Midnight Mass, thin places, and home

There are two services in the liturgical calendar that I look forward to the most: Easter Vigil and Midnight Christmas Mass. Each service celebrates the coming of light amidst darkness. Each service is a beautiful renewal: the resurrection and the birth. Each service features candlelight and incense. Each service becomes a thin place. Thin places, to me (admittedly stolen from a theologian) are moments and places where the divide between earthly and heavenly, between mortal and divine, are almost non-existent. There are a few places where I've felt the presence of the divine, and for those I am thankful.

Seeing the water and sitting on the rocks by the pier is my favorite thin place. Even in elementary school I would sit and just listen to the water hit the rocks. There was something so beautiful about those rocks that it deserved silence. It deserved reverence. I went back to those rocks this break. There is so much noise in life. These days the noise is deadlines and papers and the ups and downs of working with colleagues. These days the noise is so thick that I can't see the thin places. But then I come home. I see the sun shining on the water and the sand on the beach. I see the sunset over the bay, I drive over the marsh, and I'm greeted by my dogs. All of this reminds me where I'd like to see myself. At peace. Maybe not here on the coast, but somewhere where I can see enough beauty to remind me that I'm a part of a wild and beautiful world. 

I had a thin place in Sewanee. St. Mary's Convent had an amazing view of the plateau and at sunset, the colors would be so vivid, so warm, so perfect that I could almost see the brushstrokes of God. Whenever I felt overwhelmed I would go there. Knowing that generations of nuns and pilgrims and people seeking solace had viewed the sunset on that bluff was comforting. While I was at homecoming I regretfully did not make it to this thin place. But to be honest, all of Sewanee is a thin place for me. 

Christmas deserves to be a thin place. Amidst the hustle of last minute gift buying and grocery shopping, there are moments where things slow down. A fire in the fireplace, a family meal, decorating the Christmas tree… all of these moments remind me that one of the best gifts Christmas brings us is family. 

I hope you and yours have a holiday season of renewal and rebirth, of solace and laughter, and most of all, moments of peace. 

Easter, Resurrection, and Tuscaloosa

Last night I attended the Easter Vigil at Christ Episcopal, Tuscaloosa. The vigil is my favorite service in the liturgical year in the Episcopal Church. The service begins in candlelight as old testament readings bring us through God's saving help in the world, leading to the empty tomb and a ceremonial turning on of all the lights in the church. The smell of incense lingers in the air and finally we are able to say Alleluia! after a lent of penitence.

What strikes me the most about the vigil is the transition. To know and fully appreciate the light of the empty tomb, the service begins in darkness. I too know about the transition. Last year's Easter Vigil I was living at home and my prayers were to keep me strong to survive the last of the year of teaching 7th grade. Last year my prayers were for some sort of light, any sign of light, because the past two years prior were filled with dark and sadness. I was unsure of what my next step was going to be, I only knew it was not going to be teaching at Gulfport Central Middle School.

I was unsure about the long run. I have felt called to the ministry for so long, but it has always been a call in the distant future. "I'll fulfill my call after this..." became the mantra. I couldn't see the immediate, and the way things lined up for The University of Alabama to be my next home were too easy to look over. Do I still think about the ministry? Yes. The difference is, I've put those thoughts on the back burner for the first time since the call originated and have focused on the NOW. Sounds new-agey but that focus was/is what I need.

It might sound strange, especially given the amount of work and stress that I've had this year, but Tuscaloosa has been my resurrection. Yes, I struggle to keep up with reading and writing, but I no longer dread waking up every day and I no longer pray just for survival. Yes, there are still questions and concerns about what I am doing, but I feel I am making a difference whenever a student of mine finally 'gets it.' I feel joy when I finally break through on a paper. I'm happy in the space where I live and the people who have been brought into my life.

I can fully appreciate this opportunity and change because of the darkness I have faced. Is it perfect? Hell no. What is perfect? There are bumps and bruises and frustrations and hurdles. The difference is, I have the strength (notice I didn't say patience- working on that) to deal with it.

So this year at the Vigil, I prayed a thanksgiving, not a desperate plea.

The tomb is empty, come and see.