Tag Archives: Episcopal Church

Behind the Red Doors

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IMG_0222 [13805]Easter Sunday is fast approaching as we conclude yet another Lenten season.  I know when I enter those big red doors into the beautiful stone church, it will be filled with the wonderful smell of Easter lilies.  Music will be playing from the pipe organ.  I will pick up a program and work my way down the left isle to where I always sit on row 7.  I will bow to the altar, take my seat and quietly wait for the service to begin or I can kneel in silent prayer.  At 10 a.m. sharp, the bell outside will begin to toll.  At the conclusion of the 10th bell, the entire congregation will stand and begin singing the opening hymn.  As we are all signing, there will be a group of people headed down the center isle towards the altar.  Leading the way on that morning will be the thurifer with the wonderful smell of incense filling the air, followed by an acolyte carrying the cross, to which we will all bow as it passes by us followed by the choir, deacon and priest.  Behind those red doors is the place I call my church home.

Finding a church home for your spiritual heart and soul is easy for some and not so easy for others.  I am one of those that had a difficult time finding my place.  I have struggled in various religious denominations.  Never feeling comfortable or like I belonged in any of them.  What was wrong with me?  Why is it so hard?  At 38, I had come to the conclusion that church was just not for me, but I would continue my relationship with God privately.  I was a Christian without a church home.

Six years later I find myself at the very beginning of a relationship with a wonderful man.  He had a church home and it wasn’t long before he invited me to join him one Sunday.  When he told me which church he was a member of I was skeptical.  I had no experience in this church and no idea what to expect.  In the few short months we had been together, I knew that church was important to him, so I accepted.  I stepped out of my comfort zone and went with him.  I can remember vividly that first visit.  It was very confusing and hard to follow.  All of my previous church-attending experiences had me finding a seat, sitting down and rarely moving again until it was over.  Not here.  There was a lot of standing, kneeling, bowing and reading from a book called, The Book of Common Prayer.  Halfway through the service we lined up to head to the altar, where we kneeled and took bread and wine [Holy Communion].  This was the Episcopal Church and this little churchless girl was lost, but quickly found.  I was intrigued and I found myself asking lots of questions, why do you do this and what does it mean when you do that.  I continued to attend church with him every Sunday and after about six weeks, I was hooked, locked in, sold on it.  I knew I had found my church home behind those red doors.

I love the formality of the service itself, the beautiful vestments the clergy wears depending on the church season.  I love bowing to the cross as it makes its way to and from the altar.  There is just something so powerful in that for me.  The music has brought me to tears on more than one occasion.  I have no idea what that is about.  The entire service seems to touch my very soul.

Underneath all that formality is a doctrine that speaks to the deepest parts of my heart and soul.  I learned very quickly that the church accepts and welcomes a wide range of theological ideas and thoughts.  It accepts and welcomes all people.  They do not discriminate against anyone or any group for any reason.  We strive to love our neighbors as ourselves and respect the dignity of every person.  I have not always found that in previous churches and I have always wondered why.  Jesus’ entire message for us was to love one another.  No easy task, but that is what we are all called to do.

IMG_0224 [13801]That wonderful man that brought me into this church, well I married him.  Not only did he make me whole, but he put me on the path to finding that place where I could put all the pieces together in my spiritual journey.  For those of you out there that have found the place where your heart and soul meet, hallelujah and amen.  If you are still searching for just that right place, don’t give up.   You may just have to step out of your comfort zone and give something a try.  You might even find yourself curious about what goes on behind those red doors.

Peace be with you.

Love Your Neighbor

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ND candles croppedWhere do I begin?  I’m not sure.  First off, I usually steer away from things on this blog that could be controversial.  Things like politics and religion are usually taboo for me here.  But today I just felt the need to put these words out there.  Like it, hate it, I feel better for sharing it.  This past week I have been made aware that I know very little about the civil rights movement in this country.  How could that be you ask?

I grew up in an average size town in southern Oklahoma.  The only child of two loving parents.  My mother worked outside of the home when I started school in 1966 and my dad was the manager of our local bowling alley.  I spent a lot of time in that bowling alley.  It was a great place to grow up.  My dad put a bowling ball in my hand when I was about 4, which would have been 1964.  Apparently there were serious issues of civil rights going on across the country.

Not only was I unaware of this injustice, I never saw the injustice.  I did not see any water fountains that said “white” or “colored”.  I cannot recall ever going to a restaurant and seeing a “colored” seating area and a “white” seating area.  I had never ridden on a bus so I was unaware that an entire group of people were made to sit in the back of buses.  My parents didn’t discuss race relations in my home and I never saw anything on television.  When I would go to the bowling alley with my dad, all people were the same.  There were white people, American Indians, and blacks all bowling together in league.  If you wanted a snack, you could go into the restaurant, sit where you wanted and order a burger and coke.

In 1977 during my sophomore year of high school, I can remember when we got to the chapters on slavery in my American History class.  That was the same year the mini-series Roots came out and our American History teacher encouraged us to watch.  I can remember crying at various times and just feeling ashamed that people could be treated so cruelly just because of the color of their skin.

A couple of months ago, my son and I were having a very serious conversation about things going on in 2015 around the world and in our country.  It seemed a little odd for my 27 year old son to have such an insight.  We had a very thought-provoking evening.  The conversation got around to the young black men who have been killed by police officers.  As a mother of a young white man, I thought how different it would be if I was a black mother with a 27 year old black son.  Would I be fearful every time he left the house?  Would I have to tell him how he should act if he gets pulled over by a policeman?  I just can’t imagine.  Then my son reminded me that our African American friends and neighbors have only had their freedom for 50 years.  Oh my gosh, he’s right.

Realizing that I just don’t know enough about what transpired during the Civil Rights Movement, I decided I needed to know more.  My husband and son went with me to attend the screening of a documentary film telling the story about a group of Oklahoma City kids who conducted sit-ins at restaurants in downtown Oklahoma City for six years.  It never got violent, never really made the national news, but these kids turned around every restaurant except one before the 1964 Civil Right Act was made into law.  There was actual footage of these kids, along with interviews of many of them, who of course are all grown up now.  Listening to their experiences was powerful and again, I just could not believe what I saw.  The film also discussed some of the other sit-ins taking place around the country, all started from that group of kids in Oklahoma City.

Today I plopped down in front of the TV and I was scrolling through Netflix when I came across Lee Daniel’s, The Butler.  I didn’t see this one in the theater and since I’m a big Oprah fan, I wanted to watch it.  I was not prepared for what the movie actually was.  Here I thought it was going to be about a butler in the White House, and it was, but it also walked us through this family’s experience with the Civil Rights movement and beyond.  Many of the things outlined in this film, were a part of the documentary I had seen just days ago.  By the time I had journeyed with this family from 1960 until President Obama was elected, I cried off and on for over two hours.  My eye makeup was all gone and I was exhausted.  But I think I have a little better insight into the struggles of our African American friends and neighbors.  I also know fully, that the things I have seen cannot compare with what actually happened to the people who lived it or died for it.  My heart hurts just thinking about it.

Throughout my life I have had bosses that are of color, co-workers of color, classmates of color, family of color and very dear friends of color.  When I think about them, I can’t help but wonder what those times were like for them.  They never speak of it.  For these people I love and cherish, it is unbearable to think they may have been treated as those depicted in The Butler and in the documentary.  I hope with every fiber of my being, that had I been old enough to witness the travesty, that I would have been brave enough to make a difference. To take my fellow American’s hand and say to those hateful people, ENOUGH.

I guess where I am trying to go with this is to say that as a Christian, I really only have one charge in this life, to love my neighbor.   Do I do that every day? Nope.  Do I try every day?  You bet.  Do I succeed every day? Nope.   Are there days that are harder than others?  Yep.  But when I struggle with loving my neighbor, it is not because their skin color is different than mine or they belong to a religious denomination different than mine.  It usually has to do with their actions or their words.  So I continue to work on it every day.  That is my task as a follower of Jesus.

I am a proud member of the Episcopal Church.  I love my church for many reasons; its beautiful liturgy, its traditions, its generosity around the world and its inclusivity for all people.    Our new Presiding Bishop, Michael Curry was recently quoted as saying, “Our commitment to be an inclusive church is not based on a social theory or capitulation to the ways of the culture, but on our belief that the outstretched arms of Jesus on the cross are a sign of the very love of God reaching out to us all.  Did you catch those last three words?  TO US ALL.  In the words of the Apostle Paul:  There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male or female, for all are one in Christ.

So I ask you.  What does it really mean for you to love your neighbor?

Easter Greetings

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CrossesHappy Easter everyone. We just got home from Easter service at our church along with 200 other people in our community. At 3:15 a.m. this morning I was pretty sure attending Easter service wasn’t going to happen. Had one of my 3 alarm headaches and finally at 5:45 a.m., I gave up and got up. I was angry that my head was hurting and I was still so sleepy. I got up, heated up my constant companion “the neck wrap”, put a hot cloth to my face and made a hot cup of coffee. I slid into the recliner, dogs jumped into my lap and well happy Easter to me. A little while later the pain in my head began to subside and Keith gets up and says, “We’re going to church aren’t we?” “Yes.” I replied.

Easter has changed a lot for me over the years. When I was a little girl, Easter meant a new dress, dying Easter eggs, the Easter bunny and hunting for Easter eggs. My grandparents would pick me up and take me to church usually followed by a big family lunch. It wasn’t until many years later that the real reason for Easter landed on my radar screen. As a little girl in southern Oklahoma, my grandparents were really the ones that introduced me to church. They would pick me up on Sunday mornings and I would go with them. Their religious denomination was the only one I ever knew growing up. My best friend Mary was a catholic. I had no idea what that was but I went with her to her church a couple of times as a child and remember dipping my fingers in “holy water” and people would kneel to pray. The priest would say something and then the people around me would respond. Interesting I thought. Nothing like that happened at my church. At my church you went in, sat down and just listened. It was pretty boring to me actually.

I struggled with this particular faith tradition I had grown up in most of my life. It just never felt quite right. I had decided that something must be wrong with me. In fact I struggled so much with it that I just quit going. My spiritual journey became more private and personal. I continued to pray and tried to do all the things I knew would be acceptable in God’s eyes. I had decided that church just wasn’t for me.

On September 11th when the World Trade Center came down in an act of terrorism, I remember being so scared. How could this have happened? For the first time in my life I did not feel safe in my own country. One of our local churches opened their doors for noon time services for anyone who wanted to come in. This was a different faith tradition than what I had been raised in. I felt myself being drawn in and for the next few months, I attended church there sporadically. Still not feeling quite right, still thinking it must just be me. Within a year or so I had stopped going there too and returned to my private personal journey without a church home.

In the summer of 2004 I met an amazing man that attended a church in my community that I knew nothing about. I knew pretty quickly that I was crazy about this guy and if we were going to actually have a relationship, I might have to step out of my comfort zone and attend church with him. I had driven past this church many times over the years and always wondered what in the world goes on in there. It was a beautiful stone church with red doors. So the day came when Keith asked me if I wanted to go to church with him. There it is was, I knew it was coming. Obviously I’m going to have to do this so I said yes.

Here I am almost eleven years later and I’m proud to say that I found that faith tradition where I belong. There was nothing wrong with me, I just wasn’t where God wanted me to be. And how do I know it’s where God wants me to be? There are times in the middle of singing a hymn that I have to stop because I get choked up and can’t continue until I get a grip. Sometimes, like today, when we recite our baptismal covenant, I get chocked up and have to stop and get a grip. Sometimes a tear will leak from the corner of my eye for no apparent reason while I am sitting there. I feel everything when I’m there. When the cross processes down the aisle and we all bow, it is powerful. When we get on our knees to pray or to confess our sins, it’s powerful. When we are given Holy Communion, it’s powerful. When Beth plays her beautiful music on the big pipe organ, it’s powerful. And on the days when the church is filled with Easter lilies and incense, it is powerful. It may have taken me almost half of my lifetime, but God finally pushed me through the big red doors of the Episcopal Church where he knew I needed to be. I hope you too have a church home that is where you need to be. But it you don’t, remember that God loves you just as you are and where you are. Peace be with you.