Sick
Lousy day. I have a virus. When my friends get sick they all seem to catch colds and feel fine in a couple of days. When I get sick it turns into a major production and I am out of work for days. Not fair.
I called my ex-husband (well, we are separated) and asked him to bring me some groceries. He took pity on me and agreed but refused to enter my house. He also threatened to spray paint the word "unclean" on my front door.
Everyone's a comedian. Just because I'm a little drippy, well, okay, very drippy, and am considering buying stock in a tissue company is no reason to make fun of me.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Reign of the "Coincidences"
After discovering that I worked practically across the street from the cathedral I learned that daily Mass was offered on my lunch hour. Gee, what a coincidence, I naively thought. I really did not want to go to Mass so I tried to put it out of my mind, but I discovered that God can be quite persistent when He wants something from you. I finally decided to go, just once, to put my mind at rest and hopefully get God off my back.
I had not been in a Catholic church in over 20 years and for some reason I was absolutely terrified of walking inside that church. I don't know what I thought would happen to me, but I was certain that something was going to happen. In the end, my entrance was anti-climatic. There were no lightning bolts from the sky, no one turned around to look at me and scream "heretic!" In fact no one seemed to notice me at all.
I sat in the back in a corner, hoping I would not be noticed and that no one would speak to me. What does one say to Catholics anyway? I think I need to emphasize just how alien this whole concept of church was to me at that point in my life. I thought the Church represented everything I hated; repression of women, stupid rules about contraception, out-of-touch theology with the modern world, repression of women, antiquated meaningless rituals of a dying religion, and did I mention repression of women?
So I sat in the back and the first thing I observed was the priest was an African-American. Remember, I have lived in the South all of my life. I had never seen a black priest before. This was a positive sign in my opinion, a sign of progressiveness.
Mass began and I was lost. I had no idea when to stand, sit or kneel, so I just copied the others. When it was time for the responses, I opened my mouth and the more-or-less correct words escaped of their own accord through my lips. Weird. Very weird. How could I possibly remember responses to a ritual I had not participated in for over 20 years? In fact, the entire experience of my first Mass was surreal. I did not believe I was really there.
On the way out I picked up a bulletin out of curiousity and saw an advertisement for a Welcome Home program for fallen away Catholics. "Gee, what a coincidence," I thought, "this class begins next week. Maybe I should go?"
Over the next six months there were to be so many "coincidences" I lost count.
After discovering that I worked practically across the street from the cathedral I learned that daily Mass was offered on my lunch hour. Gee, what a coincidence, I naively thought. I really did not want to go to Mass so I tried to put it out of my mind, but I discovered that God can be quite persistent when He wants something from you. I finally decided to go, just once, to put my mind at rest and hopefully get God off my back.
I had not been in a Catholic church in over 20 years and for some reason I was absolutely terrified of walking inside that church. I don't know what I thought would happen to me, but I was certain that something was going to happen. In the end, my entrance was anti-climatic. There were no lightning bolts from the sky, no one turned around to look at me and scream "heretic!" In fact no one seemed to notice me at all.
I sat in the back in a corner, hoping I would not be noticed and that no one would speak to me. What does one say to Catholics anyway? I think I need to emphasize just how alien this whole concept of church was to me at that point in my life. I thought the Church represented everything I hated; repression of women, stupid rules about contraception, out-of-touch theology with the modern world, repression of women, antiquated meaningless rituals of a dying religion, and did I mention repression of women?
So I sat in the back and the first thing I observed was the priest was an African-American. Remember, I have lived in the South all of my life. I had never seen a black priest before. This was a positive sign in my opinion, a sign of progressiveness.
Mass began and I was lost. I had no idea when to stand, sit or kneel, so I just copied the others. When it was time for the responses, I opened my mouth and the more-or-less correct words escaped of their own accord through my lips. Weird. Very weird. How could I possibly remember responses to a ritual I had not participated in for over 20 years? In fact, the entire experience of my first Mass was surreal. I did not believe I was really there.
On the way out I picked up a bulletin out of curiousity and saw an advertisement for a Welcome Home program for fallen away Catholics. "Gee, what a coincidence," I thought, "this class begins next week. Maybe I should go?"
Over the next six months there were to be so many "coincidences" I lost count.
Blog Name
I was raised in a dysfuntional family and I believe our culture is dysfunctional. I often feel like we all live in an asylum.
Much to my horror upon returning to the Church I discovered I was a conservative Catholic. I had never in my life used the word "conservative" in a sentence that referred to myself and I fought against that word when it first popped unbidden into my mind.
I thought the Church was a misogynistic institution controlled by a bunch of old men in Rome who were seriously out of touch with modern day life.
When God first nudged me to return to the Church I thought I would go to an Episcopalian church because they have women priests. That sounded like a reasonable compromise to me until I met a female priest wearing a collar. My immediate, gut instinct cried out that it was wrong, oh so wrong! I then launched into a vehement conversation with myself that went something like this:
"She can't wear a roman collar. It's wrong."
"No it's not. Women are equal to men. Women can do anything men can do, and usually do it better."
"I don't care. It's wrong. It looks wrong. It's unnatural."
"But you're a feminist. That makes it right."
"No, it doesn't."
"Yes, it does."
You get the idea. I was confused with myself and my reaction to that woman. Having been an ardent feminist for years it never occurred to me that the particular brand of feminism I had adopted could be wrong. Women are equal to men in every way and equal means same. Period. End of discussion.
This was not the first time I had been confronted with internal challenges to my feminist ideology but it was one of the first serious cracks. The others had been fine, hairline cracks, easily repaired with a bit of exposure to radical feminist propaganda, but this time was different. This was not an intellectual crisis of belief, but something much more visceral, more instinctual.
I reluctantly decided that I needed to investigate the church of my youth a bit more carefully and educate myself about its principle beliefs and teachings.
The first thing to do, obviously, was to locate an actual Catholic Church. So, I went online to see what was available in my area and discovered, much to my chagrin, that I had been driving by the local cathedral every day for the past four years and that I worked one block away from it. Of course, I knew it was a church, but I was not aware it was a Catholic Church.
I was raised in a dysfuntional family and I believe our culture is dysfunctional. I often feel like we all live in an asylum.
Much to my horror upon returning to the Church I discovered I was a conservative Catholic. I had never in my life used the word "conservative" in a sentence that referred to myself and I fought against that word when it first popped unbidden into my mind.
I thought the Church was a misogynistic institution controlled by a bunch of old men in Rome who were seriously out of touch with modern day life.
When God first nudged me to return to the Church I thought I would go to an Episcopalian church because they have women priests. That sounded like a reasonable compromise to me until I met a female priest wearing a collar. My immediate, gut instinct cried out that it was wrong, oh so wrong! I then launched into a vehement conversation with myself that went something like this:
"She can't wear a roman collar. It's wrong."
"No it's not. Women are equal to men. Women can do anything men can do, and usually do it better."
"I don't care. It's wrong. It looks wrong. It's unnatural."
"But you're a feminist. That makes it right."
"No, it doesn't."
"Yes, it does."
You get the idea. I was confused with myself and my reaction to that woman. Having been an ardent feminist for years it never occurred to me that the particular brand of feminism I had adopted could be wrong. Women are equal to men in every way and equal means same. Period. End of discussion.
This was not the first time I had been confronted with internal challenges to my feminist ideology but it was one of the first serious cracks. The others had been fine, hairline cracks, easily repaired with a bit of exposure to radical feminist propaganda, but this time was different. This was not an intellectual crisis of belief, but something much more visceral, more instinctual.
I reluctantly decided that I needed to investigate the church of my youth a bit more carefully and educate myself about its principle beliefs and teachings.
The first thing to do, obviously, was to locate an actual Catholic Church. So, I went online to see what was available in my area and discovered, much to my chagrin, that I had been driving by the local cathedral every day for the past four years and that I worked one block away from it. Of course, I knew it was a church, but I was not aware it was a Catholic Church.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)