Category: Rules To Live By

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.

Turning the phone off and the lights on!

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I have fallen off my Church-A-Day wagon. I have gone a couple of days, but not blogged much.

Time to start again. It’s a new month! (September, welcome! I will miss you, August! You were awesome. We had a good thing going. But, August, even good things go.)

On Friday, I stopped in Elizabethtown, New York, at the United Church of Christ Church. On such a hot day, it was cool and peaceful (surprise, surprise!)

I was happy. Then I went to take a picture with my phone and decided to check my work email. New rule: Never check work email while sitting in a church on a vacation day. It was no biggie that set me off, but still it tugged me into a “Gotta Get That Done” attitude. Hate that.

Sun was shining through the stained glass. Just getting myself back into a contemplative state when Catherine came in. She had to go to the bathroom.

The three kids had been waiting in the car while I ran into the sanctuary for my Church-A-Day fix. I ask you: how peaceful can I be sitting in a church, checking work emails with kids waiting in the car?

The United Church had really nice bathrooms. They were open, just like the front door had been. Really nice.

Today, the front door to Broadway Presbyterian Church on 114th Street was not open. But a woman wearing a Weight Watchers’ name tag at the side door welcomed me. She was expecting meeting attendees. When I asked her if I could sit in the church, she said, very friendly, “Go on in.”

But the inner door was locked. A guy wearing glasses came along. He looked official, overworked. He let me in, unlocking the door from a big ring of keys. He turned on some lights too.

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that,” I said. Like he was throwing me a big surprise party.

I had no big revelation tonite as I sat in that church after work. Just light.

image

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.

Movies and Music

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I had gotten to the movies early. So, as is my way, I snuck into another movie, “The Kids Are All Right.” The plot seemed layered, poignant, funny. Awesome actors — Julianne Moore, Annette Benning, Mark Ruffalo! Gotta love it. Great.

the trailer – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgwjTy_cohg

I had gone to see “Get Low.” You can’t go wrong with Robert Duvall, Sissy Spacek, Bill Murray, in the 1930s. Duvall, a hermit, plans a party for his own funeral to reveal his deep, dark secret. The story’s about church, forgiveness, ordinary kindness. Good.

the trailer – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y17Me8uL6mA

After the movies, I was near Central Park and remembered a red door to a church somewhere nearby. I couldn’t find it. Then I saw this door.

The Society for Ethical Culture. I can’t remember what lecture, peace rally, performance I had seen there. It definitely feels like a church from the outside. Solid, old, massive. It seemed something was going on inside. A service?

A stooped woman entered through the oak doors and gestured for me to follow. I did.

Inside the auditorium, yes, not a sanctuary, but a performance space, there were middle-aged people in jeans setting up a film shoot, doing a sound check, talking into cell phones.

One of the guys on the stage was either Peter or Paul from Peter, Paul and Mary. I’m pretty sure it was Noel Paul Stookey. (Thank you, Google, for helping me verify this.)

I watched him sing for a minute. This was the guy — relaxed, nice guitar playing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J2Rb7tjm-zA&feature=related

A production assistant told me they were getting ready to film for an upcoming PBS half-hour special. It looked good (but not as good as “Get Low” or “The Kids Are All Right.”)

I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I snuck out the same way I snuck in. I didn’t really pray, just stood for minute, listening to music. That’s church too.

I don’t know what happened to the older woman who had motioned for me to follow.

Synchronicity happens in New York (more than any other place in the world, I think).

You follow someone; you lose them; you find something cool; you listen to a snatch of music; then you go back out into the night.

“There is Love” was not a labor of love, because love is not labor when given away. In fact, love is not love unless it is given away. – – Noel Paul Stookey’s liner notes

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.

Benignly Neglectful Mother/Father

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The vacuum was in the vestibule on Saturday night at the First Church in Ticonderoga. I know because I snuck in the church through the unlocked front door.

Still, I felt I was sneaking up to God when God was supposed to be off-duty. Like a kid, trying to get Dad’s attention when he was reading the newspaper.

“Kid, I’m off duty,” God said.

WHY, oh WHY is God always someone like Fred MacMurray in humorous and artistic representations? A benignly neglectful father? I remember reading and discussing “A God Who Looks Like Me” by Patricia Lynn Reilly when we had that book discussion group at lunchtime at 475 a few years ago. Such a great group of women we were. And it was a powerful idea that God could look like me. Or you. Or someone other than Charlton Heston.

I invited my daughters to join me in the church. Cath was reading/listening to “The Graveyard Book” on the Kindle and Char was braiding a friendship bracelet. They declined.

Somehow I felt like I was trespassing, visiting this church at such an odd hour. I liked this small 1970s-type church. I think one of the best parts of visiting a church a day is embracing the quiet, the stillness regularly.

I have really enjoyed sinking into the quiet of an empty church.

We had stopped in Ti, after dropping my Mom at the airport in Albany and visiting Nancy and Nancy on their porch. The girls got excited by the porch, the hummingbird, the samples of herbs we tasted from the garden. I was glad to see Nancy L. looking well.

To read about Nancy L’s health journey, check out the blog at:  http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/nancyjlaw/journal?jid=5987205

I prayed in the Ti church for everyone who is fighting an illness.

But I found it difficult to pray, distracted by knowing two of my children were waiting for me in the car. I thought, “At least, I’m not running into a bar. It’s just a church.” I wondered if they’d look back at their childhood and say, “Mom left us in the car while she ran into a church to pray.”

I felt benignly neglectful. I knelt at the communion rail for a quick sec.

Then I was out of there. I was driving the car again. I was thinking about dinner.

The Church Was Locked

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I decided to visit St. Philip Neri Church here in Westport, New York. It was Friday, almost 6 pm; the front door was locked. I tried the back door. Also locked.

Charlotte was with me. We were on our way to pick up Chris from rehearsal at the Father Mac Hall across the street from the church.

“Let’s just sit and pray quietly in the graveyard,” I suggested.

“No way!” She said. “You’re crazy.”

But she walked with me towards the large crucifix, way over to the side, through the rows of headstones.

There was nowhere to sit.

Charlotte felt brave and silly and, for some reason, danced around.

“Please rest your body and your song. Sit beside me quietly.” I perched on a little hill at the foot of the Cross. She stood beside me quietly for about a minute.

I think Char felt the whole outing was creepy. Even though every night, we are reading Neil Gaiman’s “The Graveyard Book,” which kind of makes you think graveyards are actually nurturing, though, yes, creepy places.

http://www.neilgaiman.com/

I had taken the girls six months, maybe a year ago, to Columbia University to hear Gaiman read that story. We were in the balcony. The girls were very restless. Listening to an author read, even the author of “Coraline,” was not their cup of tea. I am digressing.

Another digression. After dinner, two young missionaries from The Church of Latter Day Saints visited our house. The kids were quite curious to hear the front doorbell ring and to see anyone appear at the front door. It’s a very long driveway and they must’ve walked to the house because there was no car nearby. We were cordial to the two young, beautiful, friendly women; I told them that we were also Christian and we were very happy with our current church. That I felt all religions had beauty and meaning.

“It’s nice to meet fellow Christians,” the dark-haired girl said.

So although I did not go to church today, church tried to come to me.

Earlier, when Charlotte and I walked out of the graveyard behind the St. Philip Church, the bells tolled. They rang six times.

I learned a few things:

1. Churches may be locked

2. Maybe it’s best not to take my kids with me on my Church-A-Day outings.

3. Expect church in unlikely places.

Googling St. Philip Neri, I read he was a “humorous saint.”

Many people wrongly feel that such an attractive and jocular personality as Philip’s cannot be combined with an intense spirituality. Philip’s life melts our rigid, narrow views of piety. His approach to sanctity was truly catholic, all-embracing and accompanied by a good laugh. Philip always wanted his followers to become not less but more human through their striving for holiness. – http://www.americancatholic.org/features/saints/saint.aspx?id=1395

I like that. I also like his quote, “Let me get through today, and I shall not fear tomorrow.”

Above and Below

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This church is so cool on a hot summer day. I don’t know who is paying the air conditioning bill at this gothic masterpiece at high noon in the middle of August, but I’m glad it’s not me.

I found this dark, vaulted, holy space when I tapped into my app, Church Finder. I had just dropped off all of the paperwork for Chris’s visa to India. Yippee. But now I had to get back to my job uptown. I kind of wished I could revisit that Louise Nevelson chapel from yesterday. It was so lovely, bright and right near the subway. I started walking west.

The nearest church according to the app was St. Thomas Church at 53rd and Fifth. I felt a bit tired. I have been getting up early to blog, Twitter, Facebook, and work on my novel. I’ve been staying up late for the same reasons. But the cold blast of Christianity hit me. I liked the stillness, the darkness, the emptiness, after a bright, crowded afternoon.

The cool air had everyone in this church smiling as they walked in or out. Smiling in church made me think. Before I started grammar school at St. Joan of Arc Catholic School in Skokie, Ill., my family went to church there. I don’t remember ever praying, but I definitely remember being told to stop giggling. I also remember how proud I was when my father was the lay reader. And how surprised the priest was when I asked him in Second Grade, “Why can’t women be priests?” I am still asking that.

A few people were entering the church. I got the vibe that a 12 o’clock service would be starting soon. God knows I didn’t want to get stuck in a service. I knelt quickly in a small altar area.

The grating on the floor rumbled and the bells overhead rang. Wow. I felt the earth move beneath me. And the bell chime over me. Very nice. Very unplanned.

The church itself is grand. But the impression of the air conditioning, the bells, the subway’s rumble; the things that you can feel always trump the things that you can see. Though the altar is a feast for the eyes with lots of life-size sculptures floating up the back wall — Hard to explain and it’s getting late again.

Tomorrow I will be back up in the Adirondacks, thanks to Amtrak, just for a few days, but there’s bound to be a church-a-day there too. Can’t wait to see.