Anna and I stayed up late last night, reading and watching some old episodes of "Law and Order" she'd checked out from the library. As usual on Sunday mornings, I got up early today to prepare myself for worship, which begins with Matins as 8:00 a.m.--at least until the baby comes. So when I drug myself into the church building this morning I was tired and far less attentive than I normally am.
At Matins, our choir consists of about two or three people. Normally one of the faithful and proficient choir members is there so things go fairly well: we sing the right tones in the right key, we sing the right hymns for the feast, and so on. Today, well, the poor choir must have felt like I did. We missed notes. The transitions were less than smooth, with the silence broken by rustling pages as they looked for the right hymn. Even Fr. Patrick seemed to have been operating on less sleep, as his normal smooth baritone seemed to hang out a few steps down in the cellar and had just a hint of roughness.
It was all I could do to stay focused. I dared not close my eyes lest I succumb to semi-slumber in a standing position. Then pangs of worry punctured my pseudo-coherence from time to time as I remembered I'd forgotten to bring my cell phone . . . and what if Anna goes into labor and I'm here with the car, our bags, and no cell phone?!
By the time Divine Liturgy was underway, things went somewhat better, for there were more voices to carry the rest of us. But even so, one of the great tenors in our choir kept blurting out the first words of the relevant hymn before the rest of the choir jumped in. He stopped. There would be silence. Some humming to get the right pitch. Then the rest of the choir would finally get together.
The sermon was good, but one wonders whether Father had come up with it by inspiration during the Proskomedie or had committed it to memory during the week. He normally has a small sheet of notes. None today.
By the time the service of Thanksgiving after Holy Communion was over and I'd gotten some coffee in me, the panic mode had hit, and I decided to skip Sunday School and head home . . . just in case. It turned out that Anna was still shut tight. No labor. No water breaking. Much continued discomfort.
With all my Protestant background, I look back on my experience today and I think: what a horrible worship experience. But though I still feel less than joyous about the morning, my growing Church mind realizes that it is precisely on days like today that worship is purified. My mind may have wandered. My recitation of the Jesus Prayer during Communion may have been more rote than attentive. But I am not responsible for the emotive states dredged up by these actions. I am responsible for the actions alone. I did my duty today, as a Christian should. There is no merit here. And it is truly as prosaic as the phrase "did my duty" has come to connote in our society. It was unimaginative, lacked feeling, even at times lacked something of conviction. Yes, I felt at times impatient, wondering when this interminable service would end. No, there is no reward for having done my duty, save the reward of the action itself.
This is the askesis of the Christian Faith. In many ways, this is the truest worship I've offered in months. But this is nothing about which to brag. It is, after all, the normal lot of Christian living. I did a very normal and mundane thing. It's what I'm supposed to do. It's like breathing. No one has gotten a medal for just breathing. But by breathing, everyone participates in life.
Thank God for days of worship like this. And pray for me a sinner.
Posted by Clifton at August 3, 2003 05:28 PM | TrackBack