I went to an Episcopalian service today, and I intend to go to a Unitarian service later on tonight.
While at St. Mary's Episcopal Church, I followed along with the service after being fifteen minutes--which no one mentioned, minded, or stared at me for. One of the members gestured for me to sit by him, which was kind and loving. We sang many hymns, listened to the sermon, and my first feeling of spiritual refreshment was in the Prayers of the People, in which I heard the prayers and imagined myself lying on the ground in armor on a medieval battlefield. My hair was tucked into my hauberk, and I lifted my gauntleted hand to feel my steel plate, chain, and leather armor, up to my eyes where I felt the stain and warmth of blood over my face.
My other hand gripped my sword tightly and I smiled. I was still ready to fight in the name of the good that I always fight for. I attempted to stand, and my left leg was shattered at the knee. I staggered back down to the ground, but rose again through the prayers.
"God of the angels, hear us and help us!"
My arms tensed with strength as I placed my weight onto my hands, rearranging my legs.
"God of shepherds, hear us and help us!"
My knee creaked with satisfaction, working out its pain and shattered bones until all was whole again.
"God of the Holy Innocents, hear us and help us!"
The blood cleared from my face, and I heaved in a few breaths as the healing process took its toll on me. I used my sword as a support as I stood over the battlefield of fallen bodies, which gave way to an open plain marked with a sunset of blood red and golden hues.
After having this lovely mental excursion, I remembered what the symbolism had meant to me as a Mormon. The armor of God was what we donned in order to fight the good fight of proselyting and righteous living. I donned it then to keep my soul alive, even if my beliefs were nothing in the breezes and gales of life. I had always put on that armor as a mission, to offer my efforts unto God.
So, I thought, staring at the altar area where Holy Communion took place. "What mission do you have for me now, Father? Devoid of belief and conviction, all but for an steel-cast desire to serve, what mission do you have for me?"
The message hit me like a dump truck. Write! Write! Write! Your soul needs the life and fire given from the very messages that you write! You must finish Faith! Your heart will never be healed until you finish that manuscript! Your soul is tuned and pruned to write and craft words into messages that all of the world will know by the time your life comes unto its nightfall!
Well then, I laughed to myself. Perhaps Durkheim was right. Perhaps prayer was little more than hearing exactly what you desired--after all was said and done in the arguments of your own heart. Perhaps it was a psychological benefit for the individual alone, and didn't work outside of the heart.
Then why did this feel so right? Why did I feel like I was in the perfectly right place at the right time, I wondered.
Before I took the communion, I felt my stress start rolling off my back like a heavy fur cloak being dropped off of my shoulders. I could keep giving that stress and shoving it off, and it kept leaving. I took the communion and felt the wine burn down my throat. As I continued to focus on the ritual, I felt the power of the ritual remain. That rarely ever happened, I noted to myself. If I could piece apart a ritual, it no longer held power. Yet, the power of the communion remained.
Later on, after the luncheon, I started walking out of the door when I had a strong impression say "Sit down and talk to those ladies. If they don't speak to you, you can go on home, and you've lost nothing."
Very well, I decided. I had an hour before I'd decide whether or not I would visit the LDS ward.
I sat down and had an hour-long discussion about writing with the lovely Susan Kroupa. She gave me advice and advice again about writing and resources to turn to, and I'm still nearly crying from the serendipity of that little push I had to go talk to her. She thought I looked damn well familiar, and I thought she was familiar as well. We've both had some experience in the area (this valley is full of writers, by the way,) and we genially figured that we had seen each other around.
I drove home with a huge smile on my face. I had been in the right place at the right time! I had felt what I needed!
Yet, I was concerned. I was confused by all of the mixed feelings that I had for ritual, spiritual community, Christianity, Christ, and God themselves. I silenced my thoughts into a spiritual quiet, and started asking questions of the spiritual experiences that I had. I thought of my recent experiences with Christ and God, and wondered just how it was that I was supposed to gain comfort from them when they remained fleeting feelings and visions.
I demanded, "Where are you? You keep popping up, but you're never fully there! I'm ready for more, I want more from you!"
"Your desires are valid, and your desires are good. However, you must wait--not for holiness. For you. You need to wait for you. You've been in armor for so long that trying to release your soul as fully as it should be would tear you to pieces if it happened all at once. You have been in so much pain for so long that your soul needs fair, delicate treatment. It will refuse anything more than that. If this is going to happen, it must happen slowly or not at all. Small, short events, one at a time--that is the way. If you peel back the petals of the flower ever so slowly, you will find yourself again. Quickly, and the entire blossom will be shredded into pieces. Slowly, my dear, slowly, just one piece at a time. I promise that we will heal you, through the spiritual and emotional means as well as the means that this world has to give you."
I was able to keep driving and cried once I got home and listened to this song. I am going through a deep healing process right now, both through medication and through psychology. I have been rooting cruel people and influences out of my life, and it is a very long and difficult thing to do--to rid someone from your life. However, if you've been waiting on the question for over a year, perhaps it's time. As my friend Meghan once said, "Follow your heart." While scholarship and research are necessary in knowing how a religion and spirituality can and will affect you, the heart is the best guide to the maps of heaven.
I don't know what church I will join, or what denomination where I will find peace. However, the Episcopal church seems to be a fine place to start. We'll see how the Unitarian Church goes later this evening.
-Amber
While at St. Mary's Episcopal Church, I followed along with the service after being fifteen minutes--which no one mentioned, minded, or stared at me for. One of the members gestured for me to sit by him, which was kind and loving. We sang many hymns, listened to the sermon, and my first feeling of spiritual refreshment was in the Prayers of the People, in which I heard the prayers and imagined myself lying on the ground in armor on a medieval battlefield. My hair was tucked into my hauberk, and I lifted my gauntleted hand to feel my steel plate, chain, and leather armor, up to my eyes where I felt the stain and warmth of blood over my face.
My other hand gripped my sword tightly and I smiled. I was still ready to fight in the name of the good that I always fight for. I attempted to stand, and my left leg was shattered at the knee. I staggered back down to the ground, but rose again through the prayers.
"God of the angels, hear us and help us!"
My arms tensed with strength as I placed my weight onto my hands, rearranging my legs.
"God of shepherds, hear us and help us!"
My knee creaked with satisfaction, working out its pain and shattered bones until all was whole again.
"God of the Holy Innocents, hear us and help us!"
The blood cleared from my face, and I heaved in a few breaths as the healing process took its toll on me. I used my sword as a support as I stood over the battlefield of fallen bodies, which gave way to an open plain marked with a sunset of blood red and golden hues.
After having this lovely mental excursion, I remembered what the symbolism had meant to me as a Mormon. The armor of God was what we donned in order to fight the good fight of proselyting and righteous living. I donned it then to keep my soul alive, even if my beliefs were nothing in the breezes and gales of life. I had always put on that armor as a mission, to offer my efforts unto God.
So, I thought, staring at the altar area where Holy Communion took place. "What mission do you have for me now, Father? Devoid of belief and conviction, all but for an steel-cast desire to serve, what mission do you have for me?"
The message hit me like a dump truck. Write! Write! Write! Your soul needs the life and fire given from the very messages that you write! You must finish Faith! Your heart will never be healed until you finish that manuscript! Your soul is tuned and pruned to write and craft words into messages that all of the world will know by the time your life comes unto its nightfall!
Well then, I laughed to myself. Perhaps Durkheim was right. Perhaps prayer was little more than hearing exactly what you desired--after all was said and done in the arguments of your own heart. Perhaps it was a psychological benefit for the individual alone, and didn't work outside of the heart.
Then why did this feel so right? Why did I feel like I was in the perfectly right place at the right time, I wondered.
Before I took the communion, I felt my stress start rolling off my back like a heavy fur cloak being dropped off of my shoulders. I could keep giving that stress and shoving it off, and it kept leaving. I took the communion and felt the wine burn down my throat. As I continued to focus on the ritual, I felt the power of the ritual remain. That rarely ever happened, I noted to myself. If I could piece apart a ritual, it no longer held power. Yet, the power of the communion remained.
Later on, after the luncheon, I started walking out of the door when I had a strong impression say "Sit down and talk to those ladies. If they don't speak to you, you can go on home, and you've lost nothing."
Very well, I decided. I had an hour before I'd decide whether or not I would visit the LDS ward.
I sat down and had an hour-long discussion about writing with the lovely Susan Kroupa. She gave me advice and advice again about writing and resources to turn to, and I'm still nearly crying from the serendipity of that little push I had to go talk to her. She thought I looked damn well familiar, and I thought she was familiar as well. We've both had some experience in the area (this valley is full of writers, by the way,) and we genially figured that we had seen each other around.
I drove home with a huge smile on my face. I had been in the right place at the right time! I had felt what I needed!
Yet, I was concerned. I was confused by all of the mixed feelings that I had for ritual, spiritual community, Christianity, Christ, and God themselves. I silenced my thoughts into a spiritual quiet, and started asking questions of the spiritual experiences that I had. I thought of my recent experiences with Christ and God, and wondered just how it was that I was supposed to gain comfort from them when they remained fleeting feelings and visions.
I demanded, "Where are you? You keep popping up, but you're never fully there! I'm ready for more, I want more from you!"
"Your desires are valid, and your desires are good. However, you must wait--not for holiness. For you. You need to wait for you. You've been in armor for so long that trying to release your soul as fully as it should be would tear you to pieces if it happened all at once. You have been in so much pain for so long that your soul needs fair, delicate treatment. It will refuse anything more than that. If this is going to happen, it must happen slowly or not at all. Small, short events, one at a time--that is the way. If you peel back the petals of the flower ever so slowly, you will find yourself again. Quickly, and the entire blossom will be shredded into pieces. Slowly, my dear, slowly, just one piece at a time. I promise that we will heal you, through the spiritual and emotional means as well as the means that this world has to give you."
I was able to keep driving and cried once I got home and listened to this song. I am going through a deep healing process right now, both through medication and through psychology. I have been rooting cruel people and influences out of my life, and it is a very long and difficult thing to do--to rid someone from your life. However, if you've been waiting on the question for over a year, perhaps it's time. As my friend Meghan once said, "Follow your heart." While scholarship and research are necessary in knowing how a religion and spirituality can and will affect you, the heart is the best guide to the maps of heaven.
I don't know what church I will join, or what denomination where I will find peace. However, the Episcopal church seems to be a fine place to start. We'll see how the Unitarian Church goes later this evening.
-Amber
