Mystical Murmurs: My Interfaith Life

After two mass killings in a two-week period, I am way beyond upset. Way beyond sad. Way, way beyond. So let's talk about guns for a minute. I know a tiny bit about them. My Dad was a marksman in the European theatre in World War II. I think this actually might mean he was a sniper. I know from remarks in his diary, written while he was a P.O.W., that he shot a few people. OK, it was wartime, and that's what warriors do. Dad's view of killing in wartime was uncomplicated, and I don't know that he ever suffered pangs of guilt later. He did what the war demanded of him, including a seven-month stint in Stalag VII-A. He was a hero, in my eyes -- it was, after all, the Good War. Long before I was born, Dad was collecting guns. He loved to go to the practice range. He had ten or fifteen guns, safely locked in a cabinet in the den. I knew they were there. I was forbidden to touch them, and never had any interest in them anyway. The guns never seemed like a threat to me,

Today was the final service at the church where I grew up, the Cathedral Church of Saint John, in Wilmington, Delaware. As of July 31, the Episcopal Diocese of Delaware will no longer have a cathedral. I know this has happened for lack of funds; in my current diocese, quite a few churches have merged or closed in the last decade or more, and out cathedral is always in need of money.  At the altar to the left, I was baptized, confirmed, and married.  On July 8, I attended the 10:30 service and said goodbye. What will happen to the cathedral building is anyone's guess. The pipe organ has already been sold. I guess that's a good thing. At least something has been saved. Change happens. However, it often takes a good bit of us with it when it does.

Recently I attended my friend Anne's funeral. It was a moving and uplifting service, as the funerals for long lives well lived should always be. Anne was 102 1/2 at the time of her death, and had had no serious health troubles until last fall. This is certainly what we each hope for at the end of our earthly lives. In my former parish, Anne was our "choir mother" for many, many years. She maintained the choral library, mended our robes, kept attendance records (noting, on the appropriate dates, "Judy's little boy born" and, later on, "Judy's little girl born"). She taught me to sing alto, patiently correcting me and setting an example with her lovely voice. She was the choir's rock of ages and our resting place. She saw us through at least 4 choir directors (that I know of!), and multiple priests. Anne was widowed in 1969, after 34 years of marriage and two daughters. She never remarried, claiming that she'd had one good husband but

We've recently had, at our house, a rerun of that old series I like to call Family Drama.  It's not my favorite.  The characters are all grown up now, not that you'd always know it.  The "situations" are no longer cute, nor are they easily resolved.  They can be frustrating, anger-evoking, and heartbreaking. Whenever we have an episode of Family Drama, I have two strong impulses. One is retail therapy, at which I have become very skilled! With a potential job change in the household, however, retail therapy would be unwise. The other impulse is withdrawal, or as my mom used to call it, "going to ground"  -- perfect for me as an Enneagram type 9. If I can't make peace, solve the conflict, find the solution, or even get anyone to listen, I want to get the hell out of the way. Dive deep and let the wave break way, way over my head, so to speak. This is the cowardly way, and sometimes, I think, also the only sane response. With the Serenity Praye