Experiencing a Gift

I went to church this past Sunday, the 3^rd Sunday in Advent, at St. Mark's, Berkeley. I had planned to go to another church that is rather distinctive in their worship as a learning experience, but I had to change plans so that I could meet some old college friends in town for the day. I picked St. Mark's mostly because it was pretty close to campus. St. Mark's has a lovely choir and music program (their choirmaster and organist is actually my music professor at CDSP). The music and hymnody was beautiful and very well attuned to the day in the church calendar and the readings. The service was a pretty straight-forward Holy Eucharist, Rite II, the most familiar service for most Episcopalians my age.

It was exactly what I desperately needed.

For me, at that moment in my life and study, the elegantly basic service at St. Mark's was extraordinarily nourishing. The beauty of the music, the familiarity of the hymns, the ease of following a familiar service that was carefully designed and prayerfully led all helped heighten my prayer and connection to God at a time when I needed that help. I'm tired here at the end of the semester. Tired of being away from my family so often. Tired of having to be ready to defend every minor observation from the critique of my fellow seminarians. Tired of trying to say something useful in class. Tired of asking hard questions of myself. To be able to just follow along, sing, pray, and not worry about asking or answering questions was like an early Christmas present. I realized why why our church can be a gift. We are supposed to be healers and reconcilers. I didn't need a lot of healing yesterday, but I needed some. I've been studying all kinds of complicated theologies of healing and reconciliation, but yesterday, in something no more intellectual or complex than a fairly standard service of our faith tradition, I experienced healing and reconciliation. It can be as simple as Holy Eucharist, Rite II.

Small Things

In my class on suffering, we've been discussing the book “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, by Jean-Cominique Bauby. The author knows a thing or two about suffering. At the age of 43, he suffered a stroke that took him from being the editor of the French magazine Elle to a being unable to move but with a fully functioning mind. He could only communicate, and he dictated the book, by blinking his left eye. His book is remarkable in many ways.

In our discussion, we examined the degree to which he was able to find peace through many small things – the smell of French fries, the memory of a place, of simple pleasures. We recognized the degree to which the book brought home this point, so often said, that these small things are, in many ways, the meaning of life. We all found our appreciation of these things enhanced by Bauby's experience.

Previously, I was very dismissive of this kind of thinking. Statements like “It's the little things in life that matter” always felt a little trite to me. I felt like surely the great truths deal with the big questions and provide complex answers. I felt like if the small things are the meaning of life, then life must not be very meaningful.

I think now, though, that the phrase or concept does capture a wisdom, though not necessarily literally. Ice cream, kittens, holding hands, none of these are the “meaning of life” in a literal or even philosophical sense. But, the deep satisfaction that they provide, a satisfaction that all humans can relate to is a type of understanding. It is an understanding that is more of a sense of peace and connection rather than a solution to an intellectual puzzle. These small things and experiences also provide wisdom and satisfaction through their commonality, through their shared nature, through our ability to know that we share some understanding together.

I need to practice my ability to recognize this type of wisdom. Perhaps one aspect of ministry is helping others to make these connections; connections that are not trite, but deeply satisfying, what a connection with God feels like.