I am not a Christian, but I had been admiring the High Anglican (aka "Anglo-Catholic") church in my neighborhood, and so Christmas Eve I went to midnight mass. As I walked through the rain, my heart was beating. I almost turned back, but I told myself I could go and just be curious. Besides, what better time to blend in than in the Christmas crowd?
Inside the church, everyone sat quietly under brick arches and boughs of greenery. Candles burned in the side altars; gilded murals and satin tapestries caught the light. The atmosphere was formal, not really friendly, but not forbidding either.
A flurry of organ music, and disembodied voices of the choir filled the hall. The first order of business had arrived: singing carols for half an hour. The woman next to me kept turning around. When I asked if she was OK, she told me she was looking for her friends.
My experience with Buddhist pomp and ceremony is that it reproduces certain refined states of perception—the entire sky turns to gold; the world works according to a mystical order; everything is sacred. And yet, we don’t sing. There are no heavenly choirs as a byproduct of meditation, at least never in my personal experience. But it’s a beautiful thing to do with others, albeit surreptitiously, in my case. I don’t sing well.
Then came the Procession. Men in robes, whirling incense, the gospel held high, brocade and bowing. Doing important things in various parts of the church. The priest and other ministers are all male; like everything else, this too has been preserved through time. I didn’t mind this: I find men in robes quite compelling. As I recall, the Bible is pretty clear about the priesthood being reserved for males; if you don't like that, do you get to pick and choose?
The more I sat and thought, the more this all looked like a variation of Buddhism: the eastern tone to it all, the standing in gassho, in shashu, the expiation of sins, the communion with the divine. We become zazen; they consume Christ’s flesh. We chant; they sing.
Beyond the ceremony, I am sure that people who devote their lives to the path of ministry must surely find similar difficulties, whether they be Buddhist or Christian: setting aside their personal desires in order to serve the congregation; demonstrating to others the real possibility of spritual transformation in the midst of this very life. And, inevitably, those who lead sometimes find themselves embroiled in sexual misconduct. Because when you undertake a mission of holiness all your nastiest stuff tries to flare up. No priest ordains because he is a predator. But when we dig deep, we all find parts of ourselves that are challenging to manage. And we do so with varying skill, using what resources we have.
Kneeling hurt my back. But Baby Jesus grew up to feel a lot worse pain, so I dealt with it as best I could. We sang and recited and Allelujah!ed and crossed ourselves. It dragged on and on, in conflict with our modern attention spans. My mind wandered. I could see why multimedia mega-churches are so popular these days. And I was glad to be doing it the old way instead.
Finally, there was Communion. I went up and knelt at the rail, arms crossed over my chest to signal I wished to receive a blessing rather than the bread and wine.
There was no time, and space was very bright. On either side of me, the communicants did something, went somewhere. Then stood up and returned to their seats more slowly then they had come.
The old man in the pew in front of me had a bright eye, and read and sang along with an unsual attention. He was wearing what looked like a heavy black wool cape. He tottered up to the front for Communion on the arm of one of the ushers. As he returned to his seat, I could see he wore black vestments, with a dark cross hanging at his chest. He was an old priest, maybe even a bishop.
After the climax of Communion, a certain urgency had dissipated from the room. My body felt spent, and my mind was quiet, pliable, and blissfully unfocused. It was time to leave, or else to take a nap. Of course, it was also after one o’clock in the morning.
The woman on my right dabbed at her eyes. She wore an immalculate red boiled-wool sweater and neat tartan skirt; her gray hair was pulled back softly. Her eyes were always on the altar; she every action was fervent. She genuflected fully, bowed when the procession passed, and knelt in prayer of her own accord. Something about her earnestness struck me as childlike, and very touching. Sitting next to her was perhaps the best part of all.
I walked home--more like dancing--through the rain of Christmas morning. For the next two weeks, my head rang with "Gloria in Exelcis Deo."
based on an original by Robby Garbett
2 comments:
I went to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, but only to avoid upsetting my mother with my new-found atheism.
I found it claustrophobic, provincial, incredibly anachronistic, controlling, unwelcoming.. As a divorced person I wasn’t welcome at communion anymore – I would have had to give the sign for a blessing only: which appears more of a public humiliation than a special treat. The most stressful time in my life, the most difficult change, and the Church turns its back on me.
I've become an evangelical atheist. I have let go of the guilt, the rage, the boredom. I see it as insulting that when science and intelligent people have no instant answer, that a superstitious god is created to fill the gaps. I know that when I prayed and got no answer, when relatives died, when favorite pets got cancer, when I was lost and going insane with stress, it wasn’t not because I was unworthy, it’s because I was brain-washed into thinking there was a personal god looking down and judging me. I control my destiny, I make the choices, I can make changes and become a better person. I don’t need a god to give me morals. I am a thinking, intelligent person. I am part of the species that sent people to the moon, that create calculus, that cured smallpox, that abolished slavery, and I don’t need a god.
So Christmas was not a time for me to seek out those chills caused by music or choirs or a feeling of spirituality. It was a time to enjoy the company of family, and relax and enjoy the traditions and comforts of a childhood that’s almost completely gone forever. For a few days, I’m content with my life.
I'm so sorry to hear that you would find yourself in such a negative and soul-killing predicament on Christmas Eve. I wonder if,in retrospect, just telling your mother your feelings might caused the lesser suffering?
I wonder how many others in the church that night felt as you did.
My own background was non-Christian, but even so I absorbed a fair amount of the religious dysfunctionality of our culture. I went knowing that I was a "tourist," and figuring that on this one day tourists would be welcome in that church. I was pleased to find a sense of holiness and connection at the end of the experience. But I did have to ignore or "translate" a good deal of what went on. As an outsider, you can often appreciate the beauty of something without feeling emotionally triggered.
In my capacity as a Zen Buddhist I have seen so many people who feel as you do, and who in spite of their disillusionment and sense of betrayal are still looking for meaning. The human heart is incredibly resilient that way. Zen appeals to many because its manifestation in the US is often in a stripped-down form, with few of the cues that send off alarm bells in recovering Christians.
Even so, having lived in two Zen monasteries, I can attest to the fact that any human institution can disappoint, and leave someone feeling unsupported, judged, infuriated. And yet, we still do search for meaning.... I am so happy to hear that the joy of spending the holidays with family. At the end of the day that's much more satisfying than curing smallpox or abolishing (after creating) slavery, isn't it? :-)
Post a Comment