My Tent on The Beach

Well, it was bound to come out eventually.  I go to church.  A lot.  It’s kind of funny how it happens.  I’m not naturally inclined to go as often as I do but because of my involvement in church music, I end up sitting through a lot of masses.  How many?  For the past three weekends I’ve been to no less than 4 masses per weekend. This situation is completely typical for professional musicians who earn their livelihood singing or playing or directing or…whatever.  (When I mentioned it’s been a lot of Church to Steve, the director at Loyola, he was like, “Yeah…I’ve been doing this every Saturday since I was 14.”  When I said the same the to Paul at Mt. Carmel his response was basically “Pfffff.”  He’s been doing this every weekend for…well, a long time.)

And in all of these masses what I’ve realized is I’m listening to horrific homilies.  That doesn’t mean every one.  Some are way better (thank you Jesuits in general) than others (I’ll point no fingers but I have a couple folks specifically in mind).  But in general, the preaching that I’ve heard in the Catholic church around here is piss poor.  I’m actually educated in Theology to a point and over-educated in philosophy and sociology…and I’ll tell you, the flock is being misled by the misinterpretation and mis-appropriation of gospel messages.  Frankly, I’m starting to find it disgusting.

It’s hard to choke down homilies that are clearly used for political or personal gain while watching everyone in the congregation doing the polite “the priest is talking” nod.  I can’t stand the choice to abjectly ignore the “social gospel” (sorry people, but Jesus was the first socialist) in favor of pushing asinine institutional regulations without any nod toward critical thinking or application in one’s life. (Does wearing shorts to church really mean your eternal soul is in question?  If it does, I’m coming to realize I’ve been barking up the wrong tree for a long time.)  There’s a difference between preaching and pontificating.  We’re getting too much of the latter confused for the former.

Of course, there’s a clear solution to this problem.  All of these frantic homilies (if they’ve been thought about for more than 12 seconds or not stolen off of  “homilies.com”), flush with pleading and prodding about tithing (Catholics are particularly good at hiding this notion around the phrase “put it in the collection basket”…) and literal re-investment in the church (like, the money kind) come from men who needed the power the Church could promise them in this role.  And now that the institution in this country is seriously changing, laity are treating it differently, and becoming very savvy at reading the signs of the times themselves (which was once the purview of church), the power is dwindling.  And these insecure men parading around with their fake power are starting to get desperate. (This isn’t about gender slander…if women could be priests, women would be doing this too…actually probably more vindictively).

The solution to the preaching problem is finding people outside of the institutional structure who are still invested in the message of the gospel and not as a business.  Nuns (technically religious sisters) are writing up a storm and, whether I agree or disagree with their points, they’re pastoral.  They have Jesus’ words and intentions at heart.  They understand figurative imagery and language and have imaginations that expand the bounds of the possibilities.  A lot of men’s religious orders are doing this too.

I wish I could find this stuff at church.  I’ll still go because of the music and the community.  But I think it’s interesting that to find what I need spiritually…I’ve turned to the blogosphere.  And I’m one of the very faithful.

I’m not sure whether I should be surprised or not.  I’m fairly convinced, though, that my guilt response is deeply embedded.  Thank god for the guilt.  It reminds me of who I am.

School work has become not a little thrill.  In fact, to suggest the word “thrill” should go anywhere near this PhD process seems sacreligious.  But nonetheless, the time has come that I just start hunkering down and do this thing.

Thus, I have.  But not without reward.  Tonight as I sat down, notes in front of me, trying to drum up a train of thought about how idiocultures are developed within existing social structures and the effects of said structures (I KNOW…this is my life, people.  Not pretty), I promised myself that after a couple hours (literally 2), I would allow myself the luxury of a treat: fix my blog.  Because, really, the fact that the pictures were not mine was seriously bothersome, especially because I kept getting a lot of compliments on them and, well, that was making me jealous.

There begins my sojourn into the fun world of CSS.  Two hours later, I emerge triumphant and I feel like a million bucks. Veni, Vidi, Vici. (That’s Latin for “Take THAT you sucka pictures.” Just to recap in case you haven’t been following: I managed to get two pictures up in two hours.  And I couldn’t be happier.  In fact, I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that the Sunset at the Arno adorns my homepage.

In the midst of this compulsive panic, though, I did pause to reflect.  This may sound ridiculous but: I think we don’t celebrate enough.  Like, really expend energy to pat ourselves (or others) on the back for jobs well done.  We get judgey (PhD word, guys, keep up) about what constitutes a “success” and we’ve driven that standard so high that we really spend a huge amount of time chasing things but rarely taking stock in what makes us happy and what we’ve accomplished in getting there.

Am I a big fat nerd because I’m totally thrilled that I “won” the battle? Yes.  Unequivocally, yes.  But I’m willing to accept that for this feeling of a little weight off my shoulders and a sense that I mulled through something a figured it out.  And yay for me.

Enjoy the sunset.  I know I will.

P.S.–In case you were wondering…those OUT OF CONTROL enormo TAGS are next on the list.  That’s just ridiculous…

UPDATE: Tags fixed…for now.

One of the biggest struggles for me this summer has been contending with the notion of delayed gratification, satisfaction, relief, any other kind of “good” feeling you can think of.  This has plagued me in random facets of my life for awhile but never all at once.  This PhD is the ultimate in delay…accomplishment always lies somewhere in the not-too-distant future.  But it also seems to be trickily elusive; like the carrot tied to the horse’s head that dangles in front of it’s nose, just always out of reach, the end seems to move farther away proportionate to any kind of strides I make to get there.  This PhD is really about tricking the carrot.

For this past year, the delay was waiting to move from Crummy, Dark, Weird Apartment #2 into a place that I knew would work as a true, comfortable home base, a facet of life I’ve been without for 4 years really.  A lot of energy was spent actively waiting for that to come down.  Now that the wait is over, the relief is almost unimaginable.  But it was intense in the month of June, which happened to coincide with several of my friends heading out of reach, some permanently and some “just for the time being.”  The delay with the friends was (and still is) that my everyday life qualitatively changed.  I had to temporarily imagine my life working differently and unexpectedly and in ways completely out of my control if I still wanted them to be a part of it. It felt uncomfortable and tenuous.

I guess there’s a lot of ways to approach this.  Some might tell me I needed to adjust my mind-set: “Why wait for others when you can take the reins yourself, ” they’d say.  My response to those is that when you take the reins there, you’d better be prepared for loneliness because you’ll be the only one present to you.  Other people just become part of the decoration of your life; people in picture frames on your walls.  My question is why they’re not sitting on your couch.  Others might say that I need to loosen my grip a little.  This is probably true to some degree, but do I really want to allow “slack” with people who possess the power to turn my world?  Do I become, then, the “slacker”? I’m not comfortable with that, either.

As this month is winding down and headed back toward some kind of normalcy, with people back where they “should” be and life snapping to some kind of new but comfortable shape, I’m realizing that the lessons of delay that I take away from this June and others like it reveal themselves immediately. I’ve learned that a little missing, a little wanting is good; too much is toxic and not enough is apathetic.  Time always passes.  But forever wanting can wreck you in a very unobtrusive, quiet way; a mantle of that kind of unique discomfort can really weigh heavily.

So, I guess my lesson of delay is really this: The quality of the days in which you get what you’ve been wanting will be determined by the quality of the days you’ve spent without having.

Appreciation will usually be the end result if we’ve played it right.  But that’s my lesson.  You may have to find your own.