Tag: Church

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Easter

 

Our family had a moment of divine intervention over Easter.

We arrived in Paris late in the afternoon and after settling in, we set off on foot to make something of the remaining daylight. We crossed the Seine to the cathedral of Notre Dame. We stood staring up at the heights of the cathedral, taking in her grandeur: the stone carvings over the doors, the gargoyles, the bell towers. We ambled through a park as the sun set and the temperature dropped.

A meandering route home took us through a tangle of small empty streets. We found ourselves walking behind a stone church, unmarked even in our guidebooks. The cathedral of Saint Gervais sits tucked back, overlooked in the shadow of her more famous neighbours. Being curious, we walked up the church steps as the first of the homeless people began bunking down there, sheltered by the alcoves and pillars from the night wind.

Saint Gervais

The church was completely dark. The only light came from an alcove halfway down the length of the cathedral. There, an unseen choir was practising the Pope Marcellus Mass by Palestrina (I only know the piece from a CD we were given). As we stood there adjusting to the gloom, the soprano’s voice soared high into the recesses of the church, floating there alone, sustained, with the clarity of a bell. Then the choir’s voices swelled to meet her, joining together and tumbling like a stream of sound splashing off the stone walls. We, all of us, were completely transported. We sat on wooden stools in silent wonder, hardly breathing, as the music rang out into the dark void of the church.

Eventually, we returned to this world courtesy of a playful churchmouse scurrying across the floor. The children followed it as I wandered over to the door. There, I was transported for a second time by the sheer weight of history as I glanced up at a plaque listing the names of the priests that have served Saint Gervais in an unbroken line since 1278. Here we were, in a place where a church has stood since at least the 7thcentury. Then she humbly served boatmen and fishermen. Now she shelters the sleeping homeless, an unseen choir, we few tourists, and a churchmouse.

Finally we stepped out into the cold and dark. As we picked our way around the sleeping bodies of the  homeless, I had an Easter thought: in a City full of showpieces, this is exactly where the risen Christ would be – huddled alongside forgotten people on the cold steps of an overlooked church, while a choir inside pours out His glory in song. What a gift. Happy Easter everyone.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

The song for Palestrina is available as a link here

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Church – 25/02/2018

A Nazi, two humping dogs, and a drug user: it sounds like the opening to a standup comedy routine. But these are all things I have encountered in church.

The priest of my childhood church was a Nazi prisoner of war. He was conscripted into the Wehrmacht as a chaplain, captured, and then shipped to Canada. After the war there was nothing to go back to, so he stayed.  Each year he read the Easter passion aloud sounding exactly like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Once, as the narrative approached the crucifixion, I whispered to my family in my best imitation accent, “Don’t vurry. I’ll be baaach”. It was so inappropriate that the entire family got the giggles. And you know how that goes, when you’re trying to be discreet in a crowded church pew…

Our church in Uganda met in a ramshackle school building with tin roof and open walls. On one occasion during the sermon, two stray dogs wandered into the front and began to mate. This was of course hilarious and distracting. It was also typical of a church where a shared experience of the absurd drew together people of vastly different belief, nationality, and race.

For instance, communion there once consisted of stale hot dog buns and apple juice served in a plastic Manchester United cup. Afterwards some folks rightly suggested that changes were needed. Someone volunteered to get little individual plastic communion cups next time they travelled out of Uganda. Instead they unintentionally (?) returned with 100 shot glasses. Thereafter, people from dozens of different countries and backgrounds celebrated communion together with glasses raised.

I once experienced a very different sort of communion. I spent the weekend visiting a farm in Canada where Jesuits had a halfway house for men getting out of prison. Ex-convicts could stay at the farm to get back on their feet. At their Sunday service, communion involved circulating a loaf of bread around a bare kitchen table. We were to tear off a bit, then pass the loaf to the person beside us along with a word of blessing.

The bread came round. I turned to the stranger seated beside me. His hands trembled. My gaze moved up to his exposed arms, covered with needle tracks from injection drug use. As he reached for the bread I began to mumble the blessing. He squeezed my hand, and I finally looked up. The man held my gaze and quietly whispered through tears, “thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Church has many faults. But I am richer for having joined there with people of every possible background in a shared experience of laughter, brokenness, hope, and mystery.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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List Serve – 12/02/2018

Nothing provides a window unto the soul of suburban America quite like a neighbourhood list serve.

I was once offered the coveted position of list serve co-moderator in our small community. I turned it down. I knew that the power of moderating my neighbour’s comments would in time corrupt and destroy me, like Gollum in Lord of the Rings.

The following annotated content is but a small sample of what appeared on our list serve:

1. “The bitches are whelping”. This spectacular post came from a local biologist in reference to foxes mating in our neighbourhood. Mating foxes generate a lot of noise. So did this comment when it appeared on the list serve.  Actually, so did his subsequent post about the Tufted Titmouse.

2. “Please have your son refrain from urinating in the creek. Not only is it gross but it upsets the fragile ecosystem”. The referenced son was none other than our own little boy. We asked him if he did indeed ever pee in the creek. He looked puzzled. “Of course I do”, he said. Then he added hastily, “But I never poop there!” I would say that outcome puts us in the running for Parents of the Year.

3. Original Post: Have you seen my lost cat Periwinkles? She has run away.           Response: Is it possible she ran away because you named her Periwinkles?

4. Curb alert/free to a good home: One Kenmore vacuum cleaner bag. Slightly used.

5. Epic email chain: The original post came from someone who was asked to refrain from letting her dog poop on the church lawn, even though she dutifully cleaned it up. In response, she called the town police to inquire if dogs pooping on the church lawn violated local bylaws. She also noted in her post that the request had been made of her by a member of the Baptist congregation, since our community church is shared by several denominations.

This post set off a firestorm on the list serve. There were comments and rebuttals about race (I think in reference to the congregation being Baptist?), religion (why not), inconsiderate pet owners, and the general injustice and failure of local law enforcement and our elected officials. I stayed out of the fray.

 However, I did briefly consider sending our son over to the church lawn to sort of stir the pot. You will be “relieved” to know that I refrained from doing so. And that Periwinkles returned home safely.

 [If you know someone who would enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier!]

Image Credit goes to Roeselien Raimond – similar photos of funny foxes can be found at this site.

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The International Incident – 09/10/2017

I was inadvertently the cause of an international incident during a trip with my wife to Venice, Italy. The cause of the incident was gelato. While in Venice we were on a pretty strict three-gelato-a-day regimen. Occasionally, we fell off the wagon and had a fourth. 

One evening, after stopping for gelato, we went to see a classical concert in an ancient stone church. Uniquely, the floor of the church sloped down to form a sort of bowl at the front where the small orchestra was setting up. Having arrived early we settled into seats mid-way back and watched the musicians unpack their instruments.

I was struck by the first violinist. He was a slender, older man with long silver hair and an air of authority befitting his position. He unpacked his violin with flair and then warmed up with some intimidating scales. He was every inch the Italian artiste, with flowing white scarf and thick, green-rimmed glasses.

About this time there came from my mid-section an ominous rumble. I locked eyes with my wife. We both knew that such a sound could only mean (a) the gelato dam was about to burst, and (b), soon. I began to perspire as I hastily arose and made my way towards the restroom, located down a passage at the front of the church behind the orchestra.

The lavatory was a small cell with ancient stone walls two feet thick. The only aperture was a tiny keyhole window, obviously designed for light rather than ventilation. But I did not have time to luxuriate in my surroundings. Evil comes in many forms. That day, it came in the form of vengeful gelato performing some sort of digestive exorcism. In the interests of propriety I will refrain from further detail. But I will add that the ancient lavatory architecture served as a pressure cooker to magnify the entire, awful experience.

Then came a knock at the door. This was accompanied by desperate pleas in Italian from someone needing to use the facilities right away. I had no options. I weakly replied “uno minuto” and began to wash up.  Then, steeped in my own shame, I slowly opened the door.

There stood the first violinist. Our eyes locked. Then his arty glasses fogged up as he encountered The Gelato Death Cloud. Taking advantage of his temporary incapacitation, I lowered my head and motored past him as fast as my weak knees would carry me.

I had returned to my seat but an instant when a murmur began to ripple through the orchestra. To my horror, I realized that The Cloud was not exiting via the small keyhole window, but was rather being propelled out of the pressure cooker and into the church. Moreover, it was settling into the sunken orchestra bowl like mustard gas in a trench.

The muttering grew in intensity until the first violinist returned, his white scarf now hanging limply. What followed was an outpouring of accusation from the orchestra. The violinist responded with indignation and, though I do not speak Italian, I clearly caught in his reply the words “grande Americano”. I forgave him this slight, given the circumstances. How was he to know I am Canadian?

As the orchestra began tuning their instruments amidst gasps for breath, my wife suddenly arose from her seat. Being pregnant with our second child, she too now had need of the facilities and wanted to go before the concert began. I tried in vain to stop her but, too late to intervene, she made her way to the aisle and turned to go down the sloping floor towards the front of the church. She had gone but a few steps when she was stopped in her tracks by The Cloud. Her eyes widened. She turned her face slowly towards me, her countenance a mixture of disbelief and, dare I say, awe. Perhaps, and this may be a stretch, even perverse marital pride in a husband who, with the mighty power of gelato, had rendered an orchestra pit and the first 10 rows of a church uninhabitable.

I honestly don’t remember much about the concert. But afterwards, I do clearly remember stopping for one more gelato as my wife and I strolled arm in arm along the winding canals of Venice.