This is probably just an audacious start to the academic year, but I hope to begin blogging again to record some of my thoughts and observations about life as a learning theologian in the Bronx. My perspectives are my own, but the result of a pile of different influences and ways of thinking. If you’ve ever been to a Catholic Church you know that, upon entering the sanctuary, there’s usually a small container of holy water on the side to dip your hand into. Most Catholics do just that and, with fingers wet, make the sign of the cross on their forehead in a ritual that says, “Here I am, God, ready for Mass.” A Catholic understanding of sacrament means that this water is sanctified—made holy—by a priest’s blessing. In effect, touching holy water and making the sign of the cross is sort of like a rebaptism, or anointing, for believers to receive divine blessing and renew/remember their Christian identity in preparation for an encounter with God through the Mass. Last Sunday, as I went to Mass at a local and largely Latino parish, I saw a variation on the tradition I’ve known. Instead of each member of the family dipping their hand into the water and making their own sign of the cross, the mother—or maybe abuela—took it upon herself to make sure that each of her children was properly prepared to enter the Church. Lavishly dipping her hands in the bowl of holy water, she took them out to give each of her children a generous washing in the sign of the cross. It reminded me of when I was young and my mom would give me spit baths before church. In the course of childhood the time between Saturday evening baths and Sunday morning church was an eternity, and certainly plenty of time to get muddied in the great outdoors or smeared with the leftovers of breakfast. I still remember the way my face would scrunch up when Mom gave me a certain look: I could tell by the way she eyed me that there was something on my face —probably a piece of egg— that she was going to wipe off to make me presentable for church. All of this goes to say I smiled in knowing recognition of what these kids were going through. I was taken aback, though, when one—probably twelve or thirteen—received an especially thorough holy water scrubbing. I imagined this poor adolescent’s situation: probably in the midst of finding her identity, with all the complexities and difficulties involved, and here she was, in public, getting a face bath. I’m sure the matriarch knew more than I did, so I didn't want to judge her actions. Maybe the daughter had been out late the night before, or spoken filthy words and needed some special cleansing before entering the sanctuary. It all made me smile, but it also made me consider the importance of mothers in our lives. They were the ones who made sure that we were ready to go out into the world; that we were outwardly presentable in appearance, but also that we were inwardly spiritually prepared to face life's challenges. How many mothers, my own included, have spent years teaching their children the truths of faith and relationship with God? How many have fretted when their sons and daughters have sullied their childhood innocence with youthful rebellions and sinful follies? And how many have interceded on their behalf, approaching the throne of God for their children’s sake, to beg for the forgiveness of sins and a right relationship with God? None of us became believers on our own. We have a community of faith who encouraged us on and helped us along the road to Christian discipleship. Many of us have our sins forgiven because God used holy men and women to point out to us our dirty state when we couldn’t see it otherwise. And many of us are clean and able to enter God’s sanctuary because we’ve received a holy washing through graces God’s given by way of our mothers.