Category: Christianity

Kids in Church

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I was waiting for my daughters to finish a math tutoring session at Joan of Arc public school. (Joan of Arc is my hero —  I love that there’s a public school in NYC named for her!) I saw this church across the street.

It was Saturday afternoon and a lot of well-dressed people were mingling on the sidewalk. “Goody! A wedding!” I thought.

I entered the church. The sanctuary was paneled and low-ceiling-ed. Empty, except for a couple of girls who plucked keys on the piano. That was a bit annoying.

I sat for a minute, restless. As I was leaving, I heard a party going on in the basement. People sang, “feliz compleaños.”

I have to admit that the language barrier made me feel I wasn’t really a part of the action at this church. I wished I spoke Spanish, but I don’t. Not enough any way.

But then, something happened and for a moment, I  felt I belonged. See, this boy ran down some steps, fast like he owned the place. He stopped, stared and smiled. That’s it. A smile. That smile took off when words and language failed. I left uplifted.

I picked up the girls and we met friends. We hung out in the Bramble in Central Park, a beautiful and spiritual place.

A Cave for Mary

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Mary in a grotto! The cave walls are like walls in a zoo — they look real and touchable.  But get a little closer and they look a bit fake. Also, it’s just weird to see cave walls in a church, even if they are recreating Lourdes, France in Upper Manhattan.

I was on my lunch hour, hungry for a moment of peace. Family life and work life are way hectic at the end of September. And Michael DeBorja had Facebook messaged me the suggestion to visit this church! (Thanks Michael)

The odor of incense totally hit me when I walked into the sanctuary. There is also the wow effect of a cave wall in church and the vast, wide space and the echo-ey domed ceiling. This church totally reeked. I was thrown back to my first grammar school — St. Joan of Arc in Skokie, Illinois. It’s kindergarten on the Holy Day and the crowning of the May. I recalled wanting desperately to crown Mary and not being chosen. Hence, I’ve spent my life pursuing and getting snagged by the Good Girl syndrome.

Mary doesn’t help — with her unattainable tranquility and alabaster skin (what product could give me that smooth sheen?). Mary is also always alone. Ah, and in this church, there were five older women,  a diverse group too, all sitting alone. One wore a white veil on her head.

Their aloneness struck me as sad. But maybe, like me, these women, are surrounded everyday by people and they need this moment of solitude. Maybe it is an active aloneness. Like Anne Morrow Lindbergh said about solitude by the sea, “The loneliness you get by the sea is personal and alive. It doesn’t subdue you and make you feel abject. It’s stimulating loneliness.”

For some reason, I felt compelled to bless myself with holy water as I left. In churches I’ve visited before, I never felt the need. But yesterday, I did. It was a hot day in the city and cool water on my forehead would feel good.

I looked for the water founts and found them. I walked to the Morningside entrance to dip my fingers in. I was overcome with gratitude for my life. I walked down two blocks thinking of nothing but gratitude for everything and everyone in my life. And I named you all. It was a chant, “Thank you God for …..”

Today, when I looked up the church online to be sure I got the name right I discovered on Wikipedia the water is sent from Lourdes, France by special arrangement. I am glad. I am an unabashed Francophile and love all things French, especially the language. Around Mary’s halo are words, that begin, “Je suis….” I couldn’t read the rest. But I’ll take, “Je suis!”

If you love Mary — and who doesn’t? — this is the church for you! The Church of Notre Dame at 114th and Morningside.

Table Set For You

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Welcome to the table! It looks delicious. All set up for you at St. John the Divine. The sign encourages you to “Please Enter, Sit & Touch.”

“Really?” I hung back. I was the only one in this little chapel. Should I really sit at the table? It looked nice, well lit, sounds of dishes clattering and conversation. I was a little hungry. The food was spread on the table. I was thinking this must be some kind of Judy Chicago-inspired womanist art piece. 

So I sat. And pretty quickly noticed that the meal shifted and floated in front of me. The meal on my plate was just a projection on the table.

So cool! I was on a quick lunch break. I had to return some overdue library books (“Happy At Last: The Thinking Person’s Guide to Finding Joy.” Really good!)

I love the Poets’ Corner of St. John the Divine. I had rushed in on my lunch break, sandwiched between two meetings, to experience the beauty of the words etched into the floor.  I LOVE Walt Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself’ and wanted a quick moment of peace to reflect on the quote you can find there:

“I stop somewhere waiting for you.” (Is that not breathtaking!)

But I couldn’t find the Poets’ Corner, haven’t been there in a year. Instead I stumbled upon this table — Terry Flaxton’s “In Other People’s Skin,” multimedia art thingy.

As I was leaving the table in the chapel, amused and lighter, I encouraged a couple of young blonde tourists, (German or Scandinavian maybe?) to “please enter, sit & touch.” They looked confused. I pointed to the sign. They still hung back, like I had done.

The space at the cathedral is vast, echo-ey, inspiring. As a rule, churches don’t usually encourage touching and fully participating. Experiencing a church is usually a spectator sport.

But this table, at St. John’s, although it is unreal, is set up for you. It is cozy and warm. Well worth it.

I had been reluctant to fully experience the table. But when I did sit, I sat at the head of the table. Trust is difficult. But ultimately rewarding.

A Church A Night

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I love churches so much, that I stayed overnight at Rutgers Church on Friday night.

I was a chaperone for the youth group, about 17 kids from ages 10 to 17, for a church lock-in. We played Charades, made candle holders, played whiffle ball. We sang together in the sanctuary with the lights off. (My kids and I tried to teach the group the song, “Sanctuary,” which we sing really well! Is that bragging? So be it.)

Our pastor Andrew spoke a little during the sanctuary time.  He had made barbed wire to show us and talk about. We discussed barbed wire’s purpose — to keep people and animals out. Andrew talked about growing up in a country surrounded by barbed wire.

He talked about how we have to be the candle light within the swirl of barbed wire.

“This is the symbol for the organization, Amnesty International. They take a stand for people who are in jail needlessly. The light means a lot to people who are living in barbed wire countries or who are living in barbed wire. We can be their light,” said Andrew.

When we blew out our candles we were asked to take the light within us. To keep a light for human rights burning. The fun of the sleepover, the depth of it shone through. The kids and parents are such a great group.

Church is community, I’m coming to see. It is not simply sitting alone in a dark place midday praying. It happens at night and when one is away from the sanctuary too. It happens when we try to take sanctuary with us, create it for ourselves, our neighbors, the world.

West End

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The front doors were locked. So were the side ones. I didn’t see a bell to ring. Maybe the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, has the churches closed in solidarity. It’d be nice if religions were in solidarity with one another. I’ve had my religious tolerance reinforced as a member of United Methodist Woman and the Religion Communicators Council, and working at the Interchurch Center.

I think people who embrace religion in their lives have more in common than they realize. We are all searching for meaning. Any religion is a leap of faith and a personal decision.

imageI am proud of all the United Methodist and Christian groups that have preached and taught tolerance since Sept. 11th.

My friend Sarah worked with Faisel Rauf (the founder of the Cordova Center near the World Trade Center) on a performance piece about religious tolerance at the theater that’s a part of St. Paul and St. Andrew’s Church in ’03, (I think that was the date). She said the Imam and his wife were wonderful, kind, regular, all about building bridges of understanding.

I’m meandering. My point is I tried to get into the West End Collegiate Church around 6 pm but the doors were locked, probably unrelated to Rosh Hashanah.

I’d been cleaning all day. I’d wanted to get to a museum with the kids, but there was too much to do. Living in an apartment, we have no attic, garage or basement to stash and dash. Minimalism is a goal.

The girls started school yesterday, but they are off for the Jewish New Year today. Tomorrow too.

When the church was closed I went back to the park to hang out on my usual park bench near the playground. My daughter and her friend were rollerblading. They were holding hands. Have I mentioned how much I love that? I hope they never stop holding hands. 

The First Day of 6th

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I dropped off the girls at Middle School at 8 am. Help, I have 3 children in Middle School! Yes, these are the years commonly known as the greatest years of a person’s life! My most vivid memory of Middle School was having to wear my brother’s hand-me-down red, white and blue Converse. So embarrassing. Every single day, total embarrassment.

I also remember making a movie, “Looking Back,” about the Depression with my homeroom. And, yes, I must mention Mr. Dennison’s counseling group where we rapped after school about our issues from a Transactional Analysis point of view. (Yes, I’ve always loved self-improvement.)

But this post wasn’t going to be about me. I was talking fondly about my girls going to Middle School. So yes, I got choked up dropping them off. (That’s about me, too! My feelings!) Especially verklempt when we were a block away and I saw they were holding hands!!! I love that!!!! (I love exclamation points too!!! They probably discourage exclamation points in Middle School!!!)

No time for sentimental good byes. The girls literally ran away from me once we hit the schoolyard. They gave me the bum’s rush. And I was left with the other bums (parents), empty-handed on the sidewalk. I said to myself, “It’s a good day to go back to church. To pray for all the teachers and students.” Besides, I had a little time to kill before work.

At the first church, “The New Pleasant Church,” on 81st, the gates were open, but the door was locked. It looked like it had been turned into a theater any way. I would’ve enjoyed going to the theater, had even that been open, but No.

So I went to the Holy Trinity Church on West 82nd. I sat by myself in there. Very vast and wide and dark. I noticed the statues of Mary. How can Mary look so calm all the time? Where do churches get that placid Mary? Where’s the Hysterical Mary? Where’s the Mary who has 3 kids in Middle School?

I asked Mary, “How do you do it? Look so calm all the time? What’s the secret?”

She didn’t say. She just smiled beatifically, the way she does. Not really helping me out. She could use some Transactional Analysis and learn, like I learned in Middle School, that it’s okay to express your feelings. “I’m Okay, You’re Okay.”

Mary stood there. Candles at her feet and a fan beside her.

Saying Nothing

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The Jamaican horn-player was testifying to a handful of people. He wore a yellow polo shirt. “It’s easier to build someone up than to criticize,” he said.

The church seemed on its last legs. On 57th between 9th and 10th, the church had peeling paint and rotating fans. It was super hot.

I think it was a Brazilian Church because the Brazilian flag was draped over a pew in the back and a sign outside listed a 7 pm Brazilian church service. I wandered in around 7:50.

I had been walking in the city after my writing class. My classmates and teacher liked this new writing project, A Church A Day, especially they liked me mentioning the people I met.

I had reported in class that many of the men who guarded the church doors, the guys who allowed me access to the sanctuaries, seemed just one step away from the soup kitchen themselves. The church caretakers had seen it all but were were still good-hearted and hard-working.

The Jamaican speaker at the Brazilian church last night was no exception. “I play in the subway. That’s my job. When the police come up to me, I move on. Then they’ll say, ‘Weren’t you just here yesterday?’ ‘I have to make a living,’ I say. It’s tough to make a living as a musician. I have 3 students. I pray for 20.”

At one point he asked the congregation, “What does faith mean?” A few people called out, “Jesus’s love.” “Forgiveness.” He waited. I said nothing. He said, “You in the back, say anything.”

That was me — the one in the back. My tongue was tied. I didn’t feel comfortable speaking. I wanted to say something, to help him out. But I wanted to give the right answer. I liked his sermon. But I didn’t know what faith meant.

I smiled. I hoped that I looked European, perhaps slightly non-English speaking. He moved on. I couldn’t help thinking he was disappointed in me.

Then later he asked, “Who is there for you? No matter what? Who will always be there?”

I shouted out, “Your mother!” A few heads turned. He did not acknowledge my answer. I think the question was rhetorical.  The correct answer may have been God and not mother. I’m not sure. I slunk down in the pew in embarrassment, feeling ridiculous — unable to answer when called on, shouting out the wrong answer when I was not called on.

It’s hard to understand the rhythms of worship. There were several Hallelujahs shouted out during the sermon. It seemed okay for everyone else to yell out randomly. Like when he’d ask, “How am I doing? This is my first sermon. But it won’t be my last.” “Hallelujah!” someone yelled.

Even though I felt inept, I dug this guy. I liked, “Knock and the door will be opened. But you have to knock. No one is going to come knocking on your door.” And he said, “For me the ultimate sin is laziness. You need faith, honesty and hard work.” “Hallelujah!” someone called out.

At 8:15 the service was over. I wanted to tell the speaker I liked his message. But I felt shy and didn’t want to engage. Maybe they’d try to get me to come again. I couldn’t commit. I want to visit a lot more churches. I walked back out into the hot summer night.

White Paint, Merton, Happiness Manifesto

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This daily dose of silence is leading me to contemplate happiness. There is something so happy and so simple about sitting in a dark, empty church on a big, bright, beautiful day.

Today the darkness of the Corpus Christi Church at 121st just east of Broadway shocked me. To get into the church, I had to climb over paint cans and cords. At least half a dozen young Hispanic men were working hard painting stairwell landings, doing an awesome job making the walls smooth and white.

I climbed the stairs jumping over the paint cans and brushes, acting like I belonged there. I walked towards a closed door.

“Eglisia?” one guy asked me.

I nodded. He nodded too.

The door seemed locked. But the young man shook his head, then yanked the door hard. It opened.

This is a theme emerging in this blog — the doors of churches and how to get through them. Then there seems to be another theme emerging — that I am trespassing and not feeling that I belong.

Any way, as much as I could make out, blinded as I was by the darkness after the bright hallway, this church is really nice and opulent. Like the hallways, it is very white. And the ceiling is not vaulted. Its main attraction from my balcony seat was the chandeliers.

It smelled of fresh paint.

On Facebook Michael DeBorja, former colleague, suggested I visit this church and said that Thomas Merton worshiped at Corpus Christi.

In one of Merton’s books, the monk talked about God being like a little brother. You throw stones at him. You try to get him not to follow you to the playground. Yet there God is — Your little brother just standing by the slide, kind of shrugging. God’s not wounded by the rocks or the rejection, just curious why you don’t love him. Willing to stand beside you, follow you, no matter what.

I love that metaphor for God. I may not have it exactly right. But I love the idea of it. I think it’s from “Seven Storey Mountain.”

When I walked out of the church, I smiled at a stranger, a dark-eyed Middle Eastern-looking man. (At this moment in time, I feel for potentially Islamic-looking men in NYC with all this stupid mosque controversy swirling around. Of course we have the freedom of religion here! Yes, worship! Please!)

I thought of the Happiness Manifesto. One of its tenets? To smile at a stranger every day.

I had discovered the Happiness Manifesto five years ago when I first started on 43things.com (a website for posting your 43 life goals). http://www.43things.com/

I had tried to follow the Happiness Manifesto. It did make me happier. Now, I was trying to remember what the rules were . All I could remember was

Smile at a stranger every day.

Take care of a living thing.

When I got back to my desk after my quick church visit, I found Michael Norton’s blog. He explained the origins of the Happiness Manifesto. It was intended to promote happiness in the town of Slough, near London. “In order to increase Slough’s happiness, experts drew up a Happiness Manifesto.”

I love this because the word “happiness” sounds so light and airy and “manifesto” sounds so Marxist and dense. For two months, you’re supposed to follow these ten rules and note the difference it makes!
1. Get physical. Exercise for half an hour three times a week.
2. Count your blessings. At the end of each day, reflect on at least five things you’re grateful for.
3. Make time to talk. An hour of uninterrupted conversation with your partner or closest friend each week.
4. Plant something. Even if it’s a window box or pot plant. Then keep it alive!
5. Cut your TV viewing. By half. More if you can.
6. Smile or say hello to a stranger. At least once each day.
7. Phone a friend. Make contact with at least one friend or relation you have not been in contact for a while, and arrange to meet up.
8. Have a good laugh. At least once a day.
9. Give yourself a daily treat. Take time to really enjoy this.
10. Do a daily kindness. Do an extra good turn for someone each day.
I still try to do the manifesto. The last one, however, is not as easy as it looks.

And then, of course, these are my 7 Rules, which may be less action-able. But they, too, point to happiness.

  1. Pile on the people.
  2. Escape through literature.
  3. Hold on to your hoops of steel (priorities).
  4. Cultivate a secret garden.
  5. Expect the best/love what you get.
  6. Live every day as if it were your last.
  7. Embrace uncertainty.

And for now, I’ll add this eighth one:

8. Visit a church a day.

Looking down at my hands on the keyboard just now, I noticed that I have white paint on my index finger. Something is sticking to me visiting a church a day, even if it’s only paint.

Freedom = Happiness

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The sanctuary was big, round, and almost completely dark. It smelled baby-powdery, like a grandmother’s bosom. (I’ve noticed my most popular blogs have the theme of breasts as in breastfeeding or bra shopping, and I’m not above pandering so, yes, I’m mentioning bosom! And yes, this is a church blog.)

I do love that musty, incense-y, bosom-y church smell.

I debated at lunch time whether I needed to visit a church today since I was at devotions this morning at work. In the third floor conference room, we’d created multi-media worship stations, signifying Brokenness, Hope, and Beauty. We’d included fresh mint and time for conversation about the care of our shared space.

The theme was care of the earth. I think that was the theme. I just did what the rest of the team told me to do. And, of course, before devotions started, I cracked jokes with Jim and Morais (because, we’d agreed, every worship team needs a few hecklers as they’re laying out their cloths and getting into the serious business of prayer.) Seriously, I’m lucky to be part of such a creative, inspiring worship team (thanks to Sushil, Christie, Jorge, Lisa, Felipe, Noemi, Kathleen).

Back to West End, I waited for my Aha! moment, sitting in the bosom-y church by myself tonite. Nothing.

No wait. I remembered something Shane, my teacher, said at the end of Yoga when we were sprawled in Sivasinha. She’d read a quote by Thich Nhat Hanh, it was something like, “The freer you are, the happier you are.”

I quizzed Shane about the quote when I bumped into her in the women’s bathroom.

“Do you really think freedom is happiness?” Because I am looking for happiness. And freedom sounds like a good way to go.

“As in freedom from attachment,” she said.

“Ah,” I said. “Like detachment.” And this really helped me, because I easily get overattached — to ideas, to people, to this blog.

I loved that. I loved that in looking for answers in a church, I remembered what my Yoga teacher told me.

Sowing Seeds

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Yesterday I visited a church I’ve driven by a thousand times, but never went in. The Westport Federated Church. The pastor, Leon Hebrink, is a friend on Facebook whom I’d never met in person.

I was nervous about going into a new church and meeting a new friend. I don’t know if regular churchgoers realize how much courage it takes to venture into an unknown church.

Since starting this project a week ago, I’ve gotten used to having the sanctuaries nearly all to myself — having time to think my own thoughts, my peace and my quiet. I have been able to avoid the whole church scene — of feeling I must respond a certain way at a certain time and have someone telling me what to think or what to believe or how to act. (I wonder if I have a problem with authority.)

Leon’s sermon was about that — about the seeds of love God throws. The seeds of love and faith will keep being thrown, it doesn’t matter if you miss them. It doesn’t matter if you have a problem with God’s authority. If they fall on stone or on dry land.

He was good with the metaphor. Leon explained that the seeds in his top desk drawer will go to the mice unless he plants them. He offered people who are not gardeners another metaphor. If you have books in your bookshelf for show, and you don’t read them, they’re just gathering dust.

After worship I told Charlotte about this part of the sermon, she said, “Like your Encyclopedia Britannica?”

“Exactly! Those are the same books I was thinking about! No one ever reads those!” I should give them away. During service I thought about decluttering my bedroom shelves. I often think about decluttering when I can’t do it. Then when I can do it, I prefer to goof off on the internet.

The sermon was awesome. Leon slipped in some social justice issues too, about the seeds NOT being like the Monsanto seeds sent to Haiti, which will not reproduce but force an unnatural corporate dependence. I was like, “That’s right, brother!”

Leon was younger than I thought he’d be from his Facebook profile.

I felt I knew Leon pretty well from Facebook and from the sermon and on my way out, I struck up a deep conversation.

“I get that whole thing about Christianity is a decision. And people think you’re a Christian, just because you’re born that way and is that good enough? But another problem I have is with evangelism. That it goes against the Commandment to Honor Thy Father and Mother. Because if you are supposed to obey your parents and follow their ancestors’ faiths, then why should anyone seek to convert anyone? Or drag them away from obeying their parents. See what I mean? Becoming a Christian might mean disobeying your parents?”

Suddenly, I saw that look in his eyes. Like I was a crazy person and he had to shake a dozen hands and hug a dozen more folks behind me. Maybe, just maybe, not everyone wants to engage in a theological discussion as they file out of church. Some folks might want to go to breakfast. Not me.  I was happy to be talking about God and church and faith I guess, happy to be chatting with someone who wasn’t related to me. I was nervous. I don’t know.

In any case, it was great to meet Leon and finally worship at the Federated church. I want to go again.

And, really, people, I’m not crazy!

Let me keep sowing those seeds.

Incidentally, I did try to go to church tonight. On my way home from Penn Station. (Lead me not into Penn Station, but deliver me…) I stopped at my beloved Rutgers on 73rd and Broadway, but it was locked. It was 9:15 pm, so I guess it’s no wonder.