Another wrestling-with-the-angels post, from an "aspiscopalian." My opinions represent myself only and express my experiences only.
I went to church this morning because I had a reading. Otherwise, I think I would not have gone.
Reading a lesson at one of the high holidays isn't an accidental assignment or a trivial one. This is one of the two days in the year when someone will go to church because it's important to family. Easter is the day for every one who's seen someone die.
Every word matters.
I feel small about my problems with choir, about my aspie issues getting in the way of a Special Interest, of being at odds with myself and the world. The relief of dropping my NT false face more often has at times been overmatched by the new pain of what it now costs me to be truthful. Such as my choir seat and free voice lessons. Petty, to be absorbed by that on the commemoration of the Resurrection, but I'm not especially good.
It was really hard to be there. The vicar stopped by my seat to touch and greet me just before the service started. Something about the way I looked at her--my back curved down, my face upraised--stopped her. She actually backed up two steps. I was aware of grief and resentment as my feelings, but what showed on my face, I'm not sure. I couldn't speak. She didn't speak. She left. I was OK with that.
Usually, I rehearse my reading. Today, I didn't rehearse until the last minute, and then discovered I'd rehearsed the Roman Catholic alternative reading--not the Anglican Communion/ECUSA reading. I shrugged and asked silently for help as I stood up.
Something does happen when I read. Not always, but very often, I am aware that someone else is reading with me. Rarely, as today, does someone read through me.
When I walked back to my seat, there was a susurrus in my wake, not the silence that is normal. I wanted to weep: I kept hearing "good" breaking the silence, like waves breaking on sand.
The rolled-up cloth in the empty tomb called my heart may be a choir robe. I myself am not good, but what is bad within me does not overwhelm the Good.
I went to church this morning because I had a reading. Otherwise, I think I would not have gone.
Reading a lesson at one of the high holidays isn't an accidental assignment or a trivial one. This is one of the two days in the year when someone will go to church because it's important to family. Easter is the day for every one who's seen someone die.
Every word matters.
I feel small about my problems with choir, about my aspie issues getting in the way of a Special Interest, of being at odds with myself and the world. The relief of dropping my NT false face more often has at times been overmatched by the new pain of what it now costs me to be truthful. Such as my choir seat and free voice lessons. Petty, to be absorbed by that on the commemoration of the Resurrection, but I'm not especially good.
It was really hard to be there. The vicar stopped by my seat to touch and greet me just before the service started. Something about the way I looked at her--my back curved down, my face upraised--stopped her. She actually backed up two steps. I was aware of grief and resentment as my feelings, but what showed on my face, I'm not sure. I couldn't speak. She didn't speak. She left. I was OK with that.
Usually, I rehearse my reading. Today, I didn't rehearse until the last minute, and then discovered I'd rehearsed the Roman Catholic alternative reading--not the Anglican Communion/ECUSA reading. I shrugged and asked silently for help as I stood up.
Something does happen when I read. Not always, but very often, I am aware that someone else is reading with me. Rarely, as today, does someone read through me.
When I walked back to my seat, there was a susurrus in my wake, not the silence that is normal. I wanted to weep: I kept hearing "good" breaking the silence, like waves breaking on sand.
The rolled-up cloth in the empty tomb called my heart may be a choir robe. I myself am not good, but what is bad within me does not overwhelm the Good.
