June 13: Chanting, Holy Spirit, New Cartoon, Michael Mlekoday, "Going North"

On that occasion, during Holy Week, Father Tom, transplanted from the Bronx and studying advanced Latin at the Gregorian University, had told them [Ives and his family] about a tenth-century church in Trastevere where some of the most devout Catholics in Rome gathered on Wednesday evenings for services that would "tear one's heart out," as he had put it.  So they went, and no sooner had they entered its candlelit gloom than Ives did feel the presence of early Christian spirits.  That night worshipers took turns giving testimony to their faith and strong belief in Him before the congregation.  They wept, beat their chests, they lay stretched out on their bellies on the floor, praying.  Others crawled on their knees, hands folded in prayer, toward the altar, their shadows thrown high against the vaulted walls.  Chanting in Latin, their eyes wide open, they seemed to be seeing something--the presence of Jesus of the Mother or the Holy Spirit--that Ives could not.

Ives is a deeply spiritual man.  Yet, he struggles with his faith, as most Christians do.  He goes to church every Sunday.  He does charitable work in his neighborhood.  Quietly.  Above all, Ives teaches his children to love God.  On a trip to Italy, he takes his family to the church described in the above passage.  He marvels at the utter surrender in the worshipers.  How the veil seems to have been torn away from their eyes and their vision is more eternal, less temporal.  Ives strives his whole life to reach this state of understanding.

Like Ives, I've had glimpses of what I call Holy Spirit moments, when something beyond my understanding has taken hold.  Sometimes, it's happened during worship services, when candlelight climbs the walls and incense clouds the air.  Sometimes, it's happened during songs I've sung or played at church; the music starts, and suddenly the hair on my arms bristles and I feel . . . something moving in the place.

I was lucky.  I grew up with church.  I didn't have to spend years on some spiritual journey.  Church was a part of my life.  Always.  Some people might consider that a bad thing.  I don't.  My upbringing has helped with my understanding of the world.  I like to think that I'm a more tolerant, loving person because of it.  I try not to judge too much (although I frequently fail on this account).  But, I'm a work in progress, for sure.

One of my biggest failings is trust.  When troubles come my way, I tend to panic.  Run around, crying out, "The sky is falling!"  It takes me quite a while to calm down, take a deep breath, and pray.  I think it's part of my control issues.  I don't like it when my life becomes a big bundle of entropy.  I think Ives' biggest struggle is the same.  He has a good, happy life, and then bad shit happens.  For over 150 pages, he is lost, until the end of the novel.  Then he's found again.

I tend to get a little lost every day.  Michael Mlekoday's poem today is about going north, looking for something.  I think that pretty much describes all of us.  We spend our whole lives trying to avoid the scary stuff--black bears, falling ceilings, death.  We walk around, sometimes in circles, looking for the answers.

Saint Marty just needs to stop walking.  Look up, metaphorically.  That's where the answers are written.

Going North

by:  Michael Mlekoday

The black bear of a Bible
that belonged to my grandparents
has gold-lined pages, paws
dipped in honey.

Running through its forests
is like deja vu every time.
The black bear eats everything.
If you've never stared past its teeth,

you've never held your breath waiting
to be ended.  The largest male black bear
weighs almost a thousand pounds
and can be found hunting at night

somewhere deep in the North.
I still have nightmares of his silence.
I haven't eaten fish since I saw him
pick a salmon from its bones.

Confessions of Saint Marty