Forsaken Stranger

It is Sunday and it is All Saints’ Day, both Holy Days of Obligation in their own right. Oddly they have fallen on the same day this year, something that happens rarely- - every seven years or so unless Leap Year happens to make it skip and then it might not fall on the same day again for 13 years or so. And though I have been lax in my attendance of late, I feel compelled to go to church. I go alone. David has pretty much given up on Faith all together and, to be perfectly honest, I am just too lazy to bring the kids with me.

I enter the church, genuflect next to a pew and kneel down in prayer, but my thoughts are scattered and I cannot focus on my intentions. I find myself praying the same line repeatedly, always asking for forgiveness. . . Finally, I just sit down and take in all that is around me. I have often fell deep into prayer by simply letting my mind wander in whichever direction it lands. Today, however, I cannot meditate in this fashion. I watch the people in the church, coming in, genuflecting, kneeling, praying, waiting for Mass to start. We are all here together, brought together by this catholic bond we share - - faith. All of us have this in common. I am fascinated by this fact. I begin to look closely at my fellow worshipers, looking for some distinguishing feature that would identify us as the same, but there is nothing. Nothing would indicate that we are all of the same . . . well, the same anything. We are male and female, black and white, young and old, fat and thin. There is not one common denominator connecting us other than we have all chosen to gather here together. And the more I think about this, the more mesmerized I become by it.

The music starts and we begin to sing together as the priest and servers process in. It is a song that I don’t know well, so I choose not to sing. I close my book and continue to watch the show. Introductory Rights are as ritual as they are at every single Mass every day, everywhere around the globe. Prayers and responses, some spoken, some sung. Likewise, I choose to respond to some, but not to others. I feel completely disconnected to the whole process. As the Gloria is sung, I remain silent. This prayer, whether it is sung or simply recited, has recently been very difficult for me, spurring memories that are so painful I am sometimes moved to tears. And still I am examining those around me, most all of them responding with pious faith and reverent expressions.

I follow along as the readings are proclaimed during the Liturgy of the Word. As we stand to hear the Gospel, I find my voice and sing the Alleluia. Today’s Gospel is from Matthew. It is the Sermon on the Mount where we hear the Beatitudes.

I have heard these time and time again, but they take on new meaning for me today. Which category do I fit into, I wonder. Poor in spirit? Sometimes. David certainly would qualify for this one. Meek? Me? Never. Mourn? Most definitely. I mourn for those whom I have lost to death or by some other ending. Lost love, lost friendships, lost relationships of any kind. I mourn them daily. Do I hunger and thirst for justice? All the time. I crave justice and feel I will never find it in this world. Merciful? Not nearly as much as I should be, but far more than some. Clean of heart? Not even going to touch this one. Peacemaker? On occasion, I suppose. I hate confrontation, but can always hold my own. Have I suffered persecution for justice’ sake? I think I have, but perhaps not in the way the passage was intended.

It strikes me that most everyone can find at least one of these categories to claim. What does that mean? There is hope for all of us. Is there really? It has never dawned on me that this Gospel is giving hope to all. I find a small glimmer of delight in knowing this. Might my destiny not be quite as gloomy as I have always predicted? I am so wrapped up in this thought that I pay little attention to the Homily and am surprised to find it is time to stand for the Creed, which I choose to recite quietly in my mind instead of joining the congregation aloud.

Again my attention is drawn to those around me, watching them sing and respond in unison. I also pay close attention to the priest. I often watch the priest in detail, concentrating of every single movement and gesture. These people fascinate me. Called to a life of service, they have such an interesting mix of demands. Sometimes I am sure the priest I am observing is so devout that it makes my heart hurt trying to feel the love he must have for humanity. There are others though, that sicken me because I am sure they are just playing a game, putting on a show - -which in and of itself is not such a bad thing, but doing it in the name of God seems to make it reprehensible.

God. There it is. Our common bond. That is what draws us together. I have studied my faith is such depth that I doubt there is any crevice of its tenets that I do not know. I have left the church before searching for something different, something better, but I always return, knowing that this is the faith of my foundation. Good and bad, right or wrong, this is what I believe. It is what I choose to believe. It is what runs through my veins. And yet, today I am stunned by the question that poses in my brain:

Do I believe this? Do I believe any of this?

I am shocked into fear for even allowing myself to form this idea into a question. But it turns over and over in my head. Do I? Do I? Why should I? What if it is all just fluff? None of it is real and I am just going through the motions with the rest of these common worshiping fools. Could it be that inane? Could it possibly be that for years and years and years and years upon years we have passed down this idea of faith so that now it is readily accepted as truth? Could it really be nothing more than legend, some truth mixed in with a bunch of fantasy?

Liturgy of the Eucharist. This is the most sacred part of the Mass. It is where I always find my deepest meditation. I try so hard to let my heart and soul rest from these nagging doubts that have sprung up out of nowhere. And, graciously, I find a little peace. The thought occurs to me that perhaps my faith up until this point could carry me through. Could it work that way? As we stand to recite the Lord’s Prayer, I realize that I am harboring a tremendous amount of anger and resentment. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us.”

NO, my mind screams. I cannot forgive those who have trespassed against me. Nor do I have the slightest desire to do so. And this thought shocks me to my core. I have never been one to hold a grudge. I get angry. I vent. And then I am done. I might be reserved in order to protect myself from further hurt, but I have never held onto my anger. It only hurts me. It is futile. But today I realize that the people who have hurt the ones I love the most are the ones I cannot forgive. I do not care what they have done to me. I have survived far worse. But to hurt the ones I love so. No, I cannot forgive that. I hate them. I cannot find it in my heart to wish them well or to rejoice in their good fortune. My anger toward them is immeasurable.

I am taken back to a conversation I had many years ago with a woman whom I thought was my friend. She told me that my heart was cold and that I was not worthy of the Eucharist. I was so hurt, so cut to the core that I cried over it for days and days. It completely severed our friendship. Now I wonder if she might have been correct. Am I really so calloused by life that my heart has turned to stone? And though I know that I should not approach the altar for Communion while I am holding onto a grudge, that I should not receive Christ in my heart and soul until I can find it in my own heart to forgive others, I know that I will file up there along with the others anyway. My mind cannot comprehend that locking Christ out will help me be better. Would it not be better to allow Him in to help soften my hardened heart? And what would it matter anyway if it is all just nothingness?

So I march up to the altar. I look directly at the priest as he says, “The Body of Christ” and I do something I never do. I open my hand to receive the consecrated host. My hands, the ones I have always thought too unworthy to hold that precious sacrament - -I open them and allow the priest to place it there instead of my tongue. I can see the surprise in the priest’s face. I am one of the few left in the church who receive Communion on my tongue and now I have conformed to the rest of the flock. . .

When I return to my seat, I once again begin to watch those around me, trying to figure out where I fit into this picture. And then it hits me. I don’t. I do not fit in at all. I am alone and forsaken. An outsider here with all these worshipping fools. But as I realize this, I am also daunted by the thought that this is nothing new for me. I have always been an outsider. In every aspect of my life, I have remained somewhat on the outskirts of the inside boundary.

As a child, I was never fully included in any of the family affairs. I do not say this to indicate that my childhood was not good, but there was always a feeling of detachment. And though I had friends in school, I was always a bit different than most, never wanting to conform too much and never trying to be popular because it just felt like too much work. David’s family has made it perfectly clear time and time again that I am nothing more than an outsider. Recently, they have also made it crystal clear that I am an unwelcome outsider as well. And now, I find that I am also an outsider here at church, the one basic foundation of my life. It has been where I have found a soft landing every time I have fallen. I can feel hot tears forming in my eyes, but I bat them away. No, I will not crumble. I am stronger than that.

Suddenly I realize that my very name, Barbara, means stranger, foreigner. It is my destiny. I was born into this. And this thought strangely comforts me. Knowing it is my fate I can find a way to accept it and move on, bizarrely forsaken and alone among a multitude of others.