Life As Performance Art 31

One of the theatres where life really becomes performance art is in church, particularly if it happens to be an Anglican church. I have been attending this particular parish situated in the depths of our wealthy neighbourhoods for almost a year now. I never really intended to start attending until it became clear that that was where the finger of God was pointing. I still harbour absolutely no regret for taking this new direction in life. I still want to return each Sunday, I still want to see the people there, know them better, meet and welcome newcomers and worship and enjoy Christ's presence among us. So far so good. This weekend, I have been privileged to visit two different couples in their homes. These are people who could be considered pillars of the church. They are very involved and connected, wield a lot of influence and are, themselves, very good, kind and decent people. They live in lovely homes, in the first case a sprawling luxury condo, and in the other, a sprawling luxury house of a certain vintage. The purpose of these occasions was partly social, but also as part of a project for discussing and determining the future direction of the church. It has been interesting hearing of different people's experiences, positions, feelings and opinions. I am already becoming better acquainted with a number of people through these luncheons. I am also reminded of just how much we live at opposite ends of the social spectrum. I would never be able to reciprocate this kind of hospitality, primarily because my place is so tiny, so that it's hard enough to comfortably seat just one visitor, much less a half dozen or more, particularly given that I don't have a table for meals. They own their homes. I rent mine. I not only rent my place, it is partly subsidized by the government. I think I am probably the poorest member of this church. By far. Particularly visiting this house yesterday, I have to admit that I felt like a cat being introduced to a new home. It was pretty overwhelming. The home is palatial, beautifully appointed and decorated with antiques, art, and simply immaculate. The back yard is like a botanical garden, and probably takes up at least a quarter acre, along with the front yard, perhaps a bit more. Before we all went indoors for a very formal lunch in their elegant dining room, I was the only one of six or so visitors who actually had the temerity to sit down on one of the chairs at a patio table outside. Folks were good enough to gather round and visit and socialize with me, but no one, not even the hosts, would dare to sit down as well, even though there were plenty of empty chairs and benches. And we stood, and we stood, and we stood, till it was clearly time that we all sit down and eat. While waiting for lunch to be served, we all stood around the long beautiful dining room table, each behind their appointed chair. Then it was that I realized, that we probably were not expected to make ourselves comfortable. We were guests. And, though surrounded with all this beauty, elegance and loveliness, we clearly were not at home, and that was to be part of the performance as was the conversation, all intelligent, good-natured, and often quite witty and in places, profound. I was the first to leave, and only when I was three blocks away or so and the host was driving towards me and trying to block my egress with his car, did I realize as he smiled, opened the door and handed it to me, that I had forgotten my knapsack. I never forget my knapsack, except perhaps while distracted, or under stress or duress. A very kind and noble gesture on his part. I would like to think that I had forgotten it because my mind was so full of insights, thoughts and ideas from our very stimulating lunch conversation. I am still trying to persuade myself that it was not due to the mild and sustained panic that I was trying not to feel while visiting my new friends in their sumptuous home, and that I wasn't simply feeling overwhelmed by the opulence of my surroundings there, nor that I wasn't feeling suffocated by a strong and tacit expectation that we all had to behave well, and neither that such lovely homes and gardens are places to admire and envy, but not to make yourself comfortable in.