Wonder At Mystery Stretches Into Adulthood
Posted: February 8, 2013
Rural Pen
When I was in middle school, a Roman Catholic church was across the street.
On Ash Wednesday, after lunch, the Catholic students lined up and trooped across South Ocean Avenue to attend a brief service. When they returned, their foreheads were dirty.
I was not Protestant, nor Christian, nor any other faith. What they did in that church was a mystery. I did long to know, but I did not think I was allowed in.
When I asked my friends about what went on over there, they were matter-of-fact about it: Oh, the priest does this and says that and presses his thumb on your forehead. That’s all.
What… ? How… ? Why… ? What was ho-hum to them remained a mystery to me.
Once with my cousin, I attended Mass at a Catholic church in our town. Stepping into the foyer (which I now know is a narthex) of Our Lady of the Snow, I felt a little afraid. The place seemed medieval. The stained-glass windows subdued the light, infusing it with a hallowed hue.
My cousin, JoAnn, turned to a small basin just inside the door and dipped her fingers in the water. Then she, in one swift movement, touched her forehead, upper chest and each shoulder.
What… ? How… ? Why… ?
Nobody had told me what to expect. I just copied her motions.
I copied her motions again when she walked the center aisle and, reaching the row where we were to sit, knelt toward the altar before shuffling sideways into the pew.
Later in life, as a young woman, I began attending services at evangelical Protestant churches. No holy water, no stained-glass windows, no black smudges, no mysteries. Everything was pretty much explained.
Not that there’s anything essentially wrong with that. I’d never read the Bible, so hearing the Old Testament stories of the Creation, the Exodus and the Flood, the adventures of Moses, Ruth and David, and the lyrical poetry of the Psalms was all new to me. I learned about Jesus, his miracles, his teachings, his death and resurrection.
Then it got weird. For instance, a Google search for “10 steps” brings up these entries: “10 Steps to Christian Maturity,” “10 Steps to Knowing God” and even, “10 Steps to Stay Alive to the Beauty of God’s World.” Every problem, every question, every situation had an answer.
Then life and death dealt me questions I could find no answers for in formulas or platitudes. All the things that were supposed to bring comfort only deepened my frustration. Mystified, I turned to mystery.
On an Ash Wednesday some years ago, I left work at noon to attend a service at a “liturgical” church. I did not know what to expect, but it turned out to be very much like my early experience. The stained-glass light, the fold-out kneelers, the quiet … all contributed to a sense of being in a holy space at a holy time.
When it came time to “impose the ashes,” the priest said, “Almighty God, you have created us out of the dust of the earth: Grant that these ashes may be to us a sign of our mortality and penitence, that we may remember that it is only by your gracious gift that we are given everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.”
There was nothing said about giving up chocolate or sweets, only prayers that were written in the prayer book that I did not know I needed to pray until I prayed them.
We confess to you … the pride, hypocrisy and impatience of our lives ... our self-indulgent appetites and ways, and our exploitation of other people … our envy of those more fortunate than ourselves … our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts, and our dishonesty in daily life and work …
These are humbling words. Some people choose to fast from a particular self-indulgent appetite and/or perform acts of charity. The ashes, the fasting, the repenting … all are embodied in this admonition: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
What … ? How … ? Why … ?
I don’t know. But here, eat this bread and drink this cup.
On Ash Wednesday, after lunch, the Catholic students lined up and trooped across South Ocean Avenue to attend a brief service. When they returned, their foreheads were dirty.
I was not Protestant, nor Christian, nor any other faith. What they did in that church was a mystery. I did long to know, but I did not think I was allowed in.
When I asked my friends about what went on over there, they were matter-of-fact about it: Oh, the priest does this and says that and presses his thumb on your forehead. That’s all.
What… ? How… ? Why… ? What was ho-hum to them remained a mystery to me.
Once with my cousin, I attended Mass at a Catholic church in our town. Stepping into the foyer (which I now know is a narthex) of Our Lady of the Snow, I felt a little afraid. The place seemed medieval. The stained-glass windows subdued the light, infusing it with a hallowed hue.
My cousin, JoAnn, turned to a small basin just inside the door and dipped her fingers in the water. Then she, in one swift movement, touched her forehead, upper chest and each shoulder.
What… ? How… ? Why… ?
Nobody had told me what to expect. I just copied her motions.
I copied her motions again when she walked the center aisle and, reaching the row where we were to sit, knelt toward the altar before shuffling sideways into the pew.
Later in life, as a young woman, I began attending services at evangelical Protestant churches. No holy water, no stained-glass windows, no black smudges, no mysteries. Everything was pretty much explained.
Not that there’s anything essentially wrong with that. I’d never read the Bible, so hearing the Old Testament stories of the Creation, the Exodus and the Flood, the adventures of Moses, Ruth and David, and the lyrical poetry of the Psalms was all new to me. I learned about Jesus, his miracles, his teachings, his death and resurrection.
Then it got weird. For instance, a Google search for “10 steps” brings up these entries: “10 Steps to Christian Maturity,” “10 Steps to Knowing God” and even, “10 Steps to Stay Alive to the Beauty of God’s World.” Every problem, every question, every situation had an answer.
Then life and death dealt me questions I could find no answers for in formulas or platitudes. All the things that were supposed to bring comfort only deepened my frustration. Mystified, I turned to mystery.
On an Ash Wednesday some years ago, I left work at noon to attend a service at a “liturgical” church. I did not know what to expect, but it turned out to be very much like my early experience. The stained-glass light, the fold-out kneelers, the quiet … all contributed to a sense of being in a holy space at a holy time.
When it came time to “impose the ashes,” the priest said, “Almighty God, you have created us out of the dust of the earth: Grant that these ashes may be to us a sign of our mortality and penitence, that we may remember that it is only by your gracious gift that we are given everlasting life; through Jesus Christ our Savior. Amen.”
There was nothing said about giving up chocolate or sweets, only prayers that were written in the prayer book that I did not know I needed to pray until I prayed them.
We confess to you … the pride, hypocrisy and impatience of our lives ... our self-indulgent appetites and ways, and our exploitation of other people … our envy of those more fortunate than ourselves … our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts, and our dishonesty in daily life and work …
These are humbling words. Some people choose to fast from a particular self-indulgent appetite and/or perform acts of charity. The ashes, the fasting, the repenting … all are embodied in this admonition: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
What … ? How … ? Why … ?
I don’t know. But here, eat this bread and drink this cup.
Luanne Austin lives in Mount Sidney. Contact her at RuralPen@aol.com, www.facebook.com/rural pen or care of the DN-R.