Oil and Holy Water
Try rolling these words around your tongue: “Independent Catholic Female.” Feel how they clash and dance, like oil and holy water attempting to mix. For some, it tastes of rebellion, for others, of hope – a phrase that makes traditionalists choke on their morning coffee and has progressive hearts leaping like sparks from Easter fire. What does independence even mean in a tradition where communion – beautiful, messy, challenging communion – is everything?
My Place at the Table
Remember the Last Supper? That sacred meal where bread was broken and wine was shared? I often wonder if Martha was in the kitchen, preparing the feast, while Mary sat at Jesus’ feet. Today, thousands of years later, I’m still searching for my place at that table – not as a servant, not as a silent observer, but as a daughter of the Church, fully present in my Spirit-sensitive, Jesus-loving feminine heart. And yes, independently thinking, feeling, and discerning.
I’ve grown weary of the dance we do around the altar – this carefully choreographed routine where women hover at the edges while our brothers in Christ carry the weight of sacred responsibility alone. And oh, how heavy that weight must be. I see our priests, many of them aging vessels of faith, shouldering burdens that were meant to be shared by a community. Their loneliness echoes through empty rectories, their exhaustion visible in trembling hands that raise the host. Some, perhaps knowing no other way, grip their authority too tightly, like a drowning person clutching a life raft – as if sharing power might somehow diminish it rather than multiply it like loaves and fishes.
Awake to the Spirit’s Calling
The mere suggestion of an “independent Catholic female” sends tremors through sanctuary walls. It conjures images of revolt, of chaos, of women running wild with incense and ideas (oh my!). But what if – and hear me out – what if independence simply meant the freedom to bring our full selves to the altar? What if it meant having the courage to say, “I am here, fully Catholic, fully female, fully awake to the Spirit’s calling“?
This isn’t about pointing fingers or assigning blame. This is about hunger – a deep, sacred hunger that knows no gender. It’s about standing in the gentle light of dawn, watching it spill across the altar cloth, and dreaming of a Church where we all bring our gifts to the table. Not because we demand it, but because the Spirit moves us toward wholeness.
New Homecomings
I speak not from theology books or canonical law, but from a heart that beats in rhythm with the liturgy, from hands that ache to serve in ways that honor both tradition and present truth. When I look at the altar, I don’t see a battlefield for genders – I see a family table. And isn’t it time we talked about this, as family does? With love, with respect, with the courage to admit our fears and the humility to imagine new homecomings?
Some might whisper that such dreams border on heresy. That “independent Catholic female” is an oxymoron best left unspoken, like “peaceful war” or “humble arrogance.” But this isn’t about politics – it’s about presence. About creating space where both masculine and feminine voices can rise in authentic prayer. Where priests don’t have to be Simon of Cyrene, carrying the cross alone on paths never meant for solitary journeys, and where women don’t have to shrink their spiritual gifts to fit predetermined boxes or pretend that being handed a flower arrangement schedule satisfies their calling to serve.
Love Fiercely
This is my prayer, offered with trembling hope: that we might find the courage to gather at this table as Jesus intended – not as master and servant, not as ruler and subject, but as beloved children of God, each bringing our unique gifts to the feast. Because in the end, isn’t that what the Last Supper was all about? Not hierarchy, but communion. Not power, but love. And perhaps, just perhaps, being an “independent Catholic female” simply means being brave enough to show up fully, pray authentically, and love fiercely – even when it makes everyone a little uncomfortable.
