignatius of Loyola – Part One

One source of light among all the shadows brought about by social distancing and limited activities during these strange COVID times has been a flourishing of my children’s imaginative play. My girls, ages six and three, spend much of their summer days happily engaged as animal caretakers of their little zoo of stuffed animals and farmyard figurines. Usually, I regard their play with a note of gratitude that the pandemic has coincided with a stage in their development wherein their imaginary worlds are infinitely more engaging than the actual world around them. (Engagement with the things of this world appears to be the work of my toddler, who just discovered the fascinating salt shaker. Yesterday, it was tea bags.) Through the imagination of my six-year-old and her ever-compliant younger sister, our living room has of late been transformed into elegant ballrooms fit for exotic princesses, frontier homesteads when winter is approaching and supplies are running short, the African Sahara where injured cheetahs need rescuing, Civil War battlefields in need of nurses to attend to wounded soldiers, and magnificent concert halls with accomplished pianists and prima ballerinas.

Yet on this day, the feast day of St. Ignatius of Loyola, I am reminded that the gift of imagination is more than merely child’s play; more than a convenient way to reduce the inevitable “I’m bored” whining; more, too, than a useful intellectual development that will lead to creative, innovative solutions to future adult problems. Rather, as St. Ignatius has taught me, the gift of imagination is an integral component to our life of faith and prayer. Like consciences, imaginations, too, require attention, formation, and sanctification.

Homes as Institutes of Imagination Formation

Ignatius admits that, until age twenty-six, he was “a man given to worldly vanities” and wished to gain renown as a soldier. It was then that he suffered a life-threatening wound in battle. He spent long hours during his recovery dreaming of performing grand knightly deeds in service of a lady of highest station—this is 1521, after all. Though a Christian, he did not live in conformity with the faith, and he claims his imagination was formed on “chivalrous romances.” During this convalescence, however, a re-shaping of his imagination began to take hold. The home in which he was recovering had none of those “worldly fictions” he enjoyed, only The Life of Christ and a book on the lives of the saints, The Golden Legend. So, with no other options available, he read those two volumes and thought about them deeply. Gradually, his daydreams shifted from worldly endeavors, and he found he had more joy and consolation when he dreamed of imitating the saints. As he grew stronger, he made abridged copies of the books in his own hand. When his leg healed sufficiently, he was ready to begin a new life of penance and holiness, firmly resolved to serve our Lord.

As I reflect on the circumstances of Ignatius’s conversion, I am often curious about the home in which he found himself. Ignatius relates few details aside from their small library. In a world where books were scarce and costly, the two books chosen for their home spoke of Christ and Christians. Would a guest in my own home find similar inspiration among my overflowing shelves and DisneyPlus subscription? More importantly, are my own children’s imaginations inspired by romantic notions of worldly success, or will their imaginations be formed foremost by Scripture and the lives of the saints? When they approach adulthood and face questions of vocation, what will their dreams consist of—service to the princes of this world or to the Prince of Peace? As mothers, we are in the powerful position to form the stuff dreams are made of.

Pray for us, St. Ignatius, and help to create homes where holy dreams flourish.

When I was in high school, a friend gave me a book called The Precious Present, by Spencer Johnson. Although it is not a spiritual book per se, its message of living in the present moment resonated with me back then. It’s such a simple message, yet it’s one I still constantly forget.

In today’s troubling world, it’s easy to get caught up in worries about COVID-19, economic uncertainty, rioting, and politics. In our own families, we can be stuck ruminating about what we could have done better yesterday or what we must get done for tomorrow. For many mothers, keeping up with the children, the house, school, your husband, extended family, close friends, other obligations, and a few moments of prayer, more than fills the day. It is no wonder that we sometimes feel like life is spinning out of control.

My husband, a clinical psychologist, helps his patients build resilience in this time of pandemic and uncertainty by asking them if they have what they need “right now” (and usually the answer is yes). This helps them to focus on the present—not the unknown and worrisome future.  

Remember that God provided his chosen people the manna they needed for the day in the Old Testament—not for the week. Christ teaches us to pray for our daily bread in the Our Father—not that we have enough for a comfortable retirement. He knows exactly what we need, when we need it. Yes, we are to do our part, but it’s important to consider what we are supposed to be doing right now—and not be so anxious about things to come.

When my husband, friends, and I get caught up in all the bad things happening in the Church, in our cities, and in our world, I try to remind myself to “stick to the knitting.” What has God given me right this moment to do? If I change a diaper, patiently teach a math problem, or clean up a broken glass for his glory and with love in my heart, I am doing his will.

Jesus can take all those hidden actions of love that we, as mothers, do every moment of every day and transform us, our spouses, and our children into saints. And how often has a single saint transformed a broken world?

Pam Malinoski is a homeschooling, homesteading, homemaking mother of seven in Indianapolis. She loves motherhood because life and work are never boring! In her “free” time, she manages content for Souls and Hearts – MIHC Ministry Resource Page.

I am a card-carrying, Catholic mother.  

Because I am also a university instructor and have a Ph.D. in philosophy, some might say that is more “professional” and what should be written on my business card. But what I am most proud of is being a mom. That is what my business card says. Why? Because being an open-to-life Catholic mother is a radical way of being close to Christ and imitating him. If I were a nun, I’d wear my habit with a little swagger in my step (just being honest—I do have “habit-envy”).  If I were a martyr, isn’t it right to hope that in heaven I’d wear a crown? (I’m one of those who adores reading stories of martyrs and can’t help but imagine what I would do if I were called to that level of heroism). When we have some way that we give up our lives for the Gospel, we can rejoice! God has called us, and we are answering the call! Maybe falteringly, maybe imperfectly. But still answering! 

Catholic motherhood is my way. Six children? I was not sure I wanted any. Always open to life and God’s plan, and never in complete control. I’ve had many unexpected pregnancies that decidedly altered the course of my life. That is one way to experience what Christianity is all about: obedience to God’s call, giving your life away in the service of his will, wherever he leads you. (For a little reading about this theme, see Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI, Intro to Christianity).   

I cannot help but be an academic. I adore philosophy, teaching, and study. But the way I’ve learned the most in life is through Catholic motherhood. My vocation as a mother has taught me to make myself a gift for others. Motherhood has also taught me to embrace crosses. These are the two things that ensure our happiness. And I learned them both through my maternal vocation. That’s why, even to my students in the university, I am a life-learning, card-carrying, Catholic mother.