Plenty of Kossacks have written substantive diaries regarding California's Proposition 8, and to be honest, I've skipped right over a lot of them. I rationalized this by reminding myself that I live on a whole n'other side of the country and I've had high-stakes grad school stuff this fall, so something had to go, and since it seemed less relevant to my own situation than a lot of other issues, I read enough to know pretty much what was going on but not a word more. I didn't get it.
I didn't know I didn't get it till this morning. In church. In a real red state. I didn't know I didn't get it, until finally I did.
There are southern churches and then there are southern churches. I'm probably not the only one in this particular church who isn't too sure about God, but who really, really believes in the teachings of Jesus. There is too something about the season of Advent that speaks of possibilities and expectations. It was this, along with my altar guild duties and the assurance that we would be singing the Magnificat as an antiphon, that guaranteed my presence at Holy Eucharist this morning.
My husband doesn't attend church with me so I sit by myself or with friends. This morning the friend who sat beside me smiled as the organist played the first notes of the Magnificat and whispered expectantly, "Oh, boy!" "I know," I told her, "that's why I'm here." As we sang, I noticed that sitting in front of us were two young women and a little boy, maybe four years old. I'd seen them there a time or two before, and although they could have been friends, sisters, or cousins, I did sense that they were a couple.
My sense has been wrong before and may be this time, but that matters less than what happened not long thereafter. After the priest concluded her sermon, she called all the children of the church forward for a visit from St. Nicholas as part of a celebration of St. Nicholas Day, Saturday, December 6th.
Now, you have to understand that our St. Nicholas is a white-haired retired teacher, a woman who has played the part of the Bishop of Myra for several years. She is dressed in a red robe and cardboard bishop's hat painted gold, carries a crook, and tells the story of St. Nicholas, the so-called "boy bishop" who is remembered today for his generosity toward poor young women in need of dowries for their marriages.
Our St. Nicholas called the children down to the front of the sanctuary, and they all came, mid-sized kids excited at the attention and the promise of a story, young teens who knew the drill and were well aware that there was chocolate involved, itty-bitties coaxed by their parents into the aisle to hear the story of St. Nicholas. The little boy in front of me was one who took some cajoling, and one of the young women walked with him and stayed kneeling beside him until he was okay alone.
Even before she returned to her seat, I realized that I would be hearing this story in a different way this morning. I found myself praying that this story of love and generosity would speak to this child and not exclude the two women who loved him.
Maybe it was consciousness and design. Maybe it was a miracle. But as St. Nicholas told his/her story, it was in terms of "a really weird custom, which was, if you wanted to get married, your father had to pay some money to the family of the person you wanted to marry." And while Nicholas might have slipped gold in their windows or dropped it down the chimneys so it fell in their stockings which were drying by the hearth, the sisters were simply young women who wished to marry, not girls whose would-be husbands expected dowries.
In a presentation that lasted over ten minutes, I might have heard one reference that assumed heterosexuality and over twenty that assumed nothing. Nothing, that is, except that a person might wish to marry. In this part of the country where bumperstickers sometimes proclaim "Marriage = 1 Man + 1 Woman," I heard a children's sermon that assumed little but the desire for that powerful connection with another human soul. As she passed out gold-papered coins, she smiled at each child, "Are you married?" Not, "Do you have a husband?" "A wife?" The children, young and older, were sent back to their seats with candy and no single image of who their mate might be. The little boy who sat in front of me would not have heard a story that excluded his own parents' relationship.
Marriage is complicated and those of us engaged in the never-ending negotiation required to live with that other human soul will wonder at times why we do it. I can understand too the worth of living alone and honor the strength of those who do so. Yet, people have fought for their right to marry and still others continue to fight for that right, a testament to the value of the journey.
I understand the passion over Prop 8 better now. As we enter 2009, I wish that amidst the bleak economic news, we seek value in what is real, what matters, and that is what is real within the human heart, our relationships with one another, with our spouses, our family, and friends. May those relationships include marriage when any two people feel that call.
Here's to a blessed holiday season and a new year filled with hope.