112/365 Fine Funeral, Fine Funeral

"How was the funeral?" people kept asking me.

"Oh it was fine. Nice. It was fine," I keep replying. I'm reminded of my father-in-law, quoting the man who used to run the spelling bee down in Cairo. A kid would spell a word and he'd say, "Very fine, very fine. But wrong." Jeff does the timing just right.

That's what the funeral was. Very fine. Very fine. But wrong.

It was lovely. It's a nice church, climate controlled. The funeral choir was spectacular for its genre--no reedy sopranos or heavy organ music. The soloist for Ave Maria was well-practiced. The congregation sang some.

But there were three things that tripped me up. The first is typical of all weddings and funerals where folks who usually don't step forward in church have starring roles: the readings were hurried and there were no pauses between things. Everything was in a rush. This always catches me off guard because our church is so good at silence. And silence seemed most appropriate at my aunt's funeral.

Bigger than that, the priest was in a rush. He knew the family well and obviously had affection for my aunt, but he was one of those young priests who is very impressed with his priesthood. His homily sounded like he ordered it on HomiliesRUs.com and then tweaked to add my aunt's name a couple times. I was about to write him off entirely but he ended with a poem that wasn't half bad. And who knows? Maybe he was in a rush because my mom's cousin told him to speed it along. He was just...the kind of guy who would seem rehearsed in casual conversation and overuse your name in a bad attempt to make you feel comfortable.

But the part that was really jarring, the part that made other things not even worth mentioning, was the eulogy. There were three eulogies. The first was from my aunt's grandson's wife. It was good. Touching. Short. The second was from my aunt's son-in-law, which was well written and from the heart. And her son-in-law is a socially awkward amway salesman so that's saying something. After them, though, her son got up. My mom's cousin, in his mid-sixties. At first he just filled in a life for us--her father dying when she was 19, precluding her college admission. Marriage, kids, family, interests.

And then he mentioned her active role in the pro-life movement. Which is true. She was steadfastly a part of Birthright and other support groups. She called her congressman and senator and the White House and prayed and all that. But then he took a dark turn and used the rest of his time in front of us railing against the current government and how angry my aunt was with the way things were headed "in this country."

Now, my aunt was 93 and an eternal optimist. I don't think I ever saw her angry about anything. Ever. She defended criminals and her crazy (actually crazy) brother and lied about uncomfortable things and over all was the most pollyanna person I've ever met. I can see her saying things like "Well, I hope they realize what they're doing wrong" but nothing stronger than that. Really. But to hear her son tell it, tea-party-esque hatred of the government was the central focus of her life.

Maybe it was. Maybe I let our relationship go more than I thought I did. Maybe she was more honest with other people. But even so. Come on. The eulogy is not the time for self-congratulatory angry upper-middle-class lamentations.

I went to the cemetery afterward and stood next to another elderly relative. "You're still a liberal, right?" I whispered.

"Oh, heavens yes," she exclaimed. And we both shook our heads and sighed.

Very fine. But wrong.

117/365 Bev and Arizona

Our entrance song was half in Spanish, half in English.

Our communion song dealt with themes of basic Christian values and how we are Christ to each other.

By the end, as I was watering plants, I wondered, did these two choices have anything to do with the new Arizona law?

I asked Bev, our music director, who shook her head ruefully. "No, they were chosen long before that law was passed. So it must have been the Holy Spirit."

Must have.

Then she said the only good thing about the law? It makes our state seem not as bad for a change.

125/365 Oh, yeah.

So much of what we have is dependent upon who our pastor is at the time. Whatever he puts as a top priority becomes a priority for the parish, and the things that are not important fall by the wayside. I think about the past 11 years at the parish and how things changed when Miguel first came to us.

Right after the switch, there was a meeting of congregations way out in the county--congregations from all over, but in order to have us fit, we met in this mega-church out west. It was a political rally sponsored by a union of congregations (Catholic, other Christian, and Jewish) from the area. They'd invited candidates in an upcoming midterm election to come speak about their values and see if they would pledge to uphold our values. A rally. Everything had already been decided in advance. We weren't in on the planning stages but that was fine because, frankly, life is busy and that's not where my energies lie.

Our parish got a bus, a school bus, and we rode out there together. I sat next to Dolores and Mike had the girls behind me. In the middle of the light chatting on the way home, one of the nuns who gave lots of time to this organization suddenly asked, "Was Fr. Miguel there tonight?" The answer was no. There was a pause while she worked this out in her head.

"He'll figure it out," she said. "Some things he has to do."

And Dolores turned to me: "Do you know he has the audacity to put on his phone message that he takes Fridays off?" She laughed. "Like anyone can take a day off at our parish."

And while I wondered if Miguel, whom I barely knew, and only from parish council, would in fact figure it out, I thought I felt something, something imaginary and brief on the back of my neck. A realization. Things were changing.

This isn't to say that our parish isn't still active in social justice--of course we are. It just isn't the topic of every single homily. Social justice folks aren't gone. They just don't get 15 minutes after communion to read aloud their platform for change once a month.

I'm not a social justice person (I say that meaning "this is not where I sink all my energy" not meaning "I don't think we should work for social justice"). I'm a liturgy person. I'm not trained (thank you Lynn for reminding me) but this is what I like. This is why I stay. If it weren't for liturgy, our liturgy, the focus on liturgy at our parish now, if it weren't important to me, well, damn it, why wouldn't I just go sit with the Quakers at 10:30 on a Sunday morning and chuck all the baggage that goes with Catholicism?

So I know the world does not revolve around me, but it's a happy accident that Miguel arrived at our parish when he did. It was sort of a reawakening for me. Oh yeah, here we are now.

170/365 Stewardship Report Leads Me To Thinking

"So we're up to over 500 families," Mike mentions after the meeting.

"That's great."

"And this weekend, we realized, is Pride Fest. And then there was this debate about bottled water," he sighs. "And I suggested big coolers of ice water with dixie cups, but this was mostly ignored."

I reflect on past Pride Fest weekends. The parade starts right there, practically on the steps of church. It tends to be a circus. A hot crowded circus. But this is what I love about our neighborhood: it is a hot crowded circus.

And I think about our church's (big C, actually, not our parish) attitude about homosexuality. And it makes me glad that we live here, that the parade starts right there, and that we were having a debate about ice water. Instead of posting threatening messages on our marquee like the Lutherans down the way ("Jesus died for the sin of pride") or being absolutely crazy and bringing in, say, a loud speaker and a big wooden cross to drag around and antagonize people with.

There are things to get all riled up about, and there are things not to.

174/365 My Sunday

I take Leo to the back during the second reading. It's over for him already. I get one of the hearing-assistance devices and sit in the Utah Vestibule, wrestling with the 18 month old. I listen to the readings, hiding the little receiver from Leo because he wants to play with it, too. I listen to the Gospel--always a strange one, with the phrase, "let the dead bury the dead." I've been jarred by this before. I've tried to make sense out of, on one hand, giving everything up to follow Christ, but on the other, the idea of obligations, of the corporal works of mercy, of being a Christian.

Then Miguel starts his homily. It's about the Danish resistance during World War II, led by King Christian X. The Jews of Denmark were not rounded up and taken away to concentration camps. Neighbors helped neighbors get them out to safety in (was it Sweden? I can't remember now). There were other simple examples of resistance--they kept the Danish flag raised through the whole occupation, there were no yellow stars on the sleeves of Jews, there was no ghetto. The way Miguel told it, it wasn't an armed resistance, just a peaceful "no" and the follow through that mattered.

Jews were not well-liked folks even in the best of nations back then. Jews were scapegoats and outsiders. In Denmark most likely they were well assimilated and part of society, but they were still the 'other.' Nowadays, we look back at the German Final Solution and I, at least, find the whole notion ridiculous. Horrendous and terrifying, but ridiculous from the standpoint of today. Israeli politics aside, I don't think Jews are a big topic anymore. I don't blame the Jews for anything, really. And even at their most fearful and racist, I've never heard my dad's relatives have anything to say about the Jews. They're kind of a non-issue, really, at least in western society (I'm not talking about Iran, I'm talking about countries where Jews actually live). And I know that isn't entirely true, I took the class on The History of Antisemitism in college. But they don't seem to be the Big Hated Minority any more than any other minority anywhere.

And I considered this as I stepped outside with Leo, after the homily and he was completely wild. The gay pride parade was gearing up--floats were assembling, tan men in leather skirts were standing on the sidewalk in front of our church drinking gatorade and talking to tattooed women with tiny dogs dressed as astronauts. You know: weird with a capital W.

And I thought again about the story of Denmark and the Jews.

188/365 BASIC after mass

After mass I turned to Sophia and told her she could go downstairs for a donut. And then found myself pulled into a conversation with Missy on my way to join her. I didn't know what my in-laws had planned and I thought they could figure that out and let me know. Missy has a way of making me engage her, even though every conversation takes effort.

It always has. If she wasn't a current parishioner I would have more things to say, funny insane things that Jessica and her sister have shared with me. But funny things about former parishioners can be amusing and kind of like a car wreck, but current parishioners fall into a different category. I don't want to stir our tidy little anthill. But just to say that Missy takes some overly polite handling.

We discussed books. I am shamefully not well-read in the areas of religion, politics, spirituality, and so forth these days. I have some Benedictine books on my list, and a ton of juvenile fiction of course, but I'm not reading, say, the most current biography of this or that political leader from the last century. I don't know much about the history of liberation theology or people closing down torture rooms in Myanmar. Or whatever (I'm just making this up). So I often find myself caught in a conversation with Missy that begins, "What are you reading?"

She is never very impressed with what I'm reading. She is one of the people in my life who fit into the "disappointed with Bridgett" category. Lots of people make assumptions about who I am based on a couple of encounters. It seems that my Jill of All Trades status confuses them. Perhaps I don't portray myself well. I tend to use camouflage to hide my secret identity. But I think some folks assume that because I share, say, their intense hatred of winter squash, or their love of magical realism, or a casual interest in matrix design, that I am just like them. Or that I would also share 99% of their other interests, hobbies, passions, and loves. Missy is one of these folks. She doesn't get me, and we don't see each other often so she doesn't have much of a chance to get me. We don't see each other often because she drives me crazy. And this becomes a cycle, like an old BASIC program:

10 INPUT "What are you reading these days?", R$
20 PRINT "I see."
30 PRINT "I don't know", R$
40 PRINT "I am reading the newest biography of liberation theologians who shut down torture rooms in Myanmar."
50 PRINT "Goodbye. I wish we could talk more."
60 GOTO 10

She recommended three books. She even spelled the last name of one of the authors. The author had a common noun as a last name. I told her those sounded like a plate full for the summer. She smiled, blinking at me. And then it was over.

221/365 Standing in the Magic Chef Kitchen

Astrid and Clark's wedding anniversary was this month sometime, and they had a party. A lot of people I know were there--through knitting or neighborhood or church. I spent most of the evening with book club and knitting folks, eating dinner on the extremely hot patio--we were at the Magic Chef Mansion on Russell, by the way--and perusing a book of plates depicting St. Louis in 1875. That could have taken my entire evening, grasping at the bits of knowledge I have about my urban poor ancestors who came here from Germany or famine decimated Ireland. Streets that don't exist anymore, houses, churches.

But I got up to get a second wedge of gooey butter cake from the butler's pantry and there was Colleen O'Toole (the O'Tooles are the only folks on this blog who have a last name because in real life, they are almost always referred to by first and last name. You would never say "I was talking to Colleen" but always "Colleen O'Toole"). She was talking with Yvette and with a couple I didn't know. I eavesdropped. I made a grand sweep of the gooey butter cake selection, slowly choosing something, and then stepped over to the sink to pour myself a cup of coffee (which turned out not to be decaf, but I didn't know that until later when I was wide awake at 2 in the morning). Sugar, cream, first sip. Then I turn around and shoulder my way into the conversation.

It's about a parishioner at a neighboring church, a leader, who was nominated to a diocesan-wide leadership position. Someone who has given his life to the church and to this particular cause. Then it became clear that he was gay, in a longterm relationship, and that was it. I have not researched the story and only know what I listened to there in the kitchen. The unnamed couple excused themselves, it was late, and Yvette went to collect her husband. Colleen O'Toole and I remained.

"This issue," she said, shaking her head. "This is what's going to get me kicked out of the church."

I thought quickly about all the issues that could get me kicked out of the church. But no--many of them are things I hold to myself and don't care that they aren't exactly in line with church teaching. None of them make me feel guilty; my conscience is clear on them. For instance, I think the Church's stance on birth control is ridiculous. I think the idea that we don't allow priests to marry is bizarre and should be reevaluated. I believe women should be given the right to church leadership. If the church has to be led by celibate men, parish leadership and clergy should be more broadly available. But these aren't things that I'm so wed to that I'm going to make a stand. The women priest movement doesn't interest me because so many Catholic feminists are so angry. I've been to prayer services with some of the women active in that movement locally and I wouldn't want them to be my pastor. Just for instance.

But there's a difference between "I think there should be changes to the priesthood" and whether we're going to close our doors to an entire wedge of the population.

"Yeah," I nodded after this split second of consideration. "Me too."

290/365 Erasers

I remember sitting in the front row of the 6th grade classroom--the other 6th grade classroom, since my homeroom was across the hall, on what would be politely referred to as the "garden level" of the school building. We were half in the basement.

Br. Stephen was up sitting on his desk and we were talking about belief. Beth asked what the difference between belief and opinion was. "Aren't faith and belief simply a matter of opinion?" she asked. Yes, in 6th grade. When I taught 6th grade later in life, I would have fallen on the ground if a 6th grader had asked me this. I got things like "what do we need to know for the test?" and "Why do we have to know this?" but Br. Stephen got questions like this all the time.

And Stephen handled it by going up to the chalkboard and writing the word "opinion." He had the most marvelous handwriting. And he picked up the eraser and turned to look at us. "This chalkboard is faith, true faith. This word is opinion." He erased the word. "It would take a lot more doing to eliminate the slate."

Simple, yes, but it's an image that has stuck in my mind ever since--and that was 24 years ago. I worry about church politics and about how long I'm going to be able to call myself Catholic and what if my local parish changes in tone to the point that I can't call myself a member and where does that leave me and what will I do and how will I find a place where I fit. I disagree with so many things. Why am I here? Why do I stay? What is it about being part of this Church that makes me walk through life as a Catholic instead of a Quaker or part of the UCC or any other of a half a dozen choices that have appeared in front of me in the past?

And I think about that chalkboard in that basement classroom--not my faith versus my opinions, but in regards to where the winds are blowing now as opposed to 2000 years of layered traditions built up and up and up. I think about atomic structures, how the glass marble in front of me appears static but is composed of countless atoms that are constantly interacting and changing and reacting and buzzing about. What's happening now, or anytime, is chalk dust. My faith and the overall picture of what it means to be Christian is slate. In the other analogy, changes in politics or ritual language or who gets communion or who the hated minority is or lamentations about Jesus' words versus a hierarchical church full of Pharisees is all buzz. It's all tiny bits of movement and change and reaction and the glass marble doesn't change.

364/365 This is where I live

When I left the school, pregnant with Sophia but not ready to give up my current life for a new one, I couldn't see into the future. I had made the mistake of teaching where I went to church. As much as I loved teaching at the school, it was impossible to keep those two parts of my life separate and my faith life suffered for it. Plus I was incredibly immature and, truly, should have been reined in by a principal and put in my place--but our principal got winded walking up a flight of stairs so it was kind of every man for himself. Anyway, I've talked about this before and let it go ages ago. But I think back on it sometimes, the conversation I had with Mike that fall, as my faith drifted and I got busy being a mother.

We baptized Sophia the Sunday after September 11, 2001. I was still so angry at our pastor I couldn't make eye contact. And I said to Mike, "I'm going to outlast them. Sr. Fern's contract is up next year. She'll move on. Sr. Agneta will, too. And Fr. Bill. I will stand here, in my parish, and outlast them."

Agneta and Fern left at the same time--the school was only open that one last year before we merged with a neighboring parish school. Bill was there a long time. He baptized Maeve. I almost didn't have her baptized, and I almost had Mike's uncle do it down in Cairo. But I stood firm. This was my parish. Plus Mike wasn't going to let me not baptize her (I was on the edge, leaving for the Quakers, but still wanting to prove I belonged at my parish? I was in the throes of something, let me tell you).

So we baptized Maeve, but I didn't even invite Bill over afterward. Still pissed. Then that coming year I was nominated by a ridiculous number of people to be on parish council. That's what happens when you pray for guidance. So I sat at that table and took notes as secretary and didn't budge. This was my parish.

When Bill left, I wrote him a nice note. By that point, my edges were worn down some and it was obvious that I belonged here.

I can't even imagine having angry heated loud arguments with our pastor in the parking lot now.

Agneta, Fern, Bill...all left. Then Joey left. And Terri. And all those people. The parish now is not what it was then. I stood my ground. I stayed. Even Dolores is hardly ever there. All those crazy folks from back when I taught (there are new crazy folks, of course). I'm here, Astrid's here, Colleen O'Toole's here...but most everyone is gone. Their kids grew up and the parish was less a part of their lives. Sometimes I'll see a kid I taught--like Flora's sons, who are, like, as old as me now--and that always makes me happy. But all those crazy adults? Don't miss them a bit.