For the forty days between Ash Wednesday and Easter, much of
what you’re likely to face in many congregations is a variation on “Daddy, we’re
really sorry. Please turn back into the good parent.” Personally, I’d had
enough of that by the age of five to last a lifetime, though I wasn’t healthy
enough to recognize it till my late twenties.
It doesn’t have to be thus. The Ash Wednesday service can
manifest a singular beauty and intimacy. Done well, it affirms that our
mortality, seen through a different lens, is the gift that allows us to
recognize our life as a fragile and infinitely precious treasure, not of our
own making.
“Repentance” is a lousy translation of the Greek word metanoia, which ought to mean something
more like a transformation of the mind. Every time I hear “repentance” as a gay
man, I pick up the whiff of Jerry Falwell, the 700 Club, Westboro Baptist Church,
Anita Bryant, and on and on. And on.
The Anglican church I attend in Toronto is a wonderfully
inclusive place, in a well-meaning liberal kind of way. A rainbow flag’s been draped out of the baptismal
font with the best of intentions this Lent--though I confess my gut reaction is
“Gee, that’s so straight of you.” But the language of the services for the last
three Sundays has reverted to the rehearsal of a catalogue of our misdeeds.
I’m just not feeling it.
I knew this morning that I’d find my friend G, a smart,
progressive former Roman Catholic priest, at the early service. I can always
count on him to get it when I share my misgivings around the stock church language
and ritual detail. I know his own struggles to stay connected with a flawed
tradition resonate with mine. He’s the best of fellow travelers and a source of
strength.
I timed my arrival for the end of the service but walked
into the middle of Communion, with most of the congregation spilling out randomly
from around the altar and down the chancel steps into the middle of the sanctuary.
I took a seat at the back, hoping to find G free on the spur of the moment for
a late breakfast. And then the last hymn
started up, a West African song introduced by a wonderful riff of Nigerian highlife
guitar twangs and accompanied by a bunch of eight-year-olds on tambourines.
Despite my conscious effort, I hadn’t missed out on the
service. I’d arrived just in time for what I needed from it, after this group
of seventy or eighty people--some of whom I’ve know for twenty years, some of
whom I recognize by face, some of whom not--had celebrated Mass on my behalf.
I connected with G in the middle of the usual schmoozing
vortex. We adjourned to the breakfast joint down the street and spent two hours
commiserating, somehow shoring up each other’s conviction that being part of the
frustrating mess of life in a congregation is still worth it. Comparing notes
on movies we’ve seen recently, especially Call
Me By Your Name. (Timothée Chalumet---OMG; Armie Hammer, hot, yes, in
dude-bro mode, but what were the screenwriter and director thinking?) Mooning
over the waiter, back from two months
away with new piercings. Agreeing with each other that the priest in charge of
the parish would look great in a kilt. Talking about what a good Lent could
look like, imagining ways to suggest something better for next year.
A pretty good Third Sunday in Lent, all told. I guess I don’t
need to know how I’m going to handle next week for another seven days.
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