there is snow under the pine trees this morning, reminding me of the snowy morning by the pine tree at amelia white park in santa fe eighteen years ago when i took chad as my patron in my journey with christ. chad the barefoot walker who recognized that fear of the lord is the beginning of wisdom.
my faithfulness in that journey has been far from consistent. i have again and again excused myself for my faltering inconsistancy by the ease with which i can find fault with the church. there must, i tell myself, be a better way. i want the church to be one, to be holy, to be catholic, to be apostolic. when i fail to see her so, i like john the forerunner ask, should i look somewhere else.
one year i took a leave from my duties in the parish to "explore native american spirituality." i was living in santa fe at the time, where there actually is some survival of the old indigenous ways. i also returned to arkansas to try to find what had been the "beliefs" of the peoples indigenous to my natal soil before they had been driven out by my ancesters. i didn't find much, and yet i found enough.
the local religions were just that, local. they were many. they were natural, not holy, and entirely unconcerned about including others. despite what rich white women in navajo skirts and pawn silver said about the wonders of praying for "all my relations," all those relations were one's own family tree. the hopi might dance for the good of the whole world, but there was no place for a european in the dance, or a syrian, as the syrian church had made european bishops, and the european bishops had made navajo bishops. "native spirituality" was many, natural, local, and ethnic. i returned to the church, and found myself much to my surprise being made missionary bishop to the ozarks. (i had only enquired about how to make the order of st. chad canonically independent of new mexico.)
so, for a while, i was faithful again, returning to arkansas, even if it were to jonesboro rather than to fayetteville, trying to lead a life remarkably different enough from the world that people would ask me, what gives, when i could tell them of the faith "once delivered to the apostles."
my next crisis, once again, was with that collection, assortment really, of buildings ranging from repulsively hideous to sublimely beautiful, with signs out front saying "church." i had no interest in starting another one, but i felt that i should find them, if not on the same page as i, at least in the same book. then came the 2000 "election," in which many christians professed their faith in george w. bush as their lord and saviour, and even worse, almost non called that action heresy. there would follow the events that have come to be known as 9/11, and the cathedral church of sts. peter and paul, both of which were martyred by the empire, the more aptly named national cathedral, came to the service of those who said "let us bomb our enemies back into the stone age," a phrase for which i have looked without success in my strong's concordance. they rolled out creaky old billy graham, the kindest and gentlest of those who present the gospel as a "get out of hell free card." the apostate empire was singing "onward, christian soldiers," and from building after building signed "church" came the great amen.
i cried. in my tears i thought, there must be something better. as i was packing to return to new mexico, through my tears i read an old friend's name on the return address of a letter that arrived on the last day i was in jonesboro, a friend from the old parish in santa fe who then lived in seattle. come, he said. you'll like it here: ocean; mountains. this was my introduction to the none-zone.
the none-zone, western oregon and washington, is the area where most people, if asked their religious preference, say none. i bought a kayak and started exploring. people would ask, what do you do? i would say, i'm looking for clues. people pretended to understand. bellingham, home of western washington university, became my home port. there i met some brilliant young students of arts and sciences. if anyone had a clue, i thought, they might. they were brilliant but clueless, sacrificing four years of their lives in residence at an institution which taught that there were no real clues. many of them would sacrifice more years paying off student loans. i quickly realized that "the faith delivered to the apostles" is as good as it gets, is indeed as good as it needs to be. the problem is that we resist receiving it.
once again i resisted "starting a church," although i danced around the idea. i had a congregation of sorts: students who came to my tent in the night like nichodemus, students i catechized and baptized and buried, who were intrigued by jesus and a strange old man they thought might look like jesus--jesus if he and mary magadalen had really been married and had become grand parents. but mostly, they did not join me on sunday mornings at the church where i worshipped. (a few did, but the church was not very welcoming to them, nor did they understand why i would waste my time there.)
the worst moment came one easter morning, soon after the death of tim, a 29-year-old graduate of western washington. his was the first death, the first, funeral, many of these young people had known. in my pew sat nine kids who had known tim. they had been moved by the faith expressed during tim's death and wake and funeral, and they wanted to see where i worshipped. i was horrified. the "service" was one of those laurence-welk-show type of things so common with protestants these days: lots of special music that excluded the congregation. no silence. no room for the holy. and the most anti-resurrection sermon i had ever heard. and i was stuck. afterwards, i couldn't say, no this isn't church, this isn't easter. there was a big sign in front of this big building with stained glass windows claiming church. the brass band had played special easter music.
the next sunday i started worshipping at st. paul's episcopal church. it was two miles further from my house, and up a long hill, but at the easter vigil there had been a real proclamation of the resurrection, and the gathered people of god had been encouraged to do their work, to worship. so for the next several years in bellingham, without meaning to, i became a casual missionary for the episcopal church. as one young man, raised mostly methodist, who had asked, but where do you worship, dale, a young man, now exploring priesthood in the episcopal church, says, "in my church we worship the way christians have for 2,000 years. i pray that there might be more churches like st. paul's.
but now i am back in the ozarks, back to the place i was sent 14 years ago, on a morning with snow under the pines once again. the pine underneath which i took my first vows of obedience, poverty, stability, and chastity, has been cut down. in its place is an ugly statue. that's it in the picture above. one that statue is plaque that i can only paraphrase: be careful what you do here. simple acts can have great consequences. i came back to the ozarks on what i thought to be a retreat, to spend some time in silence, listening to the wind words. ah, that can be a dangerous thing to do.
on this second day of march, the feast of st. chad, bishop of mercia. i find myself once more hoist by my own petar. if find the wind words saying, inconveniently at this time when once again there is no king in israel, albeit the new israel, and every man does as he pleases, to return to the faith that has been given to us by the apsotles, to call us to receive it. alas, this morning's matins reading for a patron saint who is a bishop is from the tenth chapter of the gospel according to matthew: go to the lost sheep of the house of israel. so, i pray this morning, under the tall pines among which i know dwell, for the grace to be cunning as serpents and yet as harmless as doves. amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment