Winged Things

I unlocked the Church this morning at 6:00 and headed for the sacristy, flipping on lights as I went. I paused on the chancel steps to admire the nave. It was still dressed for Pentecost, with red and orange gauze draped from rafters to floor and an abundance of white origami doves. As I stood there, a small winged creature whisked by, just clearing my left shoulder. For an instant, I was delighted. A live bird fluttering amidst the doves! The third verse of Psalm 84 sprung to mind: Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at your altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God. Then I realized that it was a bat. Ah well, bats are listed among the birds in Leviticus and Deuteronomy. A bat…last seen fluttering around in the narthex before heading off for parts unknown.

And while we’re on the topic of winged creatures, allow me to introduce the Liturgical Grouse. I confess to some considerable ambivalence in allowing the Liturgical Grouse to make an appearance on these pages. I find liturgical grousing to be an easy and oddly satisfying diversion. But it’s also a pastime where I’m far too likely to catch myself displaying a distinct lack of charity. And so, in this venue, liturgical grousing always will be accompanied by an image of a Spruce Grouse. Why? Because the Spruce Grouse also is called the Fool Hen because it is so easily caught.



And so, without further ado, today’s Liturgical Grouse: When I arrived to prepare for this morning’s Eucharist, the paschal candle stood beside the high altar. This struck me as odd, as Pentecost was observed last Sunday. I expected the candle to be beside the baptismal font or even stored away in its sacristy closet. I checked with the Celebrant (one of our elder retirees). He seemed quite surprised that I should ask and informed me firmly that the Pascal Candle should remain in place beside the altar throughout the season of Pentecost. “Lit?” I asked, struggling to come to terms with this idea. Yes. Lit. So I did. And then I sat, as the entering congregants looked sharply at the paschal candle and cast meaningful looks in my direction. At the end of the service, I extinguished the altar and paschal candles. But before I could even complete my reverence, I was assailed by two annoyed elderly female voices tripping over each other in their urgency to correct my error in having allowed the paschal candle to linger. I shrugged helplessly. Not my decision. I’m just the altar guild-acolyte-postulant around here. Father Celebrant wanted it. Ah! Well, why hadn’t I said so earlier? Of course the paschal candle should stay! One of the women quickly began spinning an explanation. The Octave of Pentecost. That was it. In the old days, the 1928 Prayer Book days, the Rite I days, the paschal candle always remained beside the high altar for the eight days of Pentecost. This creative account was brought to an abrupt halt by a snort from Priest Two (another of our retirees; we have several). Nonsense! Despite having trained at the Anglo-Catholic High-Church Seminary (where I, too, am a Daughter of the House), he’d never encountered such a custom. It was time, Priest Two declared, for the paschal candle to be removed…and he delivered an impromptu lecture on the history and uses of the paschal candle so delightfully authoritative that it swept aside all further grousing.

Pentecost

Fire and Breath. Jan Richardson. Used with permission.

Nine Long Ignatian Months

Last September, I began a 9-month Ignatian Spirituality program (Spiritual Exercises in Everyday Life or SEEL) through a local Franciscan spirituality center, with the goal of being more intentional in attending to my own spiritual health. That program now is drawing to a close. To be honest, I’m so glad the 9-months are nearly over! Two reasons. First, since Lent, I’ve been experiencing a sort of “liturgical whiplash” as the SEEL meditations often roam far afield from where we’re at in the liturgical calendar and the lectionary. Second, I seem to have reached a place in SEEL where my cup is full, if not overflowing. The meditations are arriving in my email inbox faster than I can truly engage with or pray them. And so, I am printing the incoming meditations and setting them carefully aside (for now). In the meantime, I have returned to several of the earlier meditations. I’m now savoring these at my own pace.

That said, I think that the SEEL program has been good for my prayer life. SEEL has helped me notice and appreciate the spontaneous moments of prayer that emerge unbidden amidst my days. I’ve always known that I’m prone to drifting off, captured by a glimpse of a bird or the movement of branches in the wind. SEEL helped me realize that these unguarded moments are far more than mere daydreaming; they are prayer. These are the moments where I rest most quietly in God’s presence. Moments (to paraphrase Jesuit priest James Martin) when I look upon God and God gazes back upon me.

SEEL also helped me notice a particular pattern in my approach to prayer. During Lent, I realized that I consistently began both SEEL meditations and the Daily Office by apologizing for my less-than-perfect prayer habits. It seemed as if every prayer began with “I’m sorry…I haven’t…I didn’t…I forgot…I overlooked…I was too busy…I started, but then got distracted…” Simply stated, I’d gotten so self-absorbed in enumerating my prayer inadequacies that I’d become lousy company for any sort of prayerful dialogue. And so, I decided to relinquish those apologies (at least for the duration of Lent). That is not to say that I stopped considering the quality of my prayer life. But, I don’t let myself get stuck there nearly as often. Being less judgmental about “doing prayer right” makes it easier for me to begin again, especially when a hectic day has derailed my efforts to be prayerful. It lets me actually pray, rather than just apologize about being bad at prayer. It helps me turn back toward God, over and over and over again.

(The icon of Ignatius under the stars was written by Fr. William McNichols and commissioned by Creighton University.)

Office Hours

It is the last week of the semester and, now that a major paper for one of their other classes is done, my doctoral students (finally) are getting serious about writing their research proposals. This is not at all unexpected and we’re treating this morning’s class as an open workshop session. They are in the classroom, surrounded by laptops and stacks of articles. I am down the hall in my office, available for individual consultations as needed. In between the students’ visits, I plug away at cleaning my office. I’m doing my best to tame the piles of paper that clutter all horizontal surfaces before my 1-year (unpaid) leave of absence begins in a couple of weeks.

A arrives first, visibly agitated. Perhaps A’s approach to the proposal should be overhauled yet again? It appears that I am to indicate whether this is the right course of action. I respond not with the answer, but by reviewing the key issues to be considered in making this decision. Really knowing the literature is at the top of the list. “But that will be HARD!” Yes. It will be.

B fidgets in my office door and has to be coaxed to sit down. A long and circuitous conversation reveals a plan to recruit a sample based on a criterion for which there is no extant measure. I attempt to persuade B that such a strategy would be impossible to implement. B reminds me (for at least the third time) that B’s advisor approves of the proposed study. I remain unimpressed. I remind B, with a (not entirely successful) gesture toward humor that the advisor in question won’t be grading the final paper.

C sheepishly confesses having spent zero-time on this proposal in the last 2-weeks. D also is in the same boat. Laughing, I reinforce their candor. They settle in and hammer away at their laptops for the duration of the 3-hour class period. This is good. They know where to find me when the inevitable questions crop up later in the week.

E brings me a Specific Aims draft, fresh off the printer. It reads like a dream. I walk E through the grading criteria, pointing out how I’m easily able to locate and understand each of the major required elements. We pinpoint some spots that would benefit from elaboration. But it’s icing and E knows it. E is in fine shape.

F appears just before the end of class. F’s list of questions is long, but focused and on-target. We grapple with the relative merits of dichotomized versus continuous variables, a topic that would be tough for any of my students. F comes from a culture where it’s not okay to articulate confusion to the professor; so, I monitor F’s non-verbals closely. Once the eyebrows unforrow, I’m confident that F understands.

G and H don’t stop by at all; this is an ominous sign, as they are the two students about whom I’m most concerned. I resist the temptation to go looking for them.

Few students notice—or at least few students comment upon—the strategically placed visual cues in my office. First, a mobile shaped like a question mark hangs over the only open chair. As students sit and talk to me, the question mark drifts gently above their heads. Second, two small magnets from the Wizard of Oz are stuck to the filing cabinet, placed to fall directly in my line of vision every time I look toward a student. One magnet is the Wicked Witch of the West; the other is Glenda the Good Witch. I’ve had the question mark mobile since I was a graduate student myself. I hung it in my office to remind me what an effortful and vulnerable process it is to be the one asking questions. Glenda and her wicked counterpart help me keep my sense of humor whenever I encounter a student who wants me to solve a problem for them—as if I could wave Glenda’s magic wand—rather than helping the student solve the problem for themselves (which is, of course, what good teachers do). Such students often leave, I suspect, feeling as if I’ve been rather witchy.

Office hours are done for the day. In fact, they’re done for the semester and it will be a year (or more) before I teach again. When I finish this blog entry, I’m going to take down the question mark mobile, gather Glenda and the Wicked Witch and take them all home with me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to want—and need—them in the tiny seminarian’s apartment that awaits me in Manhattan.