I took advantage of a few quiet moments yesterday morning to write notes to two friends who were suffering the loss of loved ones.
The first note was to my friend Ellie, whose mother passed away on Saturday, just a few weeks after celebrating her 100th birthday. Her life was a long fruitful one. Although her mind was sharp, her body was failing badly and she was very limited in mobility. Her death was not a surprise, she was ready to be with God and her family was as prepared as they could be.
The second note was to my friend Teresa who is approaching the end of the first year since the death of her husband. He was a young man, in excellent physical health and his death was sudden, unexpected and almost surgical in the manner he was so swiftly removed from our lives. There was no time for preparation.
Coming up with the perfect words to use in sympathy notes is nearly impossible. I’m never quite sure what to say and it is my hope that my feeble attempt to provide comfort will come through in my words.
As I sealed the envelopes this feeling inadequacy overwhelmed me. How could my awkward words of consolation really help anyone through the pain of losing a mother or husband? I reached for my stamps and carefully placed them in the right hand corners when the image on the face caught my attention. It was a simple picture of paper-white blossoms with the word, “FOREVER” beneath it.
To me, both were a reminder that death is not the end of life, but the beginning of the next phase. The paper-white, a member of the narcissus family, begins life as a dried, lifeless looking bulb. When potted and watered it sprouts life and eventually produces lovely, fragrant blooms. It is a symbol of everlasting life. The word, FOREVER, underscored that fact.
How silly of me to have forgotten that all I can really offer is support. True comfort comes only from faith in God and the promise of His covenant with His people. In God’s eyes we are all stamped “FOREVER.” We do not have expiration dates; instead we move from one phase to another.
I’m not sure this realization will make my notes anymore eloquent, but I certainly do appreciate the reminder.
All the Christmas decorations are stowed away for another year.
Yesterday marked the official end of the Christmas Season on the Catholic Church’s calendar with the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord. It is when the decorations come down and the Church transitions into ordinary time until Lent begins. As I packed up the trappings of the holiday, I began to “unpack” the events of the Christmas Season.
I know many people believe that the focus of the Christmas holiday is the birth of Baby Jesus and to some extent I’ll go along with that. Seeing the baby in the stable is a good image for children to gain an understanding of just how Jesus humbled himself by allowing himself to be born in such a modest way. For us grown-ups though, I just think it stops there. To coin a phrase of a dear friend of mine, “And so what?” Aside from the warm fuzzy initial feelings most of us get when we see images of a newborn, what other responses should we have to the birth of the Christ child into the world?
I had an epiphany on Christmas Eve as I listened to the Gospel. We’d had a potluck dinner before Mass and I was having a touch time settling myself. Our priest is newly arrived from Africa, and paying close attention is required to understand his words. Despite these challenges, the Spirit came through and I heard Luke’s story in a very different way. I began to think of the story of the birth in the stable with quite a different perspective.
It’s only natural to place yourself in character in these stories, to empathize with the ready-to-pop expectant mother having spent hours on the back of a donkey, just waiting for a place to rest for a while or Joseph, the tired father, feeling the tremendous urgency to find a safe place for his wife to stay but what about the inn keeper?
We’ve all seen portrayals of the inn keeper in the movies, plays or on tv, often as a grumpy, frustrated or even kindly man doing his best to accommodate the couple but this year I took the idea of being the inn keeper in a different direction, looking at the story of the inn keeper as a parable.
During the Advent Season, our focus is to prepare for the coming of the child by reflecting on the barriers in our lives that distract and distance us from God. By the time Christmas arrives, if we’ve done our job, we are ready; the nursery is complete, the crib up and there is plenty of room to welcome the child into our lives. But, often we get so caught up in the details of our lives that we lose focus and when we welcome God into our lives, we don’t have the room we’d like to have, so we try to cram the baby into whatever spot we may have available, like a stable. And let’s face it, even the cleanest stable isn’t a nice place to give birth to any baby let alone the son of God.
Taking the parable one step further, now that we have received the Christ child, what do we do next? Take down the creche and pack it away to try again next year? I don’t think so.
Instead, I believe our answer to the question, “And so what?”, despite where the baby is received should be to nurture to adulthood the mission of the child; to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, give hope to the despairing, shelter the homeless, comfort the sick and set the captives free. If we are Christians, our baptisms have charged us with these challenges.
This year I think I’ve at least intellectually put the pieces together. My personal challenge for this year will be remember to not pack my Christmas epiphany away. I’ll need to start now to clear away the clutter, a little bit at a time to make room for the babe before next Christmas. Four weeks of Advent is just not enough time to prepare for the coming of a child!
Babies are born on this planet every micro-second. Each is a child of God, created in God’s image
A couple of weeks ago something truly amazing happened. It was a Sunday morning. Dave and I got an early start, as always, to arrive at the church right around 8:00. This week was a bit special because the choir leader was going to be away, leaving him in charge for the first time. He wanted to be a little extra early this week so that he could warm up with the accompanist.
Even though Mass is scheduled to begin at 8:30, our priest lives on the other side of the mountains and also suffers from positional vertigo so he doesn’t always get out the door when he’d like to. So, our start time is usually at least a few minutes late. This week, as we passed the ten minute mark, one of the parishioners stood up and announced that Father was running very late and wanted us to “start without him”.
Strange as it may seem to many Catholics, that is what we did. The choir began the opening hymn, the first reader got up and read followed by the Responsorial Psalm. Then the second reader read the New Testament reading. So far so good. Where things began to unravel came when it normally would have been the place in the Mass for the Gospel to be read but Father still hadn’t arrived.
Unsure of whether or not we should pre-empt the Presider’s role, we instead moved onto announcements and the collection; to parts we knew we didn’t need a priest for. The choir led us in a few additional hymns until we were all getting a little tired of singing (and poor Dave was running out of material.) Still no Father.
Finally, the lady sitting next me stood up and called across the worship space to the first reader. “Bill, I think you should read the Gospel.” she said. “Do you think it’s okay?” he asked the congregation. After a few moments of mumbling affirmation, we all rose singing the Gospel Acclamation and Bill proclaimed the Gospel to us. From there we proceeded into the Prayers of the Faithful and Father made his entrance. Once vested, he came out to the altar, walked up to the ambo and announced there wouldn’t be a homily. The faithful giggled and then Father began to talk to us about his health.
With his vision failing, he’d been planning on having cataract surgery the following week. In the process of testing, the doctors had discovered a much more serious problem that would require the removal of a tumor from his pituitary gland or in other words: brain surgery. He expected to be away from us for at least three weeks. Wow! Father allowed a few minutes of questions and answers and then, after we let him know which parts of the Mass we’d already covered, he picked up where we left off and continued onto Communion. When Mass was over, the congregation blessed him with raised hands and prayer.
Last Thursday, Father had his surgery and is doing well.
In the weeks since this happened and I’ve gained the perspective of a little distance, I continue to be so very proud to say I am a member of Shepherd of the Hills. True, we are very small and perhaps don’t have a cadre of semi-professional church types who know all the ins and outs of protocol but what we lack in size, we more than make up with just by the sheer willingness of the average person in the pew to stand up and become part of the solution instead of creating a bigger problem. Maybe Mass that morning didn’t follow the strict rubrics of the Roman Missal, but we certainly came together in our “common-union”. And that’s what it’s all about.
There are times when being a modern woman in the Catholic church seems so infuriating that I just want to march out the door and never look back. Given my beliefs in the equality of the sexes, the whole idea of subordination of women in the Roman Catholic church seems unjust at best and un-Christian at worst.
Recently when asked in an interview about the possibility of ordaining women into the priesthood, Pope Francis stated that the Church had already spoken on that issue and the answer was “no”. Women, he said, had a special role in the church above priests and Bishops, just as Mary, the mother of Jesus, is held above the Apostles. HHHmmm. Sounds nice, but what does it really mean? Most of what we are taught about Mary; the peaceful, chaste, ever-loving mother, sets a bar so high, she should be held above all men, and women too. Contrast that against the Apostles; squabbling about who would ride “shot-gun” in heaven, making plans to build a theme park atop Mount Tabor, and locking themselves inside the upper room after the crucifixion. It is clear who we should want to emulate and who we actually see ourselves reflected in.
So, back to my original thought; why do I stick around? Why would I willingly subject myself to an institution that so stiffly holds to decisions made centuries ago. After all, even Abraham was able to change God’s mind about destroying Sodom. The answer is simple; the Catholic Church is my Christian faith family.
As much as I am conflicted by the struggle between the desert of reality in the Church and my thirst for the divine, every now and then, I receive such a clear reminder of who I am and where I belong. Last Friday I had one of those reminders.
My Cursillo buddies, Kay and Peggy and I planned a trip to Our Lady of the Angels Monastery in Crozet to attend their morning Mass. Mass is at 7:30 and Crozet is about 45 minutes from here so we were in for an early morning trip along some of the back roads labeled “Virginia By-Ways” on the map.
There was a beautiful sunrise as I headed out that morning; like a herald of the angels to lead my way. I drove to Kay’s and then on to Peggy’s and soon we were off into the morning first light with the help of our celestial guide, Garmin.
Our Lady of the Angels Monastery, Crozet, VA.
Kay only missed one turn and after getting back on track we were driving up a winding dirt road up the side of a mountain, passing a small herd of milk cows grazing in the grass. Soon we heard “Arriving at Destination, on right” and we were in the small gravel parking lot of the monastery. Looking out the passenger side window, taking it all in, I spied a bright blue indigo bunting sitting on the post and rail fence right in front of me. What a welcome! Like all ethereal things, he flitted off before I could snap a picture of him.
The sign reads “DOOR IS OPEN, YOU ARE WELCOME”.
There was only one other car in the lot, and it was very quiet all around us, except for the usual country sounds of birds singing in the trees. Slowly and a little unsure we approached the door. On the right of the door was a small white sign that read in big blue letters, “Door Is Open, You Are Welcome”.
As we quietly opened the door, we entered a long hallway and the soft sound of women’s voices chanting morning prayers lilted in from the far right. Not knowing what lay behind the door nor wishing to disturb the sisters, we waited until the singing was finished before entering the chapel’s public sitting area.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in a convent and never in a monastery, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. The sitting area consisted of a small cubicle to the left of the altar, roped off from the sisters’ sitting area. We were welcome, but we were not invited to enter their space, which seemed only right.
Soon, the sisters entered and took their places in seats lining both walls in front of the altar, with a wide aisle between them. It was a small group, of about ten or twelve ranging in age from early twenties to perhaps early nineties. Most were middle-aged. Two of the younger nuns went to the back of the room and began to pull on long ropes hanging from the ceiling and bells began to ring. The priest took his place on the altar, and Mass began.
As daily Mass celebrations go, this one was very long. It is the sister’s practice to enunciate each word of every prayer slowly and distinctively. There was nothing close to rushing through the rote prayers; each was said as if for the first time. At first it seemed peculiar but soon I found myself purposefully putting on the brakes to slow down to the sisters’ pace. It was pleasant to take my time, to not rush in my time just being with God.
A glimpse of the green space surrounding the Monastery of Our Lady of the Angels
A couple of weeks ago the Gospel at Sunday’s Mass was the story of Martha and Mary. For most of my life, I have to admit that I’ve felt a kinship with Martha; trying my best to take care of the details, making others more comfortable but also criticizing those who chose to not participate. It seemed to me that praying was all well and good, but sometimes you needed to live out your prayers, sacrificing your own wants for other’s needs.
Last Friday I realized more clearly that through their thoughtful and deliberate prayer life, these sisters were doing just that. Through their prayer life, they carry the balance for folks like myself who find it difficult to sit quietly and center myself into a meditative prayer experience. Their choosing to be “Marys” allows others, like me to be “Marthas”.
Despite its history of human frailties, the Catholic Church, dysfunctional as it is at times, with all its warts is my faith home and my branch of the Christian family. Yes, we have the crazy uncles who spout off at parties and think they know what’s best for the rest of us and we have the occasional squabble about who should do what. Sometimes there are harsh words, fierce disagreements and sadly, the kind of deep, everlasting hurt one can only receive from family. Thankfully our family also includes the loving aunts who with open arms welcome the broken into God’s loving embrace, wipe away the tears and provide healing for the soul.
It’s not perfect, but it is what I know. At least for now, I’m sticking around.
For the past several months and the next 72 days wedding planning has loomed on the horizon of my thoughts. With Maggie and Jan’s special day just ten weeks away, we are nearing the point of final contract signing and deposit paying with the venue and caterer. From here on in it will be just the occasional and final tweaking of details.
With all this wedding planning, memories of my own wedding and the meaning of marriage have been ever-present. I remember the excitement of the day when Dave and I finally stood up before our friends and family and committed our lives to each other. We’d taken a rather lengthy “test drive” with our relationship, more than six years, living together the last six months or so. People may think living together is the same as being married, but from my experience, it is very different.
The public expression of vows is not something to be pooh-poohed. It is a momentous statement on anyone’s part, akin to a president taking an oath of office or a service member swearing an oath of allegiance to serve the country with one major exception. I believe that when a couple vows to commit to each other, God is also present. It is not a contract, but a covenant. I don’t even believe the couple needs to believe in God, because God loves all people God has created, unconditionally.
So, given my current frame of mind, it is not surprising that two of the biggest items in the news this week have caught my attention. Both involve marriage; first, the fact that a growing number of heterosexual couples have declined going through the conventional channels of marriage to start families, finding it archaic and secondly, that homosexual couples have successfully fought DOMA for the right to have their marriages recognized. It seems that the GLBT community have recognized that living together is not the same as being married while many of our young straight couples have not.
It’s a curious conundrum.
I have joked with Maggie that when folks see on her Facebook page that she’s in a relationship with Jan, that folks would wonder if Jan was a guy or girl. (Jan, pronounced “Yan”, is the German version of John.) We’ve had a few laughs about it, but honestly, if Maggie had the kind of relationship with a female Jan instead of a male Yan, I believe I would be okay with it. Naturally it would have taken some adjustment, but in the end, the goal of any parent is to see their children living a healthy, happy life with a loving partner.
And, while the Church may not condone a same-sex marriage, I don’t think it is within the powers of the Church to put limits on whom God can love or approve of. If God is love, as we are taught and God’s love is unceasing and unconditional, who are we to make a judgement call.
Many people when making a decision, ask themselves, “What would Jesus do?” I tend to recall the image of Jesus in John, Chapter 8; sitting in the ground, writing in the dirt with his finger while the Pharisees and scribes asked him to condemn the adulterous woman. “Let the one among you without sin be the one to throw the first stone at her.” He said. If we are making a judgement on someone else, that is what we need to keep in mind. What he said to the woman after they all left; that’s between the two of them.
So, that’s a lot to munch on. I honestly don’t know what the right answer is, but at this point, I can’t see the wrong in choosing love.
The Triduum is the holiest of celebrations in the Roman Catholic Church; a three-day liturgy consisting of Holy Thursday, Good Friday and the Easter Vigil on Holy Saturday. Observances are lengthy, solemn and packed full of traditional and spiritual meaning as the passion of Christ is remembered and celebrated.
For many years, as a part of our parish RCIA team (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults) at St. Mark’s, the Triduum marked the completion of the journey of our Candidates and catechumens into full initiation and reception into the Catholic Church. The connection I had with these folks as they made their journey was one full of love and grace and even though they usually thanked me for my help and support, it was I who owed them more for sharing their stories with me and patiently listening to my story as well.
At our group meeting following the Easter Vigil, usually sometime the next week, we would “unpack” the Triduum, mentally taking slow steps through the three evenings of prayer, sharing impressions and thoughts that struck a chord in each of us. These meetings were full of tears, cheers and laughs, as memories of moments of awe, grace and even comedy (after all, we are human attempting to enter the divine) were recalled.
For the past two years my experience has been very different. Shepherd of the Hills is a tiny parish in comparison to St. Mark’s. Tasks that are handled by committees or deacons in a larger parish, are usually handled by one or two women here. Consequently, our liturgies are simpler and more relaxed than in a larger place.
I don’t remember too many details about last year, maybe because of the newness, or perhaps I was making comparisons in my head between what I had and what I thought I’d lost. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t until this year that I was able to begin to unpack what I experienced during the Triduum. I’d like to share two of with you.
The one thing most people will remember about Holy Thursday is the washing of the feet. In remembrance of Christ’s washing the Apostles’ feet at the Last Supper, Catholic communities offer a variety of ways to celebrate this rite ranging from the pastor washing the feet of parish leaders to the entire congregation coming forward to either have their feet washed or wash someone else’s feet. So, when I received an email looking for helpers at the Holy Thursday service, I assumed they were looking for water carriers, etc. When I arrived, I realized I’d volunteered to represent the parish by having my feet washed. So, when the time came, I was called forward with a handful of others. We sat in chairs facing the parish and Father Dan asked us to remove one shoe. Okay, so the ceremony had been reduced to five feet and my liturgical training bristled at the diminishing of the sign value. Then I glanced down at the bare feet on the floor in front of me and realized that of the women there, I was the only one with a painted toe nails. Instead of feeling like a paragon of good grooming, I was humbled. Next, I saw Fr. Dan bend slowly to his knees and begin to walk on them down the line, washing feet. He is not a young man and his joints pain him. As he gently washed my foot and then moved on, I noticed that the hems on his trousers were frayed. Remembering how I fussed about chosing the right outfit to wear, I was humbled again.
My second memorable experience happened at the vigil Mass on Holy Saturday. The Easter Vigil is one of the Church’s oldest celebrations were traditionally adults are fully initiated into the community. During the many Old Testament readings, the history of God’s covenant with his people is traced from the creation story forward. I was chosen to do one of the readings, a favorite of mine; Isaiah 55: 1-11 – “All you who are thirsty,come to the water!” I truly cherish God’s open invitation to come and drink of the water of new life and wanted to proclaim it in a way that would allow others to feel it as well. I practiced reading the passage several times, sat with it, and prayed about it until I was as ready as I could be.
My time came. I rose and slowly approached the ambo. Adjusting the microphone just so, I began by saying, ” A reading from the prophet Isaiah.” and then took a pause and deep breath. Then, just as I began to proclaim the passage, I heard what I was certain was someone breaking wind in a pew to my left. A few seconds later, snickering confirmed my suspicions.
I was struck by the fantastic whimsy of the moment. For a few moments, I struggled to maintain my composure. I have a mean funny bone and when it is tickled, I find it hard to ignore and let’s face it, farts are funny. More importantly, they are basely human. From all reports, my dilemma was not reflected in my reading. For that I am thankful. I’m sure my preparation aided in my carrying on.
I am also thankful for that moment that God “broke into” my reading, reminding me that Easter is all about Jesus entering a very human world, where I’d bet even in his time, a fart would warrant a chuckle.
So this year, I gathered two important lessons about humility to unpack. Both of these moments, different, but very human, have led me to a better understanding of Christ’s passion and Resurrection.
Usually when you hear about “March Madness” it refers to the NCAA College Basketball season coming to a climax and end. This year my attentions have been so diverted that I find myself today, the first day of the championship, not really knowing who’s playing who. Unbelievable!
Since the beginning of the month here in Greene County we have had three major weather events resulting in school closings. The latest was this past Sunday night which coincided with our parish St. Patty’s Day Dinner where we fed almost 125 folks all the corned beef, cabbage, ham, potatoes, carrots, salad and desserts they could eat. Our youth group waited tables while the grown-ups cooked and plated the food, supervised and after the last diner left, began the clean-up.
I have to admit that everything pretty much ran like clockwork up until the clean-up. After Mass, several of us met up in the hall and with our church clothes protected by aprons and armed with vegetable peelers, we peeled fifty pounds of potatoes and a huge pile of carrots while other quartered massive quantities of cabbage and onions. Enormous pots were set to boil on the big black commercial range and the first of the seventeen briskets began to simmer. Given the size of the kitchen, it was a herculean accomplishment to prepare this meal on such a scale.
By eleven-thirty, the food was prepped, tables in the dining room were arranged and set with bright Kelly green table clothes and festive St. Patty’s Day placemats and napkins. Irish pub music filled the room. We were ready except for the finishing touches.
The chief chef was an older woman who is a professional caterer. She single-handedly supervised the crew of volunteers and brought order to our piles of peeled vegetables. After a couple of hours, she sent everyone home, insisting she was perfectly capable and willing to sit with the pots for a few hours. Having been trained since my youth to always be ready to help out in the kitchen, I found it difficult to tear myself away. I did go home for a few hours, to change and grab a snack but was soon back in the kitchen, helping where I could.
At four-thirty our guests began to arrive. By five-thirty, over sixty dinners had been served. If you haven’t been to our tiny church, that might not seem impressive, but believe me, considering our hall only seats comfortably about eighty folks, and the fact that the weather was already showing signs of ugliness, it was a pretty big deal. By seven, the dinner was over, except for the clean-up.
The tables were cleared and the dinning room was swept and returned to normal in a few moments by the remaining youth and their parents. Left overs were wrapped and divided and stowed in the refrigerator. All that remained was a stack of large pots, chafing dishes, serving dishes and flatware. Under usual circumstances, we would have run most of the small things through a couple of cycles in the dishwasher. Unfortunately our dishwasher had been removed a couple of weeks ago in preparation for a new super fast commercial grade dishwasher that hadn’t arrived in time for the dinner. Having to wash all those dinners by hand wouldn’t have even been so bad had we had a good supply of hot water and enough dish washing liquid and Brillo pads to tackle the job. Necessity being the mother of invention, we collectively soon discovered we could make as much hot water as needed a quart at a time by running it through our Bunn coffee maker. Someone ran home for a bottle of Dawn and we were back on track. We even created a make-shift dish drainer by putting the top rack from the old dishwasher over a large baking sheet.
Two hours later, the flatware and most of the smaller serving dishes were clean, dried and put away leaving only the biggest, greasiest, burnt on dirtiest of pots and the floor to finish. Outside, the snow continued to fall. It’s not hard to imagine just how tired we all were. Most of us had been on our feet for four to five hours. We were pooped and our feet hurt; at least mine did. So, we did what sensible people do. We loaded the remaining pots into our cars to wash at home, agreeing to return on Tuesday (since Monday was going to be a snow day).
By the time I got home, all I wanted to do was throw myself on the couch and put my feet up and that’s exactly what I did. Across the room I heard Dave begin to fill me in about the bracket alignment for “The Dance”. In past years I’d fuss about who got in and who got snubbed and why one team rated a one or two seed and another a five or six. This year, I was too tired to care.
It’s important to stop and smell the daffodils, or at least look at them!
Monday was indeed another snow day. Tuesday we brought back our cleaned pots and finished cleaning the kitchen at church. Wednesday I got a call telling me that one of our parishioners had passed away and asking could I help out at the reception on Friday afternoon. Ahhhh. (Heavy sigh.) March madness takes many forms. But this morning, I discovered my daffodils were blooming for the first time. Beauty exists even in the whirlwind.
If the sprouts in the garden are any indication, I will have many opportunities to “vacation” from the pace of the days and months to come as the seasons turn from Spring and then to Summer and “The Wedding” approaches. I do appreciate my mini visits with creation and am forever grateful that I don’t have to look much further than my own back door.
One of my favorite Bible verses is the 23rd Psalm, “The LORD is my shepherd, ….” It is a source of great comfort when I am low and reassurance when I am feeling uncertain.
I have always found the image of Jesus as the “Good Shepherd” to be so warm and loving, gently guiding his sheep from pasture to pasture in search of safety and sustenance. Today I got a much different glimpse of those who profess to follow in His footsteps view the role.
An article in this morning’s Daily Progress, the Charlottesville, VA paper, reported that Bishop Francis X DiLorenzo (Bishop of the Diocese of Richmond, VA) has told the Church of the Holy Apostles, a blended Roman Catholic/Episcopal parish located in Virginia Beach, that they can no longer worship together as they have for the past thirty years. That’s right, they’ve been sharing the Word of God together and then separating for denominational specific rites of the Eucharist for thirty years!
Following a study begun last November, they are being told that allowing Catholics and non-Catholics to participate in a combined communion liturgy violated Roman Catholic norms. I know the Church moves slowly, but this is a bit extreme.
As long as I can remember the Holy Apostles community has been a haven for inter-faith couples wishing to worship together and share community with each other. Through my years in Virginia Beach, I’ve known several families who attended Holy Apostles because it offered a bridge between the different faith traditions which are so incredibly close in many, many ways. Now they must find a way to separate but maintain their community; a challenging concept wouldn’t you agree?
In his statement, Bishop DiLorenzo stated, “As the shepherd of the Diocese of Richmond, it is my prayerful desire that this ecumenical community at Holy Apostles continues and flourishes.” From my perspective, he seems less of a shepherd and more of a sheep dog nipping at the heels of that community. It seems to me that a real shepherd would have let this unique community alone, to flourish as it has in the past. It is a small parish, with a rather plain facade. Most folks driving up Lynnhaven Parkway probably don’t even know what a remarkable place it is, or sadly, was.
If you’d like more information on the vision the community of Holy Apostles was founded upon, you can visit their website: http://www.ha-arc.com/bhistory.html.
Postscript:
This week’s issue of The Catholic Virginian stated that the investigation into the practices of The Church of the Holy Apostles was prompted by a letter written to the Papal Nuncio for the US by a man from New York who read about the parish in a magazine. Sadly, there do seem to be some “well-meaning” Catholics who deem it their duty to report any kind of what they consider to be irregularities to Church officials. In our previous parish, we had visitors who wrote the Bishop concerning all kinds of things ranging from the lack of kneelers in our church to the recipe of the communion bread. After wrestling with the options available to me, I have decided to pray for these people, that they will learn to see beyond rules and regulations and see the face of God instead.
Yesterday I was happy to wake up. Although I’d never admit it publicly, for almost two years there has been a teeny bit of me shivering in a corner wondering if the Mayans were actually correct and the world was going to end on 12.21.12.
I know it was silly. It’s just not logical to put so much faith in an ancient calendar that ended centuries after its civilization died out. I’ve been kidding about it, saying that my calendar runs out every December 31st.; so I simply get a new one for the new year. Or maybe the Mayans just couldn’t find a larger stone. Silly or not, given the number of doomsday prophecies in my own adult life, we humans do seem to be hardwired to look to “the end”. Whether it’s an awareness of human failings that makes many believe the entire world must be made to suffer collectively; to be punished; I don’t know but the reality for most of us is that our world will end singularly and relatively quietly when we draw our last breath.
In my own faith tradition, these past four weeks we have been celebrating Advent, a time of preparation for the coming of Christ. To many that means making ready for a little baby born in a stable. For us, it is a time to remember that we, just like Mary, by virtue of our baptism, have been chosen to bare Christ into the world; not just in the nice easy places, but in the dirty smelly stables as well. Our weekly scripture readings have a dark theme, to prepare ourselves, to stay vigilant, to “keep our lamps trimmed and burning” because we never know when the end will come; could be tomorrow or generations from now. What is a soul to do?
Well, for me, now that I am confident the Mayan calendar held no other purpose to mankind than any of the many calendars I receive yearly from the National Wildlife Conservancy, the ASPCA, the local Chinese restaurant and my church, I will take that little bit of me that’s been shivering in the corner and gather the energy spent on this silliness and put it to good use.
I will stay vigilant and continue to prepare not by stashing away canned goods and fuel, but by sharing what I have with those who have less. I will try my best to carry my lamp with the light of Christ to those who have bits of themselves shivering in corners, leading them out to the warmth. It is a time to “lighten up”, to bring joy and light and most of all hope to this darkest time of year.
I was reminded of this when I came down to the kitchen this morning. Andy had some friends over last night and my counter was cluttered with the remnants of entertaining. I signed because I am so very weary of cleaning the kitchen and emptying the dishwasher after weeks of cookie baking and my own entertaining. Then, I read my new cookie plate and let it all go.
I made my Cursillo this weekend. From Thursday evening through Sunday afternoon, I was totally immersed in a quiet, reflective world of loving Christian women hoping to “renew and strengthen their love of Jesus; to grow in faith, knowledge and personal holiness; to bring Christian values to all environments and people with whom they come into contact.”(borrowed from the Cursillo pamphlet). It was a life adjusting experience, full of nourishment for the soul and energizing grace. My body has returned from the mountain, but my soul still soars!
I am a daughter of God; a sister of Christ and I will strive to live accordingly.
I took advantage of a few quiet moments yesterday morning to write notes to two friends who were suffering the loss of loved ones.
Usually when you hear about “March Madness” it refers to the NCAA College Basketball season coming to a climax and end. This year my attentions have been so diverted that I find myself today, the first day of the championship, not really knowing who’s playing who. Unbelievable!
One of my favorite Bible verses is the 23rd Psalm, “The LORD is my shepherd, ….” It is a source of great comfort when I am low and reassurance when I am feeling uncertain.