Going Home

On Sunday, January 27^th, I was at St. Matthew’s, Fairbanks, the church I attended from age six until I graduated from high school and left Alaska.  It was Annual Meeting time, just like at St. Mark’s.  The St. Matthew’s folks held theirs in the middle of the church service.  They stopped after the Ministry of the Word, had a lively meeting, took a break so everyone could go to the bathroom and start their cars (it was -50 below), and then continued with the Eucharist.  My mother and I were recognized during the Peace and received little bags of candy attached to information about St. Matthew’s with a tear-off sheet that we could’ve filled in (we’re still on the mailing list, however, after 24 years). I won a can of Spam for travelling from the farthest distance (that competition is not as stiff in January as it is in June).

St. Matthew's Episcopal Church, Fairbanks, Alaska

 

I loved being back at St. Matthew’s because church seemed magical again. I didn’t have to do any of it, just like when I was a child.  All I had to do was show up, sit there, and take it all in.  I was able to be present in a way that is harder when I’m at home in my regular life.  When Stew and I moved to Waterville in 2000, church became more real, less magical, I thought.  I thought that being one of the “grown ups” in church meant that I had to help make things happen, and I wasn’t sure how to do that.  I didn’t feel obligated necessarily, but I had a sense that I couldn’t just show up anymore, not because other people would expect more from me, but because I did.  I suspected that, as deeply fulfilling as my childhood church experiences had been, there was more.  Church was good because the grown-ups had made it so, and making it so has its own magic.  It’s about being part of the knowing that helps people understand that they are known.  It reminds us, in our darker moments, that we are, too, and have always been.  That’s the kind of magic that is real.  We go to church, we make church happen, to be physical, tangible reminders for each other that God has always known who we are.

At St. Matthew’s there were familiar faces, faces of people who were the age I am now when I left; softer, aged faces of people who had probably already retired back then; and there were the unseen faces of angels. I was known; it was good to be Home.  But there were many more new faces than old.   It wasn’t exactly the same, and that’s why St. Matthew’s is still there, still vibrant.  In twenty-four or so years, if Maggie and Sally come back to St. Mark’s after a long absence, I hope they will be welcomed by old faces and inspired by new ones.  I hope they’ll have happy memories of being at church with their friends, of being loved by grown-ups other than their parents, so that they will understand that they have always been known and will want to help with the knowing. 

 

“…Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.”  1 Corinthians 13:12.

Faith

Faith is a tricky thing.  We’re asked to believe without seeing, trust without proof.  But the reality is, we do this naturally, from a very young age.   We know that love is real because we feel it; we believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy because we really want to; we know we are taken care of because we have food to eat and clothes to wear and a place to sleep. And then we’re tested: bad things happen; we discover who Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy really were the whole time; we realize that we need to learn how to take care of and provide for ourselves.  

When we’re young, if we’re lucky, we have grown-ups in our lives whose faith in God or something unseen (my favorite expression of this is the Athabascan Indian word for God, which translates to “the Great Mysterious”) guides them.  Many times as a young adult, when I was struggling to find or hold onto some sort of faith, when I was dealing with setbacks, when I did not yet know how to take care of myself very effectively, I let the people I knew whose faith was strong and real carry me.  I suspected that believing wasn’t always easy, that everyone who truly believes struggles, questions, gets angry at God/the universe/whatever (a friend of mine in her seventies says that she and God are not on speaking terms at the moment).  I didn’t think much about it; I just knew that the church was there, that people who loved me, people I respected and admired were there and lived their lives in a certain way because of it.  For me faith was, and is, basically a yes or no question, and I don’t always get bogged down in the details.  Yes, I believe there is more to this world, this life, than we can see and touch. That idea can be expressed in myriad ways, and that’s often enough for me, and if that’s what I’m able to pass along to my children and others, that’s a lot. 

That’s why I think providing a safe and happy place for children to attend church is so critical.  When they are tested, when they are not there for us to hug and kiss every day and we’re not putting presents in their stockings and under their pillows anymore, when they are making their way in a world that is often cold and hard and full of pain, they’ll know that they are loved, that we believe for them when faith may not seem quite real or relevant. 

I have the very great fortune of being able to travel back to Alaska this week, to the seat of my faith, to the place I was first loved and cared for.  I will see people whose lives taught, and teach, me about the power and magic of love.  Despite all my crankiness and impatience with this world, I hope I can be for others what they have been for me.

Bess

" I Believe in God. "

A few days after the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary, I read a reference to them as having “traumatized the nation.”  I found these words comforting because they helped me feel less alone, helped me realize that I wasn’t the only one not able to sleep much, not the only one still quick to tears, not the only one bewildered by people who could smile and laugh and talk about other things so soon after such a horrific tragedy.  I won’t call it unimaginable, because I know I’m not the only parent who is able to conjure up just about every possible danger or threat to one’s children.  The skill with which I am able to do this borders on the pathological, though, in part because I struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, from things that happened to me both as a child and a young adult.  What that means for me, and for many other people with PTSD, is that events like Sandy Hook can trigger debilitating anxiety and irrational behavior like not sending my children to school the Monday (and Tuesday) following the shootings. 

I had an “out”:  our older daughter, Maggie, is homeschooled, and she and Stew were away on a trip.  Our younger daughter, Sally, is likely going to be homeschooled next year, and I suggested that she stay home with me to get a taste of what that would be like.    She was more than happy to oblige, unknowingly, my absolute terror at the thought of sending her off to school, especially with Stew, the moderating force in my life, out of town.  I kept her with me the following day as well, simply not ready to let go, knowing I was indulging my fears, but also knowing, through years of therapy, when to push myself and when to be gentle. 

I just called Stew the “moderating force in my life” and he is one of them, a big one, but really, that force is my belief in God, in Jesus, in the Resurrection, and the fact that Love is stronger than Death.  When I heard the news on the radio that Friday, in my kitchen, I fell to my knees, gasping for breath, my heart shattering in pain for those families, in fear and desperation for my children. I called Stew, hardly able to speak.  “Tell me,” I choked out, “tell me I don’t need to go get them,” for Maggie was at school that day, too.  He reassured me, as he always does, and I prayed, stumbling blindly through the rest of the afternoon.  He picked them up, and by the time I saw them, I was under control, calm, greeting them without tears and able to look into their eyes and hear about their days without letting them know anything was amiss.

What did I pray?  The only thing that came through clearly was the first line from the Baptismal Covenant in the Book of Common Prayer: “I believe in God.”  I. Believe. In. God.  Over and over, that’s all I could say, all I could think, all I had to hold onto.   Sometimes life is stripped down just to that.  

And then Christmas.  Hope in the midst of all our terrible failings.  Jesus will lead us, if we let Him, if our hearts remain broken by what breaks God’s heart. 

 

Bess

 

Watch. Repent. Prepare. Behold!

A few years ago, Scott Fisher, an Episcopal priest in Alaska, used these words (in a story using the image of sled dogs flashing through the woods) to describe the waiting period that is Advent.  They help me separate out the different parts of what this season is, and remind me that each has its own place, preferably in this order, though as with everything, it’s a circle, a cycle I go through again and again, this time of year and throughout the year. 

Watch: to me, this means paying attention, being alert, expectant, vigilant.  It means not rushing while I pack the girls’ lunches, but imagining them opening the bags and reaching in for what’s inside, wondering what they’ll be doing then, how they’ll be feeling.  It means consciously blowing my breath out when I feel my chest tighten at the frenzy of commercials, the constant email alerts, the overheard chatter about who’s buying what and how much.  It means letting Advent be Advent, its own thing, its own time, letting myself feel peaceful anticipation.

Repent: this word is pretty loaded, unfortunately, in a culture where some interpretations of Christianity get drowned out by others that scream loudly and with a lot of negativity.  I think it means reflection, consideration of things we would have done differently, more thoughtfully, if we had given ourselves the time to act with more intention than perhaps we did.  It means accepting responsibility for things we did or said that we regret, and committing ourselves to careful choices going forward.

Prepare:  I like to clean.  I like knowing that there aren’t any unattended-dark corners. I like seeing order around me because it feels hopeful, like the chaos in my head doesn’t have to be real.  You would think, then, that my house is spotless, but no; far from it.  That’s why I like Advent, because I feel like I have an excuse to clean things that desperately need it, clearing out drawers or shelves or boxes that have been ignored.  But “getting your house in order” is a metaphor, too; first, actually.  It’s connected to watching and repenting.  Observe what has been, how things are, acknowledge what needs to change, and then prepare a place for God to do good work.

Behold: When I think of this word, I think of silence.  When we are in the presence of something worth “beholding” we are often moved beyond words.  I think of light, of being in darkness but seeing great light, of being warmed and thrilled and held by it.  Watching, repenting, preparing – all well and good, but not if we miss the most important part: “Behold, I am with you always, even unto the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

 

Bess

 

The Gift of Belonging

 

Last night as we were sitting around the table at dinner, my husband, Stew, explained to the girls (Maggie, 10, and Sally, 8) that they had a couple of options for the weekend.  They could go with him up to Moosehead Lake to take Tanka, the dog we’ve been taking care of for the last six weeks, back to his owner, and spend the night, or they could stay at home with me, because I had to be at St. Mark’s Sunday morning.  Sally promptly announced, “I don’t want to miss Hearing the Story!”

“Hearing the Story” is one of the rotations we have in our new Sunday School program, along with “Arts and Friends” and “Movie Morning.”  The children move through the different rotations over the course of the month; for example, last Sunday, the 5^th graders and any children older than that watched a movie about the First Thanksgiving; the 3^rd and 4^th graders rolled their own beeswax candles, and the 1^st and 2^nd graders had a lesson about the prophet Ezekiel in Hearing the Story.  Apparently Sally had heard it was “cool” and is looking forward to it; the 3^rd and 4^th graders go there next. 

You can imagine that learning that my children look forward to going to church made me very, very happy.  It hasn’t always been that way.  And when I first told them that they would be staying in the service now, that Sunday School was happening first, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Now, however, they cram themselves into a front pew with a whole bunch of other kids, and have a really good time.  How much they are getting out of the service depends on the day, but I know they are contributing to it.  And they are learning that they belong.

Looking forward to going to a place where you belong.  I think if this is a gift we at St. Mark’s can give to our children, we’re doing pretty well.  We are each one of us a child of God; let’s give ourselves and each other that gift as well.

Bess

We All Have Special Needs

               An older man experiences chest pains in the middle of a church service; EMTs are called.  A baby screeches.  A mother feels faint, and is guided out of the sanctuary.  A young man taps his feet to the music.  An older woman knocks her cup of coffee over in a pew but doesn’t notice; the people around her frantically try to clean it up before she does.  A cell phone rings.  A little girl doesn’t respond when you ask her a question, but looks at you with a shy smile.

               These are all things that have happened in real life services at a church near you.  Some of them were considered disruptive or weird by some of the people there; other events were chalked up to normal things that “just happen” sometimes.

               The difference, unfortunately, is that in some of these cases, the people involved have special needs. Too often in those situations, the perceived “disruption” was not tolerated the way it was, when, for example, the lightheaded mother (me) had to be led out of the service because she didn’t eat enough breakfast.  Surely the sight of me stumbling down the side aisle assisted by two kind souls distracted people from whatever was going on.  I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I was glad people didn’t make a big deal of it, or tell me I wasn’t welcome at church until I could get my blood sugar issues under control.  Sadly, some of the other people in these scenarios were told that they weren’t welcome, or they were invited to listen to the service outside the sanctuary doors, or they were subjected to rude glares or “sh-shing” noises and gestures.  In his All Saints sermon last Sunday, Father John observed that our culture tries to “sanitize death.”  All too often, we try to sanitize life, as well.

               A lot of the time at St. Mark’s, we get it right.  And sometimes, we have really screwed it up.  The standard is high, though, as high as it can be.  As a church, we have to get it right 100% of the time.  There is no room to be unwelcoming, to not be compassionate, to not accept people for who they are, where they are, whenever they come to church, because they come to church for exactly the same reasons we do: to feel loved, safe, accepted, at home.  When we encounter people that we perceive as “different,” we don’t always know how to act.  Staring isn’t polite or helpful, but neither is pretending that they aren’t there.  So what is the right thing to do?

               I asked some parents of children with special needs, and here’s what they said: “My biggest thing is letting people know that respectful questions are always welcome.”  “ I think the important part is to simply be present and kind toward anyone who is a little different.”   “A person with challenges loves to be valued for who they are and feel like they are being recognized - even if they can't participate fully.”  “Meeting (people with special needs) where they are and recognizing that they are a human being just like everyone else is a great first step and will usually be rewarded with a big smile, a big open heart, and the good feeling of knowing that you reached out to someone who often doesn't feel connected in this big crazy complicated world.”

               We can do this.  Church services are not concert performances, yet it is important to honor the service time, the holy and the sanctified.  What is more holy, though, than the very act of gathering together for worship?  Jesus said, “When two or more are gathered in my name, I am there in the midst of them” (Matthew 18:20).  What binds us together is our humanity and our love (“they will know we are Christians by our love”), in all the ways that is manifested in us.  We can recognize ourselves in each other if we really look.  We all have special needs, and we are all capable of helping each other meet them.  Let us not turn away, but let God open our eyes, our arms, and our hearts.

 

Bess

Counter-Culture

Last week, I got to have tea with a friend who used to come to St. Mark’s, but she and her family moved down the highway a bit, and it had actually been a couple of years since we’d been able to sit and talk.  They attend the Episcopal church in the town they live in now, and we started talking about how there aren’t as many young families coming to church as regularly as there used to be. 

 

“It’s weird, but it’s just become something we plan around now…we don’t do sleepovers on Saturday nights, and we’re just…there, every Sunday, unless we’re out of town.  The kids expect it, and like it, and it’s just become what we do now.  But it feels almost counter-cultural!  People just don’t seem to go to church anymore, not even at Christmas and Easter!”  Their church is also, like St. Mark’s, going through a rebuilding, after losing a number of families over a stretch of years.  They, too, are exploring ways to expand their offerings for children and youth, to make church a place where families want to be.

This idea of church now being counter-cultural is really interesting; I suspect that many people have negative connotations about what church is, based on politics and media and the entertainment industry.  It certainly feels at times that extreme interpretations of certain religions dominate our thinking about them.  That makes it hard to invite people to church, because we’re not sure what they’ll think.  We know we are not judgmental, irrational, and after their money, but what if that’s the only message they’ve ever gotten about people who are in any way “religious”?  How many times have you heard people say “I’m not religious, but…”?   Church definitely seems to be out of fashion at the moment…but what was that Bible passage?  The geeks shall inherit the earth?  On my Facebook page, under Religious Views, I have a quote attributed to St. Francis:  “Preach the Gospel.  Use words if necessary.” 

 

Who cares what people think?  If church makes sense for you, if it helps you live a more meaningful, focused, fulfilled life, come.  If it slows things down, if the music soothes and inspires you, if church helps you remember we’re all in this together, come. And invite a friend.  Because we want to share with our friends what’s good in our lives…that makes it even better.

 

Bess