And Lent Begins
I don't typically blog on religious topics, mainly because WordGirl does it so much better.
In honor of Ash Wednesday, however, I'll make an attempt.
My father was a lapsed Catholic for many years, while my siblings and I were raised to be lapsed Episcopalians. There's a lot of similarity between the two lapsed religions: the liturgy we avoided was fairly similar (so I'm told), both celebrate the same holiday masses we didn't attend, and some of the hymns we never sang were the same, surely.
I was confirmed as an Episcopalian through the Sally Struthers method. There was a crash-course, mainly done remotely, which involved a quiz on the books of the Bible which I'm sure no one ever failed. Modern Episcopalians don't believe in failure---their golden calf is "self-esteem", a curse which afflicts many before and in the pews.
When I say the quiz was on the books of the Bible, I mean the names of them. No need to worry about those with sequels; just get the titles more or less right and keep the Old and New Testaments straight, or at least the Gospels, which were most certainly NOT written by John, Paul, Ringo, and George.
I was sick on the day of my confirmation, but my mother made me go, since the bishop was only visiting the church that week and by the time he came around again she wanted to be a lapsed usher. So I went, and my siblings went, more than a little surprised that I didn't bleed from the ears like Damien upon setting foot on hallowed ground.
The confirmants sat down front. I wore a clip-on tie which made me uncomfortable. God knew it wasn't a real tie. As the service wore on and on, and as the bishop read from the book of Rocky II, the incense began to get to me. When the bishop said, "Now let us pray for the confirmants," I lost control of my upper GI and took out two velvet pillows, a prayer book, and the bishop himself. And in that moment, my firmly-lapsed Episcopalian brother called out for an exorcist. Like lapsed Catholics, lapsed Episcopalians don't qualify for exorcism.
The rest of the ceremony was a blur. I remember the soiled bishop gamely confirming me in the basement of the church, away from the real Episcopalians. My mother bore it well and was likely relishing her relapse. We never went back to that church again. I doubt we were missed.
Despite this, I considered myself an Episcopalian, part of the proud American Anglican church tradition of spotty attendance. I found that the Bible contained chapter and verse to go along with the titles, and that the Book of Job was not in fact ancient want ads.
Years later, while in the basic training, I began attending church. It was the one place you didn't get yelled at. I toyed with betraying my lapsed faith, but was saved when the Episcopal Church decided that the reason there weren't more people showing up on Sunday was they weren't engaging in enough socio-sexual experimentation. I remain lapsed in good standing, and spent a lot of time over the next several years alternating denominations to really dislike.
My father, on the other hand, remained a steadfast lapsed Catholic for decades. When he found out he was terminally ill some years back, he reconnected with his faith, talking and praying with a priest during his treatments.
I was with him as he lay on his deathbed, and when it became apparent he had hours left to live, I called the local Catholic Church to request Last Rites. The priest seemed disappointed he didn't actually belong to this church, but came anyway, and I like to think the ritual eased my father's suffering somewhat, at least the suffering that seeped in through the morphine haze.
My parents had pretty much ceased to be active in their respective faiths years before I was born. I had never really known either to be religious. I myself had never doubted the existence of God, nor that Jesus died for my sins. It's strange how that happens, how one can struggle with God yet not be well-versed in Scripture or religion. Yet struggle I did, and do.
My father struggled too, and mightily, particularly toward the end of his life. But when the end came, when my mother whispered to him the heartbreaking admonition to "Let go, let go...we're fine, let go," when she broke the tether of nearly 50 years of marriage, he went, into the arms of the Father who knew him, even when my father didn't acknowledge their acquaintance.
God is the Alpha and Omega not just of history, of the universe, but of each of our fleeting lives. He sees us on and off this mortal coil, the first and last sight we see.
Ash Wednesday is a reflection on mortality, and on sacrifice. On this Ash Wednesday, I feel the weight of both.
But I do not bear it alone.
In honor of Ash Wednesday, however, I'll make an attempt.
My father was a lapsed Catholic for many years, while my siblings and I were raised to be lapsed Episcopalians. There's a lot of similarity between the two lapsed religions: the liturgy we avoided was fairly similar (so I'm told), both celebrate the same holiday masses we didn't attend, and some of the hymns we never sang were the same, surely.
I was confirmed as an Episcopalian through the Sally Struthers method. There was a crash-course, mainly done remotely, which involved a quiz on the books of the Bible which I'm sure no one ever failed. Modern Episcopalians don't believe in failure---their golden calf is "self-esteem", a curse which afflicts many before and in the pews.
When I say the quiz was on the books of the Bible, I mean the names of them. No need to worry about those with sequels; just get the titles more or less right and keep the Old and New Testaments straight, or at least the Gospels, which were most certainly NOT written by John, Paul, Ringo, and George.
I was sick on the day of my confirmation, but my mother made me go, since the bishop was only visiting the church that week and by the time he came around again she wanted to be a lapsed usher. So I went, and my siblings went, more than a little surprised that I didn't bleed from the ears like Damien upon setting foot on hallowed ground.
The confirmants sat down front. I wore a clip-on tie which made me uncomfortable. God knew it wasn't a real tie. As the service wore on and on, and as the bishop read from the book of Rocky II, the incense began to get to me. When the bishop said, "Now let us pray for the confirmants," I lost control of my upper GI and took out two velvet pillows, a prayer book, and the bishop himself. And in that moment, my firmly-lapsed Episcopalian brother called out for an exorcist. Like lapsed Catholics, lapsed Episcopalians don't qualify for exorcism.
The rest of the ceremony was a blur. I remember the soiled bishop gamely confirming me in the basement of the church, away from the real Episcopalians. My mother bore it well and was likely relishing her relapse. We never went back to that church again. I doubt we were missed.
Despite this, I considered myself an Episcopalian, part of the proud American Anglican church tradition of spotty attendance. I found that the Bible contained chapter and verse to go along with the titles, and that the Book of Job was not in fact ancient want ads.
Years later, while in the basic training, I began attending church. It was the one place you didn't get yelled at. I toyed with betraying my lapsed faith, but was saved when the Episcopal Church decided that the reason there weren't more people showing up on Sunday was they weren't engaging in enough socio-sexual experimentation. I remain lapsed in good standing, and spent a lot of time over the next several years alternating denominations to really dislike.
My father, on the other hand, remained a steadfast lapsed Catholic for decades. When he found out he was terminally ill some years back, he reconnected with his faith, talking and praying with a priest during his treatments.
I was with him as he lay on his deathbed, and when it became apparent he had hours left to live, I called the local Catholic Church to request Last Rites. The priest seemed disappointed he didn't actually belong to this church, but came anyway, and I like to think the ritual eased my father's suffering somewhat, at least the suffering that seeped in through the morphine haze.
My parents had pretty much ceased to be active in their respective faiths years before I was born. I had never really known either to be religious. I myself had never doubted the existence of God, nor that Jesus died for my sins. It's strange how that happens, how one can struggle with God yet not be well-versed in Scripture or religion. Yet struggle I did, and do.
My father struggled too, and mightily, particularly toward the end of his life. But when the end came, when my mother whispered to him the heartbreaking admonition to "Let go, let go...we're fine, let go," when she broke the tether of nearly 50 years of marriage, he went, into the arms of the Father who knew him, even when my father didn't acknowledge their acquaintance.
God is the Alpha and Omega not just of history, of the universe, but of each of our fleeting lives. He sees us on and off this mortal coil, the first and last sight we see.
Ash Wednesday is a reflection on mortality, and on sacrifice. On this Ash Wednesday, I feel the weight of both.
But I do not bear it alone.
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