I am certain that the memory I will relate to you shortly is, in fact, not the first time I ever entered a church. It alludes me as to how something so intimate as one's personal moral and ethical belief system can have technicalities such that I am "technically Jewish," but so be it. I understand the politics of circumcision; or to be precise, I understand that there are politics of circumcision, and I recognize the existence of a history that informs religious impact in our daily lives. My intent, however, is not to sink into the mire of religious theorizing or debate. Let that to the theologians, and those who have both the interest and the time; I have neither at the moment, and we have already sunk into too much technicality. We shall not be lost, pray, don't lose spirit; we have only to return to a memory:
I had, I believe, 12 years behind me on the Sunday morning which pertains to the greater story I am intending to tell. I had stayed the previous night at my neighbor's house, a residence I greatly preferred over my own at this time. My friend, called Louisa*, was one of 5 children in her family and lived only a few houses down the block; we often scurried the inbetween. The Jackson's house smelled of dryer sheets and the use of a plant whose name I would learn a few years later. They had a large yard with a trampoline, and a dark basement full of pillows and blankets and games, and that is where we stayed up most of the night preceding the Sunday morning of which I speak. We were unexpectedly awoken this Sunday morning at the impromptu urge of Louisa's mother, whose first name I called her though I will not do her the indecency to do so now in writing, and who desired, on this particular morning, to attend church, and who intended to deliver all 6 of us to the mass. I had too much grog in my eyes to resist, and I had not a heart to go back home yet, so early on a Sunday. And so we went to church, "Saint Someone, The Great," they called it.
It was not, and I believe, still is not a very beautiful church, and I doubt that they ring any bells. I have no reason or means with which to tell you what goes on, or what went on during that Sunday mass, because I do not remember. Indeed I don't believe I was awake for most of it, or only chattering with Louisa, though even if I had been conscious and capable of recording to memory the substance of the sermon or the sounds of the choir, and through these years had by some chance kept that memory unaltered, I would not reproduce it here now since that is not my intent, which we presently return to. One moment of the mass, all the congregants were seated, pew after pew, and then next moment, as in the changing of the guards, our pew rose, and filed out and the pew before us filed in. I simply followed the feet of those before me, as there seemed no way to avoid being swept by the wave despite my hesitation and ambivalence towards any kind of participation. I found myself presented with a cracker from the man on the stage in his white costume (according to my questionable memory), and with the note that I hadn't eaten, gratefully accepted the awkwardness of having someone else place something on my tongue, and swallowed, unsatisfied.
You understand, no doubt, that this was not "technically" allowed, and you know, no doubt, that retorts about Jesus being originally Jewish, and how really, it is only matzoh, are generally met without acceptance. Regardless of your beliefs, or mine even, I have never been sheepish, or even completely honest in my behavior in religious settings.
Church bells ring frequently, though not on every hour, in every neighborhood I've stumbled into here in France. I love the hugeness of the round sounds that boom from the Basilica Sacred Heart at Montmartre, and I love the orchestral quality at the Notre Dame with its bells upon bells upon bells. I love the echoing bells from the churches surrounding Our Lady, in their attempts to keep up with the grandiosity of Her bells. I love the small clatterings of bells upon every such and such an hour here in Rueil-Malmaison. I have wandered in and out, quietly and reverently, and piously even, of many churches already since I've landed amid these gothic buildings. But I have not been to a mass. I am not sure if I intend to, for I am afraid that I would be disappointed by the flat, unsalted, unsweetened, unbuttered Eucharist, and I would rather retain my fancy that in France, the priests give the congregants croissants.
And what a sigh of relief to have finally uttered the topic of all of this rambling. Thank you, reader, for your patience. You understand, of course- I simply had to write it this way. And you understand, I know, that having written in this fashion, I am now, at the keyboard, tired, and hungry, and having to set this aside for a moment. Pray, don't lose spirit, my dear reader, it will only be but a short break in the story.
*You are smart, my friend, and can, no doubt, understand that the specific identities of those mentioned correlate exactly to the lives of people wandering about their ways, perhaps completely unaware of my referring to them. You can, indeed, imagine the discomfort inevitably caused by their hypothetical discoverance of a public mention of something so personal, identifiable, and specific as their name. Why, imagine if I were to say something nasty. Of course, I never would, but imagine! And so, my friend, names have been altered.
I had, I believe, 12 years behind me on the Sunday morning which pertains to the greater story I am intending to tell. I had stayed the previous night at my neighbor's house, a residence I greatly preferred over my own at this time. My friend, called Louisa*, was one of 5 children in her family and lived only a few houses down the block; we often scurried the inbetween. The Jackson's house smelled of dryer sheets and the use of a plant whose name I would learn a few years later. They had a large yard with a trampoline, and a dark basement full of pillows and blankets and games, and that is where we stayed up most of the night preceding the Sunday morning of which I speak. We were unexpectedly awoken this Sunday morning at the impromptu urge of Louisa's mother, whose first name I called her though I will not do her the indecency to do so now in writing, and who desired, on this particular morning, to attend church, and who intended to deliver all 6 of us to the mass. I had too much grog in my eyes to resist, and I had not a heart to go back home yet, so early on a Sunday. And so we went to church, "Saint Someone, The Great," they called it.
It was not, and I believe, still is not a very beautiful church, and I doubt that they ring any bells. I have no reason or means with which to tell you what goes on, or what went on during that Sunday mass, because I do not remember. Indeed I don't believe I was awake for most of it, or only chattering with Louisa, though even if I had been conscious and capable of recording to memory the substance of the sermon or the sounds of the choir, and through these years had by some chance kept that memory unaltered, I would not reproduce it here now since that is not my intent, which we presently return to. One moment of the mass, all the congregants were seated, pew after pew, and then next moment, as in the changing of the guards, our pew rose, and filed out and the pew before us filed in. I simply followed the feet of those before me, as there seemed no way to avoid being swept by the wave despite my hesitation and ambivalence towards any kind of participation. I found myself presented with a cracker from the man on the stage in his white costume (according to my questionable memory), and with the note that I hadn't eaten, gratefully accepted the awkwardness of having someone else place something on my tongue, and swallowed, unsatisfied.
You understand, no doubt, that this was not "technically" allowed, and you know, no doubt, that retorts about Jesus being originally Jewish, and how really, it is only matzoh, are generally met without acceptance. Regardless of your beliefs, or mine even, I have never been sheepish, or even completely honest in my behavior in religious settings.
Church bells ring frequently, though not on every hour, in every neighborhood I've stumbled into here in France. I love the hugeness of the round sounds that boom from the Basilica Sacred Heart at Montmartre, and I love the orchestral quality at the Notre Dame with its bells upon bells upon bells. I love the echoing bells from the churches surrounding Our Lady, in their attempts to keep up with the grandiosity of Her bells. I love the small clatterings of bells upon every such and such an hour here in Rueil-Malmaison. I have wandered in and out, quietly and reverently, and piously even, of many churches already since I've landed amid these gothic buildings. But I have not been to a mass. I am not sure if I intend to, for I am afraid that I would be disappointed by the flat, unsalted, unsweetened, unbuttered Eucharist, and I would rather retain my fancy that in France, the priests give the congregants croissants.
And what a sigh of relief to have finally uttered the topic of all of this rambling. Thank you, reader, for your patience. You understand, of course- I simply had to write it this way. And you understand, I know, that having written in this fashion, I am now, at the keyboard, tired, and hungry, and having to set this aside for a moment. Pray, don't lose spirit, my dear reader, it will only be but a short break in the story.
*You are smart, my friend, and can, no doubt, understand that the specific identities of those mentioned correlate exactly to the lives of people wandering about their ways, perhaps completely unaware of my referring to them. You can, indeed, imagine the discomfort inevitably caused by their hypothetical discoverance of a public mention of something so personal, identifiable, and specific as their name. Why, imagine if I were to say something nasty. Of course, I never would, but imagine! And so, my friend, names have been altered.
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