AAAARGH! A MERE MORTAL

There are a couple of things that focus the mind on our mortality. Taxes, other people’s funerals, illness and turning 50 are some I can think of. 

For me, despite the likes of Joan Collins and Madonna, my 50th was a turning point. Despite taking comfort from the fact that I was biologically and mentally as much as 15 years younger than my grand-mother at the same age (so are you), there was a sense of crisis. 

This in itself was strange. An only child, I’d been raised to believe I had an eccentric genius IQ. I’d been a high achiever all my life. I loved myself (too much at times) and loved others easily because they didn’t make me feel threatened. I was making money and having fun. What on earth could the matter be?

You’ve guessed right: I’d sensed my mortality.

No I didn’t rush off to the nearest Church and find God. I did what many middle aged women in the leafy suburbs do, I found a psychologist who I paid to listen to me.  (How money gives one a sense of control!) She very quickly informed me that she wasn’t like those American shrinks that people visit endlessly. She did however, eventually agree that with only my dogs to confide in she was my best bet.

Over the next two years, once a week, I’d examine: my values; how my readiness to help others included a mix of control; how kindness could also be a form of passive aggression; my non-existent spirituality; and the repeat cycles of my relationships.

She had a Jewish surname and a statue of Buddha on her coffee table and I never discovered what, if any, religion she belonged to. But she did encourage me to seek spiritual balance in my life. Over several months I examined my belief in God/the higher force/ the Greater Being. I was an atheist. I was an agnostic. I was a humanist.

Whatever, it was always very much an intellectual exercise. 

Eventually I would understand that for me the greatest challenge would be to submit to God if he/she really existed. I, who had always been in control of my life and of many others – family dependants, my staff, students I was mentoring etc. – couldn’t let go.  There was a meditation I used to do in those sessions. It involved jumping off a cliff into a huge black abyss and having the confidence that I would be caught by the ‘higher force’. It never worked, I preferred my own parachute!

Somewhere along the line I did come to appreciate the need for a spiritual focus to balance my incredibly busy, materialistic and responsibility-laden life.

Those of you who grew up knowing Jesus was on your one shoulder and your archangel on the other, please don’t get too excited at this point. The only spirituality I was interested in would be on my terms with me in charge.

I tried yoga (too passive), meditative running (too energetic) and then, prompted by the Buddha statue on the coffee table, borrowed the Dalai Lama’s Tibetan Book on Living and Dying.  I paraphrase, but very early in the book he advises those who are seeking spirituality not to turn to the esoteric but to seek within our own worldview and culture.

This made imminent sense. So, I decided to attend an Anglican Eucharist service. I did and wasn’t impressed. I’d chosen a seat at the back not realising it was an area allocated to families with toddlers. But the rector announced the parish’s first Alpha Course – it was very new in those days. It was an invitation to “learn more about Jesus and Christianity” so I gave the parish another chance.

In the weeks before the course got underway I read everything I could find in Exclusive Books that featured Jesus. These included the historical Jesus, the Jesus who conned the world by pretending to die on the cross, his lover Mary Magdalene and Jesus in India. Fascinating stuff and I was well armed to handle Alpha.

Little did I know.  But that’s another blog or two.

As I continue to research the Anglican Church for my novel, I am increasingly aware of how our denomination must confuse those who prefer a dogmatic approach: Don’t think, just believe; this is the way it is, to argue is to show lack of faith etc; it must be because the Bible says so.  Instead Anglicanism rests on the three pillars of Scripture, Tradition and Reason.

That’s right. You don’t have to throw your brains in a dustbin.  You can take into consideration the context in which a gospel was written, its agenda and how it was fiddled with by others. How sacred texts, like those referring to slavery (apartheid)  and wearing hats in church, need to be read with an open mind.

No wonder we Anglicans have lived on the cusp of schism for so long!  

JUST IN CASE THE CATHOLICS WERE RIGHT

Okay, confession time again.

Once I left school I really stopped worrying about whether the Catholic nuns or my Anglican priest had been correct about unbaptised babies being shut out of heaven. (See previous blog). I had life to live, a career to start and, most importantly, a husband to find.  We married young those days, which wasn't all bad. Biologically we were at our best for producing healthy babies, despite the fact that we smoked and drank in blissful ignorance. But the battle zone of gender inequality in the work place - having to work twice as hard and twice as smart - left a trail of broken marriages in those days.  Mine included.

Church was strictly a 'school thing'. Because I didn't move in overtly Christian circles Church was what one did for our colonialist traditions. Besides, there was an heirloom Christening gown on my husband's side that had to be used.

Yes, I was married in an Anglican Church, chosen for its delightful architecture and garden - so important for the photos. And, yes, I did have my boys baptised - at St Martins in the Veld Rosebank, such a fashionable venue and just in case the Catholics were right.  I vaguely recall some parent prep but it didn't even make enough impact to persuade us to send the boys to Sunday school.

Did I believe in God? Of course I did!  The greater force, the Higher Being who had given me free choice and control over my destiny. The God who created me to care about justice issues, people who were less fortunate, the one who expected me to be honest, not to murder anyone etc. Not a God one loved but certainly one to be respected.

Did I believe in Church? No ways!  Between the paedophile priests, the TV evangelists, the thieving ministers and all those preachers justifying apartheid. I was cured.

Did I pray? Only when my younger son nearly died in an accident and then it was prefaced with “If you really exist.”

At this stage you are probably wondering how on earth I became and Anglican priest. That’s a whole ‘nother blog but I’d like to pause here and take closer look at both marriage and baptism preparation which are rather like ambush advertising.

We Anglicans, at least here in Southern Africa, say if you want either of these sacraments you have to serve the time and understanding that it’s not just hocus pocus or family tradition.  But how many couples and god-parents get real value and inspiration from their prep session. How creative is Church in generating real interest in joining a parish?  I’d love some input on this. Or you may have questions.

One of the weird and wonderful things I discovered about the Anglican Church was the readiness to marry couples who had lived together for several years – virginal dress and all. And it was Prince Charles’ marriage to Camilla that alerted me to the ‘federal’ system our global Church operates under. Whereas that royal couple had to marry in a registry office without mummy in tow because she is the head of the Anglican Church in England. Divorcees in Southern Africa have, for several decades been allowed to remarry. There’s only one proviso, if you’re the one who caused the breakup of the original marriage the local bishop will not give the go ahead for your nuptials. (Not sure everyone tells the truth on this score but we Anglicans are supposed to be all about forgiveness and new beginningsJ

PS I’m still wading through the research on how to defrock an Anglican archbishop. 

WEIRD AND WONDERFUL ANGLICANISM

I am fascinated by Anglicanism. So much so that it is the backdrop to the novel I am writing and it is in doing research for it that I decided, with much encouragement, to start blogging about the sometimes weird and mostly wonderful Anglican Church.

Here goes!

I’d never attended church until my newly married mother sent me to a Catholic convent boarding school. I’m still not sure whether she hoped the nuns would cure me of my tomboy habits and turn me into a ‘young lady’ or whether she and her new husband wanted breathing space. Whatever. For the next seven years, except for school holidays I would attend Mass every school morning, pray the Hail Mary between lessons, recite the Angelus at noon and intone the rosary at 5pm on week-days. Except on Wednesdays when we had a Benediction service instead.

If you don’t know what all these are relax. It translates into a lot of praying. I am still of the opinion that you can tell a former convent boarding schoolgirl by the dents in her knees.

Sundays were the exception.

I’d declared myself Anglican because it meant a glorious walk from one side of Boksburg to the other where St Michaels served the mining town.  After the Eucharist service the rector would host our gaggle of St Dominic’s girls to tea and marmite toast because we would have missed breakfast at school.  Yet another hedonistic layer of joy was provided by a verboten rendezvous with an ice cream vendor on our way back.

All this in one morning! No wonder I signed on for Confirmation classes, which for nearly a year got me out of school on Saturday mornings as well. Bishop Ambrose Reeves, the great anti-apartheid activists who was eventually deported, did the laying on of hands. I wish I could tell that I was swept up by the Holy Spirit on the start of a spiritual journey into adulthood. But, time to confess, I was already a bogus Anglican simply marking time until I matriculated.

It was in one of our Confirmation classes that one of the candidates had asked if an unbaptised baby could go to heaven. (We all harboured the hope of performing an emergency baptism on a dying infant.) The priest replied that having recently lost a day old daughter he could not believe a loving God would keep her out of heaven.

With teen-age arrogance we argued the point all the way back to school. The consensus was that he was kidding himself. There was no way that baby had slipped past the pearly gates. Its best bet would have been Limbo, a most interesting place. Back in the 5th century good old St Augustine had decided that unbaptized children were condemned to hell because they had not had their “original” sin washed away.  Mind you, he did add that they wouldn’t burn as fiercely as everyone else in hell because they were not really responsible. In effect they were in a quasi-hell. By the Middle Ages theologians tried to soften the harshness of his position by positing the existence of Limbo, a quasi-heaven. Either way unbaptised folk would never see God.

How, you may ask, were we so sure that the Anglican priest was wrong and the Catholics were right? Fact is we were taught pre-Vatican II catechism nearly every day. We, like most teens were reassured by dogmatic certainty. As it turns out even the Catholics now see the grieving Anglican’s point of view.

It is also a reminder that Anglicanism rest on three pillars: Scripture, Reason and Tradition. Which is probably why we are always hammering at each other and have such difficulty coming out of our corners of diversity. But I find solace in the fact that for as long as I can remember the doomsayers have been predicting schism and we consistently prove them wrong.

One of the matters I have had to research for the book is how to defrock an Archbishop. Well dolls, you can’t believe how difficult that is I’ll update you when I have finished ploughing through Canon 37.

But speaking of Confirmation, a couple of Sundays ago I attended my son’s church where the minister, a youth pastor for 15 years, spoke of how teenagers needed boundaries to feels safe. How they want to see Church in action. It set me wondering whether we Anglicans take Confirmation classes seriously enough. Why do so many confirmands stop coming to church once the bishop as done her or his thing?

Are they bogus young Anglicans simply going through a social ritual, a family tradition?

I’d love your comments….