In her mid-20s, Kate has begun to realize that running has become the kind of spiritual ritual that Mass once was. Here, Kate connects the Eucharistic prayer to running in cold mornings and her introduction to feminist theology.
May the Lord accept the sacrifice of your hands, for the praise and the glory of the Lord, for our good and the good of all the Church.
As I snooze my alarm just one more time, all I want to do is stay in bed until the last possible moment, hiding from the twenty-degree New England winter morning. My partner playfully nudges me out of bed and I crawl back in. He chides, “You’ll be crabby later.” I know.
During my sophomore year of college, I discovered why some feminist theologians refuse to spend much time thinking about the whole “Christ died and rose” part of the Christian tale. The glorification of sacrifice, as read by too many women for too long as instructions for being a good person has left too few women able to stop abuse of various shapes. As a sign of solidarity, my twenty-year-old self decided to be silent during the Eucharistic prayer; a protest against the oppression of sacrifice.
But this resisting sacrifice, it’s a slippery slope. It so easily becomes ideological. All of a sudden, I was unclear if I was living up to my protest if I sacrificed time alone for time with a friend in need. Of course that was good, important even. I knew that. But it has taken me a while to understand what feminist theologians must already know: there is good sacrifice and bad sacrifice; good suffering and bad suffering and the lines are blurry—the challenge is to lean toward the good kinds.
With one more nudge from the other side of bed, I force myself out of bed and spend ten minutes finding enough clothes to wear so I don’t freeze outside. Moments later, I’m relieved to be out in the crisp morning. I feel alone and unique in this morning. For this, I sacrifice the warmth of my bed. And it is good.
Return to home.
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