"But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.' Luke 18:1
I stood in church yesterday, All Saints Day, with a phrase from Luke repeating in me: Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner. It was warm for early November, even by North Texas standards. But I wanted to wear a sweater and autumn colors. So, I did, as if I could force the season.
The choir sang something lovely, not something the congregation could join. I looked around this church-in-the-round built during a different time in church history, all of 25 years ago, where the then pastor talked of theology of space and that we face each other to see Christ in our neighbor. That took some getting used to, I admit. There is no place to hide in this architecture, no large marble pillar to shrink behind on those days where a church cast in long shadows would suit a mourning soul. No kneelers, even, part of that theology of not being penitent, but somehow, equal with God. A bit of heresy to my mind, but heck, I wasn’t the pastor. I looked around at all the masked faces in this time of Covid.
I stood alone.
There was a long stretch of years when Gene and I spent Mass time re-arranging four children to keep them from acting un-holy: poking each other, telling jokes, giggling. Things they needed to do at Mass. There were no nuns in long black gowns and starched wimples to click a clicker that would make them kneel straight and look forward. That was a different time and place, a time when Gene and I were formed as small children in the one true faith of the holy Church. We caught the tail end of that, before hootenanny masses and nuns, while there still were some, in short dresses and little veils.
I have been church shopping. Not faith shopping, but parish shopping. These years there has been a strange confluence of the political and theological. Throughout the history of Christianity in Western Civilization this has been the case. In the 1600’s a group of outcasts got on a wooden boat and crashed into a rock on the far side of the Atlantic and set up camp. They wanted separation from state regulated religion. They were a harsh sect of Christians. Plain and severe. No adornments and garish artwork for them. None of the vulgarities of the bleeding Jesus on the cross of the Church of Rome. None of the nuance and the ready forgiveness of the lax followers of the Latins. Sin all you want all week, just make it to the confessional before Mass starts and you are in. Certainly, none of the imbibing of wine at church. Nothing that smacked of the body. They sought freedom of religion; for themselves, anyway. Freedom for me, but not for thee should have been embroidered on their aprons instead of the infamous A of the fallen woman.
A baby was christened yesterday morning. A new soul. Perhaps, a saint one day. An auspicious day to become the newest member of the Church. The pastor preached of a miracle accomplished by the faith of expectant parents and the intercession of a brand-new canonized saint who did his good deeds as a parish priest more than one hundred years ago right here in the land of the free.
This tiny baby, so fresh and full of the newness of life. Parents so proud of their miracle. It’s what we do. Welcome the new, promise to help raise him in the faith of our fathers.
I stood at my place, socially distanced from my neighbor, whose face I could only partially see. There was melancholy, yes, for all that was past. My children have little ties to this faith that their parents were formed in and by. Not only us, but generations, centuries, back to Patrick changing druids into Christians on a green, damp island in the North Sea. My grandchildren have far less connection. And, yes, this makes me sad.
Just last week I learned that the father of a friend of mine was receiving Last Rites and was expected to pass imminently. This brought me to tears, not because it was tragic, he was in his 90’s, so it was time. The tears were in mourning for a different time, a different way of things.
I shared some thoughts with one of my children, one who was a birthday present to me many years ago:.
Why am I telling you this?
Well, because you are a fellow November soul. The end of things seems to be my dwelling place. The leaves turn glorious because they are dying. The crunch is an echo of the other side. A lovely sound. Melancholy.
I write because I miss home. Where is home? I’ve often felt homeless since we moved so far away. When someone died, we had rituals. We’d go to the wake, at least, the funeral if possible. There were prayers and church and music. There were the familiar gospel passages. We gathered in St. Clare’s or one of the innumerable churches in the area—the place of baptisms and first communions, weddings and funerals. It was all of a piece. All these things bound us to each other and promised eternity. And meaning. Suffering and death had meaning. Life and love. Full hearts and broken hearts.
… So, when another person I know from Rosedale or the larger family is gone, I miss the beat of the ancient rituals. That sounds too romantic, too Irish, even, but there it is.
All Soul’s Day, day of remembrance of those we loved and have moved forward. A day to hope, that though we are sinners in need of mercy, we are not abandoned, not forgotten. Still, though much has changed, the ancient rituals ring true. And, Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner, is very appropriate for All Soul’s Day.
