March 24, 2013
Palm Sunday. No interest in attending mass. That's somewhat ironic because the last time I had a true interest in attending mass was Palm Sunday, one year ago. That's when the pastor I will not name at the church I will not name called a number of children onto the altar with their palm fronds in hand to commemorate, one would assume, Jesus's arrival into the city of Jerusalem five days in advance of his eventual crucifixion.
It wasn't the children on the altar that bothered me. I believe that even if you get it wrong it's important to give your child a faith in something beyond them, because she'll need it long after you are gone. In the moments where she is most lost, she is going to need to ask for help, beg for it. She needs someone to ask. For my forty eight years on earth, that someone that I ask is Jesus. He's become a close friend. But I am off point.
It wasn't the children on the altar that was the problem. It was the missive in the bulletin instructing parishioners that they should vote against a law entitling the LGBT population to rights all of us should have (fair housing, a job) in order to protect people's religious freedom to be bigots that had me in knots. I read that bulletin, looked at those children on the altar, and counted off, how many were likely gay or would in the coming years find out that they were. The way I weeped for victims of clergy sex abuse, that's how I weeped for them. It was then I lost my joy to be in this community of believers, even if we all could count upon Jesus as our friend.
Today has been a really sucky writing day. You know this because I just used the word really. Pretty soon I will say like as well, but not to introduce a simile. I can't get past go. I start, then go back, erase, add a comma. All my observations sound futile.
So then I tried to do a little research. Did you know, for example, that St. Timothy was stoned to death in 80 A.D. when he interrupted a procession of people going to honor Artemis at her temple in Ephesus? I can fill you in more on the Book of Timothy written, supposedly (there's a story here too) when Timothy was in Ephesus? The Epistle speaks against the power of women for the very reason that Ephesus was a matriarchal society. But I'll leave that for the book I can't seem to write today.
Any way, Artemis is the Greek Goddess of the hunt, wild animals, wilderness, childbirth, fertility and virginity. She was also the protector of young girls and was known for relieving diseases in women. I am all for Timothy talking to people, trying to convince them that this Jesus fellow was really amazing and that with the Holy Trinity they didn't need a separate god or goddess for everything under the sun. But, Artemis? Did he have to start with her? She sounded like a pretty cool protector. An omnipotent God was not in harm's way if someone thought she needed her hand. And why, for God's sake, interrupt a procession of people walking to a temple? Perhaps he was overcome by what he felt to be injustice; like my sense of injustice at the last Catholic mass I really attended (in spirit and in heart). But my choice was to leave, not stand up and get stoned to death.
That's a bit of an overstatement. I did stand up, in private, to the priest who was not shepherd. I told him what he was doing was hurting God. He said we could sit down and talk about that if I would like. Like when you look at a wall and realize you can't go through it (see poor use of "like")? That's how I felt about going to sit down to talk to this guy. So I said thanks, but no thanks, and walked away, stone free.
So today, on Palm Sunday, actually on each and every Sunday, what I try to do is write my way to Jesus. Tell his story through the lives of the people he has gathered, me, my brother, father, mother, husband, daughter. The list goes on. Some days, I just can't find him. I get angry and consider him useless.
