Liverpool Cathedrals ~ both on Hope Street ~ painted by Ken Storey
Left: Cathedral Church of the Risen Christ ~ Anglican
Right: Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King ~ Catholic
For starters, I would like to share some inspiring, inclusive words that I have been fortunate enough to hear spoken before communion a few times, inviting all -- not just some -- to the table. I am nearly moved to tears by such unexpected generosity of spirit:
and
"All who seek the truth are welcome here."
These kindhearted and introspective invitations stand in stark contrast to the many excluding, forbidding messages that I have heard proclaimed at various churches over the long years. "None forbidden, none compelled," is so much more respectful than the typical agenda of restrictions and requirements. And how refreshing to welcome "All who seek the truth" rather than only those who tread the exact same path. I have taken these two pre - communion blessings as personal mantras -- along with my favorite "it's not supposed to be any way" -- and continually strive to internalize the inherent value they assign to individual integrity and personal quest.
As a follow up to my two preceding Fortnightlies ("Born Only Once" & "O Ya - Ya of Little Faith"), I offer this third installment in my unholy trinity of somewhat skeptical, somewhat irreverent, somewhat rambling religious reflections.
Ironically, many people here in the States assume that Gerry and I attend the Episcopal Church (being the Anglican Church of the USA) because Gerry is from England. Actually the opposite is true: Gerry didn't become Anglican until moving to America. In England, he was raised in the eight - ish per cent of the population who are British Catholics, with their long history of persecution, going back to Henry VIII. However, the Liverpool area, with lots of southern Irish immigrants over the years, is more Catholic than most other parts of England.
My religious background, as explained more fully in previous posts: raised in the Church of the Nazarene (fundamentalist Protestant), always felt like an outsider, like a goat instead of a sheep, hated the cruel judgmentalism and the wacky emotionalism, yet stuck with it all through college in an off and on kind of way, out of loyalty to my mother (e.g. my first marriage, a misstep of my confused, early youth, took place in the Church of the Nazarene). After that, I attended for one more semester in grad school but finally resolved not to do that anymore; tried a couple of academic Unitarian services on campus, in biking distance; and visited a big impersonal Methodist church once or twice because it was just a few blocks from my house and easy to walk to.
Next came Notre Dame during the Hesburgh years, where, not surprisingly, I met many Catholics, including Gerry (who had served as a Christian Brother in England and Liberia, from age 14 - 21). While at ND, I attended various masses with friends of mine around the campus from time to time (some fancy in the Basilica, others in dormitory lounges or at the Grotto). I never really felt that Catholicism was for me -- too exclusive and sexist and every bit as judgmental as the Nazarenes, but I liked the liturgical nature of the ceremony, which was new for me after all those years of touchy - feely protestantism.
When Gerry and I decided to marry, I was willing to join the Catholic church, despite my misgivings, just so that we could have a one - church family (my father had never gone with my mom and us kids to the Church of the Nazarene; he went on his own to the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a Mormon off-shoot, in which he had been raised). I always felt that my parents had both been too stubborn on this issue, that one of them should have yielded to the other so that us kids could experience a unified version of religious family life. But then, for me -- not being a person of great faith -- personal faith is not the real issue, so I could easily set that aside (maybe my parents couldn't) in favor of the activity itself.
I recently read Hector Abad's memoir Oblivion, and was struck by his way of making peace with the various inconsistencies of his conflicted religious upbringing:
"There is no sense in feeling regret at something that depended so little on one's own will and so much on the circumstance of having been born at a particular historical moment, in a particular corner of the world, and into a particular home. . . . Ultimately, faith or the lack of it does not depend on our will, or on any mysterious grace received from on high but on those lessons we learn early on, one way or another, and which are almost impossible to unlearn" (83 - 84).I can remember seeing all those Sunday school pictures of the ideal 1960's American family skipping up the sidewalk to the classic white church, mother and father wearing hats and holding hands, the kids--one boy, one girl, or maybe two of each, maybe an extra baby --cute as buttons, sometimes a puppy running along beside; and I'd think, "Why aren't we like that? What's wrong with our family?"
That saccharine little vision and, more importantly, the lack of its reality in my own childhood, is what informed my concept of why a married couple should go to the same church. That's why I was willing to do something as drastic and unpalatable to my politics as join the Catholic Church. But I was saved!
The Deus ex machina? The two Catholic priests Gerry and I talked to (one at Notre Dame, one at Purdue) were both very unsympathetic to our situation. First, we had already had our civil wedding in February 1989 before we approached the church to plan our religious ceremony for that September. The priests were cross that we had done this. And then, I had to tell about my divorce. They insisted that even though it had not been a Catholic wedding, it required a Catholic annulment (wait time, three years) and extensive counselling. I pointed out that I had just had three years of excellent counselling at a premier Catholic institution, didn't that count? No, it didn't count. How about if the counselor had been a nun? Nope. I started to cry, and the clueless priest said, "It seems that you still have unresolved issues." At that point, Gerry, my hero, stood up and said, "Our issue is with your lack of common decency." We sighed and went home. I knew then in my heart that becoming a Catholic was not for me and never would be. I had been willing, but they had just lost a convert.
However, it was not my place to tell Gerry whether or not he should leave Catholicism, after his long history with it. When, he said, "What do you think we should do?" I said, "Well, at Notre Dame, I knew a number of dissatisfied Catholics who had moved over to the Episcopal Church." So we decided to try St. John's, Lafayette, the following Sunday and immediately felt welcome. There were our neighbors from across street, who we did not know attended there! There was the couple from Gerry's work who often hosted the book group that we had recently joined -- we didn't know we'd see them there. As you can see, it seemed like a perfect fit, even before the fact. Then the Purdue Episcopal Campus Ministry advertised for an office administrator, so I took that job, and the Episcopal Church became the center of our life at Purdue (we sometimes attended the campus services, other times the more formal services at St. John's). We had a couple of months of pre-marital counselling with one of the Episcopal priests, who just happened to be a former Catholic priest! Gerry still likes to say that even though he changed church affiliation, he always knew he'd be married by a Catholic priest!
In preparation for marriage, Gerry and I completed some personality profile questionnaires to help us understand our relational issues, compatibility levels, and marital readiness. When I scored in the range of "Inordinately Realistic," I felt vindicated: at least I had learned something from my mistakes, and my counselling at Notre Dame had paid off. Peter, our ex-Catholic priest, said that women usually registered a much more romantic view of marriage, but I was even a notch above Gerry on the realism scale.
When we told my mom that we were both going to officially join the Episcopal Church, she said (in the good old spirit of Henry VIII), "Well now, isn't that the branch of the Catholic church that condones divorce?" And I said, "Well now, that's the branch we want." Ha. Still, she finally accepted that I was never going back to the Church of the Nazarene; and Gerry's parents, though they themselves are unquestioningly loyal Catholics, have been supportive of our decision.
Anyway, Reader, I married him. We joined The Episcopal Church, have been attending ever since, and have had the good fortune to regularly meet people with similar interests, values, and notions of humor. One semester, Gerry participated in a discussion group for current Episcopalians who had been raised on Catholicism, and everyone laughed at his suggestion that the group call itself "Catholics for Jesus." Ben and Sam were christened as Episcopalians and served their time as choristers. I love the literary liturgy, though I still find the patriarchal language very hard to cope with. I try to stay focused on the strengths but sometimes wonder if Christianity has been so badly poisoned by centuries of sexism that it can never be salvaged. Maybe we need to toss the whole thing out and start over again? There is plenty of room for change and it is certainly time.
Meanwhile, the spiritual quest of a lifetime continues, and surprising literary connections never cease to present themselves, decade after decade. Most recently were the thoughtful recollections of Hector Abad, as mentioned above; twenty years ago the novels of Rebecca Wells; thirty years ago the personal testimony of Langston Hughes; forty years ago the poetry Naomi Shihab -- in the following poem (and so many more) that you can find in the right - hand column on my Quotidian Blog:
"Where are you on
your spiritual journey?"
you ask, your sharp eyes
thumbtacking the question
on my heart.
What can I say?
I am somewhere beyond "go"
I have not stopped.
Years have shown me
the idea of travelling
is a game we play with ourselves
to pretend we're not home.
Naomi Shihab Nye
(b 1952)
Palestinian / American Poet
******************
Also by Ken Storey
The Liverpool Merseyside Waterfront
(cathedrals to the right)
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, August 28th
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www.kittislist.blogspot.com
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