For the most part, I was glad to leave Denver. I'm one of those Chicagoans that everyone hates, the ones who secretly don't understand why anyone would want to live anywhere but Chicago, ever. I complained a lot about things that didn't work (I swear some streets never even got plowed after the huge blizzard in 2006) or were difficult to find (Italian beef, decent pizza, and others, mainly food-related).
Of course there were things I loved about Denver (Tattered Cover, the greatest bookstore ever, for example. Then there's the easily-accessible natural beauty, but I'm not much of a nature person. I love gardens, and that's about my limit). But the main thing, the thing I believe I actually moved there to find, was my church. (When I first started attending this church, I asked in my livejournal for pseudonym suggestions. My friend L. suggested that I name it St. Withburga's, which immediately seemed to be the right idea. I can't remember who St. Withburga was at the moment, but I know it would be hard to find an awesomer name, so I'll continue to refer to it that way here.)
I wasn't an Episcopalian when I came to Denver. I was raised by agnostic hippie parents who have a lot going on spiritually but no use for religion. I went through a long conversion process in college that culminated with a dramatic, weird Jesus experience when I was living in London my junior year, but I'll leave all that for a later post. During and after this time, I went to a few different churches, but none of them quite worked out. Ever since high school, I'd had these vocational thoughts that I tried to ignore, but at this point I was able to acknowledge my longing for some kind of ministry, to minister to other people and let them do the same to me. I even considered the possibility that I wanted to be ordained, but I had no tradition or denomination to give context to these urges. I couldn't imagine what ordination would mean, except that my whole family would probably disown me. I was kind of a mess.
I moved to Denver right after college to join AmeriCorps, working with preschool-age kids who needed teachers. I lived with two other girls in my program in a big falling-apart Victorian house; the walls of my room were blood-red and the night we moved in, my roommate's doorknob fell off. I'm pretty sure we had mice.
After a week or two, I noticed the beautiful Episcopal church about a block away from my house. All I knew about the Episcopalians was that they seemed to attract female writers. I knew several of them myself, such as my friend E., on whose advice I'd read and loved Nora Gallagher's memoir about joining the church. (I can't quite remember the sequence of events here; I'm pretty sure she was the one who recommended this to me, but she should correct me if I'm wrong. Anyway.) I also had the impression that Garrison Keillor was an Episcopalian, or at least that he talked about them a lot, which for me is a recommendation of the highest order.
I stopped in for the first time on the feast day of the church's patron saint - let's call it St. Withburga's Day. I was irritated because the service time was early and I was tired from being with small children all week. I planned to go back to bed immediately after the service. The church was very full, and I found a pew in the back, probably scowling unpleasantly. All I really remember is being amazed by the variety of people there. Some were your stereotypical wealthy-looking Anglican, but others appeared to be homeless, and some didn't seem quite sure where they were. I know I must have been one of the latter.
I wish I could remember my first thoughts on the procession: the acolyte all in white, the priests in their fabulous robes, somebody carrying a big gold cross. They probably used incense, since it was a feast day. I don't remember detailed impressions of any of it; I just remember that I absolutely loved it. I started crying and couldn't stop. I think I cried during every service, every Sunday for almost two years.
It wasn't one of our regular priests who gave the sermon. It may have been the retired bishop, but I can't remember that either. "As Anne Lamott writes," he said at one point, and proceeded to quote a very long passage from her work. I had read all of Lamott's books about a hundred times; she was a big part of my conversion, such as it was. I couldn't believe a priest in an actual church was quoting her, since she is often rather vulgar. I think the passage he read actually had several curse words, but no one seemed offended. At that exact moment (not just because of Anne Lamott, although I'm sure that was part of it), I realized that things would not continue according to my plans. I wasn't going to scope out any other churches in Denver, as I had thought. Instead, I was going to be baptized and confirmed here in this church (this was nowhere CLOSE to my plans.) I was an Episcopalian, and in that moment, I knew it just as well as I knew I was going home to the hideous house with the red walls after the service.
I did go home to that house, but I didn't go back to sleep. I lay in bed feeling electrified. I felt like the Holy Spirit had actually descended upon me in church, and in fact, I still think this may be true, although usually I don't feel comfortable talking openly about nutty religious-fanatic things like the Holy Spirit. I couldn't stop thinking about the amazing beauty of the church, and the faces of the congregation, how much they loved being there.
Soon I'll probably write about some of my favorite people from St. W's, how sarcastic and hilarious my friends were, and how that community took the most amazing care of me when I was depressed or horribly anxious or just lonely. I'll tell you about how they let me be one of those white-robed acolytes and serve the wine at communion and one time even the bread, possibly because they became confused and thought I was someone else, maybe some pious person. Oh, and also the time when we had to eat all the communion wafers after the Good Friday service and my friend kept shouting "No Jesus for you!" at people who walked in. Right now, though, I'm just trying to remember how it felt to be in that place for the first time, how I looked at all of them and realized, to my astonishment, that they were my people now, whether they wanted me or not, and how grateful I was when eventually I realized that they did.
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