Category: Christianity

Something Significant

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“God, give me one thing today to make this day significant.” I found this handwritten prayer in a blue folder when I had been working in the Women’s Division library fifteen years ago. I was helping on a research project, looking around for a scrap of paper.

The sentence was beautifully written in formal script. On the folder was a woman’s name, let’s call her Esther.

“Who was Esther?” I asked another of the older women, let’s call her Bee, at lunch time.

“Esther worked part-time for the Women’s Division,” Bee said. “She struggled with depression. She had been institutionalized throughout the years and even received electroshock therapies.”

Bee and I launched into a discussion about electroshock therapies and if they worked, which I’d heard they did, simply because they caused a convulsion. I’d read the body, in extreme cases, needed a seizure to restart or reboot. Still, electroconvulsive therapy was horrific.

message in a bottle from creative commons

Esther’s life and her handwritten note stayed with me.

Her quiet desperation, her prayer, her desire for significance — I have felt these too.

The note reminded me that we have no idea what anyone else is going through. Once in a while, we find a clue, like a message in a bottle washed to shore, that someone wants their life to have significance.

Someone wants one thing to show that this day, this life, matters. Just one thing.

Christian Women in Mainstream Media

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Tricks the Devil Taught Me, photo by Carol Rosegg

The other night at the theater, I got that sickening feeling. Not again! I was watching the usual depiction of Christian women as hypocritical gossips. Why do Christians and especially Christian women get such a bad rap in movies, plays, TV?

Chris and I were at the play, “Tricks the Devil Taught Me” by Tony Georges at the Minetta Lane Theatre. The play was overall good, but the scene with the church ladies was comically grotesque as the women feasted on another family’s misery, gossiping about town teenagers. They delighted in discussing another couple’s rocky marriage and the potential there for “sin.”

In another scene, one woman who sang for the church choir said she sang only for the money. The church choir was simply a conduit for money, not a spiritual experience.

I know, work with, worship with, sing with (although I wish I was good enough to sing in a choir!) Christian women. (“I knew JFK and you are no JFK.”)

The Christian women I know are anything but mean, shallow and sin-loving. They are thoughtful, hard-working, joyful. They organize peace vigils, letter writing campaigns to end wars. Christian women feed the hungry and wash the feet of the homeless. (Do I exaggerate? Not much.)

Christian women laugh together in bible studies but not at other’s misfortunes; we laugh at our own struggles to be human. We try for transformation, to be more loving. Conversations are about compassion, hope, redemption, grace, struggle, not sin.

My experience with Christianity must be quite different from other writers’ experiences.

I also do not believe that one sect of Christianity is better than another. I was raised Catholic; married in the Lutheran church; baptized one child Episcopalian; baptized the other two Presbyterian; consider myself Methodist.

“Love ‘em all. Let God sort ‘em out.” That is the message on a tee shirt my friend Nancy gave me when she was moving. The gift and the message epitomizes my experience of Christian women — a nonjudgmental, generous and active Christianity.

When I see how Christian women are depicted in popular media, I could cry. And I feel defensive. Hey, I am not conservative, stupid or mean. (Although, occasionally, God help me, I do gossip.)

I wish that I did not get that sickening feeling when I see how Christian women are presented in plays and movies. The way I see myself is far different from the reality that is presented to me. I do not recognize myself; that makes me very sad.

Church A Day

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With the kids off to camp, I was planning to visit a church a day. I was driving solo to the art workshops that I’m attending with my dad, his lady friend and my sister over the next three days.

I drove by this Vermont church. It looked like a good solid church. I could begin my church visits there, I thought. Yes, I could be born again. I could pray.

No, I couldn’t. The church door was locked. I tried the side door. Also locked.

Remembering Taizé

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I made a pilgrimage to Taizé about a year and a half ago.

I loved the amazing music, the worship three times a day, the time of silence in a large group, and the look of the church. Yet after a day or two monastic life was not for me.

It began to seem more like Outward Bound than a week in the French countryside. For example, you live in very tight living quarters in what are called barracks; your meal is ladled onto a plastic plate; your one utensil is a spoon; your seats in the tent are wooden benches that teeter and tip you over; it was unforgivingly cold.

I realized I needed to break free. I realized I have a restless spirit and that I find peace when I am on the go as well as quietly prayerful. I discovered a way out — a bus cuts through the campus. I snuck away during morning service and boarded the public bus for one Euro fifty cents. I took the bus until a petite ville beckoned. I hopped off and had an adventure.

I traveled to the monastery for a quiet and contemplative life. Yet, if truth be told, I found more treasures in the neighboring French countryside and the world beyond the gates.

While my visit to Taizé was not what I’d expected, not entirely contemplative, the memories of that time — of exploring neighboring villages and sitting on the floor in the church comfort me and remind me that I am not alone and that I am bound for adventure.

This is a bit of rework from my earlier blog post and from my travel blogging site: MBCoudal @ travelpod.  http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mbcoudal/1/1256052233/tpod.html#ixzz1PDNpyITx

Volunteering at the Shelter

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Last night I volunteered at the women’s shelter at St. Paul and St. Andrew’s. I sat around with six volunteers and my family of five (whom I’d made come to drop off the homemade cookies). My husband and son cut out as soon as we finished our job of setting the table with plasticware and my son was assured he’d get community service credit for the help.

The girls wanted to leave too, but I told them, “Stay until the women arrive.”

I was sitting by the door when the six or so women arrived. I jumped to my feet and greeted them. “Hi! Welcome! Good to see you!”

One women looked confused and indignant, “Do I know you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m just being friendly.” I was embarrassed. Behind the woman’s back, one of my daughters, C., lifted her eyebrows at me protectively. I rolled my eyes, shrugged. Maybe, at times, I can be too friendly. Maybe she didn’t want friendliness, she just came for dinner and shelter. I didn’t mind.

I chatted with a woman who sat beside us. I complimented her on her camouflage-patterned rubber rain boots. We chatted about the ease of slipping on rain boots and all the pretty patterns they come in nowadays. One of my daughters has a pretty pair.

The food was ready and one of the volunteers suggested, “Please help yourself.”

I suggested, “How about a quick grace first?” Then I asked my boot-wearing friend to lead us in prayer. She stood up in the center of the room and blessed the food. I think that’s what she did, I couldn’t hear her too well and she mumbled. It was a short prayer and heartfelt — my favorite kinds.

The girls and I left before dinner. As we said good bye, the Do-I-know-you-woman gave me and the girls a big smile — a huge silly giggly smile — like a kid who’s made a new best friend. We smiled equally wide back at her.

I said good bye to another woman one who was smoking on the front steps. “I’ll come right in after I finish this cigarette,” she said. “Thanks for volunteering.”

“No problem,” I said. And for some reason, she reminded me of my mother. We hopped in a cab and came home.

I don’t know which of my rules this experience relates to. Maybe to the rule about Expect the Best, Love What you Bet. Even from your overly friendly self.

My 3 Words

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On my walk to the subway this morning, I received this message. It was being thrown out with the Christmas trees on Amsterdam Ave.

I had been wondering What are my 3 inspiring words for 2011? Here they were: Become. Your. Dream.

Social media guru Chris Brogan http://www.chrisbrogan.com/my-3-words-for-2011/ suggests giving yourself 3 guiding words for the New Year.  (I love this guy’s blog. My Connected Life blog http://gettingmyessayspublished.wordpress.com/ is my homage to Brogan.)

Become

I decided to visit a church. The image on the sign seemed to be a helicopter. Move. Go. Do the thing you say you will do. For me that means Visit a church a day. I tried to go to St. Paul’s Chapel at Columbia University, but it was locked. Columbia U. must still be off for the New Year’s  holiday.

I wish church doors were never locked. The gates nearby were locked too.

So  I  wandered out of Columbia towards Morningside Drive. Morningside is such a great name for a street. Here it was morning and I was on Morningside. I remembered the ephiphany I had on Morningside last time I walked there — gratitude. My heart was full of gratitude for every single person I knew.

Yesterday was Epiphany Sunday. I thought of James Joyce’s epiphany in The Artist as a Young Man. I think it happened as Stephen Dedalus watched a flock of birds in the sky. I thought James Joyce is gone, but I am alive. Yes, that was my epiphany. I am alive. I looked up at the sky in honor of James Joyce. Because he could no longer look up. And I saw a hawk or eagle circling. It was my ephiphany. I took it in, the literalness and then the symbolism of it – to dream, to helicopter, to fly. I am alive.

I remembered another message from yesterday’s Epiphany Sunday at Rutgers Church —  love is hard.

Your

I decided to go back to the Mary in a grotto church again. https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2010/09/25/a-cave-for-mary/

Although I’ve said I will try to visit a new church everyday, maybe any old church is just as good. I had to get to work.

Since the Montreal Notre Dame Church, I’ve started to feel an affinity for any Mary or Notre Dame church. I love Mary. Maybe because my name is Mary or the idea of Mary reveals a softer side of God or religion.

Dream

The church doors facing Morningside were wide open. Two priests and a woman in a coat were saying prayers towards the altar. I marveled at how bright the church was. I love bright. But who pays the electric bill? (My mind leaps from epiphanal to logistical in a moment!) I sat in the last row. I remembered a dream I had last night about a woman holding a bird and a snake, laughing while her picture was being taken.

I could not understand a word the three at the front said. It was all a mumble until after about five minutes when they concluded, audibly saying, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” Those were their three words.

I remembered to cross myself as I left. The holy water at the Church of Notre Dame is flown in from France.

The Mother of All Churches — Full of Surprises

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At the Baton Rouge restaurant in Montreal, our waiter Sebastian was rattling off nearby tourist attractions. He said, “The big cathedral past Chinatown is very nice. Celine Dion was married there.” I’m not usually going to churches based on a celebrity endorsement, but what the heck, I was on vaction.

We walked up the hill towards Old Montreal. The church was full of surprises – the first of which was the cost — $5 for adults and $4 for kids just to enter. $22 later, I was hoping that it was worth it.

It was worth it. The church was a riot of color and as pretty as rainbow sherbet. I was in love with the light of the ceiling and altar — a Robin’s Egg blue.

We joined the English-speaking tour group. We heard about Montreal’s origins –  to convert the heathens.

The next big surprise was the chapel. I imagined more of the same — a Neo Gothic church/wedding cake — frills, curliecues and gold stars. Not at all.

Walking into this chapel, the woman behind me gasped. It was full of light.

The massive bronze altar sculpture showed three archways representing childhood, middle age and old age (death). It was not all crucifex-y and literal like some churches. It was symbolic –The symbols

of the trinity were a sun, a dove and a kind, smiling man. It was all bright and yellow (almost as pretty as the Louise Nevelson church, one of my faves!)

The artist of the Sacré-Coeur chapel for Notre-Dame Basilica, Charles Daudelin (aka ‘genius’) created this masterpiece after a fire in 1978 destroyed the Gothic chapel. So there’s an inspiring lesson:

Sometimes a devastating turn of events can lead to some great modern art.

I dug the nativity scene in the modern chapel because the women figured so prominently. This was the church of Mary and I do appreciate churches that celebrate women.

The tour ended and my daughters got in a fight. See, to light a candle and make a prayer, you had to pay a dollar. I only had one single. I gave the dollar to Charlotte and told her to “Share a prayer. Or light two candles. It doesn’t matter.” But Catherine felt if we lit two candles, “We’d be lying in a CHURCH!”

Charlotte eventually resolved the bickering by telling Catherine that she’d put two dollars in the collection box. Catherine was appeased and lit her candle. Then Charlotte told her twin she had been lying and she’d only put in one dollar. The fighting began again.

I told the girls that this is part of the history of Christianity. “I think the Holy Wars were fought over this. The Reformation was about not having to pay to pray.” I told them, “God hears the prayers of the poor as equally as the prayers of the rich.” They didn’t care. They just wanted to light their damn candles.

This is how sibling rivalry goes. They ebb, they flow. They lie, they fight. They pray. They light a candle. They’re hungry and they want to leave this stupid place. I, meanwhile, enjoyed this church very much.

On the way

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I was heading to Hayden’s Swim Meet. I passed a line of people waiting patiently for sandwiches to be given out from a makeshift cardboard stand. There were about a dozen people warming their hands in their pockets. They could’ve been in a photo from the Depression, but, this is 2010, a cold December afternoon.

The church looked lit from within. I asked the (Latina?) woman who seemed to be in charge, “Can I go in?”

“Sure,” she said. She walked up the steps and opened the door for me. I am always grateful when someone opens the church door for me, especially this woman who seemed to have more important things to do — distribute sandwiches.

I sat in the church. I just sat. I looked up at the blue walls. I like blue walls. That’s all.

Then I heard clicking behind me. Ah, I thought, the proverbial church mouse. I looked around.

It was a woman at a computer keyboard behind a glass wall. The church office was sectioned-off in the back of the sanctuary.

As I walked out, she and I smiled at each other. I kind of wondered what was an office doing in a church. Maybe she wondered what I was doing, staring at the walls. Then I wondered if it would be impolite to take a picture of the people standing in the sandwich line. But I didn’t have to decide. The line had disappeared. All of the sandwiches must’ve been distributed.

I went to the Swim Meet.

United Nations Meditation Room

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I was headed to the Church Center for the United Nations to spend a day with peacemakers but in the crush of 42nd Street I ran into a group for whom I’d led a communications training a couple of days earlier.

I pointed them in the right direction (they were heading towards Fifth Avenue instead of First Avenue). In gratitude, they offered me an extra ticket to their United Nations tour. I’d done the tour a few times, but it is ALWAYS different and always great, led by some brilliant international young person.

Our guide was the super-smart, super-gorgeous Jali, an Egyptian mother and artist who was a tad bit disillusioned with the effectiveness of sovereignties who fail to implement the UN resolutions. 

Extremely powerful– one of the last exhibits on the tour is the one on landmines. This is the heartbreaking reality — the landmines look like yoyos and rocks. So ten years after a war has ended, who picks up the yoyo or rock hoping to play? Children.

They are the ones maimed and killed by landmines. And even though 11 years ago, 156 nations signed the UN Ban Mines Treaty, China, Russia, and the United States have not joined. Ugh! So embarrassing to be an American when you hear this.

I chatted with Jali about the UN, her art, raising children in NYC. I said good bye. I will probably never see her again.

I started to walk out of the UN to get to the church center meeting, but I spotted a group of women. They were as pretty as water lilies floating in a Matisse painting. I walked towards them. They departed by the elevator, and I was left standing in front of the UN Meditation Room which is right beside the Marc Chagall peace window.

Despite my love for the UN and the many times I’ve been there, I never knew there was a chapel in the UN. It was dark but for a couple of shafts of light. There are so many faiths around the world that the chapel is intentionally free of symbolism. The beams of natural light are the symbols. Oh, and there is a slab in the center of the small space. It reminded me of the sacrifice stone upon which Aslan, the lion and Christ figure,  is sacrificed in the movie, “The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe.” It is a big stone in a small room. The big rock and its sacrifice altar quality — made me uncomfortable. I tried to focus on the shafts of light.

I wanted to sit a while. The space reminded me of one of the favorite churches I’ve visited — the Louise Nevelson chapel. https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2010/08/18/the-gospel-according-to-louise-nevelson/

But, as often happens, some tourists walked into my sanctuary. (Note to self: Learn to love the tourists.)

I also have to admit I consistently feel ridiculous and indulgent sitting quietly in churches. I know there is work to be done. Kids to provide for. Articles to write. Work meetings to report on. Phone calls to make. Emails to read.

Why should I get to sit quietly in the middle of the day contemplating sacrifice, land mines, spirituality, peace, my own sanity? Then again, why should I not? I take in a church a day the way other people have a cigarette break.

My church a day visits are my break. I could do a lot worse.


– Dag Hammarskjöld

Dark Love

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“She’s black and beautiful and out of control,” that’s what Professor David Carr said about the woman in the vineyard. I was at a noontime Union Seminary chapel service learning about this passage from Song of Songs — good and juicy.

I sat there thinking my tame life rule, number 4, “Cultivate a Secret Garden” needs to grow wilder. Because we’ve got permission from these popular biblical wedding verses to color outside the lines and let our vineyards grow.

At first, when Professor Carr started talking about the conundrum of the woman, “black but/and beautiful” who was sun-kissed by her work in the fields, my mind wandered.

I squirmed, not wanting to listen to a lecture. I wanted to feel something and in that depth of feeling, be handed more patience for my life, at work and at home. (My husband leaves for India today, for relaxation and relief from his Parkinson’s Disease. God help me, I need patience.)

This service gave me that depth of patience with myself. Because the verses (Song of Songs, 1:6) proclaim power, permission, and meaning in deep, unlawful, passionate, mutual love affairs. (That’s what I heard any way. And I’m sticking to it.)

The Song of Songs sister whose fields grew wild required a love “that cannot be spoken of..an unsanctioned, forbidden love…a mystical, Afro-centric, erotic passion.” Wow! If this is seminary — sexy and permissive — sign me up!

My church-a-day foray definitely heated up this week. Professor Carr quoted the great American poet Audre Lorde to go beyond physical love. “Love — more than sexual love — may be queerest of all.”

Love is not easy.

Audre Lorde had said, “Of course, women so empowered are dangerous. So we are taught to separate the erotic from most vital areas of our lives other than sex.”

In other words, cultivate a garden, then let the roots and fruits grow deep and wild and free. The garden is a gift.

“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth— for your love is more delightful than wine.” (Song of Solomon, 1.)

Yes, the bible says all that. I’m going there.