The Awkward God-Bearer

On Sunday I visited the Episcopalians. The high liturgy mixed with a sleepy small church atmosphere was immensely comforting to me. The people were only vaguely welcoming, as if daydreaming about lunch. The service provided ample opportunities for kneeling, bowing, turning, and crossing ourselves. We chanted the Psalm, which always makes me feel like I am wrenching an epic lament from the depths of my soul, even when the words are something as historically contextual as: "You who are enthroned upon the cherubim, shine forth before Ephraim and Benjamin and Mannessah."

But my favorite part was the woman who preached. She was a retired priest, a round-faced and ruddy-cheeked woman with absolutely no sense of decorum. Her meandering, train-of-thought sermon started with going to the Hubble 3D movie at Imax with her grandson and applying Jesus' command to "Keep awake" to intergalactic discovery, and ended with embracing our imperfections and recognizing that God gave us all something beautiful to share in the world. She made out-of-place jokes that no one laughed at, but clearly she thought they were funny. She launched into the Eucharist by saying, "OK everybody, I'm gonna try and sing this thing." She proceeded to butcher the traditional musical setting of the Eucharist with an ear-splitting lack of tune. I have rarely seen someone so transparently flawed, and so at peace with it.

I left with my poised little walk, my gracious smile, my scarf wrapped loosely—my clumsy attempts to seem like I've figured out how to live life—and I thought, "Praise the Lord. If I ever learn how to stop trying so hard to be a certain way, maybe I will make space in my life to get to know God."

During my first semester at seminary, I have lost many of my illusions of control over how people view me. My intellectual prowess and my artistic talents seem to have abandoned me. My social graces are not faring so well either. Some people make me nervous because I think they don't like me. Other people make me nervous because I like them too much.

Maybe God is trying to empty me of all my former gifts so that I can receive something new. The Spirit seems to move easiest in hollowed-out bodies. I suppose it is appropriate that this Advent season, I am left with nothing more than to wait for God to become incarnate in me.

Yesterday I played Mary in a liturgical drama at chapel. The birth of Jesus was foretold by a homeless, impatient angel Gabriel holding a cardboard sign on the street, and Mary was a stressed-out young professional in the throes of wedding planning. I assumed it would just come across as a funny, light-hearted piece. People didn't laugh as much as I thought they would, and I shrugged and figured it was due to my poor acting skills, along with everything else I'm bad at. I have little experience with acting. I could do nothing more than make Mary awkward, uncertain and girlish, like me.

To my surprise, several people came and told me afterwards how deeply my portrayal of Mary had touched them. One fellow student told me that it had brought tears to her eyes when I said, "I am the servant of the Lord." I had said it like a question rather than a statement. I realized then that I really had been playing myself, in a way. I identify more with Mary than I ever have this Advent. She was just a young girl, given an enormous and illogical task from God. To have a baby when she was a virgin. To bear God in her womb.

How on earth does one do such a thing? Certainly not of her own initiative. That is why God has brought down the mighty from their thrones and lifted up the lowly. Only God can fill me with the good things that I need to do the beautiful. Only God can empty me out enough that I recognize my need. So that I can become bumbling, inadequate, and unapologetically authentic.