Friday, January 30, 2004
The Late Shift
My last shift at this hospital today. Now that it's over and I'm coming back down, it feels rather anti-climatic. The highlight of the moment was two drunk kids in the confinement room unexpectedly becoming aggressive and violent. The two security blokes weren't able to pin them down and I jumped forwards and put one of them in an arm lock (odd. it just came out of nowhere). we had them pinned to the wall for a while but they still broke loose, and in the scuffle I accidentally lost my spectacles (they're rather loose). I suppose the flying specs must have made everyone think I'd taken a blow to the head and everyone started frenziedly trying to rescue my specs to my rather weak calls of "I don't really need them, really!" (mild astigmatism, the specs are really more an aide than a neccessity). The matron nudged me hard when police arrived and asked if i'd been struck, but in my typical slightly dim-witted manner I said, well no I dropped my spectacles.
And they're still in one piece too dammit. I coulda got new specs paid for by the NHS.
ah well.
******
Sunday was good for me. I woke up and attended service at a CoE cathedral, had breakfast, audited in Borders, then attended mass along Tottenham Court street.
I suppose my life's history entitles me to attend both, really. And the rulebooks don't make the services mutually exclusive (shock horrow. how many of you knew that?) only that I cannot now take communion at a protestant church.
Once upon a time I hated that idea, and felt that Catholics were isolating themselves and putting themselves on a pedestal.
In the aftermath of the gay-schism in the anglican church, I begin to comprehend it a little better.
Communion. The meaning of the word - togetherness -- has been lost to history. Jesus called us all to break his body and drink his blood - together.
Today, we still do those things, in memory of him - alone. Apart, from other churches. Apart, from other denominations. Apart, from any other brand-name but our own.
The protestant movements make weak efforts to appear united, but the harsh reality is they stand alone. And as time passes, their quests for unique identities broaden the divides between them - and the Catholic church still more.
Communion?
Attending both service and mass in a day reminded me of all the things I loved about the Anglican church, and the things I have come to appreciate about the Catholic church.
It is said that the Catholics are too mired in ritual to understand, too used to being sheep to think critically.
It is said that the protestants are too persistent in change and progressiveness to remember the "old ways", and that they have lost their focus.
Both, I believe to be true.
Yet at the same time, listening to a humourous and intelligent, analytical sermon at Langham church, I couldn't help but think -- they do it so, so much better here. The preachers at anglican churches - in london at least, explain. They are teachers. They seek ways to make things personal to their audience, they touch heartstrings. They tell you the Why and the Wherefore about the readings - they tell you what the words meant, what happened in the old days, why Jesus / his apostle / Solomon (Ecclesiastes) said what he / they did, and what it really meant.
But I couldn't help noticing how the rest of the service, the endless upbeat "hymns" (which had a church warden doing the cha-cha in the corner), the serenely beautiful songs by the choir - were all feel-good window-dressing. Were they a celebration of the story of Jesus? Or were they just catchy words with catchy tunes? Is it truly adulation to ecstatically repeat Jesus, we love you, God, we love you, you are my rock? Or is it... in a strange way... consumerism? What does it remind us? Aside from that we are happy now.
Mass was a whole different flavour. The hymns calm, solomn, and slightly ancient - and also rather unimportant.
The structure of the mass, the profession of faith, confessing of sins -- all these tell the story of Jesus, and God. Every week, retold; to the numbed part-time Catholic, just words to bounce off the subconsciousness into oblivion, just ritual. To the listener -- reminders. Lest ye forget. And sobre reminders that we are NOT good. We are not wonderful. And we do NOT deserve. But yet we are given - be grateful. We are not happy - we are sorry.
And yet at the same time, the sermon was insipid and wholly insufficient. Almost just another reading, with a weak, and short reminder why the words should be relevant to us. No explanations Why, no explanations wherefore. Just a short parable on What we should do, which left me struggling to understand the reading. Which left me asking - "how did that tie in with the reading?".
No engaging and keen analysis there, just words. Ritual.
Ironically, the keenly analytical mindset of the protestants has led to justifications - why the church does condone Gay marriages, why we should be different. Why the old ways are dead. Why we should do this new thing, this new way. Why........
Somewhere along the line, much has been forgotten, or erased. We have become more important than God's word, and God.
The crosses in anglican churches lie stark, unadorned of the figure of Jesus. Yet in the stained-glass windows, if anyone cares to look - he is there, on his cross. The saints are there, some of them anyway. In the older churches. Sometimes mother Mary is there. How came it that Mary, so prominent in the liturgy (the Hail Mary) was completely erased from protestant memory -- and turned almost into a derisive figure of hate to use against the Catholics? "Mary worshippers, misguided. Praying to Mary." etc -- I've been there myself. I was anglican once, too. I firmly held the same convictions with quiet apathy, like I'm sure, the rest of my peers.
And yet at the Catholic churches, individuals do go to mass with the sole intention of touching the figurine of St Anthony at the end of it all. Blinded in the reverance for an individual, from the greater Glory of God. Blind in their quest for succouring salvation to the story that plays out, every mass, in the words they solemnly intone.
Taking communion in an Anglican church was always strange to me. Something that happened once a month, something that seemed almost unnecessary -- after all, it's the thought that counts, more than the deed isn't it? Isn't that why the cross, and not the crucifiction? Isn't that why the suit, and not the robe? Isn't that why...
Taking communion in a Catholic church is humbling. I don't know why, but it's a long pause for repentence. For memory. And for hope. Maybe it's because it lasts so, so long. Maybe it's because the hymns are so, so muted and so sad when communion is received. Maybe it's simply beause the answer to "isn't that why..." is simply -- Because.
I don't know where this ramble goes, except that I feel that there is much Goodness in both churches. And that there is God in both churches.
Whether, at the end of days God will think the same, I do not know.
Whether, at the end of days God will forgive, or condemn for forgetting, or not moving on, none of us can possibly say.
I only wish that both sides of the coin could learn from each other. And perhaps, one day there may be steps towards unification -- instead of more autonomy-motivated schisims.
Christianity (and here I include Catholicism) Isn't a brand name.
It's not about us. It's not about the consumers, or the customers. It's not about bending it around the wills, and evils of men.
It's about Him. It's about Then. It's about why Today, we have today. It's about hope for the future -- not hope for today.
Today, will be as today is. Today I will sleep. And I will wake, and I will go back to London, bearing half my room on my back. Perhaps the other half will follow me the day after.
Today, I may write forlornly again about You, today I may bump into You unexpectedly, or I might not. And another today, I might, or might not.
Tomorrow, I will die - and God willing, I will die into life.
And before any of you dimwits text or call me to say don't kill yourself tomorrow!! Read it again. Metaphorically.
********
Some nutter wrote fanmail to DrGoat (he told me!) expressing her admiration for his way with words.
He's asked me to write here :
DrGoat doesn't have a way with words.
It's really very easy - you just make it up as you go along.
Think in terms of images, then paint the images to the screen, choosing words as your colours.
That's all DrGoat does. He isn't a lyricist. He isn't a poet. He isn't a songwriter, or a performer. He doesn't have any particular skill or talent. He just tries to turn the pictures in his head into words. Which is probably why, so often he employs almost-oxymorons -- because reality is not simple. Because sometimes words are not enough.
When words are not enough (thirty seagulls standing forlornly on a frozen lake), he takes a picture.
And rarely, when pictures are not enough, he sears a memory that lasts a lifetime into his mind. (a trailing strand of hair caressing the upturned corner of a subtle smile, on gently inclined head; eyes -normally bursting with life and humour - shut in momentary serenity - trailing still further down to lie upon a gently feminine neck)
My last shift at this hospital today. Now that it's over and I'm coming back down, it feels rather anti-climatic. The highlight of the moment was two drunk kids in the confinement room unexpectedly becoming aggressive and violent. The two security blokes weren't able to pin them down and I jumped forwards and put one of them in an arm lock (odd. it just came out of nowhere). we had them pinned to the wall for a while but they still broke loose, and in the scuffle I accidentally lost my spectacles (they're rather loose). I suppose the flying specs must have made everyone think I'd taken a blow to the head and everyone started frenziedly trying to rescue my specs to my rather weak calls of "I don't really need them, really!" (mild astigmatism, the specs are really more an aide than a neccessity). The matron nudged me hard when police arrived and asked if i'd been struck, but in my typical slightly dim-witted manner I said, well no I dropped my spectacles.
And they're still in one piece too dammit. I coulda got new specs paid for by the NHS.
ah well.
******
Sunday was good for me. I woke up and attended service at a CoE cathedral, had breakfast, audited in Borders, then attended mass along Tottenham Court street.
I suppose my life's history entitles me to attend both, really. And the rulebooks don't make the services mutually exclusive (shock horrow. how many of you knew that?) only that I cannot now take communion at a protestant church.
Once upon a time I hated that idea, and felt that Catholics were isolating themselves and putting themselves on a pedestal.
In the aftermath of the gay-schism in the anglican church, I begin to comprehend it a little better.
Communion. The meaning of the word - togetherness -- has been lost to history. Jesus called us all to break his body and drink his blood - together.
Today, we still do those things, in memory of him - alone. Apart, from other churches. Apart, from other denominations. Apart, from any other brand-name but our own.
The protestant movements make weak efforts to appear united, but the harsh reality is they stand alone. And as time passes, their quests for unique identities broaden the divides between them - and the Catholic church still more.
Communion?
Attending both service and mass in a day reminded me of all the things I loved about the Anglican church, and the things I have come to appreciate about the Catholic church.
It is said that the Catholics are too mired in ritual to understand, too used to being sheep to think critically.
It is said that the protestants are too persistent in change and progressiveness to remember the "old ways", and that they have lost their focus.
Both, I believe to be true.
Yet at the same time, listening to a humourous and intelligent, analytical sermon at Langham church, I couldn't help but think -- they do it so, so much better here. The preachers at anglican churches - in london at least, explain. They are teachers. They seek ways to make things personal to their audience, they touch heartstrings. They tell you the Why and the Wherefore about the readings - they tell you what the words meant, what happened in the old days, why Jesus / his apostle / Solomon (Ecclesiastes) said what he / they did, and what it really meant.
But I couldn't help noticing how the rest of the service, the endless upbeat "hymns" (which had a church warden doing the cha-cha in the corner), the serenely beautiful songs by the choir - were all feel-good window-dressing. Were they a celebration of the story of Jesus? Or were they just catchy words with catchy tunes? Is it truly adulation to ecstatically repeat Jesus, we love you, God, we love you, you are my rock? Or is it... in a strange way... consumerism? What does it remind us? Aside from that we are happy now.
Mass was a whole different flavour. The hymns calm, solomn, and slightly ancient - and also rather unimportant.
The structure of the mass, the profession of faith, confessing of sins -- all these tell the story of Jesus, and God. Every week, retold; to the numbed part-time Catholic, just words to bounce off the subconsciousness into oblivion, just ritual. To the listener -- reminders. Lest ye forget. And sobre reminders that we are NOT good. We are not wonderful. And we do NOT deserve. But yet we are given - be grateful. We are not happy - we are sorry.
And yet at the same time, the sermon was insipid and wholly insufficient. Almost just another reading, with a weak, and short reminder why the words should be relevant to us. No explanations Why, no explanations wherefore. Just a short parable on What we should do, which left me struggling to understand the reading. Which left me asking - "how did that tie in with the reading?".
No engaging and keen analysis there, just words. Ritual.
Ironically, the keenly analytical mindset of the protestants has led to justifications - why the church does condone Gay marriages, why we should be different. Why the old ways are dead. Why we should do this new thing, this new way. Why........
Somewhere along the line, much has been forgotten, or erased. We have become more important than God's word, and God.
The crosses in anglican churches lie stark, unadorned of the figure of Jesus. Yet in the stained-glass windows, if anyone cares to look - he is there, on his cross. The saints are there, some of them anyway. In the older churches. Sometimes mother Mary is there. How came it that Mary, so prominent in the liturgy (the Hail Mary) was completely erased from protestant memory -- and turned almost into a derisive figure of hate to use against the Catholics? "Mary worshippers, misguided. Praying to Mary." etc -- I've been there myself. I was anglican once, too. I firmly held the same convictions with quiet apathy, like I'm sure, the rest of my peers.
And yet at the Catholic churches, individuals do go to mass with the sole intention of touching the figurine of St Anthony at the end of it all. Blinded in the reverance for an individual, from the greater Glory of God. Blind in their quest for succouring salvation to the story that plays out, every mass, in the words they solemnly intone.
Taking communion in an Anglican church was always strange to me. Something that happened once a month, something that seemed almost unnecessary -- after all, it's the thought that counts, more than the deed isn't it? Isn't that why the cross, and not the crucifiction? Isn't that why the suit, and not the robe? Isn't that why...
Taking communion in a Catholic church is humbling. I don't know why, but it's a long pause for repentence. For memory. And for hope. Maybe it's because it lasts so, so long. Maybe it's because the hymns are so, so muted and so sad when communion is received. Maybe it's simply beause the answer to "isn't that why..." is simply -- Because.
I don't know where this ramble goes, except that I feel that there is much Goodness in both churches. And that there is God in both churches.
Whether, at the end of days God will think the same, I do not know.
Whether, at the end of days God will forgive, or condemn for forgetting, or not moving on, none of us can possibly say.
I only wish that both sides of the coin could learn from each other. And perhaps, one day there may be steps towards unification -- instead of more autonomy-motivated schisims.
Christianity (and here I include Catholicism) Isn't a brand name.
It's not about us. It's not about the consumers, or the customers. It's not about bending it around the wills, and evils of men.
It's about Him. It's about Then. It's about why Today, we have today. It's about hope for the future -- not hope for today.
Today, will be as today is. Today I will sleep. And I will wake, and I will go back to London, bearing half my room on my back. Perhaps the other half will follow me the day after.
Today, I may write forlornly again about You, today I may bump into You unexpectedly, or I might not. And another today, I might, or might not.
Tomorrow, I will die - and God willing, I will die into life.
And before any of you dimwits text or call me to say don't kill yourself tomorrow!! Read it again. Metaphorically.
********
Some nutter wrote fanmail to DrGoat (he told me!) expressing her admiration for his way with words.
He's asked me to write here :
DrGoat doesn't have a way with words.
It's really very easy - you just make it up as you go along.
Think in terms of images, then paint the images to the screen, choosing words as your colours.
That's all DrGoat does. He isn't a lyricist. He isn't a poet. He isn't a songwriter, or a performer. He doesn't have any particular skill or talent. He just tries to turn the pictures in his head into words. Which is probably why, so often he employs almost-oxymorons -- because reality is not simple. Because sometimes words are not enough.
When words are not enough (thirty seagulls standing forlornly on a frozen lake), he takes a picture.
And rarely, when pictures are not enough, he sears a memory that lasts a lifetime into his mind. (a trailing strand of hair caressing the upturned corner of a subtle smile, on gently inclined head; eyes -normally bursting with life and humour - shut in momentary serenity - trailing still further down to lie upon a gently feminine neck)
