It’s finally time to come back to the topic of religion. I’m
kind of surprised that it is: so much else is going on in my life right now. I just
got back from a trip to the US, where I attended a conference in which my
dissertation advisor was honored and where I got to see other old friends from
Yale. Later I’ll probably write about that. I could write about my new home, a
place that has raised my spirits because of the light wood floors, the
proximity to school and town, and, perhaps most importantly, the friendly
neighbors. I could write about a new friend from Syria who has taught me so
much about the Middle East. Or about teaching in Saarbruecken and the trip to
Prague with my wonderful friend Cynthia. Or about yesterday, the first really
sunny day with roads ice-free enough to take a long bike ride.
No, I think I’ll write about church again, because I promised,
and I always keep my promises unless it is utterly impossible to do so. And
actually, I do want to write about it, in case there was any doubt.
Now that I live closer to town, I can go to church regularly
again. And now I am in the parish of the beautiful main church with the arched
ceilings covered with paintings of local flora. On Ash Wednesday I met a
colleague from work there for the evening service. It was surprisingly poorly
attended, and Heli then told me that it was the first Ash Wednesday service she
had ever attended. You’re going to think I’m a glutton for punishment, but Lent
is actually my favorite season, more favorite than Christmas. It’s the season
of contemplation, of inward-turning, and nobody expects you to be happy – and so
it is a more realistic season in a way. If you think Finns are a dour people,
you might have expected them to turn up in droves for the beginning of the
dourest of seasons. But that wasn’t the case.
This morning I went back to that church and had a very revealing
experience. I finally saw the joy I had been missing. It had probably been
there all along, but I hadn’t lived here long enough to be able to see it. Now
that I’ve gotten more used to the understated (I mean: what in my culture would
seem understated) way people show emotions here, I’m more attuned to less
obvious clues. Today was Assumption of Mary day (the day she found out she was going to have a baby, Jesus), and so the pastor – whose eyes
twinkled – said that even though it was Lent, there was a holiday tucked into
the calendar today because of her. I think his smiles and his eye-twinkling were
the first sign of joy today. Another event, a more local one, was that one of
their staff – I think it was the choir director – was retiring and it was his
last Sunday at work. There was a ceremony of blessing during which the pastor
praised the man for his service and urged him to continue to serve in other
ways. The man appeared to be moved, nodding his head at the congregation to
acknowledge our appreciation, and I heard a few sniffles. He stood impassive as
the choir sang to him from the loft, but that’s when the sniffling increased.
It was then I realized that this is, in fact, a community. I
think I can do something here. In fact, as I watched the choir go up to the
rail for communion and saw how few of them there are – and, judging by their
age, there will probably be fewer in the not-too-distant future – I knew I
could join them and perhaps make a little joyful noise of my own.
While sitting in the pew and listening to the twinkly-eyed
pastor preaching, my mind wandered during the parts where I had lost the
thread. I started thinking about language and faith. Do you have to worship in
your own language to get close to the divine? I don’t think so. Perhaps this is
where ritual is important. I know what is being said because I know what part
of the service we are on. And I know even better now because I finally found
the ‘cheat sheets’ in the front and back of the hymnal. They don’t use
bulletins at this church and it’s definitely a service for the initiated, not
for the visitor. But in Finland, if you’re Lutheran, you probably know all the
parts of the service and just need to find the bits of melody and specific
prayers and you’re set.
A couple weeks ago I thought I come across as a bumbling
foreigner, not knowing I’m supposed to curtsey after communion, not knowing
where to stand to wait to kneel at the railing, not pronouncing all the words
in the hymns correctly
(how on earth, for example, do you follow both unfamiliar music and pronounce
the word ‘nöyryytti’ with the correct number of consonants and vowels at the same time when you’re in
a verse that’s not printed right under the music?) But today I realized yet
another thing: this is an accepting community. There is a ski-capped man with
some kind of disability who wanders the sanctuary pretending he is the pastor,
offering prayers and blessings at the same volume as the pastor. At times you
think it’s part of the service. I don’t know what he’s saying. But this is the
third time I’ve seen this fellow. And nobody tries to stop him. He’s another
worshipper, just like the crying babies and the sniffling ladies, making the
noises, joyful and other, they are moved to make.
I’m not sure I’m
ready to do all the paperwork and join this church. There’s no rush, and I am
still so attached to my church in Eugene. But I’m heartened and happy that
there may be a place for me in a congregation in Joensuu.
Rereading this, I
see that haven’t organized my thoughts very well, but I think I’ll leave it at
that. Religion and faith aren’t neat little packages, and neither is this post.
(c) Kathy Saranpa 2014
