The beauty of a bitterly cold Sunday, 8 a.m.
The Column: 01.31.23
I couldn’t sleep last Saturday night due to anxiety caused by rewinding various lowlights of my long life that hit me like a brick and I lay in bed and watched the hours go by as I contemplated my imminent demise leaving my dependents impoverished and homeless so when the day dawned I put on a suit and coat and I went around the block to the solemn 8 a.m. Mass rather than wait for the more festive 10:30 and walked through the bitter Minnesota cold into St. Mark’s Cathedral where a couple dozen souls sat, widely spaced apart, perhaps to guard against communicable disease, or maybe to avoid the Exchange of Peace after the absolution of our sins.
My sin was dread, anxiety, nameless unreasoning fear, but never mind. I remembered as I came into the cathedral that there is no music at the 8 a.m., no chipper Bach chorale to brighten the mood, no rousing opening hymn, just this scattering of folks in the vastness, like the Church in apostolic times, a few believers hiding out in the catacombs, hoping men in heavy armor don’t break in and bust our heads.
I knelt and prayed for my loved ones, that they be spared my anxiety. I could hear my own voice proclaiming the Nicene Creed, the whole megillah, including the unbelievable part about God coming to earth and becoming incarnate by the Virgin Mary, and it did nothing for the lead in my heart nor, as it turned out, did the homily.
What I found inspiring were two Scripture readings, one from the prophet Micah, where the reader faced the line, “O my people, remember what happened from Shittim to Gilgal that you may know the saving acts of the Lord,” and she slowed down when she saw “Shittim” and got traction and very carefully pronounced it “shi-team.” I was the only one in the sanctuary immature enough to enjoy this moment. There were no 13-year-old boys there, just me. I could tell from her voice that the reader had been dreading this for an hour, trying to decide between “shy-tim” and “shi-team” and fearing that she’d slip and pronounce it phonetically and a marble angel would fall and crash and red lights would flash and people would require treatment for post-traumatic stress.
And then moments later she read from First Corinthians that we do not find God through wisdom. No, God chose what is foolish to shame the wise, for God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom. The thought of God’s foolishness is a radical one, seldom mentioned in church, and near me were some highly educated people, including a man who got his Ph.D. in classic philosophy from Harvard and here I sat, a writer of limericks and a lover of juvenile jokes (Knock-knock. “Who’s there?” Eskimo Christians. “Eskimo Christians who?” Eskimo Christians, I’ll tell you no lies.) and when I went forward for Communion I felt foolishly happy. The wafer was not artisanal, the wine too sweet, but I received it with a good and grateful heart.
I went downstairs for coffee. People were gathering for the election of church officers and I joined them. It had been an austere service but it took a big load off my mind, the woman navigating her way around “Shittim” — it’s in the sixth chapter of Micah, look it up — and the words “God’s foolishness” — the playfulness of the Creator of the universe who 13 billion years ago, from a little speck of matter, suddenly produced an infinity of galaxies of which our Milky Way is a small specimen and the solar system turning around our sun is but a kiddie amusement park and our little planet is a jungle gym and hot dog stand.
I sat down and someone said, “Welcome home.” I live in New York but I used to be from here and that was nice. Two candidates for church warden stood and gave brief speeches and I wrote a limerick:
I am not running for warden: It’s a job I know I’d be bored in, Running a prison. My calling is in Enjoying the journey toward Jordan.
A dreadful night, a cold day, a juvenile joke, I’m a happy man. The Greeks and Romans loved poop jokes: go ahead and google it. The world is a mess but dread gets us nowhere so cheer up and then go do what you were put here to do. I was put here to cheer you up. So smile.
OHIO, KANSAS, MISSOURI, NORTH DAKOTA, SOUTH DAKOTA, NEBRASKA
And we are off… CLICK HERE FOR EVENT INFORMATION
Thanks for the chuckle. As a retired Episcopal priest, I am reminded of the many Sundays lay readers were required to deal with Shittim. I recall stuttering, giggles, and red faces, mostly from those who read the lesson cold. Woe to the unprepared!
Disciplined lay readers often asked for pronunciation advice in advance. My response: I was taught that no one really knows how biblical Hebrew was pronounced, so I’ll leave it up to you. Why not have a little fun with it? Those who are listening will chuckle. Those who are tuned out will wonder what they missed!
Hi Garrison,
I read with interest your column about the scripture passage that included the place called Shittim. I served as lector at my Lutheran church that same Sunday, and I also had the same readings from Micah and First Corinthians. I had signed up for that particular Sunday weeks in advance, without knowing what the readings were. When I received the readings list, I searched online pronunciation guides because there were so many words not used in everyday speech (Balak, Balaam, Beor, Shittim, Gilgal). I received mixed signals on the pronunciation of Shittim from several guides. Having known that Shittim was named for shittim wood, and in that case, it is definitely pronounced shit-tim, I asked my pastor about his opinion. He said yes, Shittim is pronounced shit-tim, and don't be self-conscious about it. On Sunday I read the passage from Micah steadily, not fast and not slow, and nailed all the names without stumbling. (Did I mention that this was the first time serving as lector at this church? Oh the horror of messing up!) After the service, several people thanked me for reading so well. In the end, delivery is more important than how individual words sound. Of course, you knew that from all the years you told us about Lake Wobegon.
David
Atlanta, GA