♪ Bridge Over Troubled Water ♪

Blissfield, Michigan, has bridges. Not the stately covered ones of Madison County,

Iowa, perhaps, but the famed Three Bridges. One, the pedestrian bridge, crosses the River Raisin on its' way winding through the sleepy little farm hamlet on land that looks much like the Texas prairie. Big sky country, broad horizons, and a barn every now and then. (The river, named by the French for the wild grapes that grew along its banks, was the site of a major battle in The War of 1812, so don't think it's just a silly name. I did, then I looked it up to find out WHY it had a silly name. HA) My dad would have crossed this bridge a few times, as a child and a teen,dreaming of leaving the sleepy hamlet to Do Great Things. 

But I digress. Sort of. 

The pastor at the Easter service I celebrated this morning took a different tack from the usual Easter story. So often Protestant preachers go sneaky Catholic/Jewish guilt-laying, on the twice-a-year Easter-ers, heavy into the anguish of the Crucifixion to backlight the Resurrection in order to grab at the hearts and souls of the congregation. Instead of reminding us we NEED TO BE BROKEN, this man spoke of a builder. 

This man spoke of Jesus the carpenter. The carpenter who had to size up a piece of wood and create something out of it. The carpenter who, when faced with crucifixion, took the wood and the nails and the ropes that bound Him to it and built a bridge to the Father. 

A bridge that didn't exist before then, because the Father stayed hidden in the Holy of Holies -- until Jesus built that bridge with His death and tore the Temple curtain from top to bottom. Not a curtain like we have in our homes, either, but a 30-foot high, 3-foot thick hand-loomed curtain that veiled the Ark of the Covenant. No human, no team of humans, could have rent that weaving in half, let alone from the top down. He spoke of walking across that bridge, and picturing the Cross beam, on Jesus' shoulders, under our feet. 

Easter. Bridge Building 101.

I've been trying to rebuild bridges. I didn't burn them, as much as I threw flaming spears, put up barriers and planted bramble. Some may never be re-established. Some probably should not be.  Some are coming along. Fortunately for me, the girl who passed Woodshop with a B-, I don't have to keep slaving away at the renovation and repair with my meager skills. 

Jesus, the carpenter from Nazareth, can clear the brambles and the barriers and brush away the soot from the flaming spears, most of which grew cold more than a year ago. He already has -- and strengthened the supports to others that have long been kindred spirits on the Journey.  

On my Facebook page, a reference which might seem silly,  I can count more than a few Friends who used to loathe me for speaking the Truth --  bridges which Jesus has built to folks who probably would have rather seen me fall off of them and float down the river, at some point or another. 

Jesus took nails, cross beams, and rope to make a bridge to the Father in Heaven, leading us, as the pastor said this morning, away from condemnation, sin, and un-forgiveness. 

A Bridge leading us from trying-so-hard-to-be-holy-and-forgiven that we keep checking our lists of How to Be Good and What I Did Wrong, instead of checking in with Him -- to find what He wants for us. 

Jesus has taken the broken pieces of this girl, literally, and made something new.( I have the scars to prove it.) 

He does the same for all who come to the entrance of the bridge, which, if Catholics and Jews might look closely, is just beyond the empty tomb... 

Like Simon and Garfunkel sang once upon a time, He's the bridge over troubled water, laying Himself down. 

We don't have to Do Great Things, nor redress our Bad Things until we get it right, nor be forgiven by someone representing Him. 

We've got a Pedestrian Bridge which He built on good Friday. Keep looking ahead to the other side. 

"When you're weary  Feeling small   When tears are in your eyes   I will dry them all 

I'm on your side When times get rough And friends just can't be found 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 

When you're down and out    When you're on the street    When evening falls so hard 
I will comfort you 

I'll take your part     When darkness comes     And pain is all around 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will lay me down 

Sail on Silver Girl, Sail on by   Your time has come to shine  All your dreams are on their way 

See how they shine  If you need a friend I'm sailing right behind 

Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will ease your mind 
Like a bridge over troubled water 
I will ease your mind"

♪ Skyfall ♪

Last Wednesday, at the prompting of my heart and spirit, I flew to my father's home state to arrive at his birthplace.

The next two days I spent caring for, praying for,  and about with his younger sister, on hospice. The little sister of whom he was jealous ...and it turns out he had a right to be.

At the end of HER life, her children, friends, and community  love her and looked after her in return for her years of dedication to their father and to them. 

Barbara Ann. My phantom aunt. HA not her fault that she remained a shadowy figure for years to us, since she lived in Michigan, and we never ventured further than Colorado on summer vacations. Apparently, 1300 miles one way was our limit. As a preschooler, my over-imaginative self thought she was the girl on the bread trucks. Hey. They had the same name. (And the same hair). HA ( I KNEW she wasn't the girl on the beach boys' song, since I don't think she ever wore a bikini, nor hung around  Doheny - or any other CA beach. )

The youngest of the three in my dad's family, she measured a model of strength to me. 

Stalwart, steady, rarely  venturing out of her hometown save for the occasional trip to Detroit  or to Ann Arbor to shop.  One of those was to fly her father's funeral in 1977. We had the odd family occurrence of a funeral AND wedding all in one week. When the life celebrations had passed, we took her to see the Pacific Ocean along the Santa Barbara coast. Fitting, I think, looking back. She radiated sheer joy to wade among the waves, barefoot, slacks rolled up to her knees, feeling the sand and seashells in between her toes. 

A letter my dad wrote to MY mother, back  in college, talked of that same glee, a young Barb who propped up her senior portraits all over the house, to include one against the toaster, so that wherever she went, she could gaze upon her smiling self.  Typical big brother, squashing little sister joy. Sigh. ;-)

That same girl stayed with another family in Hillsdale while her folks moved back to Blissfield, for the duration of her senior year so that she could take languages and get a better education than in the little hamlet where she was born -and would remain. 

Dad probably harbored envy because she had a firm grasp on what eluded him. Barb lived a contented life. Smitten by a local high school football star, an All-State ranked player, she'd gone off to college dreaming big dreams. 

Quitting in her undergrad years to be with her fiancé , who had big dreams of his own, a football star for Michigan state. Most tragically, he was savagely attacked in his dorm room and suffered brain damage. She went to him and never left his side. A once bright young man, now limited to the ranks of the working class. Barb worked as a secretary for a Realtor, making slim ends meet, with my cousin Linda making dinner for dad and two younger brothers while her mom finished up long workdays. 

Barbara Ann.  Her middle name may  have been homage to her grandmother, Anna, a little slip of a thing standing in a starched blouse and crinoline skirt, hair pulled back tight. Squinting through spectacles intense humid June heat, in a photograph from a 1922 family picnic. The Peter were precise and practical farm folk - sending registration forms for such events to get a head count. Necessary practicality - the 1922 photo shows upwards of 100 people stretching over four generations. Barb followed the family precision. 

Started a career as the town librarian when her oldest had graduated high school and her youngest was 8, a career that her friends and neighbors will talk to you about to this day. Some of them have saved certificates earned by their children in her summer reading programs! They'll tell you she was strict and sometimes stern at the library, but that she loved the kids who loved to read like she did.

Yep, that's my aunt Barb. Necessarily practical to a fault. Pretty disciplined, indeed, she was the kind of housekeeper who, when she went into labor with my cousin Bruce, stayed at home until she finished up the supper dishes. Then it was time to go.

I had a hard time leaving her on Saturday, even though she had slipped into the end stages. We weren't close through the years,  but in her lay the last vestiges of my long-gone grandparents, aunt, and father -- and the lady who loved the beach that day in 1977. Sigh.

Got on the plane to go home and the opening of the in-flight movie of the day made me weep a little. "Skyfall". James Bond doesn't ordinarily induce tears. But having seen the film already, knowing an ancestral estate Played an important plot point...the lyric to the theme got me. 

"This is the end Hold your breath and count to ten Feel the earth move and then Hear my heart burst again

For this is the end I've drowned and dreamt this moment So overdue I owe them Swept away, I'm stolen

Let the sky fall When it crumbles We will stand tall Face it all together...

Let the sky fall We will stand tall At skyfall"

I did the dishes at your house, Aunt Barb, straightened things, up, and left it nice so you'd be ready to go, for the last time... :-), and on Sunday afternoon, you did.

We will stand tall, with your kids and granddaughters, and beloved widower, while their sky falls, today. 

Give everyone a hug for us...

Thank you, Pope Benedict. Thank you...

Nearly ten years ago now I worked in the daycare of a local church. Dealing with a sociopath husband, three teenage and pre-teen boys, and younger and more ridiculous hormones of my own, most days gave me grief. I emerged from a bathroom break once, heart heavy, praying my way through the day, and made the sign of the cross over myself, as if hugging myself in prayer.

Not long after the 'director' of the daycare summoned me to her inner sanctum. " Some one saw you cross yourself. ARE YOU CATHOLIC?"

My California-psyche sat stunned at the narrow-minded, pointed-ness of the question.

"I'm sorry, what did you just ask me?"

Venom dripping from her sharp tongue, she repeated."ARE YOU CATHOLIC?"

Huh. I looked at her and said evenly, " As my employer you should know that, under federal law, you are not allowed to ask me any questions like that. What else did you need?"

She didn't have much else to say.

I think I've always been slightly Catholic.

Of course not baptized or raised as such, but living with the constant need for approval from other human beings, all in the name of God, of course, is very Catholic.

Wait. I take that back. On a few levels, I was raised as a Catholic, disguised as a Presbyterian. HA

The late 1960's and 70's in our household, like many others, left little room for varying thought, sex=sin, church attendance: mandatory; God watches naughty little girls -- but Jesus loved me, ♪ this I know, and like all the "red and yellow, ♪ black and white ♪ little children of the world". That was our world back then.

Yes, He does. My born-during-the Depression parents couldn't help it. One side moved from church to church in the Mennonite community, the other grew up United Brethren; both generations fresh out of the tent revival days at the turn of the century -- where EVERYONE WAS A SINNER GOING TO HELL.

Watching the resignation of Pope Benedict put the seal on my decision to not complete my journey into Catholicism.
 Two weeks ago I beat myself up over "not finishing another quest, what a loser I am." The very next day the head of the Church ( in which I'd tried desperately to understand and fit into) stepped down, stating, "After having repeatedly examined my conscience before God, I have come to the certainty that my strengths due to an advanced age are no longer suited" for the task."

If the Pope can step aside then it's okay for me to do the same, thought I.

And then the Christian in me realized how very Catholic I have lived. Who cares what the Pope chooses for himself? Why does that matter to me????

Granted, Catholicism has done much for the world. Established hospitals, schools, given remarkable aid to poor nations. Done much for humanity and....stayed rooted in humanity.

"On this rock I will build my church, " declared Jesus. And He did. The tomb of St. Peter lies below the Basilica. The Church that sings, " we profess your death o Lord, and proclaim your Resurrection, until You come again..." at every mass, has yet to let go of the death, and yet to fully live in the Resurrection. They still want you to focus on becoming holy... which, for us fully human peeps, is unattainable.

I can't ascribe fully to a faith system that says that Jesus' mother is as holy as He is. He was fully human AND fully divine. She was fully human. Like us.

I can't ascribe fully to a faith that only allows the approved to accept the gift of the Eucharist, the body and blood of Jesus given to all mankind.

I can't ascribe fully to a faith that requires your sins to be absolved by one of your peers, in a confessional. While confession and accountability are necessary for a healthy soul, Jesus did not hang six hours on the cross for me to be forgiven by a seminarian. That's going a little bit backwards. The Jews HAD to go to God through a priest, as well, until the Crucifixion, when the Temple curtain ripped in half, from bottom to top at the moment of His death.

A curtain woven three feet thick and ten feet high. Ripped, in half, to reveal the Holy of Holies. From top to bottom. No human force could have done that.

So I went backwards in my quest to move forwards... which is okay as long as you look at the past in the rearview mirror and not make a u-turn.

I've realized that I've lived my life like some sort of crusading Scarlett O'Hara, always dependent on the kindness of others, and always measuring myself against myself and (what I perceive to be) other's standards, and, not unlike the Catholic church and other zealous religious factions, throwing MY faith into other people's faces trying to coerce them into MY way of thinking. That's not faith.

That's religion.

That's the humanity of faith, the rules, the laws, the doctrine, the dogma. The knowledge.

Webster's sums it up nicely: "a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, especially when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs."

Human affairs. 

Millions of  Catholics bewildered as to what will happen now, since the normal order of their faith system has been disrupted by a human choosing to be human, and not divine. 

I asked my late father, on the one face-to-face visit we had in 20 years, why in the world he became an Orthodox Jew -- after living a life as Christian proclaiming the freedom of faith from such oppressive religion. In his alcoholically academic vagueness, he mumbled, " I was always looking for more answers."

I'm my father's girl. Always looking for more answers, the surety, the inside scoop, the cocky confidence that comes from Knowing All and Seeing All, and being able to Explain It All. Oye.

It's time I step past the rent Temple curtain, the one torn from top to bottom by an unseen, inexplicable force, beyond the human affairs and into the space which only contains God. No answers. Just God. 

"We proclaim your death oh Lord,♪ and profess your Resurrection, until You come again..."

THAT'S the mystery of faith.