Pessimism is No Antidote to Terrorism

On the road in Ohio.

I am recovering from the intense (and much-dreaded) ordeal of moving cross-country, so this week's post is a bit tardy.  My relocation back to Chicago came on the heels of the Boston Marathon bombing, and so as I drove the U-haul nearly 800 miles with my mother next to me for moral support, I finally had ample leisure to meditate on my vocation and the state of the world at large.  I had packed box after box in the St. Clement's rectory listening to the unfolding details of the tragedy, wondering if my dear friends in Boston were safe, and feeling despair at the cruelty and evil of which humanity is capable.  The frequency of terrorist activity is truly shocking, and I found myself expressing a very pessimistic view of human nature and progress. 

JJ Rousseau.

I caught myself in my pessimism, and thought, "this is so not me."  I spent a good part of my young adult life in my French lit PhD program revering Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who preached the perfectibility of human beings--that human beings were, at heart, inherently good and were evolving toward an increasingly virtuous and ethical state.  This view also coheres with my theology of Creation, which affirms that God declared the natural order and human beings he had created very good.  Yet, here I was with the endless highway before me thinking humanity was pretty awful.  This was so not me; this was not the optimist I had always been.

Then humanity intervened.  Everywhere we stopped during our long drive from Philadelphia to Chicago, people were kind, pleasant, and helpful, reminding me of the very best of human nature and experience.  This was especially palpable as I approached the gas station to fill up the U-haul for the last time before returning it.  I was exhausted and hungry, and I had what you might call an unfortunate incident with the U-haul.  Don't worry, vehicle and passengers all escaped unscathed.  I'll spare you the embarrassing details, but suffice it to say that it required the technical and emotional support of a wide range of people.  Complete strangers approached me to ask if I needed help, to offer advice, and to express sympathy.  It was really quite touching, and even in my weary and addled state, I was able to laugh and smile. 

The aftermath of the Boston Marathon bombing.

I am, of course, not trying to downplay the horror of a tragedy like the Boston Marathon bombing, but if we start thinking that humanity is incapable of improvement and redemption--that human kindness, generosity, and love are less powerful than human cruelty, violence, and hatred-- then we've given up on humanity's future.  If we give in to pessimism, then we give up on hope; we give ourselves over to believing that our best days are behind us, and that we cannot change the trajectory of violence and destruction along which some people are driven to lead us.  Being a Christian, on the contrary, forces me to be an optimist, even when I'm tempted not to be.  I believe that humanity is inherently good, because this goodness reflects God's intrinsic goodness.  I also believe that Jesus died on the Cross, so that humanity would be delivered from a future of violence and hatred, destruction and despair.  When I recite the Creeds, or even when I simply say I believe in God or Jesus, I'm also saying that I believe that humanity has a future of peace, kindness, and love, one that terrorism cannot ultimately defeat.  Perhaps that's naive pollyannish foolishness, but it's a better starting place than the pessimism that gives terrorism power over us.

Ten Commandments: Liturgy Lessons from St. Clement's

As I finish my last week as Curate of St. Clement's, I thought I might share some of the (lighthearted) lessons that I have learned about liturgy in this bastion of smoke and bells, shrines and processions.

Heavily laden on Palm Sunday.

10.  When in doubt, genuflect. Better to do it too often, rather than not often enough when passing in front of the Blessed Sacrament, the Bishop, or a Relic of the True Cross (yes, St. Clement's has one).  If you stumble, perform a double genuflection and bow to the tabernacle, asserting confidently that it's an oddity of the Ambrosian Rite in the 15th century. You'd be surprised how many people will believe you!

9.  Lace only on major feasts and during Eastertide.  At any other time, it somehow seems garish and tacky.  Forbidden for requiems, and during Advent, the Gesimas (if your parish is one of the rare ones that still observes them), and Lent.

8. If there's an error in the service bulletin (unless it's a typo), act as if you did it on purpose, and follow what's printed.
 

Our faithful band of altar servers.

7.  If one of the servers makes a mistake, SMILE at him, and carry on as if nothing happened.  If you yourself make a mistake, smile even more broadly.  There's no point in upping the anxiety level.  We all make mistakes.  Correct gently and praise lavishly.  Good liturgy requires teamwork and collegiality.

6.  When passing objects to the celebrant, REMEMBER, kiss the object, then the hand when passing it off; but do the reverse when receiving the object back, kissing the hand, then the object.  The same principle applies when passing the celebrant his beverage at coffee hour after mass or a post-Evensong sherry.

Corpus Christi

5.  Never turn your back on the Blessed Sacrament when it is exposed upon the altar, but turn, so that you end up with your back to the altar with the Sacrament next to you; and if you must descend the altar, do so at a slight angle toward the monstrance.  Anything else will earn a stern look from Jesus, the Rector, and especially the MC.

Grim priest with broken hand.

4.  Remember my broken right hand?  Yeah, I separated my thumb and index finger after the consecration and paid the price.  At least, that's the joke that made its way through the parish!

3.  However slowly you're walking in procession, you're probably walking too fast.  Processions should never be lethargic and funereal, but neither should they be a forced march.  Slow it down, so that everyone can keep pace.

2. Learn the "off-the-menu" specials.  Part of what happens liturgically in the parish may not be found in the Prayer Book, the Missal, or the published customary, but may be enshrined in custom.  In morning prayer, for example, the asterisks telling us where to pause in the Te Deum are not in the 1928 Prayer Book, but everyone knows where they're supposed to be, and we pause accordingly.  In evening prayer, the versicle and responses, "Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy," before the Lord's Prayer are not in the Prayer Book, but we say them, anyway.

1.  When blessing ashes, palms, a statue, candles, or some other object, this is the proper sequence: put incense into thurible, and then return it to the thurifer.  Sprinkle the object with holy water.  Only then does the celebrant receive the thurible back to cense the object.  Incense - sprinkle - cense.

*  And just as a bonus:  when there's a problem:  Rector (smiling):  "I blame the curate."  Curate (also smiling): "So do I.  That's what curates are for."

The Church Visible

Fueled up and ready for my flight to Philly.

I have spoken many times about my decision to wear clericals when I'm traveling--I know, I know; you've heard this all before.  Lest you think I'm being defensive about this decision, I should specify that I revisit this topic more by way of witness or storytelling than justification.  It's an ongoing testimonial about the need for the Church to be visible and present, despite the popular assumption that everyone wants religion to disappear, or at least to go underground.  I don't do it because I'm hyper-clericalist, want preferential treatment at the gate (not that it works), or want to shove my religious identity down the throats of other travelers.  I do it, because I hope to advertise that I'm available to people in the same way as a uniformed police officer or a doctor in her white coat.  And it works.  People talk to me about their faith, their lapse in churchgoing, and the substance of their lives.  They also ask me lots of questions.  It's an opportunity for evangelism, and I'll take any opportunity I can get.

Passing time at the gate.

You see, the clerical collar is more about other people than it is about me.  I'm reminded of that fundamental fact every time I lumber down the concourse in persona Christi, my huge, obnoxiously orange duffel slung heavily over my shoulder.  The collar gives other people permission to be curious, to unload their consciences or their hearts, and to explore religious and metaphysical issues.  As I boarded the plane to Chicago last Wednesday, Gerry, the older man in the seat next to mine, pointed to my collar, and said something like, "Are you really a priest?  You don't look old enough." "Boy, you're my new best friend!" I replied cheerfully, "You're check is in the mail.  I'm actually 41."  I stuffed the bloated duffel under my seat, sat down, and introduced myself.  And then we got to talking about his work as a corporate trainer for Oracle, his life as a practicing Roman Catholic, the joys of being a grandfather, and then delved into the more imaginative and intriguing parts of his spiritual life.  I mentioned to him that if he was interested, I dealt with a lot these sorts of issues on my blog, YouTube channel, and Facebook page.  Gerry asked for the address of my Website and added me on Facebook. We talked energetically for the entire flight, and then resumed our conversation during the long ride on the Blue Line from O'Hare to the Loop.  It was a marvelous spiritual conversation. 

The New Evangelization,

On the return trip to Philly, it was very similar.  I found a free seat at the gate about 20 minutes before my flight, right next to a blond woman, Monica, who I later discovered was also 41.  (We agreed jocularly that we don't look our age!)  She saw my collar and asked, "Does that mean you're a real Father? Are you a priest or is this a prank?  It's not a costume, is it?"  "Nope, it's not a prank.  I assure you it's real," I said pointing to my collar.  "I'm a priest in the Episcopal Church." "I don't really know what that is.  I'm Catholic," Monica said apologetically.  "Well, some people say that the Episcopal Church is Catholic-lite," I explained, "but I'd rather say that it's all the same sacraments, but we're much more progressive on social issues."  So, I pointed out that we ordain women, gays, and lesbians; we permit communion after divorce; and there's no celibacy rule for the clergy.  She listened attentively and asked me if I had a business card.  Of course, like an idiot, I left all of them back in Philly.  But we improvised.  Monica handed me her smart phone, and I pulled up the website for the Episcopal Church on the browser and bookmarked it for her, and then launched Facebook and sent myself a friend request, which I immediately accepted on my own iPhone. We then talked a lot about her family, especially her daughter whom she was flying out to see, the challenges of quitting smoking, her discomfort with the Roman Catholic Church, and the Episcopal parishes near her home.  Monica was delightful.

Yup, that about says it.

I share these two stories, first of all, to  demonstrate that sometimes evangelism is merely about making the Church visible and available. Evangelism isn't always about proselytizing or getting more people in the pews on Sunday, but rather about showing people that we are sincerely interested in their lives and inviting them into some kind of meaningful relationship, even if it's only a brief twenty-minute conversation.  The fact is, the initiative doesn't always come from the clergy.  I've noticed that it often originates with other people who are receptive to conversations about spirituality, or religion, or the Church, or morality.  Wearing clericals signals that those kinds of discussions are welcome and encouraged.  It is a sign of hospitality that gives people permission to initiate a conversation with us on some very intimate topics--life, death, addictions, family, the meaning of human existence, the nature of God, and the order of the cosmos.  The second reason for this blog post is to thank Gerry and Monica for sharing their stories with me.  If either of you is reading this, please know that our conversations were meaningful to me, so much so that I want to encourage the rest of the Church to imitate the risk you took in starting a conversation with me, of sharing who you are with a stranger.  The collar simply says, "I'm here. Wanna talk?" Thanks, Gerry and Monica, for accepting the invitation. 

Easter Gratitude

This is my body which is given for you.

As I recuperate from the liturgical boot camp that is Holy Week, I am processing the many sensations, insights, and numinous moments I experienced.  My circuits are still rather overloaded, but one thing of which I am certain is that I am thankful.

One of the primary reasons I came to St. Clement's as curate is to learn how to be a priest--liturgically, pastorally, and spiritually.  I have learned an enormous amount about all of these dimensions over the last year, and I am very grateful to the many people who have helped shape me into the kind of priest I want to be.  St. Clement's is a distinctly rarified environment, and it would never have occurred to me that I would be able to pull off an Easter Sunday mass with all the bells and whistles in so short a time.  But as I walked in procession this past Sunday, sung all the parts of the mass, and presided over the Eucharist, I felt deeply present, at ease, and sure of myself.  I had come a long way in just over a year.  While listening to the Gloria at the sedilia, I turned to the server sitting next to me, and said gleefully, "This is absolutely wonderful.  But then again, Mozart mass settings always make me feel warm and fuzzy!"  Mozart might have had something to do with it, but I think the main influence was the ancient, undergirding context of the Eucharist as a rite of thanksgiving.  That is, after all, what the Greek word, eucharistia, means: thanksgiving.  The liturgy worked its magic on me, and I experienced gratitude in a more expansive way.

St. Clement's servers through whom I have learned so much.

Throughout the mass, I was moved by strong emotions and the sense that I had reached a moment of completion and closure.  I was happy and centered.  It was as if God had used all the untidy and imperfect bits of me and integrated them into something useful through moments of painful growing in community.  I am indebted to so many people for the learning I have achieved, and for their encouragement in the learning I have yet to do.  I remember standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the altar, listening to our marvelous choir singing the Regina Coeli, from Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana, and gazing up the altar cross, feeling moved to tears.  I felt so grateful to Our Lord for calling me to be his priest; for Fr. Reid for taking me under his wing and teaching me to be faithful priest, pastor, and teacher; and for all of the members of the community who have lifted me up during a most challenging year: separation from my partner, a broken hand, my first year as a priest, and so much more.  It is important for me in this my last month as Curate of St. Clement's to say thank you to the many individuals--priest mentors, altar servers, parishioners, the people of Philadelphia, and friends--who have nourished, taught, and challenged me to become a better person and a better priest.  Please know that I will take each of you with me on my ongoing journey and give thanks for the gift of your teaching.  Thank you, St. Clement's.