Why Is That Man Stuck Up There?
Petunia is now old enough to point out things that sometimes make us blush. Usually, we can explain away her observations or questions without too much dfficulty or embarassment. But yesterday at the end of Mass in my mother-in-law's Catholic church, Petunia asked the question that is the title of this post. Thankfully, she did it in a whisper during communion so there was a lot of shuffling going on, and I don't think anyone else heard her.
We are Episcopalians, so we don't have crucifixes hanging about. There is a beautiful cross at the front of our church, and there are stained glass images of Jesus and other Biblical scenes around the sanctuary, but no crucifixtion scenes. We don't even have Stations of the Cross hanging up - we use placards during Holy Week.
When we told Petunia the man 'stuck up there' was Jesus, she started to freak out a little bit. She knows something of Jesus, mainly that he loves her and we love him and we learn about him and God at church. So she started to get really upset at the sight of Jesus nailed to a cross hanging in the middle of Granma's church. We told her that it wasn't really Jesus - it was just a statue of Jesus and that Jesus was somewhere else and he was okay. That calmed her down quite a bit. She still didn't understand, but she was no longer freaked out at the idea that the Jesus she'd been learning about was hanging by nails to a wall in northeast Ohio.
Her second question was a lot harder to answer: 'Why we not take communion?' I ducked the question and told her that we just don't take communion at Granma's church and that we would take it next week when we were home at our church.
Petunia has been taking communion for several months, possibly going on a year. Unlike my husband, who has pictures in a suit with his rosary to mark the occasion, Petunia first participated in the Eucharist wearing something that I don't even remember. It was summer, I believe, so she probably had on a cotton sundress. There was no ceremony, no preparation. No other family was there. We had no party afterwards.
Our rector was the one who suggested that we try communion for our toddler. Episcopalians don't have a set age for receiving consecrated bread and wine, and when we went up to receive one unsuspecting Sunday, he asked, 'Does Petunia receive?' And we said, 'Uh, she hasn't yet.' And he said, 'Let's just try.' And she took her wafer and ate it with wide eyes.
Since then, we have instructed her on how to hold her hands for receiving the bread, and to say 'Amen' when she receives and to eat the whole wafer before we leave the altar rail. We haven't let her try the wine yet, mostly because I think she wouldn't like it, and I don't want to run the risk of her spitting it out or making a scene in the middle of church.
But at Granma's church - as in all Catholic churches - we can't take communion because we aren't Catholic. And I think that Petunia's awareness of this distinction is only going to grow. If she picked up on it during a single Mass when she was barely three years old, I think she's going to continue to notice as she gets older. And I think the difference will be even more marked, because in our particular parish, the rector makes a point of saying during every service that he celebrates, 'We want to welcome all those who are visiting with us. We are delighted that you are here and want you most especially to know that what follows in our service is the Lord's Supper. It is God's feast and it is for all of God's people. So whoever you are and from wherever you have come, you are invited to feast with us.'
It's a pretty clear welcome. There's no question as to who can participate. And that was one of the things that drew me to the faith I've embraced as an adult.
I grew up Southern Baptist and attended church every week. I attended summer camps and did mission trips and even preached in church during one youth-led service. By the time I was a teenager, something wasn't sitting right about my church experiences (like the time my Sunday school teacher told me that Catholics worshipped idols because they had statues of saints in their churches) so I vascillated between being a good socially conservative Baptist (where I puppeted phrases like 'Love the sinner, hate the sin,' which I have come to despise as veiled homophobia) and rebelling by drinking and smoking and partying.
By the time I went off to college, I had all but abandoned my teetotaling, slightly fundy upbringing. I went crazy drinking, partying, screwing around and generally having the kind of college experience that I think all kids should have: wild yet ultimately responsible (ie, no drunk driving, no arrests, no STDs)...the kind of oat-sowing that gets it out of your system and makes you appreciate the wonders of hearth and home and a family of your own.
Church did not enter the picture in college, and when I came home for breaks, I hated the church I grew up in for its conservatism - both personally and politically. I clung to the phrase I had heard Molly Ivins utter on campus my freshmen year, 'I don't know where these Christian conservatives get off anyway; Jesus was the biggest bleeding-heart liberal you ever saw!' It wasn't that I had lost my spirituality; it was that my spirituality and the faith I was raised in were butting heads. So I kept my spirituality to myself and stopped worrying about the faith.
When Basil and I started dating, we didn't go to church. But when we started talking about getting married, I really wanted to find a spiritual home. I wanted to be married in a church, and I wanted to be part of the church where I was married. I didn't just want the pretty pictures. Even though I knew that I was not a Southern Baptist, I appreciated the general values and stability of being raised in a church. If I could just find something that matched the Molly Ivins sentiment a little better, I'd be all set.
Basil was raised Catholic. He had lapsed quite a bit during college and after having moved to DC, despite having an aunt who is a member of the Sisters of Saint Joseph, a father who almost became a priest himself and an old-school Italian grandmother who walked her kids to Mass four miles each week and taught catechism. His formerly Presbyterian mother had converted to Catholicism when he was a baby, and Basil's parents even worked regularly at the parish social hall.
We tried a couple of different Catholic churches in Alexandria, and I bought and read an excellent book (would recommend it to all Catholics and anyone interested in the Catholic faith) on the seven sacraments. I grew to love the liturgy, even if I didn't know all the words or exactly when to stand up or sit down or hold my neighbor's hand. And St. Joseph's in north Old Town almost sealed the deal, with its Irish priest and gospel choir.
But I had problems with the dogma. I tried to get on board with the Catholic church beyond the beauty of the Mass, but I couldn't get past the idea of going through RCIA and being 100% Catholic before being allowed to participate in the most important part of the Mass: communion. No other Christian religion required such a commitment of me, and the you're-either-in-or-you're-out feeling flew in the face of my personal spirituality and ideas about Jesus. I always saw Jesus as a tearer-down of walls, a uniter, someone who could care less about your race, stature or conformation to social norms. That's part of why I don't like the Southern Baptist Convention; I think it often exploits Jesus in the name of hating people who disagree either in word or in lifestyle.
The Episcopal Church was the perfect fit for me and Basil. My open-arms idea of Jesus, the mostly liberal social leanings (during our pre-marriage weekend, one of the women priests in the church talked to the group about sexuality and how a couple she had known had problems after their marriage because the husband was a whips and chains guy and the problem was not the whips and chains but the fact that he hadn't been open about his desires before he and his wife got married) and a beautiful liturgy that was eerily similar to Catholic Mass.
When we got married, the priest at our new church was so wonderful to the Catholic priest from Basil's home parish who co-officiated the wedding, I just knew we had made the right choice. Our priest picked Father K up at his hotel a few hours before the wedding and took him to dinner to get to know him. At the church, our priest made sure the aging Father K had everything he needed...a stole for the service, a chair to rest in on the altar and a familiarity with the physical layout of the church.
That was what I wanted in my church. Respect and inclusion of everyone, no matter what their background or belief. A belief system (we're sayers of the Nicene Creed) and a mission to welcome and treat everyone well, but a decision to leave the judging of in-ness and out-ness to God.
In the version of the Prayers of the People that we most frequently use, we regularly pray for 'all who work for justice, freedom and peace' and 'those who minister to the sick, the friendless and the needy.' We pray for 'the peace and unity of the Church of God' and 'all who proclaim the Gospel and all who seek the Truth.'
So it is hard for me - very hard - when Petunia asks why we can't take communion at Granma's church. And I don't think it's just because Petunia's too young to understand.
I love and respect Basil's mother and the rest of the family, and I really like the priests in my mother-in-law's parish. They're wonderful people who have done so much for Basil's family. I know that the denial of our full participation in the Mass is not an individual decision based on how anyone feels about us. And I know that being part of a religion that denies our participation is not a decision based on how anyone feels about us. It just makes me sad that there is this wall up, that we can't all worship together in one place.
It nearly tore my heart out six and a half years ago when I couldn't take communion at Basil's father's funeral Mass. I was aching so much and I needed so much to be comforted by God, and I hated, hated, hated the fact that I had to sit in the pew and not commune with my God because I wasn't Catholic. I don't even want to think about how Petunia will feel if she can't take communion at her grandmother's funeral Mass.
When Basil and I got married, we did pre-marriage counseling at his family's parish as well as our own church. Basil's family priest talked with us a lot about the similarities between the Episcopal and Catholic churches and the chance that in our lifetime, the Catholic church could have some sort of reciprocity with the Episcopal Church for communion, confirmation, etc. He thought there was a good chance that this could happen in our lifetime.
I hope so.
We are Episcopalians, so we don't have crucifixes hanging about. There is a beautiful cross at the front of our church, and there are stained glass images of Jesus and other Biblical scenes around the sanctuary, but no crucifixtion scenes. We don't even have Stations of the Cross hanging up - we use placards during Holy Week.
When we told Petunia the man 'stuck up there' was Jesus, she started to freak out a little bit. She knows something of Jesus, mainly that he loves her and we love him and we learn about him and God at church. So she started to get really upset at the sight of Jesus nailed to a cross hanging in the middle of Granma's church. We told her that it wasn't really Jesus - it was just a statue of Jesus and that Jesus was somewhere else and he was okay. That calmed her down quite a bit. She still didn't understand, but she was no longer freaked out at the idea that the Jesus she'd been learning about was hanging by nails to a wall in northeast Ohio.
Her second question was a lot harder to answer: 'Why we not take communion?' I ducked the question and told her that we just don't take communion at Granma's church and that we would take it next week when we were home at our church.
Petunia has been taking communion for several months, possibly going on a year. Unlike my husband, who has pictures in a suit with his rosary to mark the occasion, Petunia first participated in the Eucharist wearing something that I don't even remember. It was summer, I believe, so she probably had on a cotton sundress. There was no ceremony, no preparation. No other family was there. We had no party afterwards.
Our rector was the one who suggested that we try communion for our toddler. Episcopalians don't have a set age for receiving consecrated bread and wine, and when we went up to receive one unsuspecting Sunday, he asked, 'Does Petunia receive?' And we said, 'Uh, she hasn't yet.' And he said, 'Let's just try.' And she took her wafer and ate it with wide eyes.
Since then, we have instructed her on how to hold her hands for receiving the bread, and to say 'Amen' when she receives and to eat the whole wafer before we leave the altar rail. We haven't let her try the wine yet, mostly because I think she wouldn't like it, and I don't want to run the risk of her spitting it out or making a scene in the middle of church.
But at Granma's church - as in all Catholic churches - we can't take communion because we aren't Catholic. And I think that Petunia's awareness of this distinction is only going to grow. If she picked up on it during a single Mass when she was barely three years old, I think she's going to continue to notice as she gets older. And I think the difference will be even more marked, because in our particular parish, the rector makes a point of saying during every service that he celebrates, 'We want to welcome all those who are visiting with us. We are delighted that you are here and want you most especially to know that what follows in our service is the Lord's Supper. It is God's feast and it is for all of God's people. So whoever you are and from wherever you have come, you are invited to feast with us.'
It's a pretty clear welcome. There's no question as to who can participate. And that was one of the things that drew me to the faith I've embraced as an adult.
I grew up Southern Baptist and attended church every week. I attended summer camps and did mission trips and even preached in church during one youth-led service. By the time I was a teenager, something wasn't sitting right about my church experiences (like the time my Sunday school teacher told me that Catholics worshipped idols because they had statues of saints in their churches) so I vascillated between being a good socially conservative Baptist (where I puppeted phrases like 'Love the sinner, hate the sin,' which I have come to despise as veiled homophobia) and rebelling by drinking and smoking and partying.
By the time I went off to college, I had all but abandoned my teetotaling, slightly fundy upbringing. I went crazy drinking, partying, screwing around and generally having the kind of college experience that I think all kids should have: wild yet ultimately responsible (ie, no drunk driving, no arrests, no STDs)...the kind of oat-sowing that gets it out of your system and makes you appreciate the wonders of hearth and home and a family of your own.
Church did not enter the picture in college, and when I came home for breaks, I hated the church I grew up in for its conservatism - both personally and politically. I clung to the phrase I had heard Molly Ivins utter on campus my freshmen year, 'I don't know where these Christian conservatives get off anyway; Jesus was the biggest bleeding-heart liberal you ever saw!' It wasn't that I had lost my spirituality; it was that my spirituality and the faith I was raised in were butting heads. So I kept my spirituality to myself and stopped worrying about the faith.
When Basil and I started dating, we didn't go to church. But when we started talking about getting married, I really wanted to find a spiritual home. I wanted to be married in a church, and I wanted to be part of the church where I was married. I didn't just want the pretty pictures. Even though I knew that I was not a Southern Baptist, I appreciated the general values and stability of being raised in a church. If I could just find something that matched the Molly Ivins sentiment a little better, I'd be all set.
Basil was raised Catholic. He had lapsed quite a bit during college and after having moved to DC, despite having an aunt who is a member of the Sisters of Saint Joseph, a father who almost became a priest himself and an old-school Italian grandmother who walked her kids to Mass four miles each week and taught catechism. His formerly Presbyterian mother had converted to Catholicism when he was a baby, and Basil's parents even worked regularly at the parish social hall.
We tried a couple of different Catholic churches in Alexandria, and I bought and read an excellent book (would recommend it to all Catholics and anyone interested in the Catholic faith) on the seven sacraments. I grew to love the liturgy, even if I didn't know all the words or exactly when to stand up or sit down or hold my neighbor's hand. And St. Joseph's in north Old Town almost sealed the deal, with its Irish priest and gospel choir.
But I had problems with the dogma. I tried to get on board with the Catholic church beyond the beauty of the Mass, but I couldn't get past the idea of going through RCIA and being 100% Catholic before being allowed to participate in the most important part of the Mass: communion. No other Christian religion required such a commitment of me, and the you're-either-in-or-you're-out feeling flew in the face of my personal spirituality and ideas about Jesus. I always saw Jesus as a tearer-down of walls, a uniter, someone who could care less about your race, stature or conformation to social norms. That's part of why I don't like the Southern Baptist Convention; I think it often exploits Jesus in the name of hating people who disagree either in word or in lifestyle.
The Episcopal Church was the perfect fit for me and Basil. My open-arms idea of Jesus, the mostly liberal social leanings (during our pre-marriage weekend, one of the women priests in the church talked to the group about sexuality and how a couple she had known had problems after their marriage because the husband was a whips and chains guy and the problem was not the whips and chains but the fact that he hadn't been open about his desires before he and his wife got married) and a beautiful liturgy that was eerily similar to Catholic Mass.
When we got married, the priest at our new church was so wonderful to the Catholic priest from Basil's home parish who co-officiated the wedding, I just knew we had made the right choice. Our priest picked Father K up at his hotel a few hours before the wedding and took him to dinner to get to know him. At the church, our priest made sure the aging Father K had everything he needed...a stole for the service, a chair to rest in on the altar and a familiarity with the physical layout of the church.
That was what I wanted in my church. Respect and inclusion of everyone, no matter what their background or belief. A belief system (we're sayers of the Nicene Creed) and a mission to welcome and treat everyone well, but a decision to leave the judging of in-ness and out-ness to God.
In the version of the Prayers of the People that we most frequently use, we regularly pray for 'all who work for justice, freedom and peace' and 'those who minister to the sick, the friendless and the needy.' We pray for 'the peace and unity of the Church of God' and 'all who proclaim the Gospel and all who seek the Truth.'
So it is hard for me - very hard - when Petunia asks why we can't take communion at Granma's church. And I don't think it's just because Petunia's too young to understand.
I love and respect Basil's mother and the rest of the family, and I really like the priests in my mother-in-law's parish. They're wonderful people who have done so much for Basil's family. I know that the denial of our full participation in the Mass is not an individual decision based on how anyone feels about us. And I know that being part of a religion that denies our participation is not a decision based on how anyone feels about us. It just makes me sad that there is this wall up, that we can't all worship together in one place.
It nearly tore my heart out six and a half years ago when I couldn't take communion at Basil's father's funeral Mass. I was aching so much and I needed so much to be comforted by God, and I hated, hated, hated the fact that I had to sit in the pew and not commune with my God because I wasn't Catholic. I don't even want to think about how Petunia will feel if she can't take communion at her grandmother's funeral Mass.
When Basil and I got married, we did pre-marriage counseling at his family's parish as well as our own church. Basil's family priest talked with us a lot about the similarities between the Episcopal and Catholic churches and the chance that in our lifetime, the Catholic church could have some sort of reciprocity with the Episcopal Church for communion, confirmation, etc. He thought there was a good chance that this could happen in our lifetime.
I hope so.
posted by merseydotes @ 11:00 AM
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