Holy Cross Day is a red letter day on the liturgical calendar, meaning it is a major feast day with its own Collect and set of biblical readings. It’s a day set aside to remember, exaltation the calendar says, the Holy Cross.
When we were in Jerusalem at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher we saw what purports to be the site of the crucifixion, outside the city walls as was fitting for lowlife blasphemers like Jesus, not yet the Christ. The site, excavated from the ruins of ancient buildings (335 CE) was erected to venerate the cross of Christ. It was holy because it was the site of resurrection in the Emperor Constantine’s time. But it was also the site of crucifixion! The site was unimpressive—cave-like, claustrophobic, poignant, disillusioning—also appropriate.
I’d expected grandeur, Godde knows why. I’d wanted to faint in wonder. Instead I felt stifled, longing even for tears.
Our teacher, the Rev. Dr. Kamal Farah, said the holy cross represented a new beginning: “The resurrection of Jesus is the promise of God’s mercy.” I believed that with all my heart, and all I wanted to do was run away.
Do most Episcopal parishes keep this feast on a Sunday when people will actually be at worship? Or is it shuttled off to a weekday when no one is in church, or simply ignored? I suspect that very HIGH Anglo-Catholic liturgical parishes keep the day. It wasn’t even mentioned in our local parish.
The day, if it doesn’t fall on a Sunday, can be moved to the nearest Sunday so that the Sunday parish Eucharist will be celebrated to honor the Cross of Christ, the same as if the cross were a named saint or other.
What’s with the cross? Darned if I know. I grew up Protestant and the only crosses I saw were empty, nice shiny gold usually, but pretty meaningless—bland. The first time I saw a cross/crucifix was in a Catholic church. It grabbed my attention so strongly that I felt ashamed. After all it was pretty graphic-ugly. Was I the type who would gawk at executions or casually knit while heads rolled like Dickens’s Madame Defarge?
But one ought always to pay attention to something that fascinates even if one’s feelings are ambivalent. So I did. Eventually, to my anti-Catholic mother’s horror, I bought a small crucifix and stared at it. I prayed for some wise insight. All I got was my own tears and one thought: God cares.
I wouldn’t get what I’d call deep soul wisdom from this horrific alluring Christian symbol till I hit the skids of my own helpless suffering, nothing like crucifixion but enough to wipe me out—a pile-up of losses (deaths, divorce, rejections). I suppose it was then that I knew for sure that God did not prevent or eliminate suffering or evil. Not much consolation really, but honestly if God would intervene in such a way would Godde not have done so for Jesus of all people? Or Moses or Buddha, Mohammed, or me. Oh damn!
I prayed to my cheap little crucifix as if God were a spiritual EMT, even when I knew better. Mysteriously I felt better, so maybe Godde was about as powerless as any dearly beloved who hangs in way beyond hope. This was very bad theology, but I didn’t really care.
Give me a cross that is both empty and full at the same time, I prayed. And here’s what I got, in time.
My first patient at the alcohol/drug rehab center where I was a chaplain I’ll call Noelle, although almost thirty years later I still remember her name. I went to see her in the detoxification unit and greeted her with a bright smile. She greeted me with a blast: “Get the fuck out of here, you fucking religious freak.” Horrified, I obeyed. My staff community reminded me that Noelle would be calmer “dried out.”
Nevertheless, I felt nervous to see her again. She entered my office and confronted me right away and truthfully: “It was that tiny cross around your neck. It looked huge to me,” she said. “My mother used to throw God and church at me all day, then beat me up at night.”
I took off my cross and gave it to her to inspect.
“Kinda pretty,” she said. “Small too. But it’s different. It has a hole in it. That’s where the dead body’s supposed to hang isn’t it?”
“Yes, usually. What do you think?”
She fingered the cross and held it up.
“Want to try it on?”
“Nope. It’s yours.” She handed it back. “What does the body-shaped hole mean?”
“That God can take us off our crosses and help us heal.”
“Just like that?”
“With your help. But you gotta follow God off the cross, which for you now is the pain of your alcoholism. Living without alcohol will feel like another cross for a while.”
“I can’t imagine life without alcohol to stop the pain,” she said.
“You won’t be alone. You’ll have AA meetings, lots of buddies who know what it’s all about, and listen to you forever, like the best family you can imagine.”
After Noelle left I fingered my little cross. Sure enough it was full and empty at once. I decided to keep wearing it , fucking religious freak or not.
Showing posts with label Alcoholism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alcoholism. Show all posts
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Sunday, November 18, 2012
2012.11.18 Religiophobic??
“Don’t mention religion or God to them. You’ll be blasted out of the
room...they’ve been hurt and are pissed,” said my brand new employer.
I’d just been hired by as a chaplain in a new alcohol/drug rehabilitation center. I was a religious professional on the way to being ordained an Episcopal priest— and already there was a gag rule.
During my first week on the job I went to the detox area in fear and trembling to visit my very first patient, thinking the warning might be exaggerated, and reminding myself confidently that they had advertised for a chaplain. It was a title they wanted to change to pastoral counselor but I had lobbied for Chaplain, a title with religious implications—and won.
“Get the f... out of here, you goddam religious freak!” Noelle screeched before I even introduced myself. I backed out of her room slowly and mumbled fleeting impotent words of comfort like it will be all right—for my own benefit. Then I went to find my supervisor to ask for a change of assignment. She said no.
“Take it slow and easy,” she said. “Detox is monstrous. She’ll be more reasonable when she is alcohol free. Just don’t mention religion or God.”
But I hadn’t.
When Noelle came to my office for her first post-detox meeting I was tense awaiting another assault. Instead she was cautiously friendly. It turned out that her reaction had been to a cross I’d worn. It was a gift from my husband and I loved it. I hadn't mentioned religion when we met; I hadn't needed to, I was wearing it around my neck. Noelle told me that her mother had beaten her up at night and preached religion at her all day. It wasn’t hard to listen to her painful story and to feel compassion.
“Why is the place where Jesus is supposed to hang empty on your cross?” she asked.
“Because he’s not there any more,” I said.
“It’s kinda pretty,” she said.
I took the cross off and let her hold it. She declined the offer to let her try it on, saying it was mine. When Noelle left the treatment center after four weeks she looked well and happy. I'd never suggested she go to church, and I don’t know if she held onto her sobriety. I pray so. She healed my fears and helped me be an authentic goddamn religious freak.
* * * *
Over time in my chaplaincy there I mentioned religion a lot in my work with addicts. Few were hostile; in fact many longed for the basic ideas and sacramental practices they’d known as kids. Every time someone came to see me it was a confession of sorts. Listening was absolving. I used Bible stories like the prodigal son or daughter coming home to Love; spoke of prayer as a common denominator; offered ashes on Ash Wednesday, and was bold enough to convert my office into a Meditation Room always open for prayer and quiet. No one came but it was there.
All these courageous alkies helped me become a goddamn religious freak of a woman priest.
I’d just been hired by as a chaplain in a new alcohol/drug rehabilitation center. I was a religious professional on the way to being ordained an Episcopal priest— and already there was a gag rule.
During my first week on the job I went to the detox area in fear and trembling to visit my very first patient, thinking the warning might be exaggerated, and reminding myself confidently that they had advertised for a chaplain. It was a title they wanted to change to pastoral counselor but I had lobbied for Chaplain, a title with religious implications—and won.
“Get the f... out of here, you goddam religious freak!” Noelle screeched before I even introduced myself. I backed out of her room slowly and mumbled fleeting impotent words of comfort like it will be all right—for my own benefit. Then I went to find my supervisor to ask for a change of assignment. She said no.
“Take it slow and easy,” she said. “Detox is monstrous. She’ll be more reasonable when she is alcohol free. Just don’t mention religion or God.”
But I hadn’t.
When Noelle came to my office for her first post-detox meeting I was tense awaiting another assault. Instead she was cautiously friendly. It turned out that her reaction had been to a cross I’d worn. It was a gift from my husband and I loved it. I hadn't mentioned religion when we met; I hadn't needed to, I was wearing it around my neck. Noelle told me that her mother had beaten her up at night and preached religion at her all day. It wasn’t hard to listen to her painful story and to feel compassion.
“Why is the place where Jesus is supposed to hang empty on your cross?” she asked.
“Because he’s not there any more,” I said.
“It’s kinda pretty,” she said.
I took the cross off and let her hold it. She declined the offer to let her try it on, saying it was mine. When Noelle left the treatment center after four weeks she looked well and happy. I'd never suggested she go to church, and I don’t know if she held onto her sobriety. I pray so. She healed my fears and helped me be an authentic goddamn religious freak.
* * * *
Over time in my chaplaincy there I mentioned religion a lot in my work with addicts. Few were hostile; in fact many longed for the basic ideas and sacramental practices they’d known as kids. Every time someone came to see me it was a confession of sorts. Listening was absolving. I used Bible stories like the prodigal son or daughter coming home to Love; spoke of prayer as a common denominator; offered ashes on Ash Wednesday, and was bold enough to convert my office into a Meditation Room always open for prayer and quiet. No one came but it was there.
All these courageous alkies helped me become a goddamn religious freak of a woman priest.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
2012.08.04 One Sad Little Story
Writing a memoir creates a mind set for long term memory. Fine with me since my short term one is beginning to lag a bit.
Today I thought of a high school friend. Her face passed in front of me and I wondered how she had survived. She grew up with a severely alcoholic father who used to slap her behind and call her Bessie Broadbottom—then laugh with ghoulish gusto. She laughed too but I knew it wasn’t funny. I used to wonder about sexual abuse even back in the 50s in a suburban CT. shore town!
My friend’s mother was passive, sweet, and preachy religious. But she too had a steel magnolia edge. It was obviously how she controlled her internal chaos and ignored her husband. She told her daughter that she could have married Mr. Mack of Mack trucks and have lots of money and happiness. Cruel revelation I thought.
Growing up with cruelty made my friend unpopular in school because she was pushy trying to excel and be popular. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t like her much either but stayed friends because I felt sorry for her.
She idealized me and my family, wrongly really because I was in a similar cocktail situation but with far more love in it. My dad’s sarcasm was martini-induced and he never called me names or sexualized our relationship. My mom’s denial helped her kid herself and skim the surface of life. It irked me but helped me sharpen my awareness and thus my spirituality: dig deep for truth. But I never thought my parents were cruel and I knew I was loved.
When after college I got engaged my friend was excited to be invited to the party and later to be one of my bridesmaids.
I was far less excited about the idea of a big party than my mother who wanted a traditional event with lots of people; she wanted my father to announce with pride that his daughter Lynda was to be married, a little speech just for me. I felt shy and uncomfortable but my friend thought that would be the greatest thing in the world ever to happen to any girl.
She missed the big announcement arriving late to the party because her father had to have “just one more drink” at the restaurant.
I will never forget my friend’s face when she rushed in to find she’d missed what she had so wanted to be present for. It exploded, awash with pain, rage and helplessness, almost feral, when she turned on her parents like a trapped wild beast, and said “You made me miss it.”
Moments like that are ripe for despair. They are prayers.
The voice of despair came some 30 years later after I was ordained and through my phone answering machine. My friend located me because of a high school reunion list and dialed. I got the message and recognized her voice, drunk with alcohol and pain.
“I want to do what you do,” she said twice and hung up leaving no number to call back.
Oh, God.
Today I thought of a high school friend. Her face passed in front of me and I wondered how she had survived. She grew up with a severely alcoholic father who used to slap her behind and call her Bessie Broadbottom—then laugh with ghoulish gusto. She laughed too but I knew it wasn’t funny. I used to wonder about sexual abuse even back in the 50s in a suburban CT. shore town!
My friend’s mother was passive, sweet, and preachy religious. But she too had a steel magnolia edge. It was obviously how she controlled her internal chaos and ignored her husband. She told her daughter that she could have married Mr. Mack of Mack trucks and have lots of money and happiness. Cruel revelation I thought.
Growing up with cruelty made my friend unpopular in school because she was pushy trying to excel and be popular. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t like her much either but stayed friends because I felt sorry for her.
She idealized me and my family, wrongly really because I was in a similar cocktail situation but with far more love in it. My dad’s sarcasm was martini-induced and he never called me names or sexualized our relationship. My mom’s denial helped her kid herself and skim the surface of life. It irked me but helped me sharpen my awareness and thus my spirituality: dig deep for truth. But I never thought my parents were cruel and I knew I was loved.
When after college I got engaged my friend was excited to be invited to the party and later to be one of my bridesmaids.
I was far less excited about the idea of a big party than my mother who wanted a traditional event with lots of people; she wanted my father to announce with pride that his daughter Lynda was to be married, a little speech just for me. I felt shy and uncomfortable but my friend thought that would be the greatest thing in the world ever to happen to any girl.
She missed the big announcement arriving late to the party because her father had to have “just one more drink” at the restaurant.
I will never forget my friend’s face when she rushed in to find she’d missed what she had so wanted to be present for. It exploded, awash with pain, rage and helplessness, almost feral, when she turned on her parents like a trapped wild beast, and said “You made me miss it.”
Moments like that are ripe for despair. They are prayers.
The voice of despair came some 30 years later after I was ordained and through my phone answering machine. My friend located me because of a high school reunion list and dialed. I got the message and recognized her voice, drunk with alcohol and pain.
“I want to do what you do,” she said twice and hung up leaving no number to call back.
Oh, God.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
2012.05.30 Necessary Drunkenness?
One of the scornful accusations leveled at the people in the pentecostal parable in the New Testament, in which hundreds went ecstatic and spoke and understood in many languages, was that these religious nuts were drunk!
Excuses were quickly made by Peter: “No, no they can’t be drunk. It’s only 9 a.m.!” When that story is read in church everyone usually laughs— out loud.
I’ve often made excuses about my spiritual experience, even though I’m not the ecstasy type. Anglo/WASP/New England, you know.
Not long ago we went to New York's Museum of Modern Art to see a special exhibit featuring Willem deKooning’s paintings of Woman and a major work, Excavation, his largest painting up to 1950.
We liked Excavation but found it somewhat colorless, drab, and overly gray. I felt guilty. This man was acclaimed. I remembered liking his work somewhere in my own ancient history, like college. Maybe it was because we were getting old and graying ourselves.
As we moved through the exhibit the paintings took on more color, flamboyance. And more abstraction. Nary a nose or a big eye to let you know there was supposed to be a person—and no outsized nippled breasts either!
And we loved it!
Later I told an artist friend we’d been a bit disappointed by the work that had been touted as his best. She gave a wry snort and said something like “Well, the colorful stuff was painted when he was drinking more and more.” We laughed.
“Hey,” I told Dick. “The de Kooning stuff we liked the best was his alkie stuff!”
Of course I know sobriety is a better bet, but there’s a reason why the Bible remembers the grandiose biblical story of collective spiritual ecstasy at Pentecost. It wasn’t the first appearance of Spirit but this one was a big splash—rushing winds, tongues of fire. They were speaking about God and God’s mighty deeds so I suppose anything could happen—and it did.
Peter’s attempt to explain it away, but certainly not as morning-after “drunkenness,” was funny.
About as funny as our preferring the alcohol-inspired work of a great artist.
I think everyone is an alcoholic at some level and some time, or at least we all go through necessary drunkenness to break into the divine outer, even for just a day or a minute or for the sake of a couple of blow-out paintings.
Excuses were quickly made by Peter: “No, no they can’t be drunk. It’s only 9 a.m.!” When that story is read in church everyone usually laughs— out loud.
I’ve often made excuses about my spiritual experience, even though I’m not the ecstasy type. Anglo/WASP/New England, you know.
Not long ago we went to New York's Museum of Modern Art to see a special exhibit featuring Willem deKooning’s paintings of Woman and a major work, Excavation, his largest painting up to 1950.
We liked Excavation but found it somewhat colorless, drab, and overly gray. I felt guilty. This man was acclaimed. I remembered liking his work somewhere in my own ancient history, like college. Maybe it was because we were getting old and graying ourselves.
As we moved through the exhibit the paintings took on more color, flamboyance. And more abstraction. Nary a nose or a big eye to let you know there was supposed to be a person—and no outsized nippled breasts either!
And we loved it!
Later I told an artist friend we’d been a bit disappointed by the work that had been touted as his best. She gave a wry snort and said something like “Well, the colorful stuff was painted when he was drinking more and more.” We laughed.
“Hey,” I told Dick. “The de Kooning stuff we liked the best was his alkie stuff!”
Of course I know sobriety is a better bet, but there’s a reason why the Bible remembers the grandiose biblical story of collective spiritual ecstasy at Pentecost. It wasn’t the first appearance of Spirit but this one was a big splash—rushing winds, tongues of fire. They were speaking about God and God’s mighty deeds so I suppose anything could happen—and it did.
Peter’s attempt to explain it away, but certainly not as morning-after “drunkenness,” was funny.
About as funny as our preferring the alcohol-inspired work of a great artist.
I think everyone is an alcoholic at some level and some time, or at least we all go through necessary drunkenness to break into the divine outer, even for just a day or a minute or for the sake of a couple of blow-out paintings.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
2012.04.25 The Gift of Alanon
When I went to my first Alanon meeting I was in the midst of my own midlife turmoil, getting things straightened out by messing them up first. You know the usual adolescent passage.
Anyway, all I could think as I sat quietly tense listening to many stories told by people who had lived with alcoholism, some all their lives, some only recently, and all of them stunned that they had never realized what was happening to them, was, “MY MOTHER WOULD KILL ME FOR BEING HERE!” (I was violating the tabu against narking or ratting. I was telling "classified" family info.)
The story tellers were mostly women, stunned, to varying degrees, that they had not realized what was happening to them because of what was obviously someone else’s problem.
Odd and crazy! I hated this meeting. Yet...... odd to find myself so utterly one of them. Odd too that I worried about my mother when wasn’t my father the alcoholic? He after all was the one with the tri-cornered martini glass twisting between his thumb and forefinger nightly.
Alanon, I read in the pamphlet, was initiated in the mid 1900s by Lois Wilson, wife of alcoholic Bill Wilson, founder of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous.) Lois realized that her own life was as affected by Bill’s addiction as his was. You don’t have to be the one vomiting to feel nauseous. You don’t have to be the one lying to feel blame. You don’t have to be the sleep-distrubed one to lose sleep.
AA and Alanon are siblings and, yes, they often rival but they have the same goal: to live sober, serene and happy lives. Transformation is the way out and it can not be done without the help and support of other people and God aka Higher Power.
The meeting went on around me as my mind smashed into its own fears and judgments. Why hadn’t I known and why hadn’t my mother known and done something about it? And why hadn’t my father loved me at least as much as his glass? And why did I fall in love with alcoholics?
But I sat and flinched because my mother would not want me to know or to tell. It was then that I first realized how ashamed and self-condemning she too must have felt at her helplessness. It was then that I began to understand my mother, avoid being “killed” by her, and understand her micromanaging as an effort to make things right not torture me. It was then I began to forgive her, just a little.
The meeting ended and the friendly women said to keep coming. All you need is the desire to live well and sane.
I left that first meeting vowing never to return. Too much truth blinds—and awakens.
Yes I went back. I kept on listening. I never was at a meeting that I didn’t hear in the shreds of another’s story something that was part of my story, something that enlightened me and helped me feel not so confused, hopeful that insight could bring healing. Sometimes I told my story, too.
What Alanon taught me: 1) You don’t have to drink to be alcoholic. All you have to do is be constantly/secretly anxious, engage in a life mission of controlling the uncontrollable, and alternate between anger (bullying and tempers,) passivity (cold withdrawal and secret scorn,) and micromanagement of your own and other’s lives— all strategies of control. 2) You can’t recover, transform, your life by yourself. 3) How you think about God, or the transcendent dimension of life, is crucial. It’s easy to give your heart to the wrong God or follow the wrong star. 4) Humility is the highest virtue. 5) How to take care of yourself, a little like coming home to your own integrity and worth and knowing that you matter. 6) How to detach with love: to love fully without losing yourself in the other, or abandoning the other to save yourself.
Alanon is like eastering.
Anyway, all I could think as I sat quietly tense listening to many stories told by people who had lived with alcoholism, some all their lives, some only recently, and all of them stunned that they had never realized what was happening to them, was, “MY MOTHER WOULD KILL ME FOR BEING HERE!” (I was violating the tabu against narking or ratting. I was telling "classified" family info.)
The story tellers were mostly women, stunned, to varying degrees, that they had not realized what was happening to them because of what was obviously someone else’s problem.
Odd and crazy! I hated this meeting. Yet...... odd to find myself so utterly one of them. Odd too that I worried about my mother when wasn’t my father the alcoholic? He after all was the one with the tri-cornered martini glass twisting between his thumb and forefinger nightly.
Alanon, I read in the pamphlet, was initiated in the mid 1900s by Lois Wilson, wife of alcoholic Bill Wilson, founder of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous.) Lois realized that her own life was as affected by Bill’s addiction as his was. You don’t have to be the one vomiting to feel nauseous. You don’t have to be the one lying to feel blame. You don’t have to be the sleep-distrubed one to lose sleep.
AA and Alanon are siblings and, yes, they often rival but they have the same goal: to live sober, serene and happy lives. Transformation is the way out and it can not be done without the help and support of other people and God aka Higher Power.
The meeting went on around me as my mind smashed into its own fears and judgments. Why hadn’t I known and why hadn’t my mother known and done something about it? And why hadn’t my father loved me at least as much as his glass? And why did I fall in love with alcoholics?
But I sat and flinched because my mother would not want me to know or to tell. It was then that I first realized how ashamed and self-condemning she too must have felt at her helplessness. It was then that I began to understand my mother, avoid being “killed” by her, and understand her micromanaging as an effort to make things right not torture me. It was then I began to forgive her, just a little.
The meeting ended and the friendly women said to keep coming. All you need is the desire to live well and sane.
I left that first meeting vowing never to return. Too much truth blinds—and awakens.
Yes I went back. I kept on listening. I never was at a meeting that I didn’t hear in the shreds of another’s story something that was part of my story, something that enlightened me and helped me feel not so confused, hopeful that insight could bring healing. Sometimes I told my story, too.
What Alanon taught me: 1) You don’t have to drink to be alcoholic. All you have to do is be constantly/secretly anxious, engage in a life mission of controlling the uncontrollable, and alternate between anger (bullying and tempers,) passivity (cold withdrawal and secret scorn,) and micromanagement of your own and other’s lives— all strategies of control. 2) You can’t recover, transform, your life by yourself. 3) How you think about God, or the transcendent dimension of life, is crucial. It’s easy to give your heart to the wrong God or follow the wrong star. 4) Humility is the highest virtue. 5) How to take care of yourself, a little like coming home to your own integrity and worth and knowing that you matter. 6) How to detach with love: to love fully without losing yourself in the other, or abandoning the other to save yourself.
Alanon is like eastering.
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