I found some Anglicans yesterday afternoon!
After a less-than-productive morning off (the sun was out, so I just wandered around), I stumbled into the chaplaincy building and awkwardly told the secretary I was an exchange student looking to get involved.
"SCORE," was written all over her face. She showed me into the next office where a couple people were prepping for a Eucharist service. I'd walked in just in time to talk for 10 minutes and then walk over to the King's College Chapel.
It was small. There were about 7 of us, including two priests, one of whom thought my name was stupid and hilarious (That's your name?? Your first name is a surname and your surname is a Welsh first name! ...So I've heard).
The last time I was in an Episcopal church service (and actually participating...not in the choir), was in seventh grade for Confirmation class. I remember feeling lost, out of place and confused. I've been back as an observer from the choir loft
There's a lot of Father-Son-and-Holy-Spiriting. There are creeds. There is tradition and formality. And while I love it, there are pieces of the liturgy that rub hard against the doctrine I have come to love and lean into over the past couple of years.
Total honesty moment: if I hadn't spent time at St. Gregory's in Three Rivers last semester, I wouldn't go back to the Eucharist service next week. Somewhere in the days watching the brothers at the abbey, in being led by them and welcomed by them, I fell back in love with tradition, with the formality, with the quiet and rhythmic reverence, and with the idea that for centuries, people have been upholding this way of worship as a community.
And it is sweet to know that with the five hour time difference, the brothers of St. Gregory's Abbey are sitting in morning mass at the same time we gather in the King's College Chapel on Wednesdays.
I'll post pictures tomorrow!
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Monday, January 28, 2013
Asda and Apocalypse(s)
It's been a crazy few days, but I have been officially (finally) connected to the university wifi by an IT guy with an exceptional distain for MacBooks. Or maybe he just always mumbles.
Saturday morning, all of the exchange students had a brief orientation and then chose classes. Classes here are totally crazy. I have two classes that are two-hour long lecture/seminars for upper-level divinity classes...that only meet once a week (what??), and then lower-level classes that meet for lecture for two hours and then separately for an hour for discussion. I have no classes on Wednesday or Friday.
The wonderful news is that I got a full schedule and will have my Living Religions requirement knocked out this semester with a Buddhism class.
The bad news is that I have continued with my uncanny ability to choose one God-awful course each semester. I attended "Heavens, Seers, and the End," a class on apocalyptic literature, this morning in the basement of what I think is a chemistry building. It was so, so terrible. Between the basement, the German guest lecturer shouting about eschatology, and the four student class size, I decided I probably needed to find a different way to start my Monday mornings.
I mulled it over in my two hour lecture on "Luther, Calvin and the Shaping of Protestantism" (which was much larger, and in a classroom with windows), and signed up for an intro class on Christian doctrine. If I ever complain about it being easy or dumb, virtually punch me through the internet. Because nothing could be as bad as a semester-long small group discussion on all of the different apocalypses.
What else...
Asda. Asda is the Scottish equivalent of WalMart. Some of us caught a bus there to get food and dishes. They had hummus, herbal tea, good produce and even a gluten-free isle. Whoohoo!
I think that's all the important stuff for now! I'm going back to my apartment before it gets dark (at 4:25)...
"Cheers."
Saturday morning, all of the exchange students had a brief orientation and then chose classes. Classes here are totally crazy. I have two classes that are two-hour long lecture/seminars for upper-level divinity classes...that only meet once a week (what??), and then lower-level classes that meet for lecture for two hours and then separately for an hour for discussion. I have no classes on Wednesday or Friday.
The wonderful news is that I got a full schedule and will have my Living Religions requirement knocked out this semester with a Buddhism class.
The bad news is that I have continued with my uncanny ability to choose one God-awful course each semester. I attended "Heavens, Seers, and the End," a class on apocalyptic literature, this morning in the basement of what I think is a chemistry building. It was so, so terrible. Between the basement, the German guest lecturer shouting about eschatology, and the four student class size, I decided I probably needed to find a different way to start my Monday mornings.
I mulled it over in my two hour lecture on "Luther, Calvin and the Shaping of Protestantism" (which was much larger, and in a classroom with windows), and signed up for an intro class on Christian doctrine. If I ever complain about it being easy or dumb, virtually punch me through the internet. Because nothing could be as bad as a semester-long small group discussion on all of the different apocalypses.
What else...
Asda. Asda is the Scottish equivalent of WalMart. Some of us caught a bus there to get food and dishes. They had hummus, herbal tea, good produce and even a gluten-free isle. Whoohoo!
I think that's all the important stuff for now! I'm going back to my apartment before it gets dark (at 4:25)...
"Cheers."
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Brother Martin
Last year, I met lots of wonderful people - new church people, new students, new community members from work, and about a dozen monks. In August, I took a train up to Three Rivers, Michigan to spend a few days with some benedictine brothers.
After a day of travel, Brother Abraham (who is not a father and has no sons...because he's a monk) pulled into the abbey parking lot, pointed at a building and walked briskly away, his black robe billowing behind him. I sunk into the space for a moment. I was alone, standing on the sidewalk of a place I'd never been, in a state I'd never seen, with monks I didn't know. Curiosity overcame the anxiety and I jumped in to the rhythm of this new and strange place.
One of the most memorable moments was a meal of cold broth and brussel sprouts. Soup just isn't supposed to be icy cold, or white and mysterious. As the monk who had been assigned to clear plates as each person finished eating approached, I felt extremely sheepish. I stared into my still full bowl of liquid question marks. My stomach turned. I'll never know if it was from hunger or from the mealtime reading selections on the War of 1812 (we were on scalping and torture). It was probably both.
My cotillion manners and the little bit of Southern propriety I'd learned caved, and I nodded for him to take it to the kitchen. Between the odorless, white soup and the droning voice painting pictures of torture 1812 style, I couldn't bring myself to finish. As I nodded, I caught a glimpse of his shoes. They were hard to miss. I stared at them in disbelief, and watched him retreat into the kitchen balancing my soup bowl so the contents wouldn't slosh to the immaculate floor during the silent meal (that is...silent for those eating).
All of the other brothers wore plain black shoes, save the two that wore socks and sandals. These, though, were fantastic, violently purple Crocs. Suddenly the torture and the soup seemed worthy of a guffaw rather than a moan. I was filled to bursting with joy and the need for laughter.
I have told that story at least ten times since the trip and each time, I rejoice in the opportunity to bring someone into that room with me. I love it so much that I have named the blog after him.
I found out much later that his name is Brother Martin, and by then it was too late. He will always be The Monk with Purple Crocs.
After a day of travel, Brother Abraham (who is not a father and has no sons...because he's a monk) pulled into the abbey parking lot, pointed at a building and walked briskly away, his black robe billowing behind him. I sunk into the space for a moment. I was alone, standing on the sidewalk of a place I'd never been, in a state I'd never seen, with monks I didn't know. Curiosity overcame the anxiety and I jumped in to the rhythm of this new and strange place.
One of the most memorable moments was a meal of cold broth and brussel sprouts. Soup just isn't supposed to be icy cold, or white and mysterious. As the monk who had been assigned to clear plates as each person finished eating approached, I felt extremely sheepish. I stared into my still full bowl of liquid question marks. My stomach turned. I'll never know if it was from hunger or from the mealtime reading selections on the War of 1812 (we were on scalping and torture). It was probably both.
My cotillion manners and the little bit of Southern propriety I'd learned caved, and I nodded for him to take it to the kitchen. Between the odorless, white soup and the droning voice painting pictures of torture 1812 style, I couldn't bring myself to finish. As I nodded, I caught a glimpse of his shoes. They were hard to miss. I stared at them in disbelief, and watched him retreat into the kitchen balancing my soup bowl so the contents wouldn't slosh to the immaculate floor during the silent meal (that is...silent for those eating).
All of the other brothers wore plain black shoes, save the two that wore socks and sandals. These, though, were fantastic, violently purple Crocs. Suddenly the torture and the soup seemed worthy of a guffaw rather than a moan. I was filled to bursting with joy and the need for laughter.
I have told that story at least ten times since the trip and each time, I rejoice in the opportunity to bring someone into that room with me. I love it so much that I have named the blog after him.
I found out much later that his name is Brother Martin, and by then it was too late. He will always be The Monk with Purple Crocs.
Monday, January 7, 2013
New Adventures!
Happy New Year!
Welcome to my blog for this season of adventuring. I hope that you'll follow me here as I travel and write. There will undoubtedly be stories and pictures. I'm holding a lot of dreams for rest, train rides, hot tea, warm and ridiculous sweaters, and the chance to settle into life in Aberdeen for six months.
I promise to explain the completely wonderful blog title to those of you who don't already know my friend, The Monk with Purple Crocs.
Until next time,
M
Welcome to my blog for this season of adventuring. I hope that you'll follow me here as I travel and write. There will undoubtedly be stories and pictures. I'm holding a lot of dreams for rest, train rides, hot tea, warm and ridiculous sweaters, and the chance to settle into life in Aberdeen for six months.
I promise to explain the completely wonderful blog title to those of you who don't already know my friend, The Monk with Purple Crocs.
Until next time,
M
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