Between the Denominations

This evening I went to church with my family at the Mennonite Brethren church I attended for many years. It was a very strange feeling, sitting down before the service. They have recently renovated the sanctuary and it is not entirely complete, but it now has comfier, theatre seats, and the large baptismal tank is no longer there. Further, there is no cross or any other religious imagery. In effect, it has the look of an auditorium. The other part that felt strange was the lack of liturgy. I have become so used to a liturgical setting and bad music that when presented with no liturgy and good music I feel out of place.

I think what I find strangest, though, is that in some ways I have no home in any church anymore. For years I attended this church and loved it and that was my home. When anyone told me it didn't feel like church, I didn't understand what they meant. And the I began attending Mass and later became Catholic, but on some level I still pine for the challenging sermons and the passionate music that I remember (and indeed enjoyed, this evening). And so I do not feel entirely at home there because I feel unchallenged and there is a bit less of an emphasis on challenging people. Perhaps the term I am looking for is "comfortable". Now, certainly not all priests keep to safe and comfortable approaches, but more than not, I find, do.

I wonder if I will ever find a home in a church again, or if I am meant to always feel this sense of isolation or diaspora (but if diaspora, to what?).

Lest We Forget

Tomorrow, 11 November, is probably the most important secular holiday on my calendar. And I say this as someone who generally identifies as a pacifist. And a pacifist who insists upon wearing a blood red poppy.

Some may find it odd that I feel more patriotic on Remembrance Day than I do on Canada Day, but I'm not sure how odd that sounds to a Canadian. In fact, I see far more poppies leading up to Remembrance Day than I ever see Canadian flags around Canada day. For me, this is a day when we remember the horrors of war, and that is something that a white poppy can never represent to me. It's a day when we remember all those who died, all the blood that flooded the fields and valleys of Europe, because of war. This is not an argument against the notion of a just war, but it does recall the price of all war, be it just or not. And while no war since the First and Second World Wars has seen so many killed, both military and civilian, every war is a type of those wars. Every war sees unnecessary death, sorrow, and tragedy.

And it is in memory of those who have died, necessarily or unnecessarily, that I wear a red poppy. Because I remember the price of war. And it is for them that I stand in silent memory at 11am on 11 November.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

--John McCrae, 1915

To Whom Shall I Go?

Tonight as I struggle with an insomnia empowered with guilt, I stumbled across a comment on a friend's blog concerning why this person remains with the Catholic Church, despite feeling unwelcome and seeing all the awful things done by Her of late: I have no where else to go. As it says in the Gospel, "Then Jesus said to the twelve: Will you also go away? And Simon Peter answered him: Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life" (John 6.67-68).

These words strike me deeply, especially on dark nights such as this. To whom shall I go? I hurt and ache inside and I tear at my heart and bury it in ashes because I am disgusted by my inability to keep from sinning gravely. And yet, anytime something tries to suggest that the problem is the Catholic Church for putting so much emphasis upon mortal sin, my whole being cries out, "But where else can I go but to the light?" It is the light which burns me and humiliates me, because in the light I can see my ugliness. But it is only in the light that I have any hope of healing and forgiveness.

It is also in the light that I fear those things that I am told to be sinful, but which I am not convinced actually are. Can I view my confusion around gender in the light? It is easier to avoid the feeling of shame and to even feel pride in it while I keep to the shadows, not considering the light. But again, how can I keep away from that which makes me whole? And so I must face the light in this awkward and confused form and it's embarrassing and (hopefully?) humiliating. How can I hope to be forgiven my sins when I suspect that this is who I am? a creature seemingly made contrary to what is right? It would be easier if I were normal and without feminine inclination. Then all I would have to deal with is the struggle with sin that is common to all people. But to tell myself that this femininity is sinful... all I can do is try my best to serve God and hope that I am not judged too harshly for failing to reject it from my being.

And that is really what it comes down to. Despite the horror of my sin, despite the terror of not rejecting what may be a horrible sin, to whom shall I go? thou hast the words of eternal life.