St. Anywhere

St. Anywhere

The kids and I attended services today at the closest thing I’ve experienced to our home parish since visiting The American Cathedral in Paris last September. I felt more than a touch of melancholy at the familiar-feeling surrounds of St. Matthew’s Anglican Church  in Hastings, New Zealand http://www.stmatthewshastings.org.nz/ . Stained glass, stone pillars, pipe organ – all there. It’s a world apart from the more modern churches we normally attend in the Bay of Plenty.

Fiona in St. Matthew's, Hastings, NZ

But it wasn’t just the aesthetics of St. Matthew that created  a lump in my throat. It was the service, and the fact today was the first time in a long time I’ve held a Book of Common Prayer (New Zealand version) in my hands. No words projected on a screen, just a priest or lay reader and 45 or so mostly white-haired congregants, reciting, singing, praying, calling, responding. It’s old-school. Outdated, right? No one under 60-years-old wants that kind of church anymore, do they?

Some of us do. It’s been so many months since I sat in a pew and watched a priest form the sign of a cross while saying, “God strengthen you in all goodness and keep you in eternal life,” that I started crying. I silently thanked God I hadn’t had made time this morning to apply eyeliner or mascara. Now that’s Divine Intervention.

A sneaker wave of nostalgia for my home church, St. John’s Episcopal in Spokane, http://www.stjohns-cathedral.org/  washes over me. I teeter at the brink of weep-fest when Finley wanders from the kids’ table, where he, Fiona and 3 Indian children have been coloring. “Mom, that girl spilled the crayons on purpose!” says Finn. I tell him not to worry about it. He proudly shows me his drawing, which includes a laser, sword, a gun and the words, ‘I shotit.’ Finley says, “God helped me draw this.”

I've brought the kids to church this Sunday not only out of habit, curiosity and possibly, some sense of duty, but also as a refuge. We’re spending 4 days (possibly more if the road from Napier to Taupo closes due to snow or ice) with The Boyfriend’s family and I need a time-out to think. Here’s a tip: If you’re a house guest and crave alone time, go to church. God will wink at you on your way out the door. At least, I’m pretty sure She winked at me.

In my experience, rarely, if ever, does anyone ask to accompany you to church (hardly anyone wants to go running, either. Maybe I’m just hanging with the wrong crowd).  I sit on a red fabric cushion inside the cold sanctuary and notice how the congregation clusters underneath the red glow of heaters affixed to wooden pillars.

 I contemplate the fact I may not be ready to take on someone else’s family, no matter how nice they seem. I may not ever be ready for that. I know where these entanglements lead. One moment, your path is merely rocky and the next, someone lobs a grenade at your feet. I try to reel in my thoughts, which are spinning off like fishing filament on a runaway reel.

The celebrant (a Reverend whose name is Graeme Pilgrim, and whose title does not appear in the bulletin) concludes a prayer in Maori: “Kororia kit e Matua, kit e Tama, kit e Wairua Tapu; mai I te timatanga, ki tenei wa, a haere ake nei. Amine.” I don’t know what that means, but it sounds nice. Maori prayers remind me I’m upside down at the bottom of the world. Nowhere else but here.

The Gospel lesson speaks about surprise and transformation. During his sermon, Graeme says, “Nothing can separate us from the love of God. God is there.” There. Where, there? Where? I know, it’s a rhetorical question. You still have to ask. Even if you’re an atheist or agnostic, you ask. Don’t you?

I bring the kids to the front of the church for communion. I stand while they kneel on a carpeted stair. They do this just to be different (as if they’re not different enough). A male soloist stands several feet in front of us, wearing a light blue robe, singing, arm outstretched. The celebrant places a thin round wafer in the cusp of my palms, saying, “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven.” He tells the kids, “Eat this to remember Jesus.” Finley guides a silver chalice to his lips and takes a swig. “Good man,” says the server. Somehow, Fiona missed the wine. Half-way down the aisle, she pulls me aside and says, “Finley got wine and I didn’t. Not fair!” I whisper I’ll give her a sip later. I’ve forgotten about this until now, and Fiona and Finley are asleep. Maybe tomorrow.

Towards the end of the service, Graeme invites kids to the front of the church, to show off their drawings. My 5-year-old proudly holds his weapons picture high above his head. Finley and the other children process down the aisle, along with the priest and all 7 choir members. Fiona has chosen not to display the little girl’s face she’s drawn and cut out like a mask. I retrieve my mommy mask of near-composure and give her a squeeze. And a wink.

Finn shows off his weapons drawing at St. Matthew's