Faith Of Our Fathers

I love fancy vestments; I love incense; I love ornate language; I love high, vaulting music; I love pageantry, every moment drenched with meaning; I love kneeling, genuflecting, the sign of the Cross; heck, I might even love choir screens. All of these rituals, all of these symbols, help me feel connected to the past, to the generations of Christians for whom the same experience of beauty held true.

That isn’t to say that liturgical change is bad: we must incorporate the signs of our own times. I do think, however, that physical architecture should be taken into account. I once read about an Episcopal church where the altar was basically in the middle of the congregation. They would all gather around it to receive Eucharist, and after Mass they would have a communal meal there. Aside from my unease about using a consecrated altar as a picnic table (is there a relic in there?), I think this is a great idea.

Gathering around an altar when it’s lodged far away in the sanctuary almost seems like it would heighten the feeling of distance. One has to pass from profane into sacred space in order to encounter Jesus in the Sacrament. In this geography, I think it’s better that the congregation remain behind the altar rail. What is then symbolized – at least for me – in the distribution of the Eucharist is that Jesus passes from the sacred into the profane: in the Body of Christ, both Church and Sacrament, the distance and division between the profane and the sacred collapses.

The reason I prefer Eastward celebration is related to this. When the priest faces westward, the difference between clergy and laity is heightened rather than subsumed. Physically, it is as though the congregation is the passive recipient of whatever it is the priest is doing. Facing Eastward, the whole body of the church is turned the same way in a unity of action and prayer. The Sacrifice that is Christ is offered to the Father by Christ through or in the person of the priest. The sacrifice being made by the priest is the sacrifice of prayer and thanksgiving: this sacrifice is made equally by everyone, because it belongs to the office of the universal priesthood of all believers. The Eucharist is God’s free gift in response to this offering. Why should we not all be facing the same way when we are making it?

No Tongue Can Speak

Sacramental Confession is a marvelous gift! I felt lightened and joyful, happy and free. I like the laying on of hands: it emphasizes the fact that the Spirit works through people. It was a little strange to not have a penance but, then again, I think that might more accurately capture the truth that the Sacrament actually forgives you, and there’s nothing more you need to do.

It was a beautiful day: sunny, crisp and new. It is difficult for me to express what I feel. I struggle to keep it hidden, put the smile inside my heart and hold it there. I think I succeed.

So, someone I know once told me that if I tried to receive Eucharist anywhere God would strike me down because I am a sinful person, continuing in sin – the point being that I would not be capable of making a valid act of contrition and would thereby be continuing in a state of mortal sin.

This is one of the reasons I’ve been so scared of the Blessed Sacrament, both Anglican and Roman Catholic. Which is why I felt like I was going to have a panic attack today. The fact that I had just come back from confession was, I think, the only reason that I had the courage to attempt it. Of course, I know that this crushing fear is a result of demonic oppression, which understanding also helps somewhat.

Shoving panic to the side, I was finally able to receive! Regardless of how simple this may have appeared, this is a huge deal for me. After I was certain God would not strike me down in anger at having polluted His Table, I felt relieved, overfilled, opened up, joyful and at peace. Wow.

I tried to brush this aside so that no one would know what I was feeling, how I felt…changed. Renewed. More myself. It’s one thing to write about this in a blog that (practically) no one reads, and it’s another to let it live on my face where it can be seen – where I can’t possibly be distanced from it, not even a little bit. Though, of course, to openly show my emotions so others could experience them with me would probably be excellent, since the effect on me would be even more amplified.

I had thought about waiting until the Easter Vigil to receive, since that would be a kind-of inhabiting of the liturgy as a living testimony to what it all means, but (even though I was really scared) I wanted it to be today. The Feast of Annunciation: the moment the world hears the promise, the moment Mary learns of the awesome gift she will be given, of the responsibility it will place on her, and of its sometimes incredible burden. This is precisely what it is to receive Eucharist, because our sacramental lives are all these things, the truth of which is most exemplified in the gift of Jesus Himself.

Of course, all this fancy reflection is beside the point, since that’s not why I made my decision – I just like fitting my decisions into my symbiotic relationship with liturgy. The truth is, I wanted to do it now because I wanted to do it here, with this community and these people. There has never been, nor I suspect will there ever be, a congregation or community that has been so important to me, or that has so deeply shaped and supported such a difficult journey, and so impacted my life. This community of worship has been the only constant presence in my life as I explored so painfully my faith and my desires, as I travelled without anchor, tossed here and there on the violent sea. These people, my friends, have been the center of my life, and I think this is the only thing that allowed me to keep going, to keep exploring, even when I felt like I was going through hell and the world was shattering around me. This congregation has kept me alive. And I wanted it to be here so that, even though in so small and invisible a way, I could try to say that symbolically.

There is no way I can ever express what this has meant to me and felt like to me that would adequately convey the depth and breadth and width of how I experience this moment or this place. Because words cannot enclose the feeling of an overfull heart.

For I Have Sinned

I confess, I am a little afraid of Confession.

For one thing, finding someone you can trust who agrees to do it can be difficult.

Another thing (from a purely hypothetical and not at all experiential perspective) is that you might make your entire confession and then the priest, for whatever reason, decides that you can’t make a valid act of contrition, and denies you absolution.

That is actually horrible. Hypothetically.

The reason for this is, of course, directly related to your confessor’s knowledge and judgment of your life. For example, your confessor may know that you are, say, pro-choice, or that you’re sleeping with someone you’re not married to. If you haven’t (hypothetically) confessed these things, the confessor can decide that you are in an unrepentant state of mortal sin (regardless of whether or not you think these things are sins) and therefore that any absolution would be invalid anyway, since you have not confessed all your mortal sins.

Hypothetically

I Heard The Bells

Many times throughout my life, I’ve thought about becoming a religious. There are many reasons for this. One of them is that it would be a newer, better vocation – that is, one I could actually pursue. Another is that I think it’s beautiful. Another is that it would give me an opportunity to better exercise the contemplative disciplines to which I am drawn.

One big reason was, once again, driven home today. I like to pray. It makes me feel happy and fulfilled, and I enjoy it. Hence, I like quiet. It’s difficult to find that kind of quiet in my home. So, many times, quite naturally, I have dreamed of silent halls filled only with the sound of bells calling me to and from various duties.

I have dreamed of being able to pray without being interrupted by someone asking me something, yelling at me that they want me to do something, people walking in on me or expecting me to answer them. It is a selfish desire, I know, but I really do want twenty-minute pieces of time for myself and God. Often, my chronic exhaustion is due to the fact that in order to have the silence and privacy necessary for serious meditation I have to either get up insanely early or stay up ridiculously late. It makes it difficult to live out the rest of my life in the world. I also recognize that the amount of time I attempt to spend in prayer makes it difficult to live my life in a normal fashion. I secretly resent not being able to pray as much as I want, a resentment that makes my quest for inner peace fraught with additional struggle.

I have dreamed of being able to say grace at dinner without people making fun of me and distracting me, without ridicule, without anger and insult, without worrying that something will be thrown at my head. So, of course, I’ve dreamed about going to a community where prayer is both corporate and private, where God is built into the rhythm of the day, where prayer is recognized as an important and vital part of life.

So yes, I’ve definitely thought about it. I’ve prayed that this would be my vocation. I’ve wished for this life. However, after much discernment it is apparent that any sort of traditional religious life in community is not something I’m suited for. The reason is both simple and staggeringly complicated in its design:

Can anyone guess which of the three Evangelical Vows I’d NEVER be able to keep? Please, please take a guess!

And They'll Know We Are Christians

Our seminar discussion today somehow ended up veering toward the question of whether or not a person can be a Christian without belonging / going to a church. I think we got onto the discussion through the idea that Kant and Mill were really successful at their project of getting people to think about themselves primarily as individuals, weaning them off the idea of turning first to group identity.

(This whole point is somewhat problematic since what we call ‘individuality’ is essentially an aggregate of claimed group identities, some of which are chosen and others not, and none of which are actually constructed by the person in question, being rather social-discursive entities. But I digress)

Anyway, so this is a question I’ve actually thought a lot about over the years, especially recently – given my loss of church-identity, as it were. I confess that it’s been pretty traumatic no longer having an identity to cling to, or point at, as the need arises. Now how do I explain all the random doctrinal biases I encounter in my own thoughts? Are they my thoughts? More to the point: how do I define myself as a Christian when I don’t belong to a church?

By virtue of the sacrament of baptism, all those baptized into the Christian faith find themselves incorporated into the Church universal – the body of Christ. This Church is, for all intents and purposes, invisible. It is how we are all united. De facto, everyone who is baptized belongs to the Church whether they like it or not.

However, the division between the ‘visible’ and ‘invisible’ Church is somewhat glib, and close to Manichaeism in that it posits a duality (or dualism) that doesn’t exist. There is no ghost-like, disembodied invisible church floating around in the world, somehow there and not there, independent of visible reality. Rather, the invisible Church inheres in the visible churches. Of course, this renders churchless-Christianity problematic.

How to be Christian without participating in a church: is it possible? I guess it depends on how you define Christian identity. If Christianity is a static and permanent state of being induced, as it were, by being plunged into or sprinkled with water in some sort of initiation ritual invoking the Triune God, then actual church membership and participation is unnecessary for the living of Christian identity.

But I like to think of Christianity as a verb: it is something we do, something we live; it is our movement in the world and, yes, our interaction with the Church and her members. Insofar as the visible world still exists, and is our only access point to the invisible reality inhering in it, actual churches are important. So important, in fact, that without them we cannot be who we are, though we can of course pretend quite successfully.

So bring on the church(es)!!! Please excuse me while I go have a panic attack about my non-belongingness.

The Colour Purple

Another thing I love about liturgy is the use and change of colour. So much meaning can be crammed into a single shade.

Right now, the colour is a Lenten purple. Purple strikes me as being so complicated. On the one hand, it is the colour of repentance and sorrow, and also of course always a sign of forgiveness. We are preparing for the greatest Sacrifice in history, the Sacrifice that drives in the gravity of our guilt.

But the Sacrifice also looks forward to our forgiveness, and the promised Resurrection, the free gift of God to us. Surely, while we must accept our fallen nature and our individual failings in order to best receive this gift – hence the preparation by repentance – we also must not forget that the reason we are mourning is the same reason we will be joyful. Surely, while it is necessary to recognize the truth of ourselves in order to give thanks and praise, the emphasis should be on the praising. That is why Lent is never the end. It helps remind us of that, I think, when we splash a little pink into this time. Laetare Sunday: Rejoice, O Jerusalem! Amid pain and suffering there is the unmistakable vibrancy of joy and happiness.

Purple is also the colour of royalty. Christ’s kingship is realized just as much in his Lenten journey as is the white and gold of the Resurrection. The purple robe placed on him, along with the crown of thorns, ironically recognizes this kingship in and by the very act of sending him to his death.

Purple helps me to remember that Jesus’ suffering is never far apart from his glory, and that I shouldn’t lose sight of one when in the face of the other. When we cover all the images in the church with purple cloth on Good Friday, are we not proclaiming exactly that? All the glory, all the truth of our faith might be hidden under suffering and despair; hidden, but always right there underneath the surface; hidden, but soon to be revealed.

I like it when the altar ‘dressings’ are changed along with the priest’s vestments rather than changing vestments and using unbleached linen for everything else. It is not only the priest, as image of Christ, who is on this journey. Rather, it is all of us, the whole Church, the Body of Christ.

I Fall On My Knees

Liturgy: how do I love thee! The question is, why? What does liturgy mean to me?

The liturgical calendar seems like an obvious place to start. For a long time, the pattern of my life has followed Church seasons. Advent is the beginning of the year, and I always find myself full of anticipation. Christmas, of course, is full of joy. Lent is difficult, sorrowful, a steep descending path to death full of danger. Easter is, again, joyful and light, and it fills me with a sense of hope and new life. Jesus has triumphed and, by trusting in him, so may I. Pentecost is fire and energy, a time of new vision and understanding. Through all this, the chain of ordinary time carries me forward through the ebb and flow of the week, punctuated by remembrance of the Saints and of events in Jesus' life.

Because the calendar s informs my lived experience of Christianity, I find it important that the liturgy reflect the changes that shape the year.

One of the reasons I like processions is because of the way they can inform the geography of the church. A procession can come out of the sacristy and pass through the center of the church, symbolically gathering the congregation together under the sign of Christ. It ritually connects the nave with the sanctuary since it incorporates the journey through the church into the journey toward the altar.

I like how changes in the procession can change my experience of the rest of the liturgy. On Christmas Eve, a baby Jesus can be carried in and placed in a manger at the foot of the altar. On Palm Sunday (Passion Sunday) the procession stops at the back of the church and continues after a reading; it recreates Jesus' joyous, welcome entry into the city, and the Eucharist takes on a bitter-sweet depth of meaning by following the happy reception. I like that the priest wears a 'cape' in that procession, and that they're re-dressed in a chasuble in the sanctuary. The garment -- the perception of Christ -- changed in such a short period of time.

I love that the Holy Thursday procession stops at the altar of repose, that Good Friday has no procession at all (at least until the veneration of the Cross). I love how the light from the congregation's candles spreads slowly forward alongside the procession at the Easter vigil, all the light coming from the Paschal fire.

Seasons and movement: so powerful for me!

Which is why we shouldn't say 'alleluia' during Lent. That defeats the purpose of glutting yourself on it at Easter.

A Propos Previous

Ahem: there seems to have been some misunderstanding surrounding the previous post. I was just discussing with myself things I had talked about earlier in the day, so from my perspective this wasn't totally out of the blue.

Also I am NOT doing ANY of the things I have mentioned, nor do I intend to. I just picked the most paradigmatic instances wherein mortification can become completely excessive. So please do not ask me about any of this.

Discipline and Punish

I had an interesting conversation today that made me think about some of the more extreme Lenten practices that are out there, and what they actually mean, both symbolically and on an individual level. In the ‘literature,’ such practices are often called ‘mortifications.’ Most commonly, these are associated with the body; however, it’s important to note that non-bodily mortifications can actually be more challenging since they require constant inner scrutiny.

What obviously springs to mind is fasting. You can fast from certain food items or certain pleasures that you enjoy. You can fast from certain states of mind: for example, fast from anger or frustration or jealousy. Which of these do you think is actually harder? Fasting can also include a moderate – or drastic – limitation of the amount of food you consume, either over an extended period of time or within a strictly limited timeframe. The definition of fasting I grew up with is that of consuming less than two normal-sized meals a day, customarily eating one normal meal and two other snacks that don’t add up to a meal. This is actually what the Roman Catholic Church defines as fasting. Many people find this a little mild. You can make up other rules instead, some of which work better than others if you intend to practice them for an extended period. You could decide to not eat snacks in between meals; you could decide to only eat bread and water; you could decide to eat once a day; you could decide to eat nothing at all. If you’re Saint Catherine of Sienna, you could decide to live off of nothing but Eucharist – though it should be noted this is a distinct form of grace (and that she died at the age of 33). Many Catholic Saints have engaged in such practices, which are sometimes grouped together under the title of holy anorexia, itself connected with mysticism.

The question is, when is this fasting okay? Certainly, anything taken too far, especially when it concerns the body, should be regarded as an indulgence, a kind of pride. A practical rule to follow might be that if people notice you’re fasting, you’re not doing it right. If you’ve lost so much weight that it can’t be hidden, or if people notice they suddenly never see you eating anything, then your fasting is no longer private. I think that, at that point, it ceases to be an effective mortification. Of course, there are always tricks: I suppose you could wear baggy sweaters. Of course, if no one ever sees you eat anyway, you’ll be able to get away with a hell of a lot more because your behavior won’t seem at all aberrant. Just try not to pass out.

Some other forms of mortification have been ‘popularized’ by Dan Brown’s DaVinci Code. One of these is the discipline: that is, the tool of self-flagellation. It should be noted that the extremes to which Silas goes are actually quite discouraged – the penance is supposed to be essentially symbolic. With a little pain, of course. As a general rule, you’re not supposed to draw blood. Since what you’re doing will also be obvious if anyone sees your back covered with lash marks, you should probably make sure they don’t. Again, the public display of your devotional practices pretty much defeats the purpose. The modern discipline also looks nothing like Silas’.

Also captured in this memorable film is the use of the cilice. Originally, this meant hair-shirt, but now people apply it to anything that functions the same way. The hair-shirt has the advantage of being concealable under clothing: the amount of time you spend wearing it will also determine whether or not you’re experiencing discomfort or prolonged agony. Moderation, as always, is key. The cilice shown in the movie is what Silas straps around his thigh. This is also not what a modern cilice looks like. It is usually a two or three-ringed metal chain with little spikes, and is worn spikes-down around the upper thigh / groin. It, too, is not supposed to draw blood, and it is not meant to be worn continuously. However, the caveat here is that it does draw blood because it leaves little prick marks, and that these marks are pretty much permanent if you use the thing on a regular basis.

Purchasing a cilice or discipline may arouse suspicion if anyone has a tendency to go through your mail (or if they let you use their credit card and then get an itemized bill). You can get basically the same effect for free using household objects, which I won’t get into because it may or may not be disturbing. The advantage of this, of course, is that you can find things that are uncomfortable or hurt and that don’t have spikes on them, and that a little creativity will enable you to pass your penance off as something else, since the objects are not in themselves obviously penitential.

More moderate versions of corporeal mortification can include sleeping on the floor, taking cold showers, immediately jumping out of bed in the morning. More extreme versions will co-opt other types of behavior. For example, cutting has sometimes been suggested, though in my experience this happens rarely. This is supposed to be useful both because it is extremely controlled and highly effective; also, no one will assume that you’re doing penance if they do notice. They will think you’re a little crazy, but that’s about as far as the speculation goes.

NONE of these activities, with the exception of moderate fasting, should EVER be undertaken without the close supervision of a confessor or director. Deciding to do this on your own is an invitation to disaster since, let’s face it, the people who do this voluntarily are the same people who are prone to going overboard in the first place. Anyone who is doing these things, even under direction, should be aware that a small subgroup of the population will react by developing a sort of pleasurable relationship to the pain – that is, the behavior will have a tendency to escalate as they seek to get the same ‘high’ they got the first time. It’s essentially an addiction to endorphins specifically tied into the experience of intense sensation, in this case, pain. Since increasing your penance should not be done without explicit permission, it is crucial to find a confessor who is experienced enough to be able to pick these people out and say NO. It is also crucial, if you decide to follow this path, that you have the capacity to obey your confessor if she or he tells you to stop the practice altogether.

There are non-corporeal mortifications as well: the possibilities for these are essentially endless, and easily concealed. All in all, this makes them a far better option.

What is the point of all this supposed to be, anyway? The rational behind corporeal mortification has several components. First, it exerts control over the body and is intended to instill discipline. Secondly, consciously subverting bodily desires – to avoid pain or not be hungry, for example – is meant to curb all bodily lusts, even those that seem unrelated. For people who don’t belong to a certain religious club which shall remain nameless, these penances are usually suggested because they are suffering from incurable and unwanted desires. Or to avoid having them. Most contentiously, these practices are sometimes suggested to victims of rape, the basis for which is a flawed reading of Augustine: the idea is that any sexual activity, even involuntary, awakens desires in the body that it is impossible to turn off, because the flesh itself is irrevocably changed regardless of what the will has been doing. In an effort to prevent these desires from arising, or to dampen their potential as-yet-unseen effects, some (stupid) advisors will suggest mortification as a ‘cure.’ Thirdly, it is a form of suffering with Christ.

The person I was talking to today made the excellent point that self-harm isn’t really a valid form of devotion, since it is already a kind of indulgence. To a certain degree, I concur. However, I think that motivation and extent are important factors.

Discipline I would define as a practice geared toward reorienting your relationship with God by curbing excessive desires through fasting, by chastising the body as a form of control. The intent should never be the experience of pain itself, though the difficulty and sacrifice is designed to remind you constantly of what Jesus went through for you. If your focus is on self-control and desire to serve God in the consciousness of Jesus’ own suffering, and assuming that you are not going to extremes, I think that all of these practices are fine.

Punishment. If your motivation is self-hatred, loathing, a desire to punish your own sin, then none of these, no matter how mild, is a good idea. In the first place, it devalues your worth as a human being created in the image of God: self-love is an important aspect of one’s relationship with Jesus. In the second place, it assumes that there is something you can and should do to atone for your sin in such a way that it’s actually extirpated by your efforts, which undermines your ability to grasp Christ’s sacrifice as a free and unmerited gift. If what God actually wants is for you to suffer for your transgressions as a form of debt-repayment, I’m sure you’ll find out about it eventually. So why start now?

Forty days in the desert…how bad could it be?

Lent

I am coming to realize that Lent means a great deal more to me than purple vestments and less food. I've realized that, over the years, Lent has become a time of reflection on my life, a time for paring down, de-cluttering. I am quieter. As time goes on, I know I'll become more despondent and lifeless: the liturgical rhythms of the Church have always been deeply intertwined with my life.

When Lent first begins -- from Ash Wednesday through the first week -- I cry a lot, especially during services and the time immediately afterward. I feel so intensely wretched. In the past few years, I have thought incessantly of the promise I broke to God, that which I have done that can never be undone, and which I sometimes wonder is forgivable. How can you turn back the clock? While I follow Jesus on his journey toward his ultimate testing and sacrifice, I am painfully aware that I failed my own testing, and did not accept the sacrifice I was called to make. How, when I have been such a spectacular deserter, can I even call myself a Christian?

Alongside this, I am beset by terrible temptation throughout the season. But it is a temptation that is not something I desire, making it difficult to explain. It is a sudden and constant stream of thought placed in front of me,like the whispering of the devil in my ear. He tells me that I should die, that I deserve to die, because I have abandoned God. He suggests ways to do it that I could never imagine. It is an urging that exploits his knowledge of the death God demanded of me that I refused to risk, to give. The voice, the thoughts, are wearying and ceaseless. The danger is that I will begin to believe it, or that I will give in just to make him stop, just so I can sleep. I can usually make it through on the strength of prayer, but it is a fragile protection because I have never succeeded in overcoming or banishing the voice, only in withstanding it. I am constantly afraid that if I relax my vigilance I will not be strong enough and will die apart from God.

There have been times, over the years, when I have attempted to gather the courage to tell someone exactly what I have done that is so bad (usually a clergy-person), but there has never been a moment where I managed it. It is difficult for me to admit, let alone discuss. I don't know whether that would ease my struggle or not, but at least I might be absolved, or find out if it's absolvable.

Lent is a difficult time for me because I have discovered that trying to reach out can result in loss. I have lost many friends during Lents past. I keep expecting that maybe I'll run into love instead, but that's never happened, only withdrawal.

So, this is Lent. Forty days in the desert: I can understand it when you put it like that. When I perform the devotions of the stations of the Cross, and I feel the pain of Christ's wounds, I can begin to appreciate it. And, if I knew for certain that this was a sharing in the suffering of Christ and not -- or as well as -- the result of my own feelings of guilt and my temptations, then that would be enough.

The Missing Pieces: Mind The Gap

There are many things I know I’ll miss now that I’m not Roman Catholic, things that I have no idea where else to find, though doubtless it is possible, and even likely in some cases. Here are a few:

-stations of the Cross (it’s not the same without pictures on the walls of a church that you walk around to in order, without a marble floor to kneel on)

-Latin in the Mass; ‘Lord Have Mercy’ in Greek

-reservation of the Blessed Sacrament

-adoration of the Blessed Sacrament

-exposition of the Blessed Sacrament

-benediction of the Blessed Sacrament

-keeping vigil with the Blessed Sacrament at the Altar of repose on Holy Thursday through to Good Friday (I love just after the Mass of the Last Supper, 3:00 AM, 6:00 AM, and just before the Sacrament is removed from the Altar)

-veneration of the Cross on Good Friday

-frequent use of incense (I’ve never belonged to a church that actually does this; I just complained for years that we should be using more incense. I mean, at least cense the Gospel and the altar)

-holy water

-Eastward worship (also haven’t ever actually experienced this, but I have ‘theological’ ideas that make me like it)

-elaborate processions involving the use of a crucifix

-fancy vestments, especially the cassock, roman collar, amice, alb, stole, cincture, chasuble, cope / humeral veil; dalmatic; surplice; maniple; zucchetto (gloves would also be cool, but I’ve never encountered them)

-lots of kneeling (also haven’t belonged to a church where this is practiced)

-daily Mass

-random religious statues around the church

-praying for the dead

-indulgences (which is ironic because I don’t really like the theology behind them; nevertheless, I actually like doing them)

And many other things which I’m sure I’ll discover as I go along. I suppose the point of all this is to say that I am still very much worried I’ll never find a church to live in. I mean, I subsisted in the Roman church for years, so I don’t doubt I could do that elsewhere: I just wish there were somewhere I could be accepted while being fully myself. I worry that if I can’t find a liturgical home I’ll never be able to commit to a church, to her Sacraments, to her presence in my life. I worry that I will fall away, not have any church at all – that I will be all alone and find it even harder to get up the courage to take that necessary step of visibly belonging: receiving the Sacraments. I know how deeply receiving Eucharist binds me to a church, and I am not ready to be so bound. The thing is, how do I allow myself to so deeply love another church without knowing that she will accept me, when I am afraid of being thrown out as some sort of imposter? If someone knows of any way to make me believe I’ve been welcomed or received into a faith community, please tell me so that I can pursue it.

I love liturgy, and I guess you could say I like it ‘high.’ I like being able to feel it, to look at it and see it, to be carried away in beautiful symbolism, to taste it in the back of my throat, smell it and feel it on my skin. I’ve gone to evangelical and other mainstream Protestant churches, and I know exactly how much I need liturgy when I feel like it’s not there. Liturgy is intimately connected to my experience of the Divine: I love how it can pick me up and carry me away, lift me up, reveal hidden truths, wrap itself around me, follow me about in the world. I like how the incense separates the space out into something sacred, the film of it rising in the air a visible sign of our worship. I like the ringing of the bell during elevation. I love the colour and the carefulness and the orchestration: I love everything about it.

What I don’t know is whether or not the liturgical traditions I love in the Anglican church (for example: calling down the Spirit after the words of Institution) will love me back. And whether or not she will object so strenuously to my own liturgical longings that she will reject me just for having them.

I Am The Trivia Pope!

There are many potentially interesting yet ultimately unimportant tidbits that I know about the Roman church. Like the clerical error which means the use of blue vestments on Marian feast days was only technically made illegal in Spain (instead of being a universal liturgical rule).

More importantly, there are many things I don’t understand. Like how exactly I am supposed to overcome certain insidious temptations when they consist of things I don’t actually want to do anyway.

Sometimes the devil puts thoughts, ideas in my head that shouldn’t be there. In itself, this is probably harmless, since there is no corresponding act of will, or even desire. However, I always struggle against them, attempting to drown them out or push them away. It can be dangerous to relax my vigilance, as I well understand, since then they can begin to permeate me, affect my judgment, my desires, and can lead to feelings of despair. My soul is a window for the devil and for God also. Who else besides myself is there to blame if I let the wrong one in?

I have to be vigilant lest these ideas slip inside me and become a part of who I am, so that I begin to believe they are my own, so that they become my own, so that I follow them.

Home

I think I said earlier that I would talk about what I experienced when I first went (back) to Anglican church. Hopefully, recalling that now will inject some much-needed perspective and joy into this bleak, blogerific account of mine.

One day in our Christian Spirituality class (where we learn standard levitation and prayer techniques) my new friend told me that I should come to chapel with her for Wednesday Eucharist. Her enthusiasm was so infectious that I went the very next day.

It was a little strange to be back in Anglican church after so many years of careful avoidance, but at the same time it felt strangely as if I’d come…home. Something familiar and comforting and innocent: it felt like stepping out of a storm I’d been caught up in into a sweet space of beauty and calm. In these services where I didn’t know the words and couldn't receive Communion, I found a place where all my politics and struggle dropped aside, and I could just enjoy being with God again for the first time in a long time. It was a little pillow where I could worship the way I felt called to – in joy and a childlike exuberance and excitement. Sometimes, it even made me cry, the overwhelming feeling that God was there, that I was at peace with Him in His most remarkable Presence.

To say I was profoundly grateful does not do it justice.

What I was looking for wasn’t answers. All my life, the church had been content to give me answers to everything. But answers weren’t the key to my faith anymore. What I had hoped for was to find that God is enough to cling to so that, if the ground I was walking on became a little less than solid, I wouldn’t fall. I wanted to be able to watch everything I thought I knew be pulled out from underneath me like a rug and still have somewhere to stand. I didn’t want reasons to keep the answers I had, or even to find new ones. I wanted to get to know God better with my heart, with a feeling that falls outside of words, a faith that cannot ever be expressed.

I am still very emotional about Anglican churches, and about finding myself in them. Everything I feel is always connected to that first impression of comfort, solidity, home. But at the same time, I feel like an outsider, an interloper, and I worry that I will never really belong there, that I will never really be wanted or welcome. I have a lot of experience of not being welcome in churches.

The overwhelming part of it all is that the intensity of relief is always shaded with the feeling of somehow stealing something that belongs to other people who have worked for it. It is difficult for me to embrace a new way of worshipping and experiencing God.

Secretly, I also find it daunting to redefine my relationship to that first chapel when it has given me so much as an outsider. It is difficult for people to understand, I think, that it feels almost like I’ll be losing an important space if I embrace it as my own instead of as a refuge, a haven, sanctuary.

Known By Its Fruit

Sin is a real problem. I struggle in difficulty with it. Sometimes I don’t know what’s sinful and what isn’t, and I am not adept at separating mortal from venial transgressions. I can’t adequately discern these things, and I do not err on the side of self-compassion. I often feel as though I am being crushed by my own guilt, and my sin is always before me.

A friendly warning: if you engage in examination of conscience as a formal exercise frequently, I don’t recommend going long periods of time without having recourse to sacramental absolution – if the sacrament is important to you, which it doesn’t have to be. Otherwise, the weight and breadth of what you have done can lead absolutely to despair.

In Communion With All The Saints

So I went to the local Anglican church today (on a Sunday!!) for the first time ever. It was a little…surprising to be sure, but also nice. Since I’m quite the liturgy freak (high liturgy! Higher!! HIGHER!!!!), I was a little confused and slightly dismayed by the free-for-all that went with certain parts of the service: some people standing, some sitting, etc. It makes it, for one thing, difficult to copy what people are doing. I’ll have to get used to this difference – I’ll try to see it as a break from regimentalism or something.

It’s such a pretty church…I had forgotten. I wonder how to tell if it’s reserving the Sacrament? Would they have a sanctuary light if they weren’t? There were a lot fewer people than I expected, which I think says a lot about my expectations.

It was so very different from my old, Roman Catholic parish. For one thing, congregants came and introduced themselves to me before the service started. Wow: so cool! Someone I know asked if I wanted to sit with her, but I said maybe next week; getting up and moving just draws more attention to yourself. Of course, as the only new person in a small church, drawing attention to myself is kind of unavoidable. Of course, I know how that can sometimes end: when I was going to my downtown Anglican church, every week this man asked me to stay for coffee but, when I finally did, only one person talked to me.

It’s difficult to come into a new congregation, because everyone already has their own little group, and you don’t: the dynamics of interaction have already been set. Since I come in as a single person with no children, it’s even more difficult because I don’t come with my own home-made posse. Plus, I can’t make friends with the parents of the kids who make friends with my kids. Oh, the troubles of adulthood!

;)

The priest also greeted me as I attempted to make my quick get-away. It was kind of surreal, and I felt disoriented, since he was genuinely nice and hugged me and everything (I was a little uncomfortable – read: a lot – being hugged by a strange man, but of course there’s no way he could have known that). And I stayed for coffee.

Clearly I had entered a parallel universe.

Firstly, I haven’t really stayed at a coffee hour after church since I got out of the hospital seven years ago and people started to avoid me, and of course I also began having difficulty eating in front of many people – but I digress. Well, I stayed once at the downtown church, but that was an aberration. I didn’t actually have coffee, so I guess that proves the parallel universes are connected to each other.

Secondly, it is still always very disconcerting when priests are nice to me in a purposeful, non-generic way. Recall that I had been going to the same Roman Catholic parish for, oh, say, twenty-five years. This is not the relationship I ever, ever had with the parish priest. Sometimes he would look through me as if I wasn’t there, which had become frequent toward the end. Sometimes he would put his arm around me and be proud of me. Sometimes he would run away when he saw me coming, which also had become frequent. Sometimes he would pray with me. Sometimes he would yell at me. The point is, our interaction was very unstable and, at my end anyway, passionately involved. I have never had neutral feelings about this man. Though, despite the rollercoaster ride which ultimately fell off the tracks, I still love him and always will. But, again, I digress.

The point is that he has never, ever made any effort to introduce himself to newcomers, to make them feel welcome, or attempt to lure them back. He did, of course, begin a series of sermons on sin, purgatory and damnation that coincided with the influx of new congregants whose children are preparing for first Communion. He has told people they can’t receive Eucharist. He has actually physically taken the Sacrament out of people’s hands because he’s decided they don’t look sufficiently sure of what they’re doing. He did refuse to baptize a baby because the parents don’t come to his church (duh: they live in Central America and are visiting) which the Roman Catholic priest across the street remedied. He did refuse to give ashes to the Confirmation class because he decided they wouldn’t understand it anyway, which is why he refused to give them the sacrament of Reconciliation last year. Welcoming and embracing of newcomers: no.

I do, in fact, deeply love and care for this man, whose seeming unraveling of health and sound thinking of late worries me.

So, it was truly, truly a parallel universe, leaving me feeling somewhat discombobulated, but also excited to see what happens next!

Oh, and it was a morning prayer service instead of a Mass: dodged a bullet there! *phew*