Karen's Sermon

(reprinted from Musings from Mâvarin)

Today after church, I asked to borrow Father Douglas's sermon to put on the St. Michael's Sermons page. He agreed to loan me the sermon printout, and sent me to the pulpit to get it. So for the first time ever, I ascended the steps to the pulpit at St. Michael's. I was carrying a sickly lily left over from Easter, and my silly pink purse; and I had to turn sideways a little bit to get past the narrow opening at the top of the steps.

The church was well on its way to empty by then, but I felt a little guilty, as if I were sneaking into a special place where only a few people are entitled to go. I suppose I was doing just that. Yet at the same time, I was tempted so say something while I was up there, to proclaim a little unauthorized sermon of my own. I didn't say a word, though, so now the online world gets my sermon instead.

Confessions of a "Cheesemaker"

Yesterday, I found myself mediating a dispute between someone I like a lot and another person who is a complete stranger to me. I was glad to attempt this, because I hate to see people in emotional pain, especially when the source of the problem is essentially a miscommunication or misunderstanding. It's all so tragically unnecessary. When I see this happening, and I have an opportunity to try to make peace, I usually go for it.

My favorite line in Monty Python's Life of Brian is "Blessed are the cheesemakers." In the movie, this is how people toward the back of the crowd at the Sermon on the Mount mishear the words, "Blessed are the peacemakers." John Cleese explains to others in the crowd that it should not be taken literally, but can be applied to "all makers of dairy products." I like this bit a lot. For me it's a self-deprecating reference to my own fumbling attempts to be a peacemaker. My contributions may be trivial, foolish, ineffectual or misunderstood, and yet, as with Jesus saying the right words a quarter mile away, it's worth the attempt.

I'm not going to mention here what yesterday's misunderstanding was. That's not the point. The point is that it happens all the time. That's why the snappy sentences of "My Philosophy (Your Mileage May Vary)" on my woefully out of date home page include the following:

Far too many friendships are damaged or ruined by miscommunication. Try to stay on the same page.

In the early 1990s, I accidentally ruined a friendship by saying something online that deeply offended someone I'd known for a couple of years, and liked a lot. She thought I'd called her a liar, and I was too distracted by my own problems to defuse the problem. In the mid-1990s, a club I was in split in two for a while, because two groups of people misunderstood each other's words and intentions. Then in the late 1990s, my best friend was hurt because we were both working on the same project, and unaware of each other's efforts. That only exacerbated a strained relationship already damaged by a miscommunication over a dinner invitation.

Those are just three examples. I'm sure you can come up with more from your own life, in which someone's words were given the worst possible interpretation, resulting in anger and hurt feelings.

So what do we do, when someone says something that seems hurtful or unfair? Most of the time we lash out defensively, saying things that others will find equally hurtful or unfair. Both sides see other's position in the worst possible light, which sets off another round of angry remarks. This happens whether the other person is a stranger, a friend, or even the person you love the most. It's a very human thing to do, and I'm as guilty of it as anyone else. In my case, though, I tend to worry about whether I've offended someone somehow, giving misinterpreting the other person's words and actions as evidence that they're mad at me for saying...well, whatever I just said. Other times, I blame the other person, while still feeling guilty myself.

None of this is good for us. So when something like this starts to happen, I suggest the following procedure:

Seven Steps to Resolve Misunderstandings

1. Check the facts. Look for any mitigating factors you may have missed. Did she really say that? Is a different explanation of the evidence possible? Do the research, and ask for clarification.

2. Be charitable. In light of #1, go over what the other person said or did, and find the best possible interpretation of it. Can it be that the person really meant no harm? Was it a simple mistake? Was the person merely thoughtless or forgetful or angry, rather than malicious? Could the person be partly reacting to some other problem--health, drugs, relationship problems, etc.? Is there a way of looking at the person's words and actions, and seeing just an ordinary person, trying to get by, and messing up as we all do from time to time?

3. Check for reasonableness. Now, think about your original interpretation of the other person's words and actions. Is it really that much more likely, in light of the facts, than the more generous interpretation you've just worked out? Does it make more logical sense? Is it in character for that person?

4. Critique yourself. Take a look at your own words and actions. Is there a way they could be seen as mean or unfair? Did you overreact, and say something hurtful? Could the other person have found a way to see malice or unfair accusations that weren't really there?

5. Put it all together. Try to see the other person's point of view. If at all possible, assume the best rather than the worst, and be aware of how your own words and actions may have contributed to the problem. Explain your position gently and dispassionately as possible. Apologize if you know you've been at fault, and try not to demand an apology yourself. The other person may still be convinced he or she did nothing wrong--and may even be right!

6. Let it go. Once you've done all that, let the conflict be over and done. Don't let the fight escalate with accusations and attacks, even if you've inescapably concluded that the other person really is mean and selfish and unpleasant. You will probably want to disengage from the other person for a while (or forever), which is almost certainly a good idea.

7. Be nice. When you must deal with the other person, be polite. It will all be strained, but it doesn't have to be actively unpleasant. After enough time goes by, you may be able to rebuild what you've lost.

End of sermon. Go in peace!

Karen

Palm Sunday Heresy, Good Friday Reflections

Reprinted from Musings from Mavarin, Sunday, April 4, 2004

When I was about six or seven years old, I used to hold my own little mass in what my family called the game room, the library-shelved, leftover furniture-filled finished room next to the basement, in which my mom met with her patients in private practice. I would put a purple towel on my mom's desk, set up a statue of Mary that my godmother had given me, and read through the Weekly Missal, very fast. I didn't quite credit, at that age, that it didn't count unless there was a real priest present, and that only men were priests. In those days, no women served at Mass at St. Ann's in Manlius, New York. Acolytes were called altar boys, and even the readers were male deacons at least.

By the time I reached high school, some of the altar boys were girls, and there were lay readers, some of them women. I wasn't among them, although I still sat in a pew every Sunday. I was in my Jesus Person phase, illustrating a Jesus Christ Superstar album cover for art class with a somewhat graphic depiction of the crucifixion, singing songs from Godspell at Area All-State, going up to the front at the War Memorial when invited to do so by David Wilkerson protegé Nicky Cruz, where some disciple wrote down "H.S" as the reason I came forward. Despite everything, though, I didn't get what I was looking for, a little spark of feeling in my soul that I knew for sure to be God, waving and calling out, "I'm here. I'm real."

I kept looking for that through college. I went to church at St. Patrick's across town to see Father Ed Van Auken, who once said, "Theology's not my bag." I attended get-togethers at Newman House where a priest whose name I've forgotten preached against the Pill I was taking. I had long discussions about God with a close friend who wanted to be among the first female Episcopal priests, but who was rejected. I agreed less and less with the Catholic Church and the Creed. I wasn't sure what I believed any more, in something, certainly, but not in "the resurrection of the body." Then I married an agnostic, soon to be an atheist, who liked to say, "one man's religion is another's belly laugh." That was the end of my churchgoing, except for the occasional Christmas, for many years to come. If I didn't believe it, why go to church to say it?

Fast forward nearly 20 years, during which I hardly ever went to church, hardly ever looked at a Bible. In all those years of waiting for inspiration to hit, waiting to find out what I believed, I never really worked at it. I thought going to church and saying the creed would make me a hypocrite. I did, however, build a rather impressive collection of Madeleine L'Engle books, including a bunch of religious nonfiction. I've never read most of them, but I got the impression from what I did read that the Episcopal Church, a cathedral of which L'Engle attended, was worth a try. It seemed to have all the things I liked about the Catholic Church, and none of the stuff I didn't. That's an oversimplification, but it proved to be fairly accurate.

So I went to the church up the street from me, the one with a socially conscious sign out front. I've been going there ever since. It turns out that faith, for me, at least, is more a function of doing in public than of thinking in private. I was never going to find faith (much less prove anything to myself logically) by ignoring the subject most of the time, never going to church, never reading the Bible or any other books on the subject. I had to go to church, read the readings, listen to the sermons, think about the prayers, and maybe have a cup of ice tea in the Parish Center afterward. Once I started doing these things, I discovered that the Nicene Creed didn't bother me nearly as much at age 40 as it did when I was 20. I don't believe every word on a literal level, but I believe them on some level. And I learned that maybe there is a little spark inside me that says that God is there, God is real, even if I don't feel it every second, even if I don't understand, even if I don't know exactly what to believe.

These days I act as crucifer about twice every six weeks, and read to the congregation about once every ten weeks. I never quite get it right, somehow. When reading, I go a little too fast, or lose my place and blurt out, "Wait a minute...," or stumble over a word. Carrying the crucifix on a long pole near the front of the procession, I walk a little too fast, or too close to the thurifer (incense-bearer), or let the candles (candle-bearers) get ahead of me, or knock into something, especially outside before and after Mass. Up in the sanctuary, I forget to go get the stand for the readings, or to put it back, or to retrieve the cross during the prayer over the catechumen, until Proscovia nudges me or gives me a look or says my name. So I don't do it perfectly, ever, but I get by. Afterward I eat high carb food at coffee hour, and go home and update the church website at http://smaa/mavarin/com/smaa.html, or more likely just the schedule page.

Why do I forget to do what I'm supposed to do? I'm thinking about what I believe, or the parts of the ritual others perform, or the pain in my knees as I kneel during the Eucharistic Prayer. I'm trying to sing a hymn without the hymnal, because I never have one when I serve as crucifer. I'm wondering whether 98-year-old Eva's okay, because she didn't come to Mass, or she fainted, or she just stepped outside. I'm thinking about the readings, and the prayers, and the styles of the different priests and what they each have to say. I'm thinking about my novels, or my school work, or my stomach ache. So my mind wanders, until Proscovia nudges me or my mind wanders back on its own.

It's not good enough. I know it's not good enough. I'm not attentive enough. I still don't know exactly what I believe. I don't do much to save the world or feed the hungry. I don't have faith the size of a mustard seed.

But at night I go to bed and pray my repetitive, idiosyncratic prayers, full of gimme and give us and not at all full of praise, because I'm not good at it and don't know how to say it sincerely. I think about Heaven, which I neither understand nor reject entirely. And I talk to God, as I've always done. He never really answers, but I know he's there. He's real. He's listening. There's no ecstatic revelation, just a feeling, the same one I've always had.

And, because of Him, it is enough after all.

******* Update: 2005 ******

It's been a year, almost, since I wrote this. Eva is 99 now, almost 100. I'm done with school. I've gotten better at being lector, and I don't make quite as many mistakes as crucifer. But really, overall, not much has changed. I haven't accomplished much this Lent, in terms or fasting or readings or special devotions. Nor have I learned anything much about my faith, such as it is. I still don't understand what Father Smith calls "the scandal of the cross." I don't understand the reason for what happened on Good Friday all those years ago. Oh, the human reasons - jealousy, politics, power, and sectarian disagreement - seem clear enough, but God's reasons remain obscure to me.

But I know that something happened, something that matters, something that resonates through 2000 years of translations and interpretations, of the same or similar words repeated so often that meaning threatens to slip away. It matters, whether or not I understand it, whether or not I'm clumsy or distracted.

And I pray that by next year, I'll understand why it matters and what it means, at least one percent better than I do now.

Karen

New Camera

Anyone who looked at the pictures I uploaded recently from Confirmation and Bishop Smith's visit probably noticed that they were, well, terrible. My five-year-old Mavica digital camera just doesn't handle the church interior well. Everything comes out too dark, and when I lighten the image it just ends up grainy.

However, my wonderful husband (you haven't met him; he's an atheist) gave me a new digital camera for my birthday. It's smaller and lighter, and it measures its resolution capability in megapixels (4.0). Best of all, it's capable of taking reasonably well-lit photos in the relatively dark church interior.

Here are some samples, taken March 13th, 2005, before and after the 10 AM Mass. More will follow: I hope to photograph the choir and parts of the 10 AM liturgy on Palm Sunday.

Karen

The main altar.


the coals for the incense.


Proscovia lights the candles.

Father Smith.

Random Thoughts About Lent

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, of course, the first day of Lent. "Already?" some of you may have thought. "Isn't it awfully early this year?" Well yes, it was about as early as it gets. Due to the complex and rather confusing method used to calculate when Easter is, which has to do with the interplay of the lunar and solar calendars, Easter can be as early as the first day of spring, or as late as April 18th. This year, Easter is at the early end of the range, so Ash Wednesday was, too.

Ash Wednesday kicks off the "40 days of Lent" that precede Easter, but the numbering of that is odd, too. Lent is actually about a week longer than that, because the Sundays in that period don't count as part of the 40 days. Weird, huh? No wonder Lent has always seemed longer than it ought to be.

As a friend mentioned to me many years ago, Easter either coincides with Passover (as well it should historically), or misses it by about a month. This is because the two religious calendars differ in the way they calculate the moon's contribution to the dating of their respective holidays.

Obviously, since it was Ash Wednesday, I spent part of my evening at St. Michael's. Unfortunately, I didn't bring the camera along. The place has a very different feel to it on Ash Wednesday and other Lenten evenings than it has on Sunday mornings: quieter, more solemn and peaceful and even a little sad. Part of this is because of the darkness one steps out into afterward, the front walk under the trees strung with lights. There is no coffee hour or other distraction, no final organ solo to play us out, nothing to do but go home in silence. I like it.

Lent is an interesting time in other ways. For one thing, it begins and ends with reminders of death. Lent starts with the imposition of ashes on the forehead in the shape of a cross, a reminder that on our own we are "but dust." It ends with the crucifixion and Jesus in the tomb.

The end of Lent is another example of weird dating. Have you ever wondered how Friday afternoon to Sunday morning counts as three days? I often have, until Father Ireland finally explained it a few years ago. Since first century AD didn't have the concept for zero, Friday was the first day, Saturday the second, and Sunday the third day, although the whole period comes to less than 48 hours.

Another interesting thing about the season of Lent is what people do during that time, aside from eating fish on Fridays. People talk about "giving up something for Lent," but that's only part of the story. Sure, I may avoid hi-carb delights and blogging at work for the next 40-days-excluding-Sundays, but Lent isn't supposed to be about dieting or being a good employee. It's about repentence and reflection, bringing body and brain under control rather than giving in to them all the time, and dedicating that change in behavior to God as part of an effort to prepare spiritually for Easter. I can't say I completely understand this, but one of the things it means is that part of Lent can be in what one does, not just in what one avoids. Last year (it doesn't seem that long ago!) I read my way through the Gospels during Lent. If I were braver and more outgoing than I am, and less broke and busy (that's right; let's pile on the excuses!), I might volunteer at Casa Maria or some other soup kitchen or shelter, or head down to Guatamala with Ila. But I'm no good with that stuff, as I've mentioned here before, so I guess I'll just give blood again, and donate some more stuff to the Salvation Army or whatever.

I've updated the St. Michael's Seasons page for Lent, by the way. I have a feeling I may have missed Epiphany on that page, but I'm caught up now. Check it out!

Karen

Photoblogging the End of Epiphany

I took my camera to church today. I was also crucifer today, so I didn't take pictures during Mass, only before and after. Here are the best of them:


The Labyrinth as seen from the sacristy


the rack of red albs


candles and crosses

The Epiphany Trunk - filled again!

the Samaritans table at coffee hour

Karen