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December 25, 2002 ~ Old Rituals
Wednesday. (Merry Christmas!)
We arrived in Mt. Pleasant, checked into our hotel, and then got some dinner with Stephen, Morgan's brother. Morgan's mother would be singing in the Christmas Eve mass at her Episcopalian church. Though I was raised Episcopalian, I had not entered an Episcopalian church since I was thirteen. Episcopalian is the American version of the Anglican Church (Church of England). So far as I know, the only denomination in America that still has more ceremony than the Episcopalians is, of course, the Catholics. The other part of my church time as a child was spent in Catholic churches, since my mother's entire side of the family is Catholic. I wasn't sure how I felt to be attending that sort of service again, but I would soon find out. Though Quaker ideology, practice, and beliefs fit who I am now much more closely than do any other Christian denominations, I do still sometimes miss the ceremonies and rituals, which can often be quite meaningful.
The church looked rather out-of-place in a strip with a huge mall, several gas stations, and a few fast food restaurants. It was a large old building. Inside, a peaked roof with beautiful exposed beams, stained-glass windows lining the sides of the sanctuary. Crystal chandeliers. Rich polished wooden pews with the kneeling cushions that fold down from the pew ahead of yours.
The main window behind the alter, however, was not stained glass, or, at least, it didn't appear to be. It looked to be light brown brick mortar with small pieces of brightly colored reflective material pushed into it. In other words, not a window but a mosaic meant to resemble a window, the difference being that it reflected the light from inside rather than let in some from without. I could be wrong, it was hard to tell at night. Regardless, the result was a rather jumbled technicolor Jesus.
(I can't help but feel that such a flashy thing was more of a distraction to spiritual experience than a soothing creator of sacred space. It's the same thing with red carpet. Almost every church that I know of--including this one--has red carpet. Red is not a soothing color, a sacred color; it's angry, active, affrontive. Is it just me? Red does not make me think of sacred space. I don't remember a command anywhere in the Bible saying, "thou shalt carpet my church in red." I mean, it is the spirit that makes a church; one would think that distractions from it would not be wanted. Rich, darker blues, greens, browns whites--the colors of the ocean, the sky, the forests and the fields, the earth and the trees, the clouds--those colors would seem much more appropriate to me. Natural, calming colors. Oh well.)
This Episcopal church was not so formal as the one that I grew up attending. Yet, there was something else, too. It had a very different feel that I can't quite describe. Perhaps it is the difference between an Episcopal church in the Northwest and this one in the South.
The sermon bothered me. First of all, the controlling metaphor was using a store in the mall next door as a representation of the church. He spent most of the sermon telling us why the church was like this store next door that sold teddy bears. For one thing, I can't stand malls. For another thing, who uses a haven of frivolous, consumerist spending as a metaphor for church? This was not something that I could relate to. (Were I a minister, my metaphors would use the trees and the creeks, clouds, soil, flowers, the ocean, storms and rivers. Universal, timeless symbols.) Aside from all of that, though, the message of his sermon had nothing to do with Christmas or the meaning therein. He didn't even mention Jesus' birth. No, his message was, If you only come to this church at Christmas, you need to start coming more often. That felt a little cheap. If I were a regularly attending member of that congregation, I may have felt a little cheated. Had it been a better-done sermon, I would have felt manipulated.
I was looking forward to one particular part of the Mass, however. Communion. The last time that I took communion was three years ago, with Jeanne, the minister who helped us with our wedding ceremony. A simple cream-colored room with a grey-blue carpet and varnished wooden trim, decorated with pine boughs, candles, fall leaves, beautiful pieces of cloth draped about. (Everyone attending had been instructed to bring something to decorate with that they associated with sacred space). We danced (ceremonial dance), chanted and sang the Aramaic prayers of Jesus, we all worked ourselves into a spiritual fever of sorts. Joy and peace were simultaneously dwelling in me. We all then sat in a large circle for a baptism reaffirmation and communion. I don't remember what was said, but I will never forget what we did. Bowls of water and hand-cloths were passed around the circle. My neighbor--Anne, another student with a head of impossible-to-contain blonde curls and a smile that never faded--took my hands in hers, dipped them in the water, then massaged the water into them, paying attention to each crease, each finger, then dried my hands. I did the same for her. Homemade braid bread was passed around the circle. Anne broke off a piece and fed it to me; I broke off a piece and fed it to her. Then chalices of wine were passed around, and Anne lifted it to my lips and I drank a sip, then took the cup and let her drink. After a closing prayer, we all reluctantly dispersed. I remember walking lightly back to the dorm room, smiling at everyone and everything I passed, eager to tell Morgan all about it. It was probably one of the most meaningful spiritual ceremonies that I had ever attended, ranking right up there with my wedding.
Baptism and communion (along with confirmation, wedding, funeral, confession, and probably a few other rituals) are what is called a sacrament—an outward and physical sign of an inward and spiritual state. It is a ritualized physical practice meant to symbolize and represent something that happens on a spiritual level.
So, when it came time for communion, I was eager to participate. I followed Morgan (who was not so eager, but also did not want to stand out by remaining seated in the pew), and we knelt at the bar in front of the alter. Many people seemed to be rushed, embarrassed, as if they were getting an unpleasant task over with. Factory-produced, white, plasticy wafers, to be dipped in the wine (for sanitary purposes), eaten, and then move out of the way so that someone else can get in. As Morgan put it, "What must it be like, to be one of the worker on the assembly line in the factory where they make the body of Christ?" Oh well.
Aside from all that, though, the singing! The voices. That is what we came for, and we were not let down. They sang beautifully. I was glad to be there, if only for that. At the end of the service, the candles that had been handed to every person as they came in were lit, the house lights were turned down, and we each held our candles and joined the choir in "Silent Night."
I'm sorry. All of that sounded pretty negative, and it was actually a positive experience. But it was positive in the sense that it reinforced my decision to move away from that sort of worship. I learned again how I feel alienated there. It reminded me of why Quaker meeting back in Asheville suits me better.
That night, Morgan and I, tired, came to our hotel room and I tried to turn on the shower. I quickly found, however, that there was no switch to change to the showerhead from the bath facet. This didn't disappoint me at all. My house does not have a bath, only a shower. I made the water extra hot, then sank gratefully in, closing my eyes, letting the water cover every part of me save my mouth and nose. I felt the water drain into my ears, and tension melted away. Another ritual I'd been missing, this one fulfilled.
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