The Greats

/ Cressey

In the spirit of surrendering attachment, my New Year’s resolution was to go back to the church of my childhood.

In the course of growing up, I learned about the atrocities committed in the name of God or one true path and became further upset recognizing that almost all of the characters were male, especially when raising a daughter. (How do you explain God had no daughter?) I came to the conclusion that I was doing the right thing by not being a part of organized religion at all.

But what I cannot erase is the fact that I learned about God by going to church. When all of the chips are down, I fold my hands in front of me and ask for help. (Or say thank you when things turn around.) I always have, and I always will.

January 1st fell on a Sunday. Off I went.

Until I turned nine, every Sunday my family and I went to the local Episcopal Church. But after a few months of fourth grade at a Catholic school, I argued that religion class five days a week plus mass on holy days of obligation must be enough. Dad was happy to oblige. My mother conceded.

For two years (1st and 3rd grades), my mother and I lived in England. Most Sundays we went to church there, too. I sang in the choir.

The church was small; the priest was young and dynamic. He rode a motorcycle (on which he was killed a few months after we left, at the age of thirty-three). I remember his whole name, Christopher Jones Brooks; we shared the same initials. He gave me a blue-ribboned medallion for my role in the choir and said I could take it home with me to America at the end of the year.

To say I loved him would be incomplete. I was in awe. He made faith real and human yet holy and invincible.

At my English school we sang hymns, too. Hymns were one of the cultural consistencies I found between the US and the UK. They connected country, school, home, and family.

Church was already special to me before we left for England, but not because of a separate idea of God or priest. It was because of my Greats, my mother and father. All dressed up, I was so proud to be with them. Mommy would put her forearm near me, and I was allowed to play with one of her gold bracelets. Some days I could have it for a little while, until she sought it back. Daddy let me lean against him and put my cheek against his soft jacket. When we stood for song, I would rise onto my tippy toes and then sneak one foot at a time onto the kneeling bench, gaining a few extra inches of visibility on the adult world until someone noticed.

The three of us sat together as closely as we ever did anywhere, there in the house of God. And when it was time to sing, we all did. I would listen hard to isolate the sound of my dad’s tenor and my mother’s soprano. I never knew them to sing outside of church. The sound to my ears was so, so sweet. I belonged. Between them. In that space. Sharing my voice with theirs and the whole congregation, making music for a mysterious invisible Guest.

Where three or more of you are gathered, there I will be also. I figured God would be with us at church and at home, always.

Much of the rite and ritual of Anglican/Episcopal faith is imbedded in me despite my absence from it for most of my adult life. I scarcely need to glance at the Book of Common Prayer today.

I have gone back to church with intention. My life as I know it is falling apart, and I need help. I go to pray for the safe passage of these teenage years, the survival of my heart, and the surrender of control. I go to pray for my friends who have lost their parents. And for mine.

The moment I arrive I feel comforted. The wood paneled ceiling, the cozy elegance. Christ is neither bleeding nor on a crucifix. He stands in stained glass high above the altar; a halo around His head in white opalescent glass brings the sun into us. Its brightness remains in my mind’s eye as I close my eyes to pray, and I am glad I have honored my New Year’s pledge to be here.

We stand to sing.

Recently I attended a funeral for my friend Suzanne’s father. When we sang the hymns I felt my throat closing. I swallowed back tears I attributed to the sadness of the occasion.

On my first Sunday back, I rise to sing and feel it again. Tears come freely; I cannot stop them. I want to sing, but with the familiar music comes the pain, out in the words and in the notes as they rise and fall. I reach for a Kleenex in the pew ahead of me. I try to focus my energy on the song itself, to balance myself. I coach myself to calm, but the very moment I stop the effort, more tears come.

Buried within my desire to sing is a need to release pain. It is pure and has no language attached, but at some point I acknowledge this is not just about the loss of G’s positive regard. It is the memory of those two Greats on either side of me: the handsome couple that was my parents. It is the purity of my faith in them in those early church-going years. Their infallibility—their capability of solving anything that came my way, of holding me and loving me, of ensuring my safety—is as divine as the One to whom we have been singing. A parent’s love may be our first introduction to the Sacred.

There comes a time when our innocence is lost, and our Greats fall to human status.

“We are all wounded,” the pastor preached on my first Sunday. “The price of mercy and compassion is the loss of innocence.”

It occurs to me we never grieve this loss; it just happens as we grow up.

But maybe I am wrong.

Maybe that’s what being a teenager is. Old enough to see one’s parents as flawed, to grieve the loss of childhood innocence, but too soon to accept and embrace the humanity we all share.

23 thoughts on “The Greats”

  1. I have the same feeling of comfort and familiarity in the Episcopal church, and miss the music desperately. There is a longing to not have a problem with the Nicene Creed, to just take what I want and overlook what drove me away. You make me want to do that…to go there and be awash in all that I love about church. Thank you so much for bringing me there in such a gentle way. I envy your experience of it, tucked between two greats, when I was sandwiched savagely between two brother in the balcony, getting away with as much as possible while Mom and Dad sang in the choir. Such vivid memories! I truly envy your return, your solace. And I celebrate it with all my heart!

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  2. Thank you, Nancy. You make me laugh: “sandwiched savagely!”
    I was surprised at all of the emotions it has brought up.
    I guess I’m at a place where everything seems imperfect and I need all of the help I can get!!!
    Also I think the church *is* trying to be more inclusive on so many levels which is a comfort. xoxox

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  4. I am so moved I can hardly write this.

    Music touches something deep within us, and ritual gives us structure and comfort. The music of church or synagogue wraps us in our traditions. Thank you for this. – Jenni

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  6. Cressey- I am really enjoying (and as a fellow parent of teens, benefiting from) your blog. I have found this piece especially touching. Thanks for writing it- and for sharing. I would love to sing with you sometime! Lisa

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  9. This moved me big-time. I received it on the very day I’d Googled churches in my community (new to the bay area, as you know) because of my hunger to be a part of something greater than myself. Bear in mind, I was raised without religion…and majored in Philosophy. You can imagine the vastness of my open-mindedness! I savor the image of you between your mom and dad, fondling her bracelets, trying to single out their voices as they sang. “Buried within my desire to sing is a need to release pain. It is pure and has no language attached…” Beautiful. As is “a parent’s love may be our first introduction to the Sacred.” I’m putting your words in my pocket today as I attend Mt. Diablo Unitarian for the first time. Sending love to you… Gayle

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  10. I remember when I was little and I went to church with Grandmother. She always cried when we were singing the hymns…she was a very staunch lady so the first time I saw her crying in church it scared me. I got used to though…she didn’t come every week, only on holidays. The rest of the time I went with my three brothers. No parents to lean against of feel protected by. My parents were of different faiths and back in the 50’s and 60’s that caused a few problems…but on those holidays, church with my Grandmother was so special and along the way, I got used to her crying but never knew why…until recently…I have turned into my Grandmother. It happens every week. Mostly during the hymns but sometimes durning the sermon and I often think of my Nannie.. I now understand the power of those hallowed walls and holy music. I understand the words and love them. The lump in my throat keeps me from singing until the hymn is half-way over. I always hope my kids or my husband don’t see me but then, I have no control. Perhaps your right, it reminds of of days gone by and also of days moving fast for me now. A sadness that overwhelmes me sometimes…The good news, ah and there is always good news, is that each time I leave after a service, I feel the love and hope of the written word of God…Your pastor of before reminds me of mine now..Rev. Mike also drives a motocycle called White Trash. I love that and love his easy modern way…he fills me up and lifts me higher than I think I can go most days and now he is not only my Pastor but my friend..
    Cressey, thank you for this walk down memory lane…to be again with my Grand…and also thank you for letting me let go of the need to explain the unexplainable tears that just come…
    Your writing is so beautiful…your words flow like melted butter, right into my heart…You are going to be fine..I know i’ve told you this before but each time you write…it gets better and better…
    Have a wonderful week my special friend…

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    • Cheryl,
      Thank you once again for your supportive words.
      I’m thinking about your sweet Nannie’s tears.. and now yours.
      It happened to me again today, as it did last Sunday, but not so intensely. Last Sunday we had a “sing” in which there was no sermon, instead people could call out favorite hymns! You can imagine my delight. I asked for “All Things Bright and Beautiful” for my Mom, the hymn I would have picked for her funeral if she had wanted a service. As happy as I was to hear it played I could scarcely sing a darned note of it!!! I could only think, “Mommy, we’re singing your song in church, with no one knowing it’s for you. Just as you would have liked it.”
      I’m grateful that my words mean something to you; I always love hearing your thoughts in reply. xo

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  11. This post really resonates with me. While I attended Quaker meeting on and off for several years as a child, it wasn’t until I began attending an Episcopalian school when I was nine that I was exposed to the powerful role music can play in a church experience. From the organ to the hymns, to the choral music I sang over years in glee club and madrigal groups, music became entwined with faith and spirituality.

    Like you, in my adulthood I also moved away from formalized church attendance, though once I had young children I shopped around a fair amount. My daughter became an ace at rating churches based on which one had the best snack after the service (not the worst measure one could use…). We found a church we liked well enough and attended for a while. Just when the question of formally joining and perhaps considering baptizing my children cropped up, we moved to a different city, hours away.

    And then…nine years went by in the blink of an eye. There was some light attendance at one or two churches in our new town, but in the throes of raising children, endless weekend sports and school commitments, churchgoing seemed like something that would be perfect if there were an eighth day.

    That said, even as life marched on in its harried pace, like you, I have also had a growing sense that I’m missing something. The Service of Lessons and Carols at my son’s school at Christmas was especially provocative this year. The rhythm of the service, the hymns, the liturgy, were beautifully familiar and comforting. I asked myself again why I’m not moving toward something that seems like it is prepared to offer me something positive and nourishing. What’s keeping me home? The community, the opportunity for reflection and learning, and especially the music, all seem to be calling to me.

    I am not a literalist when it comes to the Nicene Creed or other points of dogma. That used to make me feel like a hypocrite but it bothers me less now than it used to. I no longer feel the need to reconcile the ideals and important lessons that can be offered in a service with line-by-line deconstruction of text and rejection of tenets that don’t hold up to my scrutiny. Perhaps that’s a bit of what faith is?

    Buoyed by your words and actions, I intend to find out. Thank you for spurring me to action!

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    • Liza,
      So many thoughts in reply… I’m glad my post spoke to you.
      I agree about not being a literalist and objecting to some of the dogma. There was a time when I was repelled by all of it. I also was embittered by the humanity of my parents (longer and later than the teenage years, actually). Now I’m starting to accept the flawed nature of everything, even the choices of ways to honor or reach out to the Divine.
      But music seems to cut through to the core. The music as well as the kindness and the few words of wisdom** I inevitably take away. My faith lives somewhere in there, along with the pure, deep love I have for my late parents whose voices I never get to hear again. I don’t want to go back to the pain; I want to go back to the sweetness of those early days. Church seems to be how I’m finding it.
      As I’m being reminded of all my flaws as mom-of-teenager, I yearn for the magic of my childhood before my own innocence was lost. I just want to love my parents, simply, especially my mother with whom I never got a fulfilling rapprochement.
      In the early years of parenting, I spent a lot of energy working on ways to not repeat the past, grasping for a different choice from the fear-based upbringing I had. There is an interesting peace I’m finding in accepting something from that time without judgment.
      I also am finding that parenting a teen is returning me to myself. Part of me has always known I wanted to go back to sing in church, not for anyone else but me.
      I hope you find what you are seeking, too.
      Hugs, cbj
      **This week’s favorite, from CS Lewis, “I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God, it changes me.”

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      • Side bar question: do you know if it’s possible to post a photo to your site? I worte my comment in Word (am useless w/o spell check because I’m a poor typist) and there was a picture at the bottom that didn’t appear when the text pasted onto your blog. Just curious about this. Thanks!

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