One, for the mask
Dozen years past mandatory retirement age and still doing part of what the vocation calls most parish priests to do. No pastoral care, in part because the emotions become so deeply invested and at this age I don't need the worry, agony about others' pain, and "heart attacks". One is preaching from time to time, including this morning. As usual, keeping a promise to a dear friend, whatever today's sermon turns out to be, and I never know for certain until on the way back up the aisle from Gospel to pulpit, will be posted here later, probably about noon.
On my preaching Sundays I usually only post the sermon or homily because late Saturday and early Sunday is when I check out my sermon notes for my final chance to see what is all wrong; sometimes having to start from scratch. But the latest Christmas post in Charles LaFond's The Daily Sip kept me thinking. Awake too. Awake and thinking. I enjoy his writing, and appreciate it as much as I enjoy it, and recommend it.
He's an Episcopal priest whose mind works as I might like mine to work but does not so I don't worry about it. For one thing, besides his brilliance and style, he writes for others. His writing takes me to wherever he is. For some years a green place in New Mexico. Currently, Puget Sound, Washington, where during my Navy years and later was a favorite place to be, ride the ferry and contemplate. Meditate not so much. In my Time, ride the ferry over and back, sit at a picnic style table in the upper deck lounge, roll open the paper wrap with my half pound of smoked salmon, quart of beer, pack of saltines, sometimes a small jar of mayonnaise and fork to smear, and enjoy the immensity of nature. It was some of the best that life can be.
But okay, this essay. http://thedailysip.org/2019/12/20/advent-masks/
It's copy and pasted below in case the link fails to open. A Christmas gift for the mind, it's a mental challenge to contemplate. Like LaFond and, frankly you, I have masks. One, for the mask, no one will see me when I step into the pulpit later this morning, that priest called Tom isn't me - - as in "ich heiße Tom aber ich bin nicht Tom" and only one or two know who's behind my Tom Mask. One, for the mask, though I might say I wish for forgetfulness, my mind cannot let go and I like it that way, my mind holds on to every dark and unkind word and deed ever said or done to me, making them part of what makes me whoever I am, which in part is reserved, wary. One, for the mask, only the few who can read the set of my lips, or read between my lines, know what I think, how I feel, what I'm really saying.
How do I shed my masks? I may not want to shed them, but whether anyone noticed, I did in fact shed a mask or two in the paragraph above, at least for the moment. I may put them back on as I leave 7H into the morning rainstorm a few hours from now. And, as with LaFond, there are plenty more masks.
So, Advent Masks. I might wish LaFond had published this essay earlier so I could've treated Advent more like Lent, but counting today there are still three Advent days left to contemplate more of my masks, and decide whether it's safe to let anyone see my face.
RSF&PTL
++++++++++
Advent Masks
By Charles LaFond on Dec 20, 2019 09:56 am
Advent Masks
The masks we wear, no matter how glamorous, just get in the way of living life.
Someone recently asked me to define “spirituality” which places an Episcopal Priest rather on the spot. It took me a while to break the lump in my throat enough to speak my answer in this crowd of people assembled to discuss my most recent book. The lump in my throat was not about a lack of clarity regarding the answer. The lump in my throat was about a lack of willingness to be exposed – to take off my mask.
We all wear these masks, and some of us have collected a few. One for work. One for friends. One for lovers. One for people at church. One for those we seek to seduce and one for those whose seduction we crave. The more masks, the more exhaustion from playing so many roles.
It will be Christmas Day in a few short days. My to-do lists are almost completed. Christmas Day is always, for me, a day to recover from the exhaustion of preparing – the gifts, the mailings, the food, the events, the year-end campaign, the expectations of me and of others.
As I reflect on Christmas, I am aware that the story is one of unmasking. It takes a God, one characterized in scriptures and tradition before 0 AD as angry, distant, old, cranky, disappointed, litigious, arid, crusty, vengeful, jealous – a God much like me on my worst days – and it unmasks that God as tender, vulnerable, soft, brown, moist and even giggling with arms and feet waving around in the air like tentacles, seeking to grasp and touch and even caress.
As I looked out at the adoring audience, hanging on my every word the way guru-seekers tend to do, I was loathe to answer the question – the definition of spirituality. But they were not asking for THE definition. They were asking for MY definition. So, after appropriate disclaimers about “THE” and “MY” definitions I went ahead and spoke. “My definition of spirituality, I said, is a relentless engagement with truth.’”
Truth is not masks. Truth is exposure of what is real.
This Christmas my life is about to change. That is what happens to people who take off their masks. Even the ones we use for our mirrors.
Suddenly the cold, bracing air hits the moist, hot skin as the mask comes off. Suddenly the ability to see the world and myself are no longer limited by two, small holes. Suddenly people can read my face and see when I am lying even if only to myself. Suddenly what is soft is exposed to weather, to kiss, to shrapnel and to fist. But the alternative is worse.
For some reason, God wanted to be seen. God wanted to touch and be touched. God wanted to be in time. God wanted to connect without masks of God’s own making and without the masks fabricated by preachers.
Today, with this writing of the 1,900th Daily Sip and the 810,000th words of the collection, I can admit to having been raised by abusers – adicts – manipulators – mentally unwell humans who had sex and produced a child – me. Were they qualified to raise me? No. But here I am. And now, at 56, I am, this week, for the first time in my life, beginning the 12-step programs for Adult Children of Alcoholics and Dysfunctional Parents (ACOA). I am terrified to take off my masks. I am terrified to burn them in a pile. I am terrified to admit that I keep making adult choices borne out of my traumatic childhood.
But if there was ever a season to admit to truth, I guess it is Christmas. How I hit-bottom. Why I hit-bottom is not for public consumption; but like so many before me, I am glad I did. When one hits-bottom, one awakens when the stunned stars circling one’s head wear off. Advent is about being awake. Christmas is about being exposed. And Epiphany will be about light in the darkness. A new life. And weekly ACOA meetings. And bad coffee. And good choices.
Merry Christmas to all; and to all a good light.
On my preaching Sundays I usually only post the sermon or homily because late Saturday and early Sunday is when I check out my sermon notes for my final chance to see what is all wrong; sometimes having to start from scratch. But the latest Christmas post in Charles LaFond's The Daily Sip kept me thinking. Awake too. Awake and thinking. I enjoy his writing, and appreciate it as much as I enjoy it, and recommend it.
He's an Episcopal priest whose mind works as I might like mine to work but does not so I don't worry about it. For one thing, besides his brilliance and style, he writes for others. His writing takes me to wherever he is. For some years a green place in New Mexico. Currently, Puget Sound, Washington, where during my Navy years and later was a favorite place to be, ride the ferry and contemplate. Meditate not so much. In my Time, ride the ferry over and back, sit at a picnic style table in the upper deck lounge, roll open the paper wrap with my half pound of smoked salmon, quart of beer, pack of saltines, sometimes a small jar of mayonnaise and fork to smear, and enjoy the immensity of nature. It was some of the best that life can be.
But okay, this essay. http://thedailysip.org/2019/12/20/advent-masks/
It's copy and pasted below in case the link fails to open. A Christmas gift for the mind, it's a mental challenge to contemplate. Like LaFond and, frankly you, I have masks. One, for the mask, no one will see me when I step into the pulpit later this morning, that priest called Tom isn't me - - as in "ich heiße Tom aber ich bin nicht Tom" and only one or two know who's behind my Tom Mask. One, for the mask, though I might say I wish for forgetfulness, my mind cannot let go and I like it that way, my mind holds on to every dark and unkind word and deed ever said or done to me, making them part of what makes me whoever I am, which in part is reserved, wary. One, for the mask, only the few who can read the set of my lips, or read between my lines, know what I think, how I feel, what I'm really saying.
How do I shed my masks? I may not want to shed them, but whether anyone noticed, I did in fact shed a mask or two in the paragraph above, at least for the moment. I may put them back on as I leave 7H into the morning rainstorm a few hours from now. And, as with LaFond, there are plenty more masks.
So, Advent Masks. I might wish LaFond had published this essay earlier so I could've treated Advent more like Lent, but counting today there are still three Advent days left to contemplate more of my masks, and decide whether it's safe to let anyone see my face.
RSF&PTL
++++++++++
Advent Masks
By Charles LaFond on Dec 20, 2019 09:56 am
Advent Masks
The masks we wear, no matter how glamorous, just get in the way of living life.
Someone recently asked me to define “spirituality” which places an Episcopal Priest rather on the spot. It took me a while to break the lump in my throat enough to speak my answer in this crowd of people assembled to discuss my most recent book. The lump in my throat was not about a lack of clarity regarding the answer. The lump in my throat was about a lack of willingness to be exposed – to take off my mask.
We all wear these masks, and some of us have collected a few. One for work. One for friends. One for lovers. One for people at church. One for those we seek to seduce and one for those whose seduction we crave. The more masks, the more exhaustion from playing so many roles.
It will be Christmas Day in a few short days. My to-do lists are almost completed. Christmas Day is always, for me, a day to recover from the exhaustion of preparing – the gifts, the mailings, the food, the events, the year-end campaign, the expectations of me and of others.
As I reflect on Christmas, I am aware that the story is one of unmasking. It takes a God, one characterized in scriptures and tradition before 0 AD as angry, distant, old, cranky, disappointed, litigious, arid, crusty, vengeful, jealous – a God much like me on my worst days – and it unmasks that God as tender, vulnerable, soft, brown, moist and even giggling with arms and feet waving around in the air like tentacles, seeking to grasp and touch and even caress.
As I looked out at the adoring audience, hanging on my every word the way guru-seekers tend to do, I was loathe to answer the question – the definition of spirituality. But they were not asking for THE definition. They were asking for MY definition. So, after appropriate disclaimers about “THE” and “MY” definitions I went ahead and spoke. “My definition of spirituality, I said, is a relentless engagement with truth.’”
Truth is not masks. Truth is exposure of what is real.
This Christmas my life is about to change. That is what happens to people who take off their masks. Even the ones we use for our mirrors.
Suddenly the cold, bracing air hits the moist, hot skin as the mask comes off. Suddenly the ability to see the world and myself are no longer limited by two, small holes. Suddenly people can read my face and see when I am lying even if only to myself. Suddenly what is soft is exposed to weather, to kiss, to shrapnel and to fist. But the alternative is worse.
For some reason, God wanted to be seen. God wanted to touch and be touched. God wanted to be in time. God wanted to connect without masks of God’s own making and without the masks fabricated by preachers.
Today, with this writing of the 1,900th Daily Sip and the 810,000th words of the collection, I can admit to having been raised by abusers – adicts – manipulators – mentally unwell humans who had sex and produced a child – me. Were they qualified to raise me? No. But here I am. And now, at 56, I am, this week, for the first time in my life, beginning the 12-step programs for Adult Children of Alcoholics and Dysfunctional Parents (ACOA). I am terrified to take off my masks. I am terrified to burn them in a pile. I am terrified to admit that I keep making adult choices borne out of my traumatic childhood.
But if there was ever a season to admit to truth, I guess it is Christmas. How I hit-bottom. Why I hit-bottom is not for public consumption; but like so many before me, I am glad I did. When one hits-bottom, one awakens when the stunned stars circling one’s head wear off. Advent is about being awake. Christmas is about being exposed. And Epiphany will be about light in the darkness. A new life. And weekly ACOA meetings. And bad coffee. And good choices.
Merry Christmas to all; and to all a good light.