The River Lethe

For some time, there has been research into off-label use of beta blockers in the treatment of anxiety disorders, specifically panic disorder. Mostly I’ve yawned at this research. *yawn* The premise is fairly simple: panic attacks involve both physiological and psychological reactions, which essentially feed into one another. By using a beta blocker, the physiological responses connected with fear – sweating, shaking, rapid heartbeat – are short-circuited by affecting neuroreceptors, thereby diminishing the effect of the hormones normally released through that mechanism into the bloodstream (basically, it cuts short your adrenaline rush). This is not really all that exciting: a drug to slow your heartbeat slows your heartbeat.

*yawn*

There has been some preliminary research into the use of beta blockers to treat other anxiety disorders, most notably posttraumatic stress disorder. This looks a bit more interesting, primarily because certain ethical dilemmas arise from their use.

Clinical trials seem to be generally focused on preventing the disorder in the first place by giving trauma survivors beta blockers during the initial period after the event, sometimes known as the ‘crisis stage.’ The goal in this case is to prevent memories of the event from being stored in the amygdala in the right hemisphere – presumably connected through the limbic system to affect response. Normally, input (sensory data) is received by the brain in the thalamus and its importance is then determined by the amygdala; the hippocampus creates a kind of ‘map’ or schema that determines the importance of various sensory input. Presumably, negative ‘triggers’ fall into the higher range of that map, meaning of course that one is keyed to their perception as well as that the attention filter of the brain will give them priority. This is all a very simplistic explanation: memories are actually stored in neural networks connecting different parts of the brain: your memories are spread out inside your head.

What happens in ptsd is twofold. In the first place, the traumatic memory is never connected to positive memories of the same or similar stimuli. In the second, damage to the hippocampus caused by the trauma seems to make learning new information related to the memory difficult. Analysis and recognition with regard to the event, processed in the prefrontal cortex, are effectively neutralized by these neurological anomalies. It is reasonable to locate the disconnect between traumatic memories and other memories (which can be modified by experience) in the nature of the strong, negative emotional response to which they are tied – an emotional response belonging to the primitive part of the brain which always seems to run the show when it comes to fear. Therefore, the theory is that by giving trauma survivors these medications, the lessening of the fear reaction in relation to the memory will separate the negative emotion from the cognitive (non emotional) content of the memory, allowing the memory to better integrate into existing networks.

I’m a little nervous about this. After all, survivors of trauma are experiencing completely normal emotional reactions; you also don’t know which of them will develop ptsd. Not enough research has been done in this area to assure me that normal fear responses to similar situations the person might face will not be extinguished. After all, fear can often save your life.

Beta blockers have also been tested as a treatment strategy for survivors who have developed ptsd (which is by no means an automatic or necessary development). This is based on the same theory. ‘Flashback’ memories are not all identical and in many cases the stereotypical representation is not what you will observe. Stereotypically, a person for a short period of time ‘relives’ the event, usually in fragments, in a complete fashion: sensory and emotional information are felt as present realities. This is frightening both for the person experiencing the memory and those who see it happen. Often flashbacks are composed entirely of a strong emotional and fearful reaction to an environmental trigger which does not include explicit remembrance of the traumatic event. You feel intense fear, and it isn’t immediately apparent why. Thinking about the trauma can trigger intense emotional reactions and panic. What has happened is what happens in all memories that involve strong emotions. When you remember your grandfather giving you a whole pile of balloons, and you remember feeling joyful and happy, you actually feel joyful and happy while having that memory: the content and the emotion have become fused. The same is true of traumatic memories. Since the acquisition of new information has little or no effect on the memory-feeling (because of the hippocampus damage we discussed earlier), the survivor will often feel that no matter what he does the psychic injury will never fade.

What the beta blockers offer is not an erasure of the memory. The theory is that by cutting off the physiological fear response to the painful memory, the two will become ‘unfused.’ The possibility of remembering the event without the debilitating emotional-fear response should then allow the survivor to process it and integrate it into a network of similar memories. New experience should also begin to affect it, including situational novelty (you don’t get stabbed by a sociopath every time you go to the local theatre) and cognitive reflection (it isn’t your fault the sociopath stabbed), alleviating many ptsd symptoms. The symptoms, of course, are normal coping mechanisms to deal with total loss of control that have become pathological by virtue of their long endurance and their uncontrollable resurgence – they are bothering the person. The reason they do not go away – or do so only with difficulty – is because by reliving the experience emotionally the same strategies to deal with it also become attached to the memory, and are then generalized to other similar instances or triggers in an attempt to protect the person from the previous outcome. These coping mechanisms become part of the global thought-processes of the person, which is part of the reason they are so difficult to challenge or change even when they are clearly maladaptive.

So: give patient beta blocker, patient processes memory, patient moves on with life at least more well adjusted if not completely ‘normal.’ This would really only work in the context of therapy.

But is it ethical? It seems absurd to say that alleviating suffering might pose an ethical dilemma. But, in the first place, we don’t know enough about how memory works to understand the possibly far-reaching consequences. In the second, it is unclear what the effect will be on neurological damage that has already been sustained.

More importantly, does this short-circuit the survivor’s genuine healing process that has the potential to result in greater self-knowledge? I mean, will you ever know what about you makes you prone to reacting to trauma in this way, why you are vulnerable to developing ptsd? What about all the hard work of plowing through it? Is this yet another instance of our need for instant gratification – a kind of drive-through clinic? But then again, will you ever thrive again without this medication? Most importantly: who decides?

There is also the question of spirituality, something often deeply affected by trauma, changed in your journey (if it survives), and deepened by the struggle to find light in the midst of darkness. Too often I think we forget about God and all He can tell us, and we do not ask God if the suffering is His Will. When does He say ‘grab hold of the rope and be pulled out,’ and when does He say ‘My grace is sufficient for you?’ In the face of such a powerful temptation as this kind of forgetfulness, will we be able to discern the difference?

Infallibility, Inerrancy And Truth

I went to my old Roman Catholic parish yesterday to witness the Confirmation of three children I know. (secretly, I also went to check out the new bishop. I think he’ll work out quite nicely) A lot of people will know that I love going to Confirmation; but that’s neither here nor there.

After the service, I ended up talking with the deacon, who was glad to see me and said the congregation misses me, and that I should come back more often. I mentioned that I was finding the separation from the Roman church quite difficult, partially because the liturgical structure at the church I have been attending is so alien. Then, of course, there are also the reasons of pure human weakness: loss of community, difficulty sorting out doctrine and belief in a systematic way, not being in communion formally with any church at all. I didn’t mention any of these latter reasons, largely because I know that I am willing and able to persevere while I am learning. Now, if I could just find a patient, magically coherent, passionate and open teacher who has the remarkable quality of actually wanting to teach me…wow: it sounds like I’m looking for a Mary Poppins!

Anyway, the deacon – who was Anglican and is now Roman Catholic – was telling me that one of the reasons he chose to be welcomed into the Roman church was because of its oneness and unity, which he felt he could not maintain in the Anglican church. Personally, I rather like aspects of the ‘looseness,’ but that’s neither here nor there. I, of course, have difficulty with the form this ‘unity’ takes in the Roman church for perhaps the same reasons the deacon admires it. By which I mean the doctrine of papal infallibility, which I reject as, at best, an unfortunate and incorrect phrasing of ‘first among equals,’ and, at worst, actual heresy insofar as this mis-expression is held to be literally true. In what may perhaps seem like an ironic twist, I do in fact accept the idea that the Pontiff is first among equals in relation to the bishops of the other four apostolic sees and the episcopate in general.

This requires some explanation. Or anyway, it probably does. Well then: how to begin? I believe in the one holy catholic and apostolic Church. Let’s start with oneness. If Holy Mother the Church is one – which she is – then we must all be still in communion with one another somehow, and that includes Rome. Misleadingly, Rome tends to define being in communion with it rather narrowly. However, what is obviously true is that all Christians everywhere accept the Creeds ratified by the (genuinely) ecumenical councils. Hence, though it visibly and superficially seems like we’re not all in communion with one another, at the deepest and most profound level we are, and that absolutely. If I didn’t believe this were true, I would never have done what I have done.

Okay: Holy. What does that even mean? Presumably the Church is holy because she is united to Jesus as the body of Christ. However, this does not mean that individual members of the Church are holy merely by extension. The Church is, after all, still in pilgrimage and full of sin. I think what it means is that the Church is an instrument of grace. I could be wrong: I also, for example, believe that the ‘keys’ given to Peter (and his Church) refer to the responsibility with which the Church is charged – leading people to salvation. So I’m definitely open to suggestion as to my definitions.

Next: Catholic. Strictly speaking, catholic means universal. There is no possible way the Church could be universal under her own power. Rather, I believe it is the sacraments themselves that make the Church catholic, most especially Holy Communion. In the celebration of the Eucharist given by Christ to the Church as a free gift, Christ in His sacrifice and priesthood is present. Christ is truly universal, truly everywhere; by the sacraments, this universality is manifested in the Church and becomes a characteristic of her being. It is not by seeing the Church that we find the sacraments, but by the presence of the sacraments that we see and find the Church. Maybe this is why there have been so many fights about the Blessed Sacrament?

Fourthly: Apostolic. This can mean any number of things. It means for one thing having and preserving the faith of the Apostles. Since this deposit of the faith was entrusted to the Church as steward and was ratified in the ecumenical councils, it stands to reason that every body of Christians confessing the Creed displays genuine apostolic succession. Um. And now I have a confession. Taking back nothing I just said, I really do believe that the episcopacy is the truest expression of that succession, partly because it is embodied. In valid Episcopal succession that extends unbroken and in which core formulas of ordination remain intact and in which the laying on of hands takes place as part of the rite of Holy Orders, I find the truest visible manifestation of apostolic succession that is also clearly tied in to the sacramentality of the Church.

I think this is one of the reasons I’m drawn to the Anglican Communion: I recognize true apostolic succession in its episcopacy. This helps me see and vibrantly maintain my understanding of Church. I also believe that the structure of the Anglican Communion more closely manifests the kind of oneness and catholicity that inheres in the Church. It is looser in its allowance of different liturgical expressions, it recognizes that catholicity is not uniformity, and it allows congregations to work out non-core doctrines in the context of tier own community’s needs, as opposed to regulating everything centrally.

Which brings me back to papal infallibility, which I reject. But I think the longness of this post means that I should save that discussion for next time.

p.s. please someone point out if I am a heretic so I can either prepare my defense or write my recantation speech. They have fancy champagne and flowers and awards at recantations, right? Or is that recitals…

Long Time Ago

When I was a child, God was a source of great strength and comfort. I am not quite sure exactly why I decided to seek God out – when I was about five, I told my mother I wanted to go to church every Sunday, and she agreed to bring me, thence beginning my journey. But I know that it was the same incomprehensible reason that I have done virtually everything in my devotional life. I felt that it what was what I was meant to do, what I wanted to do more than anything, what I was compelled to do. What I was drawn to do. There is something about God and about Church that fulfills the deepest and most secret longings of my heart.

God spoke to me in light, and in God I felt great joy and completeness, as though the whole world had fallen into place. In my childhood, I found opportunities to be by myself and think about God, and be still, as though time had stopped. I still don’t understand it: it’s like somehow being still and being apart while being in and moving within; it is like seeing the world and its events happen around you, and knowing that you’re there, and interacting with the world like normal, but also feeling as though you’re in a bubble or something, like you’ve carried a piece of the stillness away with you as a companion to your experiences. It’s kind of funny because as a child that experience was quite common and easy for me, but now that I’m older it’s more difficult, rarer, something I must ask for and sometimes struggle to achieve. I still don’t know what it is, though, or really how to describe it.

It was funny, because I would be in my space and for some reason other schoolchildren would come and talk to me, often just to talk, sometimes to ask for advice. And I have no idea why. But I felt like that, too, was something for which I had been prepared, something that was the whole point, something that I was supposed to do. It was never meant that I was supposed to be all by myself for myself.

I really can look back on my childhood through the lens of God and see it full of light. There is no experience that can cover that light, and nothing that can put out the fire of the love I so often felt burning through me.

But this is deceptive. It perpetuates a myth people sometimes have about what Christianity means and what it’s supposed to feel like, a myth often promulgated by reading the lives of the Saints. Especially the female Saints, whose actual experiences can be impossible to recover if they haven’t written their own autobiographies – and sometimes even then.

Among other things it’s the idea that devout Christians always feel happy and joyful because God makes them feel happy and joyful even in the midst of terrible persecution. I’m sure we can all think of some examples where the Saint’s faith led to her cheerfulness even in the worst possible circumstances. This is generally crap; but, unfortunately, there are many people who feel like their unhappiness means they’re not being good Christians. I admit that at times I’ve been one of them. A lot of the time, I still am. But I think that this assessment isn’t exactly accurate.

During my life, I’ve experienced things that made me feel great suffering, and I didn’t react with joy but with moments of despair. [warning: too much information time] When I was still young – eight at my first recollection, anyway – I did feel that I wanted to die so that I could escape pain that I felt. I remember this feeling quite distinctly because I did actually try to do it myself, even though I was so young. Luckily, my comprehension of physiology was at the same level as any other eight year old, so my plan was completely benign. Retrospectively, I recognize that this is the first moment that I experienced what despair is and what it can do. I felt that there was nothing, not even God, that could make it stop, or that could make me stop suffering, and that there was no purpose to any of it.

This was not the point of God’s work in my life. God did not, in fact, miraculously change my life so that bad things didn’t happen anymore. Nor did God wipe my sorrow away and replace it with serene calmness and acceptance. God did cradle me in his arms and help me fall asleep, and God was with me. But it is not the point of belief that life becomes all rainbows and butterflies, even if you wish it was. I think the point of Christian life is learning that God suffers with you so that you are never alone, and that God carries you through it so that you can come out the other side. God will not efface even one iota of your humanity, because that wouldn’t be compassion, not really. God does not refuse to suffer: nor should we.

Of course, this doesn’t mean God hasn’t intervened in my life at times when I was in great need. Nor does it mean my experiences of God haven’t themselves sometimes caused me sorrow. All that it means is that me thinking I’m a bad Christian because I feel unhappy, or terrified, or even hopeless, is a ridiculous idea. It just means that I’m human, and that it is in my sorrow and hopelessness that God embraces me. There is nothing, neither death nor life, nor powers nor principalities on earth or in the heavens, nothing now or to come, no height or depth, that can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus. For Jesus has overcome them all.

Now if I can just get that through my thick head and cram it into the bottom of my heart I’ll be fine.

Well, Now, That Is A New One

I had thought I’d come up with every reason in the book to avoid or back out of going to church, and that I’d tried them all. I’m too tired. It’s too far. I have other things I’m supposed to be doing (ex: homework). I’m scared. I don’t want to see someone who goes there. etc. etc.

(In fact, I’ve even gone all the way to churches and then decided actually going in to the service was a bad idea. Usually because of panic-type feelings revolving around the service itself, and that often because I had no idea what I was doing.)

But no. I’d missed an important reason.

Yep, the all-pervasive reason.

So anyway, I’m, like, going to this church today, right, and I admit that I was feeling a little awkward about it, because really who goes to confession at a church you’ve never met the priest at and then skips out on the service? I mean, besides from me? So, yeah, a little nervous.

The side door was locked, so I thought I’d try the main door. So I asked the people sitting in front of the main door if the church was open. They said that it wasn’t. I was like, okay, but the sign says there’s supposed to be a service.

So then someone said they’d show me the way in. That was nice. The he showed me to the other door to get in that I’d already tried. It was an attempt to be helpful, so I was grateful. But, still locked. I thought maybe I’d stick around a bit near the door and see if someone unlocked it, since I was, in fact, forty-five minutes early for Mass.

Then the guy hit on me.

Oh, it gets better, but I think I’ll leave out the rest.

So, anyway, I have now discovered a new reason to back out of going to church.

I’ll add it to the list.

Divine Mercy Sunday

I really do like Divine Mercy Sunday, though I’ve never been to an actual church service which observed it in the way it is designed to be celebrated. Celebration of the Divine Mercy begins on Good Friday and continues for nine days: this is a novena in the name of the Divine Mercy dedicated to nine different groups of people in need of mercy for one reason or another. It concludes with those who are ‘lukewarm’ who, in the revelation from whence this devotion comes, are described as those who caused Jesus the most pain during his Passion. (Interestingly, St Josemaria Escriva – Opus Dei guy – also thinks lukewarmness is terrible)

Devotion to the Divine Mercy is meant to help us realize that Jesus’ forgiveness and mercy are total, that he forgives even the worst sins. Part of the devotion – what I think of as the crucial part – is the giving of yourself over in complete trust to Jesus, believing firmly and absolutely that his mercy will indeed save you, covering over all your sins. Another crucial aspect of this devotion is that the person who observes it commits herself to actually being merciful, to living the mercy for others that Jesus has graciously given to her.

There are several parts to this devotion beyond the novena. The chaplet of the Divine Mercy is traditionally prayed on the feast of the Divine Mercy (today); the best case scenario is that it is prayed corporately, or at least in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. The chaplet makes use of ordinary rosary beads: it begins with the Lord’s Prayer, the Hail Mary, and the Apostles Creed. On the beads where the Our Father is normally recited, one says “Eternal Father, I offer You the Body and Blood, soul and divinity, of Your dearly beloved Son Our Lord Jesus Christ, in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world.” On the Hail Mary beads, one says “For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.” At the end of the chaplet, one repeats three times “Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One, have mercy on us and on the whole world.” It is not inappropriate to complete the chaplet, as I do, by saying “Lord Jesus, I trust in You.”

The image itself is meant to be publically venerated during the celebration. I have never been to a church that does this. The image was shown to St Faustina and Jesus directed her to have it painted and reveal it to the world. Jesus looks lovingly at the faithful, one hand beckoning and the other over his heart. From his heart emerge two rays of light, one red and one a kind of whitish-blue. The red represents the blood that flowed from his pierced side, as well as the life of the soul; the blueish-white represents the water, and the righteousifying of the soul. I believe Jesus promised her that the soul who recited this chaplet in genuine devotion and venerated the image would never die. Under the image are the words “Jesus, I trust in You.”

You might wonder why I’m going on and on about this devotion, even though I’ve only ever managed to celebrate it privately. Well, mostly it’s because I’d love to see this devotion spread. I would be happier if it was at least celebrated properly in all Roman Catholic churches, especially given its status (which I’ll explain later). In my perfect little dream world full of rainbows and fluffy clouds, other churches will observe this feast, too. After all, it was given to the world entire. The fact that the Roman Church has essentially declared this vision infallibly genuine is not a moment to be taken lightly; this is the highest degree of recognition possible for a private revelation, and it doesn’t happen often. So yes, I wish that I could be some sort of effective evangelist for the Divine Mercy feast and joyously spread it everywhere. Since this little un-noteworthy blog is the only quasi-forum I have, I am shamelessly hawking the feast here: ha!!

The ‘status’ of this feast I said I’d explain. In 2000, at St Faustina’s canonization, John Paul II instituted the second Sunday after Easter as the feast of the Divine Mercy, to be observed throughout the world. It was also granted by the Holy Father that a plenary indulgence is obtained by all those who observe the feast in the proper fashion.

In order to receive a plenary indulgence, a person must fulfill the normal requirements for indulgences (partial fulfillment of the requirements commutes the plenary indulgence to a partial).

WARNING: I HAVE REARRANGED THE REQUIREMENTS AND AM PARAPHRASING

The first of these is receiving the sacrament of Reconciliation. This must occur within twenty days in either direction of the granting of the indulgence (this is under the relaxed rules instituted for the Jubilee Year). I haven’t done this. I’m thinking I’m going to have to find an Anglican confessional ‘box’ somewhere within the next two weeks.

The second requirement is receiving Eucharist: it is fitting but not absolutely necessary that this be done on the day of the indulgence itself. I didn’t do this part either, because my local parish had morning prayer. Hopefully, I’ll manage tomorrow.

The third requirement is that one must desire, at least generally, to receive the indulgence. Done and done.

The fourth is that one must pray for the intentions of the Pope. Also done (and really quite simple and easy).

The fifth is that the devotion must be done devoutly and with sincerity. Yay: I think I did that.

The sixth requirement is that one be in good standing with the church. Not excommunicated. Um. How exactly are we defining ‘Church?’ I’m thinking that I haven’t pulled this one off exactly. Oops. But technically, technically, this condition applies not to the person performing the devotion for which an indulgence is granted but to the person who is the recipient of the indulgence. All indulgences (or anyway almost all) are transferrable to souls in Purgatory, though not to anyone else who’s currently alive. I haven’t gained an indulgence for myself in quite some time – I’m banking on Viaticum. Here’s hoping I don’t die suddenly! So, presumably, some pious and devout soul in Purgatory who most needed it just got my indulgence, or anyway will when I finally fulfill my missing requirements.

Victory!!

Now: does anyone know of any parish or individual with potential interest in observing this feast in the future? Because I’m all for promoting it!

Come
and eat from the Tree of Life,
for He is the Bread that’s given;
lifted up on high branches
to glory.

See
how the Cross in the springtime flowers,
bringing new life upon the earth,
and transforming the gloomy morning
forever.
See
how we kneel at the foot of the Cross,
giving worship to our true Lord,
Who has saved us from all our sorrow
Forever.

Come
and eat from the Tree of Life,
for He is the Bread that’s given;
lifted up on high branches
to glory.

“I
am the Way and the Truth and the Life,
he who comes to Me shall not hunger,
he who believes in Me shall not die,
but live forever.”

Come
and eat from the Tree of Life,
for He is the Bread that’s given;
lifted up on high branches
to glory.

See
how our God, once hung on a tree,
once laid in a final tomb,
has rolled away death’s sting
forever.
See
how the marks in His hands remind us
of His Divine Mercy for us,
Lord Jesus I trust in You
Forever.

Come
and eat from the Tree of Life,
for He is the Bread that’s given;
lifted up on high branches
to glory.

--A little song written for this day (and I do realize that I’ve posted this up elsewhere).

Vigil

Christ is risen! Alleluia!

I love the Easter Vigil! Such a beautiful service, such a wondrous miracle! I love the darkness and the light, water and oil, gold and red and incense for the five wounds and all manner of marvelous things.

I have always loved the Vigil. It makes me feel as though a huge weight has been lifted off of me and I can finally breathe again. I like to fast at least the second half of Holy Saturday - better the whole day if I can - because it helps me to feel like Lent is crushing me. It's probably strange that I like that. But I haven't done much else but pray since Maundy Thursday (as usual) so I'm not under any taxing physical strain that would make this impossible. I like to feel like it's crushing me under its weight, a weight that shifts so suddenly from total darkness to bright candlelight, from unbearable to sweet. Come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest; take my yoke upon your shoulders, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light. It is a bright sadness, this Holy Saturday, because it is transformed into dancing, and the night is turned into day.

I usually get teary-eyed during the Vigil - not because of the incense but because it makes me so emotional. I feel such relief and gladness, such overwhelming...such an overwhelming sense of God and of gratitude and amazement and my own unworthiness that is nonetheless lifted up and taken into Jesus' arms.

This year's Vigil was especially poignant. I went to a church where the service was absolutely beautiful. It was exactly perfect. They used the Book of Common Prayer, which I love: aside from its beauty, it was the first prayer book I ever owned, and it as much as anything has been a transforming force within the path of my faith. They used liturgical forms based on a Pre-Vatican II service, so I was able to incorporate gestures that have been suppressed by the new Latin Rite Mass. This might seem like a simple and unimportant thing, but it isn't. For the first time, I feel as though I am free to indulge my own preferences, my own feelings, to make the signs and motions that my heart has always been compelled to make but that I had to hide secretly within myself. I love the way the Vigil floods me, and I feel like I have come out of myself, that if I reach up - look up - just a little bit, I will see the Light of God. I enjoy turning my face upward and letting it sink into me, bathe me in its Glory, move my soul and my heart to joyful tears. Like a deer that longs for running streams, my soul longs for You, my God.

It was especially poignant as well because I have been to several Vigils involving adults being welcomed into the church, and adult baptism as well. It was always such a powerful moment, saying the Creed alongside them, renewing our baptismal vows. It was poignant this year to be at a Vigil knowing that I do not have a church, a congregation, a family to which I belong. Unlike the people with whom I have celebrated, I am not welcomed into any church. I honestly don't know if I would be: I am, after all, a little strange. Such a silly little child, so childlike and odd, different, exactly myself without compromise, exactly myself even when I am lost trying to follow the echo of God's voice into the deep darkness wherein I can perceive a bright shining light. I do not know that there will ever be a church that would truly welcome me as I am. But I do know that, regardless of that, we can nevertheless stand together in the sight of our Risen Lord and profess the same vows, swear by the same Creed. We will draw water joyfully from the springs of salvation.

I did not feel nearly afraid at Eucharist as usual: the Lord is kind and merciful to me; the God of mercy, the God Who saves. This itself, even if only for one day, such an overwhelming gift to know that I need not always flee the terrors of the night, nor stand alone before the light of day; God will not let harm come to me, no arrow strike me down, no evil settle in my soul.

Because I was able to bring home the candle I used during the service (yay!), I will light that in thankfulness for the final resurrection of our blessed dead, instead of lighting votive candles.

He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Tantum Ergo

Today, we wear white vestments; today, we sing the Gloria; today, we celebrate the institution of the Lord’s Supper. Such a great gift in the midst of such a terrible time. I do not comprehend it.

Before the Mass, there’s the ceremony of the washing of the feet. I remember as a child following the priest as he knelt on the floor, moving in a semi-circle. I remember how our bowl of water leaked, so one of our jobs was to have lots of paper towels to dry the floor with. I loved this service: serving the server. We are all of us servants of the Lord. What I need to remember is that service, too, is sacrifice, sacrament. The most lowly service is also the highest; he who chooses the most excellent place is also the most humbled. What I need to remember is that our Lord first served.

I went to the Maundy Thursday service at a church I’d never been to for Mass but to which practically everyone had been telling me to go. It felt like…an adventure to a familiar but unknown longed for place. I love incense; the ritual is beautiful; the music is soaring. I learnt that I had become used to leaning on the front of pews for balance while standing in church.

It’s actually refreshing that I don’t know what’s going on sometimes: what are they bowing to, what is he doing up there, why is he ‘bowing’ like that, why are the images already covered, what’s the point of a choir screen that doesn’t block your view while kneeling? I was surprised that the Gospel was chanted. I was also surprised that the Tantum Ergo wasn’t sung in Latin. But I get ahead of myself. I like that this is something of a mystery to me. If you haven’t noticed, I quite like reflecting on liturgy, on gesture. This is something that I can turn over in my mind, seek and ask into, discover something new about worship, about myself. It’s a little scary in a way, not knowing after so much knowing, but it’s exciting and intriguing, too.

The celebration of the Mass takes on a new poignancy on Holy Thursday. Jesus, so careful to make sure we get to this place and this moment, at table with his betrayer gave to the world the Sacrament of His Body and Blood. Take and eat; do this for the remembrance of me. We partake in his Sacrifice to the end of the world.

I was prepared enough today to be able to receive Eucharist (though I’m still confused about specific fasting requirements). I admit that reading the Mass booklet freaked me out, though; I mean, it says you have to be in communion with your church and, well, since I have no church, I’m clearly not. I am always afraid someone will notice that I don’t know what I’m doing and call me on it. Or that, you know, God will strike me down: ouch.

I love the Blessed Sacrament, I love it so much! This is a part of me. Sometimes I feel like I’m on fire for it, full of light. It can be so sweet, like honey maybe, filling my mouth. I love how I can feel the Consecration, the Spirit, feel it like a wonderful shiver running through my skin. A bit like how I feel when I hear great church music.

Obviously, I stayed behind for a while at the altar of repose. I was grateful that I managed to somehow carve out a space for praying where there was no one behind me who could see what I was doing: God was with me. I can be a little intense in my adoration, especially when it’s combined with vigil. I don’t know that people would be understanding of the things that I do.

What does it mean to adore the Blessed Sacrament and to keep vigil? To give thanks for a marvelous gift and keep painful watch with Jesus in his agony in the garden? If it would remove one instant of his torment, I would give God my life and let Him take it. What I feel, this small part of being with, so difficult and searing, what is that compared to the suffering of our Savior? For one less tear of sorrow shed by him, I would gladly die.

It is a powerful and unnamable thing to keep watch and to give thanks at the same time. In a way, Good Friday is so much simpler. I cannot faithfully describe it, caught between joy and torment, sorrow and thanksgiving. There are no words that could even hold it in my heart, and it fills me up. I am too small for it: it overcomes me.

Maundy Thursday: the word, I learned, means ‘mandate.’ Jesus’ commandment that we love one another as he has loved us…for whatever reason, that has never been the focus of the day for me. I have not focused on the command, nor meditated on it during my Holy Thursday devotions. I have always reflected, rather, on the gift of the Eucharist – the gift, and not the demand. At first I thought centering my thought on the command was strange, but the more I think about it, the more it becomes clearer, deeper. What is it to love Christ but to understand that Eucharist is never only for us as individuals? I mean, of course it’s for us: the Blood is shed for the whole world as a communion of persons, and not as some abstract philosophical gestalt reality. But we are not meant to keep it to ourselves. Eucharist spills over and out of us, turning us outward toward each other; we go to the altar so that the altar can send us forth into the world embodying the message of the Cross, the Gospel of unmerited gift. Of course it is all about the new commandment. I am thankful that a chance question gave me the opportunity to reflect on this, and to express and honor more deeply the organic connection between the two.

Sweet Jesus, I lay myself before you as nothing, offering only longing to take away or make reparation for your pain. Live in me in all your sorrow and anguish, and transform my life into that for which I am made.

Way Of The Cross

Oh my Jesus,

My beloved, to hear the voice condemning you, after so much pain and humiliation has already been inflicted, I cannot bear it. Oh my heart! How can I walk beside you to the end? And yet to leave you would be more than I can bear. With that terrible crown upon your head, you come toward a terrible victory. I can feel its sharpness pressing into my head as if it were my own. And I will follow you, weeping.

To see you walking in such pain, with arms bound tight to the cross you carried on your shoulders; with all the dust sticking to your legs, mingling with the drying blood that flowed down upon them. Oh my love! How I wish that I could carry it for you!

I feel you falling to the ground, arms all helpless to stop yourself as you land heavily on your chest. Oh my beloved! How I wish I could pick you up in my arms and carry you, cradle you!

Oh child! There is no pain like this! How does a mother understand the pain of her child without feeling it? How does she not feel it? How do I, who is joined to you, not embrace you as you pass by?

Oh my heart! Please, let me carry it for you, if only for a little while, but for a little while. For, through your promise, we two are one; to make it lighter for you is a delightful weight.

I see the sweat and blood flowing down your face, mingling with your tears and stinging your eyes. Do you see me, beloved, as I see you? Oh, to cradle your face in my hands, wiping you gently with a soft cloth, kissing you softly as in a dream! Oh my beloved! The image of you is burned into my soul.

I hear resounding the searing crack as you fall again, slicing your knees open on the hard ground, exhausted. If I could but kiss your broken skin, try to heal the wounds as you have healed me!

Oh my Lord! How do I cry out in agony at seeing you! Your body broken for me, your blood spilling upon the ground. It is torment to look upon you, and yet I cannot turn away. I cry for you loudly, beloved: do you hear me?

Again, you fall, your chest landing heavily, your heart beginning to break. Oh my beloved! How does it go on beating? How do you get back up?

Oh sweet Jesus! Your naked skin, vulnerable and torn, exposed to unforgiving sun and jeers as the soldiers tear your clothes. Oh my Lord! If I could but cover you with my body, hold you close in your fragility, as you have held be. How I wish to caress you gently, my hands soothing on your broken skin.

Oh my hands! How do I feel it so vividly as they pierce through your skin and bone and muscle? Oh child Jesus! The blood coating your hands and feet when you were born was brighter somehow.

I cannot breathe as you cannot breathe; struggling against torn skin to pull yourself upward, to take in air through the pain. Oh my soul, we are dying together!

How I wish that I could sing you to sleep! Your arms outstretched upon the Cross, embracing all our pain and brokenness in the agony of your suffering. You do not sleep, and I cannot soothe you. I can only look upwards in mute horror as the smell of your broken body surrounds me.

Oh my beloved! You have pierced my soul with a spear covered in precious stones, and the pain of it has given me life. Oh my beloved! You have bound me to you in a promise made secretly in the night, as I took you into my arms. Oh my love, how you have held me in my pain! How do I wish that I could hold you so soothingly, become one with you so completely. Today I can only hold you in your death, my beloved.

Your body now held in my arms, still warm and soft, as still as a calm sea. Oh my heart! How can I bear it? To hold you for much longer is more than I can bear, yet I cannot open my arms to release you. Oh how I long to hold you forever in my embrace!

Dark and cold, fragrant with spices, your body carefully wrapped in new linen cloth. You are yourself but not yourself; you are my beloved, here with my, held in my longing gaze, and yet you are already gone. Oh my Jesus! What has been done to you?

Open The Gates Before Him; Lift Up Your Voices!

Wow: Palm Sunday. Holy Week has now begun. I have to admit, I’m a bit shell-shocked, unprepared. Can this really all be happening so quickly? I wish this wasn’t all happening at the same time the school semester is ending. I find myself wondering whether or not my scholastic endeavors can ever really be harmonized with my Christian life – eventually, something’s gotta give. What’s most important to me should be obvious from the fact that I find reflecting on my experiences through this blog more pressing than proofreading the assignment that’s due tomorrow, or for that matter researching term papers. School, I have found, is not at all understanding of the fact that I value my spiritual life – my liturgical confession of faith – as much as I value breathing and much more than I value knowledge. I guess that settles it: I need to find some sort of church job. Anyone in need of a secretary?

Because liturgy is my oxygen, I take it rather seriously. Perhaps too much. But it’s the only way I can know my faith, live it and breathe it in and move and have my being in it. It’s the water at the root of things that gives me the strength to live my faith, or at least to try.

So: Palm Sunday. It began with the congregation in the hall rather than the church proper, which I thought was pretty cool, mostly because of what followed. So the priest blessed the palms. I found this part a little strange, because he didn’t use aspersion with holy water, rather just touching them with his hand. I didn’t realize you could bless anything without holy water. Except of course holy water itself…hmmm…never thought of that. And I guess rosaries don’t get blessed with holy water. I suppose it makes sense.

What was super awesome was that the whole congregation (at least in theory) went in procession around the church. I’d never seen that: the church I used to go to had the children processing from the sacristy while the adults remained in the pews. I wonder who we are in the story: are we the disciples? Are we people from the crowd who decide to join in? If we’re all following Jesus, who’s strewing the palm leaves on the ground and praising him? Maybe we aren’t limited to only one of these roles: maybe we’re the crowd and the disciples; maybe we both follow and greet; maybe we are Judas, and all those who turn against him. Are we not all these things at some point in our lives? I don’t know. All I know is that we sang Hosanna, and all participated in the procession and liturgy, and it was wonderful.

I knew that the priest wouldn’t be using a cape. He did, however, put on a Jewish prayer shawl during part of the service, and I thought that was lovely.

I was shocked when I realized that the Passion wasn’t going to be read: I didn’t know you could even have a Palm Sunday service without it. I’m actually pretty devastated. It made me sad; it made me panic a bit; it made me wonder what on earth it was that I’d done. Has this been the right decision? Am I ready to leave behind the rituals that I have so deeply loved, that have shaped my life? It made me realize how completely unknown the Anglican church is to me: how foreign, how formless it is in my mind and my heart. How deep these waters whose bottom I cannot see, whose greatness and vastness of life I cannot fathom.

Of course, I was also sad that they didn’t celebrate Eucharist. But, then again, I already knew that they don’t do it every Sunday – itself a foreign concept to me. I admit that I also miss singing songs that are familiar to me.

Luckily, I have a subscription to Novalis’ daily missal, Living With Christ, so I have the entire text of the Passion as it was supposed to be read today. I’m going to read it instead of evening prayer. It isn’t at all the same, and I am melancholy about that, but at least I will be able to experience the Word. Though I must admit, it’s not at all right to be experiencing it all alone.

But at least I have that option.

I can’t do anything about Eucharist, though.

They. Didn't. Read. The. Passion. Of. Our. Lord. Jesus. Christ

:(

Rising to Heaven

Many of my most intense encounters with the Divine have occurred during the liturgy of the Mass. I have always had a very emotional connection with liturgy, and experiencing it is the primary mode in which I worship God. I guess what I mean to say is that I pray to and feel a connection with God in the liturgy when I get caught up in it. I do have a personal preference for ‘high’ liturgy: for me, it’s a way of soaring above myself while simultaneously being caught up in the smallest details. I love ornate ritual, I love the care put into every gesture. I love it when it’s so completely separate from the everyday. It makes me so happy I want to burst; I feel content, overflowing, like I am where I’m supposed to be. Like I’ve fallen into place and everything has come together.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate a simpler liturgy: I enjoy the unadorned, too, so long as it’s carried out with decorum and care. The simple is beautiful. But it isn’t who I am.

And, when it comes right down to it, it isn’t who I desire to be.

A secret: liturgy is mainly why I go to church, it is how I choose a church, and it is how I feel I belong. I am not alone in this: it is with God that I try to discern my way. God will show me the way home, and will embrace me when I have reached it.

A confession: my changed experience of the liturgy was the impetus that finally spurred me out of the Latin-rite church. I had always had beliefs at variance with the church, but I remained because I still experienced God deeply during worship.

But God with His sword pierced my heart and called me out. I was reluctant to rely on my personal understanding too much. But, gradually, the sensations of liturgical praise began to leave me, and politics began to get in the way. Slowly, I was disentangled from the rituals I had passionately loved; slowly, I began to feel a distance from God.

The day that I went to church and participated in the Mass and felt absolutely nothing was the day I knew I had to leave.

I hope and I pray fervently that when I have discovered my liturgical home God will return my feeling to me, so that I can soar again, feel again, truly worship again. Love God again.

One Small Step And A Giant Leap

The Evangelical Lutheran and the Anglican Church in Canada are in full communion with each other – of course, for me this is a completely revolutionary idea: that people might actually want others to receive their Eucharist. Welcome, but revolutionary. Anyway, I was fully aware of this. What I had not anticipated was that I would be receiving Eucharist in a non-Anglican service so soon. That was…unexpected.

I felt like I was in over my head. I mean, it took me months after not being Roman Catholic anymore to finally be in a place where I could participate in the Mass. And now, within the space of two weeks, I’ve received in two different churches. As we know, I don’t handle rapid change very well (any change, really), so figuring out what to do on the fly was challenging. Particularly since I was already nervous / panicking / scared.

This fear thing, I’m sure, will fade over time – or at least settle down to the low-level static fear I would periodically experience before. Instead of, you know, panic attacks.

Certainly, part of my nervousness derives from the fact that I’m interrupting an enduring pattern of not receiving Communion at all. Part of it is surely because I fear bringing condemnation down on myself. Perhaps often overlooked, by myself and others, is the fact that I’m going against two decades of ingrained teaching – ‘indoctrination’ if you will – by which I had always abided. I’m absolutely sure that what I’m doing is right, and that I’m doing it for true and right reasons. But the problem with having been a devout Roman Catholic is that, well, I was a devout Roman Catholic. A bit of an anarchist rebel, perhaps, but still observant of the law. Because I had consciously chosen to obey even rules with which I disagreed, the breaking of those rules still makes me kind of nervous.

Ah, well.

I learned about a new saint today: Frederick Denison Maurice. I like him; he was into social justice. And educating women. And unity. Awesome!

Oh, and I secured a copy of my baptismal record. *phew* Since I bypassed the priest (thank you Jesus for secretaries!), there wasn’t any fuss.