My Confession

 ”To every day

        turn, turn, turn

There is a season

         turn, turn, turn

And a time to every purpose under heaven.”

A number of images, a number of verses, both in scripture and in song come to mind.

This is a difficult, perhaps one of the most difficult, posts I’ve ever written, but one that was destined to be written, and I’ve known that for some time.

This summer has been a hard one, but not in any way that should bring cries of “not fair” or “my sympathies” or anything so dramatic. It’s just been hard. Weather and bad lanes, cars breaking down in more ways than one, finances stretched more than one would like, all this and then some. Not nearly as awful as people who are truly suffering from financial ruin, or awful illness, or just plain lousy never-ending bad luck. Just the kind that makes a person say, “I’m glad that week, month, season, or year is OVER!”

What it has meant to me is that I’ve been hermited in the meadow for long stretches. And that played havoc with my church attendance. At first there was great sadness, anger, and furious shaking of fists at “fate.” Then there was reflection and a digging away at the surface “reasons” for these emotions, and yes, picking off of old not-yet-healed scabs.

Painful, but increasingly necessary as I uncovered things I had not dreamt of. Things I had buried deep, and thought were dead and gone. But as we all know, that seldom happens.

I realized that my church had become very important to me, mostly for the social aspects. I had found a home of like-minded individuals, like-minded theologically but also politically. I could speak my piece and find nodding heads.

What heady stuff is that? Heady indeed I can tell you. From clergy on down, I found such a collection of genuinely nice, intelligent, educated, spirit-driven, mission-motivated people as could ever be found in one place.

For those of  you who don’t know the story, I shant go into it in-depth, but in general the story goes:

I was a life-long Catholic wannabe. I finally figured out I could become one, and did so at age 43. I nearly entered the convent. I didn’t, and met and fell in love with a gorgeously warm and loving man. I married him.

He, had been married before and divorced. Holy Mother Church frowns upon that. Much much later, I realized that. No one ever turned me away as a mortal sinner (which they would claim I am), but I felt the rejection. Ironic wouldn’t you say?

I contrived to be a “spiritual” person without a  church until someone pointed me in the direction of the Episcopal Church. I went, I saw, I adopted “Catholic lite.” I was happy, as I said.

Until, as I also said, I had to work through my sorrow at not being there. My “works” were my new identity, I was someone who was “in the know” a “go to” person somewhat. People knew who I was. I basked in my own sense of importance. Was I important? Not so very, but I felt it, and that was what mattered.

Digging down through the layers, I uncovered a still deep-searing pain at my Catholic loss. The Episcopal church liturgically met my needs precisely because it was “most” Catholic.

I looked back over the two years and saw that I had tried to be “tsk tsk” about Catholic short-comings and failings. I had always freely criticized Her when an active participant and I had continued, though most thought it was out of anger and hurt, though mostly it was not. But of course such criticism falls on deaf ears when you are a “former” Catholic.

The germ of longing seemed to grow, even as I fought it. I truly did fight it. I have no desire to be a thorn among the roses. I don’t relish being in the minority. I don’t desire to feel like a back-bencher. But that is what I would be, will be. I’ve written a bit about this on another blog called rather appropriately I think, Walking in the Shadows.

I found myself, even almost against my will, digging out the old Missal, the old Christian Prayer book with the Daily Office. A quick stop at the USCCB, located me as to week and Mass readings. I have been praying a rosary every day for weeks now. It is all too familiar, and, frankly it became deeply comforting to me.

Last Sunday, I returned to the Mass. It was as it always was. Comfort food for the soul I guess. Mine at least.

I am not sure where I will land. Whether I enter into a specific parish or not remains to be seen, but I sense I may not, being more content to be a traveler, seeking the better homilist this week, the more awe-inspiring interior the next. I truly don’t know.

The Contrarian remains confused at all this, a great sounding board, but not offering advice. He is puzzled why I would leave a user-friendly place to wander alone in the wilderness so to speak. I cannot answer, except to say that I am so thoroughly Catholic that I must. As odd as it may seem to one not a “cradle” Catholic, I am defined by it, and I suspect I always will be.

Nothing much has changed. I still rail at its inadequacies, its horrific failings, its out-of-touch dogmas. But I can do so as a “Catholic” now and not a Protestant.

I owe so much to the Episcopal church. To all the fine people there, I owe such a debt of gratitude. They are, en mass the finest group I have ever known. I can say quite literally that I never met anyone there I disliked.

They taught me that Protestants are often more right in dogma than Catholics on a few things.

They taught me that one can disagree without being disagreeable and that serious and important differences don’t have interfere in a coming together at the table.

They taught me the inherent goodness of all faiths. Where I had believed it on the surface before, I now KNOW it to be true.

They taught me that the truest message of Christ is service to others, and not personal salvation. In fact, the first leads to the second without effort.

They taught me that I will work for and support women’s ordination in the Roman church with unswerving dedication, for I was blessed with such role models in the Episcopal church. (That’s generally true online as well, as I know a few women priests here.)

I know that many, perhaps most will not understand. I don’t expect that. What I have come to see is that each of us is a unique spiritual gift and we all are nourished in different ways. What is of deepest importance to me, is of no consequence to you perhaps. That, I am convinced, is the way things are meant to be. Our relationship to God is uniquely our own.

A weight lifts from me. I look forward to the adventure. Parker, God bless him, bit his tongue, when I said I was finally going to write this. I smiled and said, “I know what you want to say. Perhaps I should keep silent, for in six months, I may change my mind again? Is that about it.”

He smiled. “uhuh, just about.”

And I may, but I doubt it. They say that about Catholics you know. That once you are one, you are always one. It’s just a matter of whether you are home or away. I think that might be true. It is for me I think.

I can only follow as best I can. So far? I don’t know. Perhaps this was the journey I was intended to make, returning to Catholicism with a more mature sense of what it and I am. Time will tell.

Ahead of That Curve

I was reading an article in the Boston Globe today, realized that I had never really talked much about how the Contrarian and I met and married.

We first met via the Internet, a process that now comprises something like 22% of all heterosexual relationships.

In our case, it was not via such things as EHarmony or other similar dating sites. A few of those were around, but they were as I recall, pretty much self-entry kind of places. Free of charge.

Most interactions occurred by a device called mIRC, knows as Internet Relay Chat. You entered rooms and spot to whomever about whatever. But we did not meet that way, though we used it as a tool for better communication during our “courting.”

I don’t know if there were such faces as Facebook back then, in the last century, 1998, to be exact.  But if there was, it was off my radar and his as well. We didn’t meet that way either.

No we met via the “news groups.” I think they still exist, though I haven’t look at them in years. It was part of you e-mail process and you looked up hobbies or interests you had, and subscribed. People left messages, and you responded or wrote your own.

I was living in Connecticut at the time, and the Contrarian was here in Iowa. He had been a long user of newsgroups, but for me, it was fairly a new thing. I’m not sure how I found it or even heard about it.

There were plenty of men seeking women, and so forth, and I posted on a women seeking men. I made it clear I was looking for a long-term relationship, would relocate, and general information about me, age, education, and so forth.

The Contrarian responded with a lengthy e-mail about himself. We began to write back and forth for a few days, and felt very quickly that we had found something significant in each other. We made plans quickly for me to visit him.

I had a number of online friends (men mostly), from IRC, many whom I had met. I left them the pertinent information and flew off to Iowa on February 1, 1999, only about two months after we had started communicating.

I arrived in O’Hare in the early morning, and was supposed to connect with a flight into Eastern Iowa Airport. Fog was my nemesis. I spent the day in the airport and finally got a bus late in the day. I arrived very tired somewhere around 9 pm that night. Not an auspicious beginning.

But within a few days, we felt very sure of “Us” and I notified my moving company to set a date for packing me up. I returned three weeks later to Connecticut, and the Contrarian followed by plane about two weeks later.

Oddly, he got snowed in in Chicago, and ended up on a different flight. I too had to wait a good while for his flight to arrive.

We left Connecticut by car on March 16, arriving back in Iowa on the 17th. And well, that about says all there is to say. We married in September of that year, and are now approaching our eleventh anniversary this September.

Telling people, early on, of our method of meeting, usually brought some stares and some “wows”. Most people had tales to tell of Internet meetings going awry, and the media usually reported stories of dead women who had gone off to meet serial killers.

Plenty of folks gave us that “look” that said, “it will never last.” You can’t build a relationship over a computer! And truthfully, I knew a couple of such relationships that had gone sour  after some months. But I suspect that the statistics are pretty much the same as the more “normal” means of meeting.

Clearly, people aren’t afraid of this method any more. I’m not sure it’s better than other methods of meeting people. Smart people I think find it an easier medium to fess up the truth about yourself. After all, you can only communicate by mail and phone so long. There is no point in lying about things that will be discovered at meeting. But then, perhaps some thing that by then the person might care enough to ignore the extra poundage or the lesser stature. I’m not sure.

All I can say is it worked for us.

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Honor Thy Mother (Part II)

The threads of the end are easy to see in retrospect. Although I had tried to renegotiate our roles in my 30′s, which worked for a while, things returned to their normal position over time.

I was the “this is my daughter, she’s a lawyer” object to impress friends. I was also the one who was “not married” and would “never produce a grandchild.” Such are endured by many a young woman, and I place no especial emphasis on them as harbingers of some future face off.

But the beginnings of the end started when I converted to the Catholic church. Since my parents were never ones to “talk” about the past, I had no idea whether I had ever been baptised. I assumed not, but it was made clear that I needed to know.

I called Mother to confirm that such was not the case. In a strange prescient moment, she responded, “well just don’t end up being a nun or something.” I laughed, assured her that nothing was further from my mind and soon joined the ranks of the newly baptised at the age of 43. It was several months later when I felt the call of the convent.

In a conversation some months after that when I was beginning that process, I mentioned that, ironically, in fact I had decided to join a religious community. Her reaction was short, sullen and non-communicative. In later years I asked her why she was so unpleasant about that choice, and her only response was the “way I had announced it.” I still have no clue what that was about.

What followed were another couple of instances of intense criticism, unwarranted and in the end, simply glossed over by her as if they had not occurred. Such was her way. She would blow up over some perceived insult, only to find in a day or two that she was wrong, and yet she never could make the call and say she was sorry for her outburst of anger, so misdirected. She even at one point claimed that I could not at my age enter a religious community, per some unknown “friend.” I learned as always, it was simply best to not respond.

Things started to unravel rather quickly after I decided that I in fact was not called to such service. I had met and fallen in love with a man from Connecticut. I called to tell her that I would be moving to that state and that I had cancelled plans to join the Dominicans. Her response was bizarre to say the least.

She was purely ecstatic. She was thrilled beyond words. She did not ask his occupation, his previous marital history, whether he had kids, his age, ethnicity, or anything whatsoever. It didn’t matter. I was finally “attached” to a man. I had of course been “attached” to several men over the years, but somehow this one mattered, since it saved me from the church, which apparently was important.

I was appalled frankly at her lack of concern about any particulars. I told her I would call when I arrived in Connecticut, and I did so. But the more I thought, the more this all seemed so exceedingly crazy that it required more thought.

What was this relationship? Clearly there was no interest in my happiness, or even safety. There was only one issue: was I living a life that met with her approval–which validated her own perhaps? It was never explained and I was unable to see any mothering or indeed any relationship whatsoever to preserve.

Since, as those of you who have read through the pertinent sections of the autobiography already know, the relationship was over before I arrived in Connecticut, I was loathe to explain this event. I could not bear, given my fragile state of mind, what might ensue should I admit that the hoped for marriage would not be occurring. Somehow it would all be my fault of course, and since I felt no responsibility for the demise of said relationship, I was not ready to withstand the torrent of blame that would come.

So I lied, or more to the point, didn’t bring it up during those couple of conversations that were initiated in the early months of my life on the east coast.

But as I said, as I pondered this thing called a mother-daughter relationship, I saw nothing to preserve, and out of sheer avoidance, the next time she called, I didn’t pick up. The next time, I avoided it as well. She was never good at even the easiest of technological innovations, so she never left messages on the answering service. I became simply “never there” when she called.

It  became easier, and easier, and more difficult to contemplate actually explaining my “unavailability” for so many months. I decided to make it permanent. I of course later met the Contrarian and moved to Iowa. She is aware that I am now married, is thrilled, and understands that I wish no contact.

That is how it stands. As a Christian, I periodically think about it, and often decide I’m not honoring motherhood as I should. That somehow, I should stick it out, and make allowances. Yet, I cannot bring myself to open up that can of worms again. I cannot bring myself to willingly offer myself up to that “motherly criticism” offered so easily, and always without request.

I don’t feel sorry for myself. One is dealt the cards one is dealt. I wish things were other, and I wish I had the relationship I sometimes see between other mothers and daughters that I know. But I don’t dwell on my misfortune. I am not the least unaware that another woman could have handled it where I could not. The blame is partly mine.

My cousin offers the example of one who faced similar nonsense from his mother, but firmly dealt with it, without shutting the door. Grandchildren may have had something to do with that decision, and I would probably have not made the drastic decision I did had there been children involved.

Still, I return to the decision, as I said, from time to time, and I only ask for God’s forgiveness, for I feel sure that I’ve not done the right thing. But I also feel I did the only thing for myself. I feel at peace with my decision. I simply refused to be part of a toxic relationship.

It is a fine line between honoring parents and honoring self.  I hope others are not called to make such a choice as I, yet,  I have now a measure of self-respect, pride, and strength that I had not before. That soothes me in the those moments of doubt. I have been, to that degree authentic to my self.

Honor Thy Mother

Mother-daughter relationships are some of the more complicated ones we have. As I mulled over the idea of writing this, I seemed always to devolve into a “defense” of my position. Nothing would delight me more than than you agree that I made the right decision. I want sympathy, not coherent criticism.

Yet, I instinctively know that I don’t really want that at all. I don’t want it to be a her side, my side kind of thing. I want to explain myself, and express my continuing questions about whether I’ve made the right decision. How does this all square with my faith?

So, I shall begin. If I can say it all in one post, I cannot yet say. It will take as long as it takes. I will try to be honest.

I’m not sure when I realized that my relationship with Mother was dysfunctional, and not the norm. I certainly didn’t feel that way as a young girl still living at home. My mother was no better nor worse than most of the other mothers I encountered. Let me state clearly, I was not physically abused unless you think that the average spanking and a couple of slaps here and there are abuse. I did not consider them as such.

My parents had similar parenting styles, learned no doubt from their own experiences as children. Both were clearly (knowing what I know of their upbringing) the victims of conditional love. And so they practiced it as the only kind they knew.

Without delving into specific instances, I can only relate that there is nothing quite so exquisitely painful as entering a house and being met with a cold stare, a turned back, and one word responses. Your mood falls, your stomach clenches, and you wait in silent emotional agony, as you search your mind trying to figure out what you have done wrong now.

The game that ensued usually only took minutes to play out and become the lecturing, demeaning diatribe of how incompetent you were, yet one was draw to the flame much as the proverbial moth. I never learned to simply go to my room and wait it out. For in truth, that would never work, you never got off the hook that way.

I had no siblings to be comforted by. I had no idea that this behavior was emotional blackmail. I assumed it normal. On the up side, along with being siblingless, I learned to be rather independent, a good quality to acquire.

What I mean by emotional blackmail, is that the indictment eventually came to the following questions: Was I incredibly stupid? Had I no common sense? Was I so selfish and self-centered? And then followed the comparisons with the ethereal “other people’s kids” who didn’t exhibit all these awful qualities. I was an embarrassment, an unnatural burden (chubby, braces, glasses–a wonderfully self-esteem trifecta to begin with!).

I was smart at books, and stupid at life. So it went.

But, again, I must point out, that I did not overall feel abused in any way. I thought it normal. But, you can understand why I was happy to graduate from living at home to having my own life.

Somewhere, as an adult, I started meeting women professionally who had quite different relationships with their mothers; and I could witness, sometimes,  a mature mother-daughter relationship. You mean you call your mother every day? I had to steel myself to call once every three months!

As I entered my 30′s and then 40′s, I began to resent this upsetting in my life. Why should I have to endure such periodic rejection. There was never an apology. I should point out that my father did exactly the same thing and when I lived with him in his last months, I was subjected more than once  to the same childhood agonies, and I admit I never outgrew the queasy stomach that ensued.

Still, I let the relationship limp along, getting through somehow, and breathing a sigh of relief once the dutiful call had been made and I was free from all this for another quarter year. Yet, the insanity of it all, seemed to escalate in some sense, and my patience and endurance grew weak.

A number of incidents seemed to coalesce into a condemnatory document in my mind that in the end, I could not ignore. I determined to end this circus of a relationship, this unhealthy misery inducing thing that was Mother and me.

Tomorrow I’ll explain what happened. You may in fact wish to hold off comment until I’ve finished.

Overlooking the Fields

Sitting upon my hill the other day, my thoughts turned to peonies. Don’t ask me why, for I don’t grow them myself. The Contrarian is a demon with a weed wacker and if you don’t wall in any flower plant, he will take them to ground.

He has a special aversion to peonies and I can only assume he got in some big trouble in his past for having destroyed some by mistake.

In any case, no sooner do I think of peonies, than I think of my aunt Lona. For that is where I first discovered them, and in abundance.

We were a home of petunias and marigolds, a climbing rose, tulips. Funny how that is. My cousin Gloria, daughter of Lona grew alysslum a lot. When I see alysslum, I think of her.

Lona was one of nine children, and one of the older ones, next to Gram. After Gloria married and left home, Gram, who was a widow, moved in with Lona and her husband Harry. I’m not sure how that came about, but I rather suspect Lona asked from obligation (if indeed she did the asking), rather than desire.

The three lived on Thom Street in Flint, a typical city lot, narrow and short. It was a single floor home, with a coal chute for the basement furnace, a narrow drive, and a tiny garage at the back of the property. Coming from a three-lotted home, it was tiny, and a bit mysterious.

Lona was a quiet woman, competent in cooking and the usual housewifery skills. Harry was bombastic, fun loving, impulsive (which Lona definitely was not), and prone to love teasing. Gram was a man-hatin’ woman who I’m sure shed nary a tear at the early demise of her husband Joe, before I was born.  There is a story of her being stopped heading down the basement steps, hammer in hand, after Joe for some malefaction he had allegedly perpetrated. Nobody ever knew what had happened that so broke their marriage, but it was from what I am told, a mutual hatred.

Gram was a feisty woman, a maverick, a liberated soul, long before the word liberation was used to denote women of a certain spunky grit who actually lived free and assumed they were equal to men. Whether Harry had other ideas about that stuff I don’t know, but he loved to bait and argue with Gertie as he called her.

The fireworks were always ongoing, no matter who might be around, but it all seemed in fun, everyone laughed, everyone knew Harry loved to get her goat. How things were between the three of them, I have no idea, but one got the impression that poor Lona, who was never controversial in anything, suffered much from the high emotion the other two seemed to run on.

I don’t recall an opinion Lona had on a single thing actually. She was a mouse, pretty, slim, always even tempered and pleasant. She was simply overwhelmed by the giant egos who inhabited her space. Later, after Harry died, and Gram was living with Dad, I think she evidenced some of the resentment she had lived with all those years. She had never done anything much she wanted to do, but had always followed the dictates of either Harry or Gram. Unfortunately her life was short at just the point when she had control of her own destiny.

In any case, from time to time as a child, I was sent to Gram’s for the weekend , and maybe once for a whole week. Gram worked days at various clothing stores, selling infant wear mostly. So my days would be spent with Lona.

She did her best to keep me occupied, but the house was not “kid friendly.” My reading material consisted of old copies of  Readers Digest. Television was in its infancy, and daytime offerings were still non-existent.

She would sit down and teach me a cord or two on the piano, which I was always utterly fascinated with, and she made no complaint as I made small efforts to “play” it. (I have no idea how much of a bother I was, since she would never have complained.) I watched her cook sometimes, and I sat on the enclosed front porch, or skipped along the front walk, examining the driveway, and otherwise compared my home environs to this one.

Inevitably, I ended in the tiny back yard. No chair as I recall, but fencing ran along the back and one side. And along the perimeter of the property line, nothing but peonies (see, we finally got there!). There were red and pink and white ones.

They were awesomely beautiful to me, exotic, and so very much more in your face than the rather wimpy petunias of my yard. They smelled luscious. They were bigger than life. I would watch the ants crawl over the unopened buds, and learned that somehow the ants helped the buds so not to pick them off. I would examine each in turn, marveling at the color and fragrance, and lush greenery.

I never saw a peony from that time forward when I didn’t think of Lona. Such a nice woman, so gentle and kind, so unassuming. It’s weird, but I really miss her and Harry, more than most of my other now dead relatives. But I feel sad, for I know now that she never got to be herself. Whoever that might have been. I’m sure she is free now. I’m sure she is authentic now.

It all makes me think that the lesson is simply, don’t wait–be who you are today and everyday. I’m thinking I may just buy me a peony this year, and fence it off from the weed wacker’s bite. And when it blooms, I’ll think of Lona and smile.

Godly Humor: Part X

It is with no little irony, as I reviewed the last couple of posts in “Godly Humor,” that I realized how aptly named it was. Another joke by my Lord. For my spiritual journey most resembles a zig zag, which winds and bends, doubles back and races fitfully along, much no doubt, to the amusement of God. It all seems quite deliberate.

So to, the announcement at the end of Part IX, that the spiritual part of my autobiography was “concluded.” How could I have come to that idea?

In the last few weeks, it seemed that I was reflecting a good deal about the past year and my new journey of sorts in the Episcopal Church. And I thought it fair to set down my observations. Take serious note that I do not speak for my own parish, nor certainly for the Church at large.

It has been a bit more than a year since I first set foot in Christ Church, eager, tentative, hopeful, and not a little saddened by the events which led me to that juncture. Yet, not a few months later, I am joyously happy, relieved, dedicated, comfortable, and and endless list of other happy adjectives. It has been a good fit.

I recall telling the Contrarian that I intended to “attend church.” I “might” engage in some biblical studies if such were offered. I expected nothing further. As I learned of the breadth of ministries offered, my excitement grew, but I remained firm. No groups or committees that met in the evening hours, not much of anything that wasn’t scheduled for Sundays. No extra drives into town for me.

Yeah right. God it seemed had other plans. With, I imagine, great glee, I started in the Adult Forum group, wherein we first studied Hosea, and then on to Paul’s moral teachings. I met wonderful, bright, and by my estimation rather right thinking individuals. I soon felt right at home, and that was due in no small measure to the immense welcoming that is so much a tradition of the Episcopal church at large, but is central to my parish.

While I was “careful” with my liberal opinions, and “mindful” of my newness, I was constantly urged to speak my mind and join in the conversation whatever it might be. For Episcopalians by design are not a hierarchical group. Although we are led by fine, well educated, and spiritual leaders, they in deep humility encourage everyone to be an important part of the congregation.

There is an exuberance, an excitement there, no matter what day of the week you happen to stop by. People are busy. They are busy about being a Matthew 25 people.

“When was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?”

I can honestly say that in no church that I ever attended have I found so many ways of serving the community and thus God’s people. In no place did I feel God’s call so loudly and insistently.

And against all the pronouncements of “no night meetings, no weekday drives,” and all that, I find myself immersed more and more. Today, I serve as a chalice server, co-chair of the library committee, member of the Adult forum committee, Jubilee ministries committee, volunteer at Loaves and Fishes, new member of the Education for Ministry Program, and it appears a couple more that have not yet quite formalized.

I say this in no way to toot my horn, for goodness knows I can name several dozen at my church who do twice as much or more. They are my models and examples, for the face of Christ shines brightly in them. It is with their very lives that they draw me forth. I can say as much for the magnificent clergy that we have. Warm, engaging, spiritual, deeply immersed in the Gospel, they all, Rector, assistant Rector, and deacons reach forth to teach and preach and to guide and lead in the best tradition of Church.

I am reminded that I have not been transformed as much as I am being transformed, for like the journey, it is never ending.

I recognize that in the greater Episcopal Church there are serious problems. Some of our brethren have seen fit to turn their back on a fine tradition of the church, namely that we disagree and argue during the week about doctrine, and come together on Sunday to worship our God. Some have determined that they cannot abide by the decisions made by the majority on some issues and have gone their own way. I view this with sadness, but note that there is a movement throughout Christendom of realignment generally.

Not all think the same within my own parish. One would never expect that. Yet, I like to think that while we may disagree, we respect each other. We care for the well being of all our congregants no matter our different theological beliefs. We search, in the words of our rector, to find God working in our lives in agreement and disagreement. We seek the lessons that are always there to be learned.

I can say that all that I desired in “church” were met here, and more, that I did not contemplate. I rejoice in liturgy and am uplifted in the great traditions of the service. I feel God’s hand upon my shoulder each Sunday as I enter the pew. I feel a hushed reverence at Eucharist unlike any I have ever known.

Is my parish singularly special? I cannot speak to that, for I know no other. I suspect it is and it isn’t. It is unique and yet reflects all that I have come to understand of the Episcopal tradition. God may be quite the comic when it comes to upsetting my notions about the journey, but he was quite serious when he chose Christ Church and the Episcopal faith for me.

May all your faith choices be as wondrous.

Godly Humor Part IX

My time on Catholic Answers Forum became sporadic as time went on. It was just too soul killing to do day in and day out. One began to doubt one’s own sanity at times. One was forced to revisit research again and again to make sure that one’s assumptions were still correct, even though plenty of crazed ultra orthodox were there to question your sources. It was “I’ll see your source and raise you a more ancient one. Yours is not infallible, mine is.”

Of course, none of these folks were theologians or biblical experts. In fact, the few who claimed real scholarly expertise were usually arguing against them. In any event, one grew weary at times and needed a break. The Contrarian usually made it clear when it was time for me to get away, as I complained and snarled at all the various “idiotic” conclusions I was arguing against daily.

Still, I was being pulled in the direction of Church again. That did not waver, but grew stronger with each passing week. I contemplated going to a Church in Cedar Rapids and being an “anonymous” backbencher. I would attend, I would do “my thing” and I would leave, no one the wiser that I was no longer in the eyes of the Church welcome at the table. Yet, this too gnawed at me. It seemed unfair, and not enough.

One might ask why I was intent on returning to active worship in a church setting. Ritual was a serious draw for me. Of course the liturgy itself was essential, but I could get that by reading the Mass each day and I often did so. Ritual was missing, and this for me, was something I acknowledged as highly valuable. Others might see it as but a superficial exercise, but for me, the building and the interior were deeply moving, making God feel close.

Again, I do not argue that this is not in some sense anything but childish wonderment. I do not argue that the location and physical appearance of the building is important, the message is. Yet, for me, it drew me into that place of high holy mystery that made me feel in God’s presence, this, much as a walk in the woods was capable of engendering in me. So, attendance was required. I actually planned on attending St. Joseph in Cedar Rapids, but the floods soon took care of that issue for a few months at least.

And then, came the final weight that tipped the balance and everything changed. I do not wish to make anyone feel responsible, but in fact a couple were. Since I am amazingly happy today, their responsibility is a good thing. So I shall relate it to you.

One of my oldest blogging buddies is Jeannelle from Midlife at Farmlight. She is a fellow Iowan and I have always enjoyed her lovely descriptions about life on a dairy farm. She talks about many other things, and one of them is her Lutheran faith. She often showed pictures of the stained glass windows in her church. From her, I wandered down her blogroll one day, and found Ruth from Ruth’s Visions and Revisions.

Ruth is where I began to discover that there were truly faithful people who lived their faith as Jeannelle did, but blogged on it often. And more importantly she was progressive in her thinking about social issues. Finally, I seemed to find what I had long sought, folks who thought a bit like me! From Ruth, the list expanded by leaps and bounds and I found Fran From Fran I Am, and on and on. All faithful, loving caring people. I won’t list all the fine people I have come to meet. Some are clergy, others lay, but all are deeply involved in social issues and see things from a liberal/progressive place. All love and tolerate, all are compassionate and inclusive.

Through them, I began to think more seriously about my situation. I began to resent the fact that I would be forced to remain in the background lest a pesky nosy parishioner or a right wing priest ask the wrong questions and cause me to be rejected from table hospitality. I began to feel the sorrow that I was not well placed within the Roman Catholic framework.

It all came to a heard as Ruth and I exchanged e-mails and I learned that she had been a Roman Catholic before switching to the Episcopalian or Anglican Church. I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say, she faced anonymously as it were, but faced none the less, the deacon and then priest who made it most clear that those not in full agreement with the Magisterium, were not welcome for the Eucharist.

Now, I knew this in theory, but now I actually saw that it had happened to someone. I recall a chill went down my spine and I began to seriously think about checking out an Episcopal church. Ruth was most helpful in this, checking out websites and giving me some idea of what to expect. I made the decision to push on. My first desire was to go to Independence. I loved this small town atmosphere, so pretty and delightful. But I soon found that the Church there was small, not even able to obtain a priest, but relying on a deacon.

This was fine in theory, but I figured that someone new to this faith as I would be, might be better served in a larger, more “ordinary” parish. I was still finding most of this a mystery of sorts. Ruth told me that the liturgy was much the same as I was used to, but of course, I had no way of understanding that sans experience. I was astounded that things like genuflecting and kneelers were in use. I thought those things thoroughly Roman. In fact, I recall years before being a bit incensed that some Protestant denominations “used” Catholic rituals at all. Most unseemly I thought. Those were Catholic, not for use by “common” Protestants.

Yes, Virginia, there was a time in my initial Catholicism when I was very arrogant too. My rituals were Catholic, not to be used in other churches for heaven sakes. I saw this first at Marygrove where my classes were filled with Catholics and Protestants of all kinds. We worshiped together, but I was acutely aware that they were being “allowed” (all in my mind of course) to partake of Catholic things. Such did not occur for the most part in their churches. I had only known generally that certain Protestant denominations were “high.” I had been taught that they “emulated” certain Catholic practices. That is how I saw it. I am ashamed to say this now, but then it was true.

In any case, most of you know the remainder of the story. I went my first time to Christ Church with the intention of going to Grace the following week. But I was so taken with Christ Church, that I knew I had found a home. I am sure, or reasonably sure, that I might feel as welcome at Grace, but I have never had the urge to find out. No doubt I will have the opportunity some day, since the classes I am hoping to enter soon are held at Grace part of the year.

I am now more interested in social issues and interfaith programs designed to work on common issues without regard to dogma. The jail ministry I am entering is like that, the board consisting of Catholics and Evangelicals and Methodists, as well as Episcopalians. I’m sure there are others as well. I have as I have stated before here, determined that trying to resolve doctrinal issues is mostly a waste of time. Our time is better spent in doing what we can to alleviate suffering in the world rather than arguing about faith vs. works and other such stuff.

I am happy indeed now. Oddly Christ Church is not an “old” church in design or decoration. It is fairly modern. I generally tend to adore the stone facades and old wooden floor churches with side altars and all that. The stained glass, of which I am hugely fond, is not much to speak of at Christ Church. I suspect Grace has better stained glass and it is stone as well. But in the end, what goes on inside is vastly more important and I have found the warm hand of God on my shoulder as I bow my head and kneel in the pew. I have found my home. I have found people I have learned in a short while to care deeply about.

I am profoundly grateful to Ruth and Jeannelle for their unknowing help in this matter of the Spirit. I know that I am touched by grace in meeting them and have been quietly, unknowingly led by their example. As I said, there are others in the blogging community who have had their part to play, both positively and negatively in this journey. I thank them all, for I am wise enough to know that rejection is guidance from God as well as direct leading. All, whether wishing me well or ill, have contributed to where I am today, happy, blessed, and yearning more than ever to serve well. So far, God has kept the Cross light for me, knowing that I am fragile and still deeply ego driven. But I feel the weight increasing incrementally. I hope that I shall be up for the task. With God’s grace, and the prayers of many, I know I will be.

This ends the my spiritual autobiography.