BAREFOOT AND PREGNANT IN THE CHURCH

It would be the start of a long, sometimes painful, but mostly joyful journey beyond Anglicanism into priesthood. 

Priesthood! 

For heavens sake I didn't know what half the tools of  my new trade were called - the robes, the stuff on the altar, and architectural divisions of a church. I found organ music jarring, I needed a hymn book for the words. The rituals of the Eucharist were foreign. Fact is I hadn't grown up with the externals that are taken pretty seriously. 


There was much to learn  but I wasn't alone. So often when I'd seek an answer from someone in the pews, The answer would be 'I don't know'. 

(I've still never been involved with a Christingle service and have just added it to my bucket list.)  

Fact is, unless you attend an Anglican School quite a lot is likely to fly over your head. Much depends on how your Confirmation Classes are handled. Little teaching on Anglicanism is done from the pulpit. Yet one of the most valuable sermons I experienced was on the Eucharist and its various forms. That sermon effectively transformed the service from traditional ritual to a sacrament steeped in Scripture.

Years later I would work in a parish run by a superb rector who had joined our ranks via the Assembly of God Church. Both of us had such fun taking Anglicanism to Anglicans.

Back to the story. Fr Andrew advised me to discuss my apparent calling with my Spiritual Director and my rector. Their response was basically 'We were wondering when it would happen.'  

My old circle of friends were alarmed. There were not so subtle hints about a delayed menopause. Others were still convinced the church was after my money. My mother was bemused and my sons had learned that I tended to do my own thing.

Then I woke up and smelled the coffee. There was a huge difference between dabbling in religion and answering a call to vocation.  

I booked an appointment with my psychologist who I hadn't seen in more than a year. After the session she half joked  that I probably hadn't ended up in the Catholic Church because it didn't allow women to become priests and I wasn't great at guilt. Many a true word....

That same year my son and I visited Jerusalem where we had the wonderful privilege of staying at the Ecce Homo Convent. It is in the Old  City and run by Catholic nuns. During breakfast a young nun approached me and asked if I was a priest. Of course the answer was no but I had a toe in the water. 

The entrance to the Ecce Homo  Convent on the Via Dolorosa

I, in turn, was curious why she had asked. Turned out she had sensed my calling and that she was going through terrible angst because she believed she had a priestly vocation. But for her that door was firmly shut. It was a sharp reminder of how many Anglican women had gone through the same pain before our Church had changed its mind on the matter.

Later I would come to appreciate what a bitter and hard won battle had opened the door to my own ministry. Also how fortunate I was that our southern African Province was so ahead of many others. At the time of my calling the Church of England was still only allowing women to go as far as the diaconate  - the first step to priesthood. 

In  November 2012,  about 18 years after the Anglican Church in southern Africa decided women could become bishops,  Elinha Wamukoya of Swaziland (right) made history  as the first woman to be elected.  Shortly afterwards Margaret Vertue was made Bishop of False Bay.  

Back to my session with my psychologist (turned out she was Jewish).  I left her confident that, at the very least, I should be going through the formal discernment process.

Soon I was enlisted into a Fellowship of Vocation programme. Ours was a group of varying ages from gungho youth to widows and they were much holier than I was. Nonetheless there was a powerful common denominator  - we were all pretty desperate to crack the nod for priesthood. 

As such we were all vulnerable to the hurts that come with being at the bottom of a woodpile. 

The young men were being strongly advised to 'first go forth and experience the world' and I know we lost a couple of potentially good priests. Once you are on that corporate ladder with a family to keep it's hard to change track.  

All the women in my group were middle aged and most had gender war stories to tell. We would all be self-supporting and would often joke about being cheap labour.

The church may have officially approved the ordination of women but some rectors still had one foot in the dark ages. I remember how one tall friend was instructed to always stand a step below her rector because she made him look short! We were all studying for a Theology degree and most of us had had careers but too many were only allocated responsibilities that were seen as  'womanly' - the Church's version of barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.

Mind you, I once attended a retreat that included rector's wives and several were in tears about what they were expected to handle at parish level. Professional accountants and even one engineer were expected to do 'womanly'  things in the parish. Yet in many cases those wives were the main bread winner.  (Just as we women would joke about being cheap labour full-time male priests joked about being 'kept men'.)

I had never had to kick my way through a glass ceiling and I was fortunate to be in a parish that empowered women. But that didn't mean I wouldn't get my share of hurts a bit further down the line.

Meanwhile, strategising was what I did for my business clients  and it seemed a good plan to serve on the Parish Council. I was duly elected and should have been great but I still cringe at the 'holy' platitudes I spouted during that year as I sought to convince the leadership that I was priestly material. 

I was awful and not re-elected the following year.     

DIFFERENT STROKES FOR DIFFERENT FOLKS

There was a point when I acknowledged a need to worship God within a Christian context. It was the ‘how’ that challenged me.

Somewhere along the line I attended a ‘non-denominational’ service conducted by a dynamic pastor in a school hall.  I was used to the traditional Catholic and Anglican Churches of my youth so that hall just didn’t do it for me. (I later learned how traditional architecture, candles, vestments and icons are triggers for worship.) It also didn’t help that the sermon was on the need for women to obey their husbands.

The Anglican parish I was attending seemed to suit my basic needs. Designed by Sir Hebert Baker, the stone church had beautiful stain-glass windows. The services just bordered on the high and hazy. It felt like church.  

Importantly, the sermons were exceptional. (My rector became a bishop.)  And I’m still in awe of the God-incidence that took me past several other Anglican parishes between that one and my home.

Frankly the main reason I kept returning was the new social circle I was slipping into. I enjoyed the great conversations and the good red wine. My rector and his wife (my Spiritual Director) subscribed to the Benedictine principles of hospitality. They were generous hosts.  I, who’d become a real pleb as a single mother building up a major business, was drawn into company that enjoyed the arts and were creative. Most importantly, several of them understood the politics of our imminent democracy.

Never underestimate the power of planned fellowship!

I was also increasingly impressed by Jesus’ joie de vivre – the quality of wine he produced at the wedding, the dinner parties he attended, the friends he visited. His maverick approach to social taboos.

The Alpha Course wasn’t doing it for me.  Not enough reasoning for my personality type.  But I came from an era in which you finished your food (for the starving kids in Ethiopia) and anything else you started.

I did, however, draw the line at the residential week-end that most Alpha courses focus on. Over two days participants are encouraged to experience the Holy Spirit. For some this involves speaking in tongues. Others are zapped by the Holy Spirit and keel over.

No way Jose! When I was about 11 years old I’d fainted during Mass in Grahamstown’s Catholic Cathedral and wet my pants. There’d be no encore.  I bunked.

Nor did I have any desire to speak in tongues. Most of you will know that the gift of tongues is authenticated when, after a person has gabbled away, others are able to interpret. Invariably there’s a long and sometimes embarrassing pause before this follows. I often wonder if the interpreter isn’t just being kind.

Okay I accept it’s a special gift and that it can be a great way to lose oneself in God.  However, I’ve never seen it used publicly to really good effect. What’s your opinion or experience? 

RELIGION JUST A SUGAR PILL?

Looking back, the books I read in my run up to the Alpha Course were a wonderfully unfettered way to learn about Jesus and quite a lot of biblical stuff. Remember, I’d never attended Sunday School. My convent school religious education was based on a well-thumbed Catechism book that told me what to believe. My confirmation course in the Anglican Church was really an escape hatch to stroll through Boksburg, buy ice-cream and have toast for breakfast in the rectory.

Now 50, I was on an incredibly exciting journey of discovery – no epiphany, no lightning bolts but sensing a new beginning. It was also a welcome diversion from my hectic work and social diary, brain exercise. I hadn’t studied since my twenties. It was also long before The Tudors series was broadcast which would have put me off Anglicanism, despite that sexy Irish actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

Besides the off-the-wall books about Jesus, there were a variety of others.  These included fascinating archaeological finds (remember I wasn’t born with faith in my back pocket I needed proof), Judaic history and Greek history. Admittedly the Crusades and all their barbarity took a lot of shine off Christianity but then I wasn’t all that interested in following Jesus or killing people in his name. As the founder of a large PR agency I had long been used to dealing at chief executive level so the Son was interesting but if I was going to leap into a faith abyss I expected the ‘Main Man’ to do the catching. (In my PR life I was teaching chief executives ‘management by walkabout’ and the importance of an open door policy).

Running parallel to this was another development. In the second week after I’d attended my first Eucharist in about 35 years I called the parish to ask if they ‘did meditation’ in the Anglican Church. The rector’s response was “hang on I’ll call my wife, she’s into it”.  She was quick to share, “I’ve just finished a meditation and realised I think I’m God.”  We made an appointment for the next day.

I didn’t understand then but she was my first Spiritual Director.  The weekly psychology sessions were replaced by visits to the rectory. The coffee was excellent, the session were free and there was no reining either me or my reading in. Nor was there any proselytizing or effort to argue theological points. There was just lots of encouragement to continue my journey of discovery. And, because the rector had worked in the ad industry, a great understanding of my work life. There was also quiet amusement when I enquired if the best looking guy in the choir was single. (I’d find out later that he was gay.)

Today I count the three of them among my dearest friends and I fully agree with that marvellous Catholic priest Gerard Hughes who authored the best-selling God of Surprises. He argued that there is no such thing as coincidences, they are all God-incidences.

I’d spent a fortune on books but that little book would be that real beginning of my faith journey. Never one to subscribe to dogma Fr Gerry brought Church into different focus. Most importantly, he declared that God could never be fully understood because if this was so God simply wouldn’t be God. It made imminent sense and I stopped trying to prove God existed. Instead I stepped tentatively into the realm of mystery. But it was still a game of chance.

Those of you who were born with faith will probably have no concept how high those stakes were. So often when I share that I only really became a Christian at the age of 50 the response is “You must have been really happy for the first time in your life!” It wasn’t happiness I needed, I’d had huge doses of that throughout my privileged life. What I wanted was a spiritual dimension, balance. BUT with me still in full control.  

But I get ahead of myself! There was still the Alpha Course. It began with the traditional introductory dinner. I’d had a day from hell so had a long hot bath to unwind before heading for the parish hall.  I also poured an extra-large glass of wine to sip while I soaked, knowing full well that I’d be drinking fruit juice with supper. I was wrong.

As I walked through the door, I was offered a choice of “red or white wine?” An auspicious beginning. But as I watched the slick Nicky Gumble video, I couldn’t help spotting the production tricks. I could smell PR a mile off. But I enjoyed the company at my table and the following day my Spiritual Director assured me the course would “improve”. More of that later.

Writing this has reminded me how many of my Christians seems to enjoy unwavering faith. They never seem to doubt our religious rituals or question the Church’s teachings.  I now understand that it will never be as easy for me. Faith eludes me at the most inconvenient times. Sometimes I struggle to believe in unconditional grace. Or I just plain wonder if religion isn’t one big panacea. Yet I have acquired a relationship with God that permeates every aspect of my life – sometimes very inconvenient, invariably humbling but always dynamic.  I now accept that like most relationships this one will always have it ups and downs.  Of course I don’t play fair, I assume God will always be constant.

Do you also have faith wobbles? I’ve decided to give Archbishop Shakes, the main protagonist in my novel, a crisis of faith so your input would be very welcome.

May the Force be with you!

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….