NaBloPoMo post 14: Our Peculiar Way
I took a circuitous route towards Episcopalianism. I think I would've come more directly had it not been for the things that some bigoted people love to repeat. No need to re-repeat them here, but it's yet another case of some subset of a group doing or believing something awful, therefore the whole group is terrible.
All feminists are not lesbian separatists.
All roleplayers are not unwashed creeps.
Similarly, all Christians are not intolerant, willfully ignorant assholes.
It was music that brought me close enough to learn that for myself. Specifically, one hymn: Morning Has Broken. I first heard it on my parents' record player, as Cat Stevens sang it.
In seventh grade, I attended a private school that I guess was mildly Christian. There was a service we attended once a month, instead of Assembly. I don't remember much about it, but I bet it was a few hymns and a little talking about being nice to each other.
In Australia, I attended an Anglican service and sang the same amazing song.
With a hurting heart in 2008, I was drawn to check out the Episcopalian church just one block from my house. Morning Has Broken followed me again, lifting my heart and reassuring me that I was in just the right place.
For awhile, I just attended services, thrilling in singing the simple, beautiful melodies that encouraged- no, demanded!- that I hit my beloved sephardic notes near the top of my High Soprano range. Then after my first Interfaith service, I got to talking to some very friendly Episcopalians who assured me nobody would mind a Jew in the choir.
So I did it, several months of just about every year since putting on that long black frock and white floofy overshirt, looking far more put-together than I do in my usual clothes. I wear it with pride, I love every moment I'm on those pews, thinking ahead to the next beautiful song and focusing on breath and nuance and letting the melodies soar through me, out of me, right up to Heaven.
The Reverend for the first few years was one of those amazing women like trekfairy: tiny and adorable, but with a forceful presence that fills entire churches. The first time she met me, and then once or twice afterwards, she casually mentioned Baptism. I politely declined, and something in my explanation of the multitude of faiths I feel made her smile warmly. "You are a woman of God."
I keep that phrase close to my heart, I adore it so much. It sits right next to a Tantra Master calling me a Shaman. Some labels feel so perfect that they help you figure out parts of your psyche that don't make sense.
For years, it just felt right, to be a Jew among the Episcopalians. There was no difference between us, just one tiny thing: I had to cross my arms over my chest and refuse the bread and blood- er, wafer and wine. Instead, I got a hand on my head and a special, quick prayer.
Last year, that Reverend left and I was charmed by the Interim replacement. His name was Father Bill, and he was a quiet, thoughtful sort. His services had pauses now and then to reflect on certain prayers. His sermons espoused a gentle, loving philosophy that resonated with me. Particularly, I remember him talking about nets that Jesus and his Apostles used to talk about their faith and encourage others to join them. No going door-to-door, no preaching on the street, just having conversations with friends who may be feeling that lost, empty feeling that I'd had in the summer of 2008.
Suddenly, I thought, "I want to cast my own net!" I was electrified by this feeling, but I never make snap decisions. I mulled it over for a good month before asking Father Bill about Baptism. I remember that delighted sparkle in his eyes, that huge smile as he told me I'd have to come and see him a few times.
I was expecting a class, possibly with huge reading lists and tests. Instead, I sat in Father Bill's big, bright office and whiled away a few afternoons in beautiful conversations about God and all things Episcopalian. He gave me a small book titled A People Called Episcopalians: A Brief Introduction to Our Peculiar Way of Life. I'm not making that up! And it's so Episcopalian, so perfectly tongue-in-cheek.
From what I can gather, Episcopalians are a varied bunch. But my parish, St. Martin's, is all about preserving rituals but also encouraging tolerance, love for your fellow humans, and encouraging active helping of the poor (of all ages!) and homeless.
That focus on love, and how you can help yourself and others be better this life, right now, is so exciting to me. I can't help but feel energized even when I walk by the grand grey-stone church. I've loved stained glass for a long time, and they have a window that I'll never tire of looking at. A retired Reverend told me its fascinating history, when he caught me lingering nearby. He just came up to me and started in on a lecture that I clung to every word of- and that's just one of a thousand beautiful memories I have of casual interactions with Episcopalians.
My fellow Episcopalians, I can say now, but I'll tell you about my Baptism next time. Or so I hope! I have more to say about this than I thought.
All feminists are not lesbian separatists.
All roleplayers are not unwashed creeps.
Similarly, all Christians are not intolerant, willfully ignorant assholes.
It was music that brought me close enough to learn that for myself. Specifically, one hymn: Morning Has Broken. I first heard it on my parents' record player, as Cat Stevens sang it.
In seventh grade, I attended a private school that I guess was mildly Christian. There was a service we attended once a month, instead of Assembly. I don't remember much about it, but I bet it was a few hymns and a little talking about being nice to each other.
In Australia, I attended an Anglican service and sang the same amazing song.
With a hurting heart in 2008, I was drawn to check out the Episcopalian church just one block from my house. Morning Has Broken followed me again, lifting my heart and reassuring me that I was in just the right place.
For awhile, I just attended services, thrilling in singing the simple, beautiful melodies that encouraged- no, demanded!- that I hit my beloved sephardic notes near the top of my High Soprano range. Then after my first Interfaith service, I got to talking to some very friendly Episcopalians who assured me nobody would mind a Jew in the choir.
So I did it, several months of just about every year since putting on that long black frock and white floofy overshirt, looking far more put-together than I do in my usual clothes. I wear it with pride, I love every moment I'm on those pews, thinking ahead to the next beautiful song and focusing on breath and nuance and letting the melodies soar through me, out of me, right up to Heaven.
The Reverend for the first few years was one of those amazing women like trekfairy: tiny and adorable, but with a forceful presence that fills entire churches. The first time she met me, and then once or twice afterwards, she casually mentioned Baptism. I politely declined, and something in my explanation of the multitude of faiths I feel made her smile warmly. "You are a woman of God."
I keep that phrase close to my heart, I adore it so much. It sits right next to a Tantra Master calling me a Shaman. Some labels feel so perfect that they help you figure out parts of your psyche that don't make sense.
For years, it just felt right, to be a Jew among the Episcopalians. There was no difference between us, just one tiny thing: I had to cross my arms over my chest and refuse the bread and blood- er, wafer and wine. Instead, I got a hand on my head and a special, quick prayer.
Last year, that Reverend left and I was charmed by the Interim replacement. His name was Father Bill, and he was a quiet, thoughtful sort. His services had pauses now and then to reflect on certain prayers. His sermons espoused a gentle, loving philosophy that resonated with me. Particularly, I remember him talking about nets that Jesus and his Apostles used to talk about their faith and encourage others to join them. No going door-to-door, no preaching on the street, just having conversations with friends who may be feeling that lost, empty feeling that I'd had in the summer of 2008.
Suddenly, I thought, "I want to cast my own net!" I was electrified by this feeling, but I never make snap decisions. I mulled it over for a good month before asking Father Bill about Baptism. I remember that delighted sparkle in his eyes, that huge smile as he told me I'd have to come and see him a few times.
I was expecting a class, possibly with huge reading lists and tests. Instead, I sat in Father Bill's big, bright office and whiled away a few afternoons in beautiful conversations about God and all things Episcopalian. He gave me a small book titled A People Called Episcopalians: A Brief Introduction to Our Peculiar Way of Life. I'm not making that up! And it's so Episcopalian, so perfectly tongue-in-cheek.
From what I can gather, Episcopalians are a varied bunch. But my parish, St. Martin's, is all about preserving rituals but also encouraging tolerance, love for your fellow humans, and encouraging active helping of the poor (of all ages!) and homeless.
That focus on love, and how you can help yourself and others be better this life, right now, is so exciting to me. I can't help but feel energized even when I walk by the grand grey-stone church. I've loved stained glass for a long time, and they have a window that I'll never tire of looking at. A retired Reverend told me its fascinating history, when he caught me lingering nearby. He just came up to me and started in on a lecture that I clung to every word of- and that's just one of a thousand beautiful memories I have of casual interactions with Episcopalians.
My fellow Episcopalians, I can say now, but I'll tell you about my Baptism next time. Or so I hope! I have more to say about this than I thought.