Platial | Who and What's Nearby
Platial | Who and What's Nearby
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I’m not sure if I believe in sacredness. Often, when I most expect it, want it, see the people around me getting it, my experience completely contradicts anything sacred. Instead of sacredness, I feel isolation, solitude, not loneliness, but aloneness. The second Vespers service last Christmas, in the Chapel of the Resurrection. I was in the choir. I stood in the loft, crammed into the front row bench, stifled in my maroon University Singers robe, clasped tight around the neck, over a very furry black blouse (my cat had slept on my laundry the last time I’d washed it) a pair of backwards dress pants (I hadn’t figured out yet that the goes in back) and open-toe heels (it was 15 degrees outside). I took the shoes off, hoping the ground might feel holier. It didn’t. It was 11 pm. I was singing something Latin. I forced my eyes open to avoid falling asleep standing up, with my mouth open, forming a round Latin vowel. I saw 300 people below me, through my blurred, dried up contact lenses. They were all feeling sacred. Some of them were watching me. I had to go down there. I tripped down the spiral stars, keeping my eyes on the robe ahead of me, matching its pace. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, something handed me a candle, and something else lit it. I held it away from my face in fear, until lighting up the long hair in front of me seemed scarier. I was in no condition to be handling an open flame—even if it was a holy candle. The robes around me began moving, two by two, down the chapel aisle, behind a cross. A sacred procession. I moved my feet, I had to join. Because last night, during rehearsal, Pastor Cunningham had said, “DON’T screw up. And if you do screw up, make it look like you didn’t.” I moved. I found a robe to my left whose feet moved when mine did. I didn’t screw up. I even sang. Gloh…oh-oh-oh-oh-oh…oh-oh-oh-oh-oh…oh-oh-oh-oh-oh…ria. A sacred hymn. 300 people with candles leaned into the procession I didn’t screw up and sang at me, sacredly. I kept moving, deeper down, through more robes, down more stairs, into the dark belly of the chapel, where I closed my eyes, blew out my candle and sank into the unsacred alone.
I’m not sure if I believe in sacredness. Often, when I most expect it, want it, see the people around me getting it, my experience completely contradicts anything sacred. Instead of sacredness, I feel isolation, solitude, not loneliness, but aloneness. The second Vespers service last Christmas, in the Chapel of the Resurrection. I was in the choir. I stood in the loft, crammed into the front row bench, stifled in my maroon University Singers robe, clasped tight around the neck, over a very furry black blouse (my cat had slept on my laundry the last time I’d washed it) a pair of backwards dress pants (I hadn’t figured out yet that the goes in back) and open-toe heels (it was 15 degrees outside). I took the shoes off, hoping the ground might feel holier. It didn’t. It was 11 pm. I was singing something Latin. I forced my eyes open to avoid falling asleep standing up, with my mouth open, forming a round Latin vowel. I saw 300 people below me, through my blurred, dried up contact lenses. They were all feeling sacred. Some of them were watching me. I had to go down there. I tripped down the spiral stars, keeping my eyes on the robe ahead of me, matching its pace. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, something handed me a candle, and something else lit it. I held it away from my face in fear, until lighting up the long hair in front of me seemed scarier. I was in no condition to be handling an open flame—even if it was a holy candle. The robes around me began moving, two by two, down the chapel aisle, behind a cross. A sacred procession. I moved my feet, I had to join. Because last night, during rehearsal, Pastor Cunningham had said, “DON’T screw up. And if you do screw up, make it look like you didn’t.” I moved. I found a robe to my left whose feet moved when mine did. I didn’t screw up. I even sang. Gloh…oh-oh-oh-oh-oh…oh-oh-oh-oh-oh…oh-oh-oh-oh-oh…ria. A sacred hymn. 300 people with candles leaned into the procession I didn’t screw up and sang at me, sacredly. I kept moving, deeper down, through more robes, down more stairs, into the dark belly of the chapel, where I closed my eyes, blew out my candle and sank into the unsacred alone.
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