Reading a Stranger's Diary

The internet is a strange place. Some places are stranger than others, but in the last week I have been on a journey with a woman whom I know nothing about. Jennifer Harris Dault's baby died in her womb and Jennifer chronicles the pain, emotion, and grief of the miscarriage. As of today, her story is not over because her body has yet to expel the baby and where most people bury the pain of miscarriage deep within, Jennifer has chosen to share it and I have entered her word cautiously. Cautiously, because I was unprepared for the flood of emotion. Cautiously, because I have no similar experience with which I can relate. Cautiously, because this is a sacred place--a place of faith and loss and motherhood--and I am not sure what to do in this space.

You might argue this is no different than reading a book and entering that world, but I would argue there is a fundamental difference. This woman's story is unfolding in real time and I am entering her world as it unfolds. This is not the same as reading Anne Frank's diary because when reading her diary I am aware that those events have already happened. In this story, I enter Jennifer's pain as she is living it. I can pray for her because her story is ongoing. I am a part of her world in the present. She is my sister in Christ and we meet at the Father's throne. She doesn't know me and I don't know her, apart from a series of blog posts, but it doesn't matter because for this week at least, I have heard her voice and listened to what she has said and my heart breaks with her for baby Avelyn Grace.

Jennifer's eloquence and raw description of the darkness have moved me indescribably. Reading this woman's diary has been a rare privilege afforded by the internet and I am humbled and dare I say changed by it.

Our prayers are with you, Jennifer Harris Dault.

High Church, Low Church

This last Sunday I experienced the extremes of the high/low church spectrum. I went to an Episcopal church and a Quaker meeting. It was an enlightening experience on both counts, but one that left me saddened.

The service I went to at St. Luke's was small. Very small. We sat in this beautiful sanctuary and while the liturgy was reverent and I felt peace, I also felt like I was participating in the end of something. An era of stained glass windows and white-robed ministering servants seemed to be fading away. There were maybe 30 people in the congregation, most white-haired and in the waning years of their own lives.

Unlike the later service I had attended at St. Luke's the previous week, this service followed Rite I in the Book of Common Prayer and had no majestic organ, chanting, or singing. The readings were solemn, the homily short, and mood less joyful. Of course, I love how communion is done in high churches. We knelt before the altar, shoulder to shoulder with our brothers and sisters. Humbly, we accepted the bread with two hands and ate. We were served the wine from a communal cup and in submission we drank from the hands of the ministering servant. In this particular expression of communion, there exists so much meaningful symbolism of humility, submission, servanthood, unity, and...communion! If I could take only one thing from the high church, I would probably take the method of communion. But for the rest, somehow this great, high church with its soaring arches is crumbling beneath the relentless onslaught of the entertainment mindset of [post]modernity.

After St. Luke's, I went to the Quaker Meeting House. From the extreme high church to the extreme low church, this was an entirely new experience for me. I had been invited to come to Meeting after attending a Peace benefit meal earlier in the week.

Excuse this digression, but the peace benefit reminded me that although I am pacifist, I do not have the same "fuzzy feelings" about pacifism that so many present seemed to have. This is not the community in which I fit. I care about peace and nonviolence, but I do not see my role in this process as picketing, signing petitions, or talking down aggressors. There is a place for those, but I do not see myself as joining in this way. But back to the Quakers.

Before the beginning of the "service," there was a time of instruction. This particular one was about "clearness committees," a Quaker concept from the 1660s used for personal discernment. Perhaps I will write another post on this, but for now my observation was merely that I find it interesting that although there are no homilies (no shepherd implies no homily!), the Quakers have gotten around this by having these talks beforehand.

I noticed another thing. Quakers do not have a creed and are against such statements of belief and yet similar to the distinction between the American and the Canadian constitutions, it seems that the Quakers have merely a collection of documents and ideas which do form a somewhat informal creed. Pamphlets on clearness committees, books on community, posters on the "rules" of living a Quaker life. It seems it is still not possible to have a body of people join together without some consensus on purpose, beliefs, and rules.

The meeting itself was characterized by silence. At times, someone would stand up with some insight to share. Most often it was an observation on what had happened during the week. Other times, it was a reflection on something that struck them. This is where I realized that Quakers are not all Christocentric. No Scripture was shared, but a story from Gandhi's life was and the thoughts of a "universalist" Quaker author. Although we were all sitting together, it was such a lonely experience. The silence was not a communal silence, but an individual silence. The words shared seemed like merely words ringing into the silence. I wondered if people were even listening to each other.

Had I not had a wealth of my Protestant experiences to draw on, I'm not sure how I would have made it through an hour of almost entirely unbroken silence and certainly not week after week. I spent this time praying, singing songs (in my head), and quoting Scripture (again, silently), but without the reservoir of songs, Scripture, and an active relationship with God to draw on, it would have been a very empty time for me.

My experience after the meeting was very good though. Ironically, of all the churches I have visited, this one was the only one to really get it "right." I was invited to join them for a potluck and one of the women took me under her wing and talked with me at length. We discussed the history of the Quakers and the various branches (there are some more Christocentric branches), the beauty of liturgical services, and various other topics. It was most enjoyable and if this had been a Christocentric church, this would have been enough to make this place my home, but... alas, I am still left to continue my quest for a spiritual home in Kalamazoo.

A Mennonite Girl Goes Dancing

Contra-dancing at Oshtemo Grange

I went dancing.

I realize this makes me a “bad Mennonite,” but I happen to think it was a good decision.

Allow me to transport you there for a moment. The live band is playing a foot-tappin’ beat, the caller is giving the next move in a sing-song voice, couples are whirling around to the music, and others are lined along the walls, wiping their foreheads from the previous vigourous romp, drinking water, and letting their feet, joints, or aching limbs rest a bit before jumping into the next one. The mood is festive. We’re all here to have a good time. No one is watching to make sure you land right on the beat. No one cares whether you’re wearing a skirt or trousers or shorts. Everyone is there to enjoy themselves and make sure you’re also having fun. And fun is definitely being had. The only way I can describe one of the moves is as a close approximation to flying. As you hold your partner and spin, gaining enough speed, your toes barely touch the ground and then… all at once, you’re airborne! As you come back down for the landing, your partner hands you off to your corner and you follow them into the next few steps, as you reorient yourself to being back on terra firma.

Dancing is thrilling! It’s the adrenaline rush of not being able to predict everything that might go wrong (or right!), but then improvising as need be. It’s the inside communication with your partner (often nonverbal) that can’t be seen from outside, but is the life of the dance. It’s the creative spontaneity of inserting something unexpected that gives it that extra zazz, which is only possible after the basics have been practiced over and over. It’s a lot like life. Contra-dancing is a safe place to learn to follow or lead. It’s a place where you can practice surrendering your will to someone else. It’s a place where you practice the social niceties of thanking your partner for an enjoyable dance, of gracefully declining a dance when you need to rest, of conversing with strangers and making small talk.

At contra-dancing I found a community of people with whom I would not ordinarily hang out. As an evangelical Christian, my circle of influence can get very small. It’s easy to pour all my time and energy into people who are similar to me—people at school or church, but there’s no denying the fact that many of the people I met at contra were at fundamentally different stages of life than I. Most of the gentlemen with whom I had the privilege of dancing were at least 50 years old. Some were from different parts of the U.S. Some were Christians. Some were not. Some were very conservative, others were very liberal. But this common thread of dance wove us together and allowed those differences to melt away. And as the barriers lowered, stories were shared and we were able to begin conversing about things which do matter. For that reason (and because I love flying!), I am so excited to return this next Saturday for more contra-dancing!

A Love of Liturgy

Advent Candles.

The appeal of the tradition and reverence of the “high church” is one I understand. It’s why I’ve visited and appreciated Russian Orthodox services and Catholic masses, why I did not feel out of place in a Wesleyan church for four years, and why I am in the process of reclaiming my Anabaptist heritage. It is in humility that I acknowledge we have been pursuing God for a long time and perhaps my youthful ideas of what is best for the church are wrong.

Allow me to explain the value I see in liturgical churches.

I love the liturgy, its cadences, the congregational unity it creates, its majesty, and the theological depths contained in the words. I love how liturgy combines reason and faith and beauty. And the hymns... I want to tell Chris Tomlin to stop “modernizing” these classics. Let them be. Let us relax into the long held notes, let the sopranos soar into beautiful descants, let’s revive multi-part harmonies, and please, oh please can we occasionally end in the hushed reverence of an a cappella “Amen”?

Liturgical worship acknowledges our bodies. Somehow, in the evangelical Protestant world we have lost the ability to worship God with our senses. Where are the flickering candles that remind us of life’s fragility, the warmth of God’s presence, and the light we must be to the world? Where is the incense that reminds us that our prayers are a fragrant offering to God? Where is the profusion of colour that reminds us of the Creator God’s infinite variety and childlike delight in creating something as frivolous as colour? Where are the textures of solid wood and heavy materials that recall the firm foundation on which we stand and the majesty of a King?

I love the Church calendar. I love her rhythms. I love her rises and falls. I love the anticipation and expectation of Advent. I love the innocence and wonder of Christmas. I love the solemnity of Ash Wednesday. I love the perseverance and strength of character developed during Lent. I love the joy and hope of Palm Sunday. I love that Maundy Thursday reminds me to participate in footwashing and service and rending my heart before God. I love the grief and darkness and acceptance of the magnitude of Christ’s sacrifice on Good Friday. I love the cleansing healing of Easter Sunday. I love the all-reaching love of God that won’t be stopped by languages seen during Pentecost. The church calendar echoes the patterns of my own life. It reminds me that there are seasons of hope, seasons of discipline, seasons of grace, and seasons of joy. My journey on this narrow path is not linear, but sinusoidal and that is just part of a growing, living faith.

In short, there is so much that contributes to my liturgical leanings, but I must be fair. I must give the other side as well and explain why I am not a member of a high church.

I worship a God who will take me as I am, broken and bleeding. He does not stand on ceremony when I cry out to Him in pain and beg Him to cleanse me of my filth. This rawness is also part of my faith. I must be able to fall to my knees in His presence or prostrate myself on the floor or stand with my head thrown back. What arrogance that I will sit complacently in my pew while confessing my blackest thoughts!

Shadowlands. Photo Credit: Minesh Bacrania

I want to bring whatever I can to the altar. I want to bring Him my love for theatre. Would a “traditional” church allow me to perform dramatic readings for the glory of God or worship Him through narrative and poetry? Would I be free to explore different expressions of my adoration for God? I want to be free to participate in the traditions in new, but still meaningful ways. Must the form always be preserved, or can the form be more flexible, while the spirit remains? Can we make Communion become a Love Feast once again? Can we move the ashed cross from our foreheads to our hands, where it is a more effective reminder to ourselves, rather than merely a public statement? Can our Tenebrae Service incorporate the Stations of the Cross and an African American poem? Will I forget the freedom of expression if I am bound within a certain form?

For these reasons (among others), I still call myself an Anabaptist. I submit that we are able to worship God in many forms and only those which are useful for bringing us before the throne ought to be retained. And these forms ought to be re-evaluated at regular intervals. What is effective for bringing someone to the throne of God may not work for another. Also, what works at one time, does not work at another. There is a time and season for every activity under heaven. And so I do not bid everyone to appreciate the liturgy as I do, but I ask that those who do not participate acknowledge its importance for others and understand the failings of their own particular forms of worship (for we all have tendencies and/or practices, which are not completely healthy). And so, let us look at our own traditions and judge what is good and what is lacking.

Heritage of Faithfulness

For as long as I can remember, my churches (the ones that I was a part of--the ones that welcomed me) were non-denominational. That is not to say they didn't have any idiosyncrasies because they did--plenty of them! The difference was there was no heritage. No history. No journey. To some, these things don't matter. To me, they do. They inspire a sense of community, belonging. A realization that the saints who've gone before are still part of that community. Heritage creates an atmosphere of purpose--a sacred, reverent, holy purpose. A purpose that you will never be able to completely fulfill because it is one that can only be accomplished once all members of the community are working at it together.

My heritage is Mennonite. For many, Mennonites are known only as pacifists and, at the most, they are known for the simple life. This is true, but this is not by any means all there is to it. We are non-resistant. Not only do we see war as a direct affront to the Prince of Peace, we see any violent resistance as a human response to a situation that demands a soft answer, forgiveness, and God's grace. However, this is only one facet of this particular interpretation of the Christian faith. The Mennonites were also marked for their simplicity. They learned to take pleasure in the simple things--God's gifts to man rather than man's gifts to himself. But there is so much more that is part of being Mennonite. More that I haven't begun to learn, but this is my heritage.

One day when I was 17, I was privileged to be a part of that heritage in a small way. It was a communion and footwashing service and, after singing the beautiful hymns with a four-part harmony that you can only find in a traditional church, we partook of communion--the love feast. With the breaking of bread and the pouring of wine, we celebrated our Lord's sacrifice that made us free, but it was what was to follow that made the experience unforgettable. The women went to the back of the church while the men stayed at the front. We sang another hymn a cappella and as we paired up to wash one another’s feet, I found my grandmother kneeling by my feet. She tenderly bathed and dried them. As she sat back down, I knelt at her feet and repeated the gesture. Then, we both stood up and hugged and kissed each other. The holy kiss of the early church preserved two millennia later. It is through the beautiful past and rich story of a people group that these practices are kept sacred.

But over the following years, I discovered something. I discovered that I could bring this heritage with me. I could introduce it into other circles and share my wealth with others, and footwashing is indeed rich with meaning. You have heard it said that through marriage a man and a woman are made one flesh, but I found that through footwashing, two believers are made one Body, the Body of Christ. I have only participated in footwashing a handful of times, but I remember each experience vividly. My first time was with my grandma, but in subsequent years, I was to find this bond with a fellow student, a dear elderly couple, a respected elder woman, a stranger, and a very close friend. Each face is burned into my memory. These are my brothers and sisters. In this vulnerable act of submission, we touch the beautiful feet of Jesus.

In this way and many others, I stand on the rich heritage of my ancestors and I share this wealth with others and receive in kind. I’m claiming my thread in the heilsgeschichte and together may we weave a tapestry glorifying to God. Soli Deo Gloria.