My idea was to light them every morning and evening and read the daily prayers in the Anglican office...there's an app for that, of course. In practice I have been doing the morning, but I usually get behind myself in the course of the day and by the time night falls I'm still sweating to get it all done, and only stop when I more or less fall over in bed. Not ideal, but it's my reality right now. The morning, though: the morning is really working. I have always hated getting up in the dark, have resented the harsh elecric light flipped on in one second, blinding and stinging my eyes. This ritual of candle-lighting has rescued the mornings. It's easier to get up, and I'm getting up earlier. Lighting the candles eases me into the day. Perhaps it's just the novelty, but for now it's been a blessing.
And the prayers and scripture. Well, mixed reactions. I am finding that reading them with as little judgement or reaction as possible is a challenge. I remind myself that they are poetry, that the intent is prophetic and that their time is not my time. I've found moments of loveliness and encouragement and interest, though on the whole they ring a little hollow. The beseeching of God for protection and guidance and the praise and worship for him...I'm not surprised, obviously, that's basically prayer in a nutshell. It doesn't have huge meaning for me when I do not believe that there's anyone listening but me. I have been thinking of prayer as appealing to that ideal, bigger, kinder, wiser, more compassionate and more understanding part of myself, and that is very helpful. I know it sets my brain in the right groove for the coming day. But I do wonder about the forms of the prayer...it's a stretch, not a perfect fit. It's not how I would generally address any part of myself. (Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!)
The orthodox among my theoretical readers must be groaning at the idea of praying to myself. I know. I'm not particularly pleased about it either. But maybe the strangeness of it is instructive. After all, I am reaching towards a wholeness, or a realization of a wholeness, that at the moment is not a perfect fit. Maybe that's the lesson. I read a great quote the other day in an article from The Guardian:
"At its heart, religion is that category of belief in which the world does not revolve around me but around something other than me. It is a sort of Copernican revolution in which the human being is not at the centre of all things. That is not its only characteristic, but it is essential."
Giles Fraiser
There's something in that. I wouldn't assign the centre to something supernatural, necessarily, but certainly to something larger than myself or even humanity in general.
On Sunday I went to Communion at the local Church of Ireland. It wasn't the peak experience that the advent procession had been: the choir was squeakier, the congregation more full of coughing and sniffling and whispering, but I was down with the humanity of the event. After all, that's sort of the point. The readings and the sermon centered around Isaiah 40, which was always one of my favourite passages:
Comfort, comfort my people,
says your God.
Speak tenderly to Jerusalem,
and proclaim to her
that her hard service has been completed,
that her sin has been paid for,
that she has received from the Lord’s hand
double for all her sins.
A voice of one calling:
“In the wilderness prepare
the way for the Lord;
make straight in the desert
a highway for our God.
Every valley shall be raised up,
every mountain and hill made low;
the rough ground shall become level,
the rugged places a plain.
And the glory of the Lord will be revealed,
and all people will see it together.
For the mouth of the Lord has spoken.
“All people are like grass,
and all their faithfulness is like the flowers of the field.
The grass withers and the flowers fall,
because the breath of the Lord blows on them.
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers and the flowers fall,
but the word of our God endures forever.”
The sermon was, for the most part, actually quite lovely. Thoughtful, most of all, kind and understanding, gently challenging, and carefully meditating on the transience of our lives. From our resistance to change (except when we're uncomfortable or unhappy) to our mortality and even edging on the great existential terrors of our fragile lives. I was quite moved and engaged, until the final punchline, which was, basically "But we don't have to worry, because we are in God's hands, and he will take care of everything." Which, of course. I mean, that's why many people go to church.
How would I have ended the sermon? I'm not sure. I suppose that's why I was going to church. I suppose my sermon just ends with the transience, in a very Buddhist way. Though the message I would add, which I have not found in Buddhism (perhaps I haven't looked hard enough) is "so we must love each other as fiercely and as well as we possibly can, with every fibre of our being."
I suppose that's close to the Buddhist concept of the Oneness of all. And that's the same as another Christian idea that appeals strongly to me. The concept of the church (ie all people: perhaps all beings: perhaps the univerise) being one body, one heart, under Christ, which I define as that divine(ie: best, supernatural only because it prompts us above the "natural" selfishness and small-mindedness of any creature) nature in us all, under the sacrificial (holy) spirit of love, and under the sum total of our shared ideals of goodness, empowerment, and creativity (God, pretty much.) That trinity is still not really something I feel drawn to "pray" to, but it is something that I want to keep to the front of my mind and heart, inspiring my movement in the world. I went to communion, because the symbolism is strong, and because I often need reminding that I do not live in my bubble with selected company. Not really. Not properly. So sharing a symbolic "meal" with a congregation, in memory of sacrificial love (however literal or not I may consider it) was moving, and kind of a Big Deal to me. The Quaker in me was muttering something about "empty forms" but I had a strong sense that forms are only empty if you leave them so.
Will this experiment stick? I don't know. I do find my busy brain often frantically shoehorning disclaimers and translations and justifications all over the place. I'm not sure that's really the point of the whole thing. Or maybe it is. At any rate, inbetween, I'm finding a consistent way to create "sacred" space in my day and my life, and I'm finding that really powerful and legitimately helpful. So, we'll see.
No comments:
Post a Comment