I saw the sign!!
No, seriously. I was wondering where the heck I was going to go for imposition of ashes, and on Shrove Tuesday, while I was walking to school to go get library books, I saw that little red-digital-sign (what are those things called anyway?) in front of Christ Church Cathedral telling me what time their service was. So anyone out there who’s ever doubted the efficacy of those sign thingies has now been proven wrong.
I love Ash Wednesday, which I guess is a little bit odd, since it’s a solemn day, the beginning of the longest forty (-six) days of the year. But I like the opportunity to give my faith-life a swift kick in the pants. For me, it’s a chance to get back on track, get back to God, get back to some serious, serious prayer. Normally, I would have gone to confession either in the morning or the day before – never good to start out Lent under a looming cloud of guilt and sin. But, as we have seen (yes, I know, I am a bit repetitive), the sacrament of reconciliation is currently problematic. Specifically, my access to it is restricted, so…yeah. Restricted, as in non-existent. The Lent-without-confession is a little jarring and disjointed.
I’d never been to the Cathedral before because it is intimidating. Church buildings scare me sometimes. Will I be struck by lightning? I’m not good enough to be here – everyone will know I don’t belong. How will I deal with the unknown location of things? Luckily, I coerced someone into going with me: *phew*. It was a lot smaller than I had imagined, somehow. No big giant echoing smallness.
I like that the sacramental ashes are made from the previous year’s palm leaves. It’s touching and important to recall that Jesus’ triumphal entry into the city was greeted with great joy, that was then proceeded, or course, by His crucifixion. That joy, too, was symbolically burned away by our own guilt, soon to become our reconciliation. Like that Opus Dei guy said, we each and every one of us daily crucify Jesus with our sins. But the admission of our guilt, and our belief in the Good News, is – through the ultimate and only Sacrifice – our gateway to salvation. I like how the origin of the ashes links the beginning of Lenten repentance to the joy of encountering Jesus entering the city, itself embedded in the narrative of His Passion, Resurrection and Ascension. The liturgical year in miniature, encapsulated in one day: the ever-flowing cycle of guilt, repentance, sorrow and joy, ever reminding me that at the end of the path there is Life, giving me the courage to follow it through to the end – as well as the knowledge that joy, too, will fade into the ordinary as I forget to keep my life centered fully on God, moving through the days imperfectly, and that the cycle of guilt, repentance, sorrow and joy will be the pattern of my imperfect, human life.
The Gospel reading from Matthew, of course, lambasts the hypocrite praying in the temple and bids us to pray in secret for our Father Who knows in secret, that He will give us our reward. I began to think about what that means in a world where we go around smudging ashes on our foreheads – a thinking process I was actually sort of coerced into.
Well, I thought about it. In one sense, it’s actually more pious-looking to hold back from doing it, since then you totally stand out. But that in itself is not so bad. It’s the question of public piety in general that is disturbing. We are, after all, a confessing Church. If it is hypocritical to be a minority people going out into the city streets with black crosses writing our Christianity on us, is it hypocritical that the martyrs gave their lives in witness to the faith? Undoubtedly, what they did as a minority stands out quite a bit more than ashes. Does this mean it is hypocritical piety to proclaim our identity as Christians, to wear crosses and religious medallions, to walk into a church? It is hard to understand what Jesus meant by hypocrisy.
Seen by others, loving to be seen by others, is a disposition of the heart, perceived only by God. Luke, I think makes it easier to understand, because his hypocrite’s prayer consists of giving thanks that he is not like the other sinners, predominantly because he fasts and gives alms. In this case, both the visible pieties and the glorification of the self are combined. Surely the problem is not that others see you, but that you do it to be seen; surely it is that your heart is self-satisfied, that you believe in self-justification instead of supplication, that your heart is storing up riches that will pass away. It is the heart that is ultimately the place where you pray in secret; the heart is the room with the closed door beyond which no person can see. The prayer of the heart, and the longings of the heart, its motivations and joys, are the secret known only to God, and therefore given to Him alone, and it is this prayer – this secret heart – that will, at the end, be made known.
I admit that I love being part of a tradition, that I love being among people experiencing the same rituals as I am. It reminds me that I am part of a family, an unbroken, unbreakable family gathered around the promise of Christ. I love the corporeality, the bodily feeling of ashes, sacramentals, peace, Sacraments. It makes me feel alive and connected and, sometimes, an almost unbearable swelling of love, the vulnerability of feeling that I have been opened up and joined together with the whole congregation of the saints. I love that we feel and touch and taste, that we kneel, face Eastward, sing and speak and praise. This is exactly what experiencing Christianity is for me, the reality that I can’t be a Christian by myself, without a community. Ah, Tradition! How I do (mostly) love thee!
Then, of course, there was the celebration of the Eucharist. Of course, I didn’t go up and receive. Foolish little girl, longing to run up, longing to be…complete. Fullfilled. Full to overflowing. When will God make me ready? When will I permit myself to be ready, prepared? I am afraid. I am a sinner, longing for forgiveness, and I am afraid. I hate being there and not receiving Eucharist – a relatively common occurrence for me even when I was still a Roman Catholic going to Roman Catholic churches. Nearness to tears, such sadness and despair, and yet constrained, held almost forcibly back, but with such pain, it is a feeling that is hard to describe and even harder to contain. It always, always hurts unbearably.
And I feel so alone.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Angelus
Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariæ.
The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary. I imagine what it must have been like for her: such a young girl, such an overwhelming apparition. In our own lives – in my life – so much that has been overwhelming is negative. I think of ‘overwhelming’ and I do not think of the miraculous, the angelic or the blessed. But, of course, that is where I go wrong.
Hail Mary, full of grace! But we, too, are also called, also called to be full of grace. I remember, as a child. Finding so much sheer joy and pleasure in God. I still do, really, when I take the time to stand still and listen. Oh, the radiant light of God! I wonder if that was what she felt like, lit up from the inside out, as if the whole world had fallen into place and she felt like she would burst from joy. It is such a sweetness, and so overwhelming sometimes, that I don’t know what to do with it. Mary, my guiding star, help me to be steadfast in the presence of overwhelming grace and forgiveness, and to remember that what is awesome often feels overwhelming and terrifying.
Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto.
And she conceived by the Holy Ghost. To bear a child in a sense not your own but also fully your own; a child in itself an overwhelming gift. Imagine doing so at the request of God! Redemption for the world…
The Lord is with thee! I had felt once, when I was much younger, that bearing a child and giving birth could be redemptive. A baby, after all, is someone’s miracle: so many people wanting so desperately to cherish that fragile life. For a time, I had hoped desperately that my sorrow – though by no means so great as hers – might be so redeemed. Although this did not, ultimately, come to pass as I had believed, in the hope itself I learned a great deal about myself: that responding in the love of God to challenges is a deep source of strength. I understand that the Lord is with me especially in the moments that seem anything but miraculous.
Ecce Ancilla Domini.
Behold the handmaid of the Lord. To follow God and to serve Him: what more could any of us want! There is so much pleasure and gladness in finding a way to serve. It is like coming home, like finding yourself. It’s like prayer: God didn’t give us prayer because it would make Him happy – what does He need us for, when the whole earth is His? – but because it helps us to be what we are created to be. In serving and honoring God, we fulfill the deepest longing of our humanity.
Blessed art thou among women! Oh, to be Mary! This, again, reminds me that blessedness does not always feel happy or easy; sometimes, it is found in sorrow, in travail, even in doubt. I, too, long to be blessed. God is with us as we seek to be as selfless as Mary.
Fiat mihi secundum Verbum tuum.
Be it done unto me according to your Word. I pray the devotion to the Seven Sorrows of Mary on Saturday. I love praying it: it’s not at all depressing. Simeon’s prophesy; the flight into Egypt; Jesus lost in the temple; meeting Jesus carrying His cross; the crucifixion; Jesus being taken down from the cross; Jesus being laid in the tomb. It is uplifting for me.
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus! Two lives, so deeply intertwined! How can there be blessedness without sorrow? I long to reframe my life through her eyes, to re-envision anything bad through this light. I have, actually, been really blessed in my suffering, though of course that’s impossible to see at the time. All my seemingly worst experiences allowed me to engage in a sort-of ministry: not a ministry, exactly, so much as a precious gift. If I had not been where I have been, and felt what I have felt, so many wonderful people I have met, when they were at difficult times in their own lives, would have always been strangers, and I would have been granted nothing to give them. Really – REALLY – I have been so blessed!
Et Verbum caro factum est.
And the Word was made flesh. I still remember my first communion…the little white dress my mother sewed for me (I think it’s still in my closet), the little white gloves and the little white purse. Also, I wanted white tappy shoes soooooo bad, but couldn’t find any in the stores that fit me. I think my shoes were shiny. It’s funny: you wait so long and expect something so big and, in most ways, it’s so incredibly…normal.
Holy Mary, Mother of God! How did it feel to hold Him in your arms? So small and fragile, so beautiful and human, so incredible and normal. We’ve turned you into this almost mystical figure, but really you’re also Jesus’ mom. You took care of him when he cried all night, when he was sick and had a fever, and was tired and cranky. I like thinking of you that way because it gives me another window through which to see Jesus. Instead of a celestial, unreachable King, He is right beside me, wanting to play.
Et habitavit in nobis.
And dwelt among us. I try to see Jesus in everyone I meet. And I’ve been so lucky to have met Him in so many ways! The priest who founded the parish I used to belong to, Fr. Sullivan, was an amazing example. He got the church built with a free-standing altar before Vatican II in a stunning feat of prescience, and then just had to relocate the tabernacle to a side altar. Classical architecture, and a LOT of abstract stained glass. It’s a beautiful building. But it’s what he did for the people. He was always so incredible funny and friendly and warm; even after he’d been moved away to another church, he always came back for important occasions, always made sure to be there. He was a fantastic priest: you could look at him and know that it was really his vocation, that he was good at it and loved doing it. I mean, how many people would take so well to being handed a surprise parish to create that had been formed without your knowledge, having discovered what was going on only after being summoned by the Bishop to go there? The new church was built after the old one (which housed what are now two parishes) burnt down. That church had so much promise, was so full of life and growth, attracting a future saint and many good families. He was a fantastic priest, the image of Christ, and – though he had served many congregations – he chose to have his funeral and burial at this one. He is greatly missed.
Pray for us sinners now. I have a pretty strong Marian devotion, which I’m not entirely sure people are aware of. Of course, I pray the Seven Sorrows, which is I guess a little strange since most people don’t know there’s a whole separate kind of rosary to pray it with. But I also pray the rosary, and sing lots of Marian hymns, and try to pray what’s called a ‘worker’s rosary’ before Mass. I keep a decade in my bag just in case. Also, as may or may not be obvious, I am fond of the Angelus, though I admit I don’t wake up at 6:00 AM to say it. Asking for Mary’s intercessions has become comforting, and the rosary a way of entering into meditation. (I don’t normally meditate on its mysteries though; I prefer to focus on the prayers.)
Ora pro nobis, Sancta Dei Genetrix.
Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi.
Pray for us, Holy Mother of God,
That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. You remind me that even though we are all fallen, all sinners, all imperfect human beings, God has chosen to dwell inside us, in the Holy Spirit, counting us worthy to stand in His presence to serve Him, choosing us as vessels of His good work. You are the ultimate sign of hope, and of courage. I long to live up to your example. For though we are but humble servants, in our very mortality God has created a place among us for His saving love.
And at the hour of our death. When I was in sinful despair, and couldn’t feel the presence of God, or bear to reach out to Him with my unclean hands, Mary was always there. Always within grasp. God is always in reach, too, but somehow your lesser blessedness was easier to understand. I had not prayed the rosary for many years. When I was twenty-three, I was very sick, and I was afraid I might die. In panic and fear of death, one night I reached out for an old rosary impulsively and prayed for deliverance, that you would ask God to save my life. Through you, Jesus granted me a miracle and, against all reason and appearance, I lived. My Marian devotional practice grew up from that moment, and I am forever grateful.
Gratiam tuam quæsumus, Domine, mentibus nostris infunde; ut qui, angelo nuntiante, Christi Filii tui Incarnationem cognovimus, per passionem eius et crucem, ad resurrectionis gloriam perducamur. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum.
Pour forth, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy grace into our hearts, that we, to whom the Incarnation of Christ Thy Son was made known by the message of an angel, may by His Passion and Cross be brought to the glory of His Resurrection. Through the same Christ our Lord.
Amen.
The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary. I imagine what it must have been like for her: such a young girl, such an overwhelming apparition. In our own lives – in my life – so much that has been overwhelming is negative. I think of ‘overwhelming’ and I do not think of the miraculous, the angelic or the blessed. But, of course, that is where I go wrong.
Hail Mary, full of grace! But we, too, are also called, also called to be full of grace. I remember, as a child. Finding so much sheer joy and pleasure in God. I still do, really, when I take the time to stand still and listen. Oh, the radiant light of God! I wonder if that was what she felt like, lit up from the inside out, as if the whole world had fallen into place and she felt like she would burst from joy. It is such a sweetness, and so overwhelming sometimes, that I don’t know what to do with it. Mary, my guiding star, help me to be steadfast in the presence of overwhelming grace and forgiveness, and to remember that what is awesome often feels overwhelming and terrifying.
Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto.
And she conceived by the Holy Ghost. To bear a child in a sense not your own but also fully your own; a child in itself an overwhelming gift. Imagine doing so at the request of God! Redemption for the world…
The Lord is with thee! I had felt once, when I was much younger, that bearing a child and giving birth could be redemptive. A baby, after all, is someone’s miracle: so many people wanting so desperately to cherish that fragile life. For a time, I had hoped desperately that my sorrow – though by no means so great as hers – might be so redeemed. Although this did not, ultimately, come to pass as I had believed, in the hope itself I learned a great deal about myself: that responding in the love of God to challenges is a deep source of strength. I understand that the Lord is with me especially in the moments that seem anything but miraculous.
Ecce Ancilla Domini.
Behold the handmaid of the Lord. To follow God and to serve Him: what more could any of us want! There is so much pleasure and gladness in finding a way to serve. It is like coming home, like finding yourself. It’s like prayer: God didn’t give us prayer because it would make Him happy – what does He need us for, when the whole earth is His? – but because it helps us to be what we are created to be. In serving and honoring God, we fulfill the deepest longing of our humanity.
Blessed art thou among women! Oh, to be Mary! This, again, reminds me that blessedness does not always feel happy or easy; sometimes, it is found in sorrow, in travail, even in doubt. I, too, long to be blessed. God is with us as we seek to be as selfless as Mary.
Fiat mihi secundum Verbum tuum.
Be it done unto me according to your Word. I pray the devotion to the Seven Sorrows of Mary on Saturday. I love praying it: it’s not at all depressing. Simeon’s prophesy; the flight into Egypt; Jesus lost in the temple; meeting Jesus carrying His cross; the crucifixion; Jesus being taken down from the cross; Jesus being laid in the tomb. It is uplifting for me.
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus! Two lives, so deeply intertwined! How can there be blessedness without sorrow? I long to reframe my life through her eyes, to re-envision anything bad through this light. I have, actually, been really blessed in my suffering, though of course that’s impossible to see at the time. All my seemingly worst experiences allowed me to engage in a sort-of ministry: not a ministry, exactly, so much as a precious gift. If I had not been where I have been, and felt what I have felt, so many wonderful people I have met, when they were at difficult times in their own lives, would have always been strangers, and I would have been granted nothing to give them. Really – REALLY – I have been so blessed!
Et Verbum caro factum est.
And the Word was made flesh. I still remember my first communion…the little white dress my mother sewed for me (I think it’s still in my closet), the little white gloves and the little white purse. Also, I wanted white tappy shoes soooooo bad, but couldn’t find any in the stores that fit me. I think my shoes were shiny. It’s funny: you wait so long and expect something so big and, in most ways, it’s so incredibly…normal.
Holy Mary, Mother of God! How did it feel to hold Him in your arms? So small and fragile, so beautiful and human, so incredible and normal. We’ve turned you into this almost mystical figure, but really you’re also Jesus’ mom. You took care of him when he cried all night, when he was sick and had a fever, and was tired and cranky. I like thinking of you that way because it gives me another window through which to see Jesus. Instead of a celestial, unreachable King, He is right beside me, wanting to play.
Et habitavit in nobis.
And dwelt among us. I try to see Jesus in everyone I meet. And I’ve been so lucky to have met Him in so many ways! The priest who founded the parish I used to belong to, Fr. Sullivan, was an amazing example. He got the church built with a free-standing altar before Vatican II in a stunning feat of prescience, and then just had to relocate the tabernacle to a side altar. Classical architecture, and a LOT of abstract stained glass. It’s a beautiful building. But it’s what he did for the people. He was always so incredible funny and friendly and warm; even after he’d been moved away to another church, he always came back for important occasions, always made sure to be there. He was a fantastic priest: you could look at him and know that it was really his vocation, that he was good at it and loved doing it. I mean, how many people would take so well to being handed a surprise parish to create that had been formed without your knowledge, having discovered what was going on only after being summoned by the Bishop to go there? The new church was built after the old one (which housed what are now two parishes) burnt down. That church had so much promise, was so full of life and growth, attracting a future saint and many good families. He was a fantastic priest, the image of Christ, and – though he had served many congregations – he chose to have his funeral and burial at this one. He is greatly missed.
Pray for us sinners now. I have a pretty strong Marian devotion, which I’m not entirely sure people are aware of. Of course, I pray the Seven Sorrows, which is I guess a little strange since most people don’t know there’s a whole separate kind of rosary to pray it with. But I also pray the rosary, and sing lots of Marian hymns, and try to pray what’s called a ‘worker’s rosary’ before Mass. I keep a decade in my bag just in case. Also, as may or may not be obvious, I am fond of the Angelus, though I admit I don’t wake up at 6:00 AM to say it. Asking for Mary’s intercessions has become comforting, and the rosary a way of entering into meditation. (I don’t normally meditate on its mysteries though; I prefer to focus on the prayers.)
Ora pro nobis, Sancta Dei Genetrix.
Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi.
Pray for us, Holy Mother of God,
That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. You remind me that even though we are all fallen, all sinners, all imperfect human beings, God has chosen to dwell inside us, in the Holy Spirit, counting us worthy to stand in His presence to serve Him, choosing us as vessels of His good work. You are the ultimate sign of hope, and of courage. I long to live up to your example. For though we are but humble servants, in our very mortality God has created a place among us for His saving love.
And at the hour of our death. When I was in sinful despair, and couldn’t feel the presence of God, or bear to reach out to Him with my unclean hands, Mary was always there. Always within grasp. God is always in reach, too, but somehow your lesser blessedness was easier to understand. I had not prayed the rosary for many years. When I was twenty-three, I was very sick, and I was afraid I might die. In panic and fear of death, one night I reached out for an old rosary impulsively and prayed for deliverance, that you would ask God to save my life. Through you, Jesus granted me a miracle and, against all reason and appearance, I lived. My Marian devotional practice grew up from that moment, and I am forever grateful.
Gratiam tuam quæsumus, Domine, mentibus nostris infunde; ut qui, angelo nuntiante, Christi Filii tui Incarnationem cognovimus, per passionem eius et crucem, ad resurrectionis gloriam perducamur. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum.
Pour forth, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy grace into our hearts, that we, to whom the Incarnation of Christ Thy Son was made known by the message of an angel, may by His Passion and Cross be brought to the glory of His Resurrection. Through the same Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Trembling Before God
“work out your own salvation with fear and trembling” (Phil 2:12).
This is one of my favorite passages in the Bible: I once wrote an entire paper about the Christ Hymn in Philippians so that I could use it. But I digress.
What is this fear? What is this trembling? Is it the fear of the Lord worship? Or are we actually supposed to be afraid? Well, we are supposed to fear eternal damnation…perhaps the trembling is from the knowledge that “it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (2:13).
Well, I confess that I feel a lot of fear. Unfortunately, I am absolutely sure that the fear is NOT a sign of God working in me, or me doing God’s work, or whatever. It’s not hell I’m afraid of – I don’t believe joining a new church community is some kind of dreadful sin. No: what I’m afraid of is illogical, unconnected to sacramental reality, a trembling and terror that lives secretly in my heart. Is it possible that the desire of my heart is fear?
So, the journey into a new church community has been stalled for a little while. Since October 4th. Which is actually quite long when you think about it. Here I am, frozen: without a confessor, a church family, sacraments or a spiritual director. Also, surprisingly, without friends who are able to help me make the transition; you can’t ask someone who already has church responsibilities to come with you as you parish-shop, and going to their church is weird because they’re members of the community and you’re, well, not.
When I was 19, I was experimenting with different theological concepts (I had been a dissatisfied Roman Catholic long, long before now). Specifically, I was playing around with process theology. I think it’s process theology…oh, I’m sure one of my theology professors would kill me if they found out I got this wrong. Basically, it’s that God is in the process of growing and learning alongside us and the universe. Well, anyway, that was the gist of what I was playing at.
Theological inquiry turned out to be a dangerous, dangerous game.
In the midst of my self-absorbed religious angst, I totally stopped listening to the God-voice telling me things. Lost track of my world-compass, allowed compassion, confusion and sheer stupidity get in the way of actually listening to the Voice. I was foolish, absorbed in struggling with new ideas, uncareful of my life. Alienated from God, or anyway the right understanding of God. I get lost a lot: He’s difficult to keep track of without a travel buddy. Turning away from the Voice to explore something else, I fell; a professor harmed me in an intimate way. It am complicit in sin, because I had not been paying attention to God, because I thought I could fix something I couldn’t, because I put myself in a dangerous situation, because I was a stupid flighty ditzy girl who couldn’t see anything ahead, and didn’t bother looking.
“be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind” (2:2).
A few years later, I followed God to theology school (a good joke would be ‘never ask the Holy Spirit for the charism of knowledge, or you might find yourself dropped off outside the gates of a seminary’). It was great and lovely and among the best experiences of my life. At first. My friend invited me to come worship with the Anglicans at their weekly Eucharist, which I’m sure I’ll say more about some other time. Unhappy with my roman church, I decided to give Anglican church a shot. I found a church I liked and went there for a whole summer and into the fall. I also brought friends there with me, because I like sharing things that I enjoy. I was in a place where I thought I was finally ready to leave the roman church. One of the people I brought there was a co-worker who was more highly placed than I was, though he had no direct authority over me. On the day that I brought him, after Mass, he became very inappropriate. Because I had trusted him, again I had not seen danger. Again, I did stupid things, things that ended up making it worse, because it did not make him stop like I thought it would. I felt as though he had poisoned a space that was important to me, and I have never been back to that church.
“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit” (2:3).
Once again, I backed away, back into the shadows of the roman congregation and out of the bright sunlight of joyful experimentation, discovery and trust. I even got myself a position there, so that my ties couldn’t be easily severed. I was trying to use my childhood congregation as a buoy, I think, holding onto its rope tightly in the hope I wouldn’t drown.
Irrationally, the fear and pain coming from these experiences became attached to my forays into religious newness and churchy goodness. Mmmmm….churchy goodness. So sweet, like honey, like Eucharist. Ooops: tangent: watch out for the corners.
Irrationally. Exactly the right way to describe it. And I know it’s irrational (well, at least, I’m pretty sure), and that they are not actually connected. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it easier to stop the fear. This fear is not a working toward my own salvation. Not even to my own happiness. But I have no idea how to get out from under it. Perhaps if I confess my own sin in it, which I have failed to do…
Of course, I have no confessor: part of being excommunicate from the roman church is that I can’t receive the sacrament of reconciliation. Yeah, didn’t think of that.
“that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world” (2:15).
This is one of my favorite passages in the Bible: I once wrote an entire paper about the Christ Hymn in Philippians so that I could use it. But I digress.
What is this fear? What is this trembling? Is it the fear of the Lord worship? Or are we actually supposed to be afraid? Well, we are supposed to fear eternal damnation…perhaps the trembling is from the knowledge that “it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure” (2:13).
Well, I confess that I feel a lot of fear. Unfortunately, I am absolutely sure that the fear is NOT a sign of God working in me, or me doing God’s work, or whatever. It’s not hell I’m afraid of – I don’t believe joining a new church community is some kind of dreadful sin. No: what I’m afraid of is illogical, unconnected to sacramental reality, a trembling and terror that lives secretly in my heart. Is it possible that the desire of my heart is fear?
So, the journey into a new church community has been stalled for a little while. Since October 4th. Which is actually quite long when you think about it. Here I am, frozen: without a confessor, a church family, sacraments or a spiritual director. Also, surprisingly, without friends who are able to help me make the transition; you can’t ask someone who already has church responsibilities to come with you as you parish-shop, and going to their church is weird because they’re members of the community and you’re, well, not.
When I was 19, I was experimenting with different theological concepts (I had been a dissatisfied Roman Catholic long, long before now). Specifically, I was playing around with process theology. I think it’s process theology…oh, I’m sure one of my theology professors would kill me if they found out I got this wrong. Basically, it’s that God is in the process of growing and learning alongside us and the universe. Well, anyway, that was the gist of what I was playing at.
Theological inquiry turned out to be a dangerous, dangerous game.
In the midst of my self-absorbed religious angst, I totally stopped listening to the God-voice telling me things. Lost track of my world-compass, allowed compassion, confusion and sheer stupidity get in the way of actually listening to the Voice. I was foolish, absorbed in struggling with new ideas, uncareful of my life. Alienated from God, or anyway the right understanding of God. I get lost a lot: He’s difficult to keep track of without a travel buddy. Turning away from the Voice to explore something else, I fell; a professor harmed me in an intimate way. It am complicit in sin, because I had not been paying attention to God, because I thought I could fix something I couldn’t, because I put myself in a dangerous situation, because I was a stupid flighty ditzy girl who couldn’t see anything ahead, and didn’t bother looking.
“be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind” (2:2).
A few years later, I followed God to theology school (a good joke would be ‘never ask the Holy Spirit for the charism of knowledge, or you might find yourself dropped off outside the gates of a seminary’). It was great and lovely and among the best experiences of my life. At first. My friend invited me to come worship with the Anglicans at their weekly Eucharist, which I’m sure I’ll say more about some other time. Unhappy with my roman church, I decided to give Anglican church a shot. I found a church I liked and went there for a whole summer and into the fall. I also brought friends there with me, because I like sharing things that I enjoy. I was in a place where I thought I was finally ready to leave the roman church. One of the people I brought there was a co-worker who was more highly placed than I was, though he had no direct authority over me. On the day that I brought him, after Mass, he became very inappropriate. Because I had trusted him, again I had not seen danger. Again, I did stupid things, things that ended up making it worse, because it did not make him stop like I thought it would. I felt as though he had poisoned a space that was important to me, and I have never been back to that church.
“Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit” (2:3).
Once again, I backed away, back into the shadows of the roman congregation and out of the bright sunlight of joyful experimentation, discovery and trust. I even got myself a position there, so that my ties couldn’t be easily severed. I was trying to use my childhood congregation as a buoy, I think, holding onto its rope tightly in the hope I wouldn’t drown.
Irrationally, the fear and pain coming from these experiences became attached to my forays into religious newness and churchy goodness. Mmmmm….churchy goodness. So sweet, like honey, like Eucharist. Ooops: tangent: watch out for the corners.
Irrationally. Exactly the right way to describe it. And I know it’s irrational (well, at least, I’m pretty sure), and that they are not actually connected. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it easier to stop the fear. This fear is not a working toward my own salvation. Not even to my own happiness. But I have no idea how to get out from under it. Perhaps if I confess my own sin in it, which I have failed to do…
Of course, I have no confessor: part of being excommunicate from the roman church is that I can’t receive the sacrament of reconciliation. Yeah, didn’t think of that.
“that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world” (2:15).
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