It’s been years since I regularly attended church, but just to show you how ingrained one’s upbringing is, I’ll tell you that I was actually considering this morning whether I should give anything up for Lent. This all got started because the other day I was looking things up about Shrove Tuesday, a liturgical occasion that I probably hadn’t thought about since, literally, high school. I looked it up to see what it had to do with Mardi Gras, and when I found out that eating pancakes is something one does to mark Shrove Tuesday (because you’re eating up eggs, sugar, and fat, all those things you won’t be eating during the period of abstinence), I decided I’d treat myself to pancakes to mark the day.
With Mardi Gras, you’re throwing beads, eating King Cake, and possibly toasting the occasion with libations. I have to admit that when I hear the word “pancakes,” I don’t immediately think, “Wow—the decadence!” Shrove Tuesday is a devout person’s version of kicking up one’s heels. I sometimes made pancakes at home (not for devotional reasons, but on random occasions) and was always trying to replicate the ones my mother made when I was little. I never succeeded in doing so. Hers were thin, more like crepes than the big, thick ones restaurants serve, and she made them small, no more than four or five inches in diameter. They were delicious in an unassuming way, sort of sweet and savory. No one else’s tasted like hers, although other peoples’ presentation was often more impressive.
I have gotten closer to her way of making them over time, but mine are too soggy, and there’s still something missing flavor-wise. It seems to me that everybody else makes enormous pancakes but relies on toppings for most of the razzmatazz and flavor. My mom’s weren’t like that: you could eat them alone and they would still taste good. I remember eating them with a little bit of butter (actually margarine) or grape jelly and considering them a treat. I wish I had asked her how she did it, but I’m not sure even she would have been able to tell me. Probably, it had to do as much with the ingredients and the skillet she used as with any technique involved. (I do know she used Calumet Baking Powder.)
Well, the gist of it is, I went out for pancakes yesterday, ended up at First Watch eating carrot cake and pecan flavored pancakes, and once again thought to myself, once it was over, “Not bad, but not like Mom’s.” The pancakes were huge, and I couldn’t quite finish them, so I rolled out of the restaurant feeling that I had definitely lived up to my “Fat Tuesday” obligations. Having gotten into the Shrove Tuesday mode, I woke up this morning thinking about whether I might get any benefit from celebrating Lent, and if so, what I might want to give up for it. Then it occurred to me, all at once: Mary! You’re living in your car! You live like a nun, you don’t even have a pillow to lay your head on, you eat hard-boiled eggs, almonds, and salad (admittedly with some potato chips and fries thrown in), and your money goes toward the basics of living. Getting a roof over your head is the main luxury you’re looking forward to at the moment. What could you possibly deprive yourself of that circumstances haven’t taken away from you already?
When you’re raised as a Catholic, you have that “But I could always try a little harder to be good” ethic impressed on you from the get-go, and while I think this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, you do have a responsibility to yourself to say when enough is enough. A person can only be so good before starting to float off into the ether or sail off to heaven in a magic ship like Perceval did. If that sounds good to you, go right ahead, but I’ve spent much of my life trying to learn to embrace earthly life, not leave it behind. Catholicism, as I learned it, probably emphasized the next life a little too strongly. I can see that in the Middle Ages, when life was tough all over, this might have played well and even have given people a lifeline. But I think we’re at point in the 21st century when we have to say to ourselves, “This is where we are. If we don’t like it, how do we go about making the world better?”
So in short, I’m not giving anything up for Lent. I, personally, have had enough character building experiences and in fact probably have extra character to give away, should you be in need of some. It seems eminently more practical to try to hang onto the things I’ve got, though a good Lenten exercise might be to keep in mind that all of us, no matter where we’re situated, have something to say about the kind of world we’re creating. No matter who you are, no matter where you are, your actions affect the world we’re living in, and we can only make this life better if we decide that we want to.
Showing posts with label Catholicism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Catholicism. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Out on Monk's Road
A few days ago, I drove west on the Bluegrass Parkway to visit the Abbey at Gethsemani. There was a time when I made this trip more often, and I've been overdue for a visit. The abbey is a Trappist monastery in a bucolic setting down a narrow country road in Nelson County. Thomas Merton lived there, and today it's home to quite a number of monks. They're contemplative, which to my understanding means they emphasize prayer and work and an atmosphere of silence.
The Gethsemani monks are known for their fruitcakes and cheese and bourbon candy. I sampled the candy once at Christmas time, and believe me, it will either clear your sinuses or put hair on your chest or both. They're generous with the bourbon is all I'm saying.
They picked a great spot for a contemplative abbey; by day, they're surrounded by lush fields and soft green hills with little to interrupt the quiet but birds and crickets, and by night they're tucked under a bright canopy of stars. I know, because I used to take my binoculars and go there star-gazing. It was the one place I could think of where it was dark enough to see the night sky and safe enough to be doing it. I used to gaze at the moon by the hour from their parking lot and try to identify constellations and nebulae; the only interference was a rather bright light on a nearby barn.
The first time I visited the abbey, I think I was expecting something more medieval. I was doing the Artist's Way and went there on an artist's date. A monastery might not be the first place you'd think of for an artist's date, but as I interpreted it, I was seeking out new experiences and exploring realms outside my everyday sphere. Certainly, the abbey qualified for that. It was a place I'd long been curious about and floated in my imagination as some kind of mysterious, otherworldly Avalon, resounding with chant and shadowy silences.
When I got there, late in the afternoon of a Saturday in November, I stopped at the visitor's center and spoke to the monk on duty, who had a very round face and glasses but didn't seem particularly medieval. He told me I could visit the church, so I went in and looked around. I might have taken his invitation too liberally, as I went all the way down the nave and around the little nooks at the other end, which may actually have been off limits. When I came back to the seating area behind the little gate, I was just in time to see the shocked face of another visitor, evidently a regular, who crossed herself agitatedly and knelt down to pray with the stiff manner of someone who had just witnessed the breaking of at least eight and possibly more of the Ten Commandments.
I stayed in the growing dusk of that autumn day for vespers, sitting with the other visitors who gradually filled the seats as bells tolled and white-and-black-robed monks came strolling in from various directions to fill the benches on either side of the nave in front of us. To be honest, I think I was a little disappointed with the plainness of the church, which seemed rather starkly white with its unadorned dark wood beams and spartan interior. When the monks began to chant, it was in English, not in Latin, and even the melodies seemed more modern than I was expecting. I was still a little wounded by the silent rebuke I'd received from the pious woman and wondered why I so frequently felt in the wrong when it came to Catholicism, the church I was raised in.
In between chants, there were readings, and as it happened, one of the readings was on fornication, which was mentioned several times. Each time it came up, a few more visitors, all young and mostly in pairs, got up and left in a hurry. The Abbey at Gethsemani is fairly famous, and I'm sure it draws people from all over the world, many of whom are not churchgoers at all. I surmised that these young pilgrims, probably admirers of Merton's who knew of his work with the Buddhists, stopped in to see the place associated with him and got more than they bargained for in the form of an epistle on sins of the flesh. I sat there unmoved. I might have had trespassing issues, but otherwise my conscience was in the clear.
I'm not sure why I went back after the first anticlimactic visit, unless it was because had I noticed the light. After the first time, I usually went directly up to the second-floor balcony, which allows you to look down the length of the nave from on high. You can't even see the monks unless you sit close enough to the front, but what you can see is . . . light -- the way it streams in through the parti-colored windows, like the answer to a prayer or the sound of the word "om." It's very peaceful in the balcony, with that warm light streaming in, and the simplicity of the church turns out to be the perfect backdrop for watching the light. When I think of the abbey now, that's what I see.
One time, I was sitting up there, lost in thought, when I heard a door opening behind me. I looked around and saw one of the monks crossing the balcony from the monastic area on his way down to the church. He was a middle-aged man with a balding head and a spring in his step, and he smiled at me without saying anything, though his expression spoke volumes. That's another thing that has stayed with me, the joy in his smile.
On my recent visit, as I sat light-gazing, I thought to myself that I should keep my mind open and see what inspiration or epiphany might come to me on one of those sunbeams. I'd been sitting there for a while, thinking about little else but how funny life is, when suddenly I realized that I needed to change a password on one of my accounts at home. Not exactly the kind of thing I was expecting, but when I'm sitting in an attitude of meditation in a house of prayer, and an unexpected thought comes to me, I pay attention.
On the way out, I stopped to look at the walled garden, a simple but inviting place drowsing in the early summer evening. I peeked into the visitor's chapel, where someone had posted a note about praying the rosary. I waved at a pleasant-looking couple I saw in the parking lot. On the way back to town, I passed a young man walking on the side of the road who looked at me with a sort of light in his eyes, a la "Woodstock." I don't know what any of that means, but when I got home, I did change my password.
The Gethsemani monks are known for their fruitcakes and cheese and bourbon candy. I sampled the candy once at Christmas time, and believe me, it will either clear your sinuses or put hair on your chest or both. They're generous with the bourbon is all I'm saying.
They picked a great spot for a contemplative abbey; by day, they're surrounded by lush fields and soft green hills with little to interrupt the quiet but birds and crickets, and by night they're tucked under a bright canopy of stars. I know, because I used to take my binoculars and go there star-gazing. It was the one place I could think of where it was dark enough to see the night sky and safe enough to be doing it. I used to gaze at the moon by the hour from their parking lot and try to identify constellations and nebulae; the only interference was a rather bright light on a nearby barn.
The first time I visited the abbey, I think I was expecting something more medieval. I was doing the Artist's Way and went there on an artist's date. A monastery might not be the first place you'd think of for an artist's date, but as I interpreted it, I was seeking out new experiences and exploring realms outside my everyday sphere. Certainly, the abbey qualified for that. It was a place I'd long been curious about and floated in my imagination as some kind of mysterious, otherworldly Avalon, resounding with chant and shadowy silences.
When I got there, late in the afternoon of a Saturday in November, I stopped at the visitor's center and spoke to the monk on duty, who had a very round face and glasses but didn't seem particularly medieval. He told me I could visit the church, so I went in and looked around. I might have taken his invitation too liberally, as I went all the way down the nave and around the little nooks at the other end, which may actually have been off limits. When I came back to the seating area behind the little gate, I was just in time to see the shocked face of another visitor, evidently a regular, who crossed herself agitatedly and knelt down to pray with the stiff manner of someone who had just witnessed the breaking of at least eight and possibly more of the Ten Commandments.
I stayed in the growing dusk of that autumn day for vespers, sitting with the other visitors who gradually filled the seats as bells tolled and white-and-black-robed monks came strolling in from various directions to fill the benches on either side of the nave in front of us. To be honest, I think I was a little disappointed with the plainness of the church, which seemed rather starkly white with its unadorned dark wood beams and spartan interior. When the monks began to chant, it was in English, not in Latin, and even the melodies seemed more modern than I was expecting. I was still a little wounded by the silent rebuke I'd received from the pious woman and wondered why I so frequently felt in the wrong when it came to Catholicism, the church I was raised in.
In between chants, there were readings, and as it happened, one of the readings was on fornication, which was mentioned several times. Each time it came up, a few more visitors, all young and mostly in pairs, got up and left in a hurry. The Abbey at Gethsemani is fairly famous, and I'm sure it draws people from all over the world, many of whom are not churchgoers at all. I surmised that these young pilgrims, probably admirers of Merton's who knew of his work with the Buddhists, stopped in to see the place associated with him and got more than they bargained for in the form of an epistle on sins of the flesh. I sat there unmoved. I might have had trespassing issues, but otherwise my conscience was in the clear.
I'm not sure why I went back after the first anticlimactic visit, unless it was because had I noticed the light. After the first time, I usually went directly up to the second-floor balcony, which allows you to look down the length of the nave from on high. You can't even see the monks unless you sit close enough to the front, but what you can see is . . . light -- the way it streams in through the parti-colored windows, like the answer to a prayer or the sound of the word "om." It's very peaceful in the balcony, with that warm light streaming in, and the simplicity of the church turns out to be the perfect backdrop for watching the light. When I think of the abbey now, that's what I see.
One time, I was sitting up there, lost in thought, when I heard a door opening behind me. I looked around and saw one of the monks crossing the balcony from the monastic area on his way down to the church. He was a middle-aged man with a balding head and a spring in his step, and he smiled at me without saying anything, though his expression spoke volumes. That's another thing that has stayed with me, the joy in his smile.
On my recent visit, as I sat light-gazing, I thought to myself that I should keep my mind open and see what inspiration or epiphany might come to me on one of those sunbeams. I'd been sitting there for a while, thinking about little else but how funny life is, when suddenly I realized that I needed to change a password on one of my accounts at home. Not exactly the kind of thing I was expecting, but when I'm sitting in an attitude of meditation in a house of prayer, and an unexpected thought comes to me, I pay attention.
On the way out, I stopped to look at the walled garden, a simple but inviting place drowsing in the early summer evening. I peeked into the visitor's chapel, where someone had posted a note about praying the rosary. I waved at a pleasant-looking couple I saw in the parking lot. On the way back to town, I passed a young man walking on the side of the road who looked at me with a sort of light in his eyes, a la "Woodstock." I don't know what any of that means, but when I got home, I did change my password.
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