December 23, 2013
Monday

Here we are, the Eve of Christmas Eve, the day noted by some people as Festivus, that moveable, made-up , snarky but silly “holiday for the rest of us,” featuring satire, used by some to relieve tension and provide a break from all the earnest (and sometimes no less manufactured) good will that abounds in this season of too many things competing for our attention. The signal aspect of the observance is the “airing of grievances.” I’ve done it, five or six different years

I’m at that point in The Season where I have already attained a level of spiritual clarity and direction for personal renewal, and everything else is denouement. I see, better than ever, the work I have to do to grow and change personally and professionally, and I’m ready to move forward. I have been the beneficiary this year of a great deal of joy and generosity. There is more than enough negativity floating about, and I am reluctant to add to it.

But there is something I’d like to air, not as deep as a grievance, perhaps, but a sadness at an all-too-common circumstance that leaves me disheartened.

The Passing of the Peace in a Christian liturgical event is the moment when the celebrant or presiding minister says “Peace be with you” to the assembled congregation. The response is “And also with you,” or some variation of that. (A discussion of the recent change to the wording in the Catholic tradition that has befuddled many is beyond the scope of this essay.*) In my Lutheran congregation, it follows the prayers of the people after the sermon and precedes the taking up of the offering. It serves as the bridge between the Service of the Word (reading of scripture and sermon) and the Service of the Sacrament (the Eucharist, Holy Communion, the main reason to even come to church.)

This feature of the service can be a problem for introverts, like me, and for people who are accustomed to a more anonymous liturgical experience, people who prefer to remain isolated whether they are in a church far from home where you might not even speak the language or in their own home parish. An introverted friend accustomed to worship in a Catholic parish in a town where people tended to keep to themselves called the event “the glance of peace,” and he was unwilling to visit my church, where people get out of their seats and walk around to greet each other.

And that’s the basis of my slight grievance or disgruntlement today. I have been a member of my congregation for almost twenty years and have many friends. And though I prefer a very private experience of the Eucharist, I am reluctant to attend my congregation’s quiet and contemplative Saturday vigil service lest I miss the joy of being with my friends. Nevertheless, I remain shy and often feel awkward at the passing of the peace.

Yesterday, I sat near my usual spot, on the end about four rows back on the north center bank of pews. The service had begun with a joyful story about an unexpected opportunity to adopt extended to a couple in the congregation who had had several disappointments and had given up the pursuit of parenthood, and continued with a sermon at once thought-provoking and comforting. We prayed for the recently bereaved (the friends and family members of the young woman in Colorado who ultimately did not survive the school shooting there), gave godspeed and farewell to a young adult moving to a new job in a new city next week, and for the new parents of Evan José, who had about five hours’ notice to make themselves ready for his arrival. I counted my blessings (this takes longer than the period of Prayers of the People, but at least it’s a start) and felt wrapped in Christmas love.

And then we were directed to offer each other a sign of peace. In the pew beside me were a couple, about my own age, whom I do not know. I turned first to the couple behind me, whom I do know, and then to the woman in front of me and her daughter. I admired the girl’s ruby slippers, making her smile. Then I felt a hand on my arm.

The man in the pew beside me was offering his hand. Except he wasn’t looking at me, he was looking away, continuing a conversation with his wife. I grasped his hand, said “Peace be with you,” and he pumped away, but never actually looked at me, although he had begun a conversation with someone else. When the service was over (at least he didn’t do the Post-Communion Getaway Dash, a judgmental criticism I can make another day), he and his wife stood in the pew talking to the people who had been sitting behind them. I said “Excuse me,” quietly, because I wanted to be on my way, but he ignored me, and I had to exit the other side of the pew and walk around.

This has happened before, people who are supposed to be greeters at the door who are too absorbed in some other conversation to even glance at you, people who walk past you as they move along the aisle at passing of the peace time and greet only their friends. So here’s my slight grievance that I’m airing today:

If you’ve made the effort to come to church, if you see yourself as part of the congregation, be present to all aspects of the event. Don’t give air kisses or air handshakes without even glancing at the person you are supposedly greeting. Take my hand, look in my eyes, say my name.

 *(A disclaimer that a given line of discussion is “beyond the scope” of whatever it is you are writing about is one of my favorite academic tropes, along with “for reasons too complicated to go into here.” Both of them mean “I have to save something for another paper.”)