my spiritual life is thiiiiis big...

it is the size of a widow's mite.



when i lived in the city, i stopped going to mass because i was so tired all the time, but also because there was this guy who was hitting on me all the time. it made me uncomfortable. it was like the church of the living dead anyway, with every song a dirge, and the congregation only really twenty-five senior citizens who had all known each other since high school, and a few raggedy looking guys and gals who were clearly down and out, and a few younger missionary-looking types, and the guy who made a thing out of walking across the entire church to single me out for the 'sign of peace,' then followed me halfway home. the priest was a pleasant, committed, exhausted man. more and more i missed the presence of mary in my life.



i visited a few other churches around - the city is practically thick with catholic spires, after all - but one was intrusively glad-handy, rendering me cynical, and another was a Church of Haters, with long homilies about the evils of divorce, contraception, women's ordination, marriage of priests, and so on. all the ladies wore skirts and mantillas, and slapped their (many, many) kids when they squirmed. every church was stunningly beautiful. i am very fond of the idea of the parish - going to whatever church is in your neighborhood, and trying to nudge it into line, if you don't like the way you find it. so my head wanted to stay local, but my heart didn't. i resolved this conundrum by staying in bed with my husband, late into the morning, whenever i was able. i kept my prayers to myself, and lost my singing voice.



so after settling in here, in our new town, for a few weeks, i went ahead to my new local church, whose patron handles lost causes and hopeless cases. they have a big sign welcoming returning catholics. this is shorthand for "we will make it safe for you to try going to mass again." this basically produces a lutheran service. before mass, people walk around chatting (they don't kneel and do rosaries or other devotions). there's a guitar. there are armchairs, not pews, and no kneelers. no candles, no statues (they're kept outside), no bells, no incense. there's an occasional table at the side of the altar where a pump-bottle of hand-sanitizer stands on a doily. the eucharist host is gluten-free. no chalice; the blood of christ has been held in abeyance until the public health department declares the flu epidemic over. (i read an article about a parish that was adding vodka to the wine, to keep the germs down - not an option here, i guess. and no little dixie cups, either.)



i am not against lutheranism per se. nevertheless, i headed downtown to the "other" catholic church. this church was literally standing room only. middle-aged starter-jacketed paunches jostled with tie-dye, birkenstocks, and hippie broom skirts for room in the aisles. the many pews were packed with enormous families, elder children apparently all trained to slap the little'uns when they wriggled. i became faint in the crowded air. here were a tasteful bank of votive candles, 2 statues (but they were: joseph in a 1950's corporate-style haircut, like dick van dyke with a beard and apron, leaning forward aggressively, and behind him white mary, blank-faced, anesthetized, holding a doll). they had a full choir and pipe organ; bells were heard twice, inside and out; there was bowing at the moment jesus returns to life, and standing up to chant the many affirmations and promises, and kneeling in the presence of the lord.

now, i love smells and bells. i like to light little candles and bow my head. but you know what? there were no altar girls. only old men.



the eager, baby-faced little priest spoke, a little too glowingly, of the wonders of nuclear-family life - "a beautiful husband and wife, working together as a team to accomplish their work, with their beautiful little children helping them along, every step of the way..." and the disappointed-looking old deacon explained a little too dourly about how women are really men's ribs, and a little too sourly that some people do get divorced, which makes god very cross. i got a headache from rolling my eyes, and pinched myself for my own mean-spiritedness.

on the way out, i couldn't find the poor-box, to make my donation. fortunately, there was a guy with a cardboard sign standing on the sidewalk just outside the church. our new town is absolutely chock-full of folks with cardboard signs. what would jesus's sign say?





i'm afraid i'm too cynical to have a spiritual life anymore.

when i say "afraid," i mean honestly dubious and worried about it.

my long-ago friend peter told me, "when you first convert, god is very close."

and i always admired the fierce words of the shaker hymn: "i will cry unto god - i never will cease - 'til my soul's filled with love - perfect love, and sweet peace." i never will cease. filled. perfect. i never will cease. i admire that level of engagement so much right now.

my own spiritual life is so tiny, i'm ashamed of it. it's just a widow's mite. i'm afraid to honestly assess its worth. i often feel like giving up, but i'm afraid it would only take a shrug, which makes me sad. it's weirdly like unrequited love. maybe it's more like loneliness.



mark 12+

jesus said, i see preachers and theologians.
they live in fancy houses; they stand up in front there
and tell everybody what to think; they're local celebrities.
they're fat leeches, sucking out the life blood of poor widows,
destroying their livelihoods and rationalizing it
with their long prayers and speeches.

he went and sat over by the church's collection basket.
the rich people in the church were all standing in line,
putting in fat envelopes. along came a poor widow with a
bunch of kids, and she dropped in a couple of bus tokens.
jesus told his friends, look,

around here, they receive according to their means,
while she gives according to her needs.

then as they left the church, jesus's friend said,
i like it here. but jesus replied, this whole place
is going to hell.
passover was just two days away.