Well, Gentle Reader, I am dreadfully sorry about having to bore you yet again with another page of bashing the Anglican Church, but that is exactly what I am about to do today, so brace yourselves. This is not going to be pretty.
I have already mentioned that I attend a parish church, St. Faith's, that is full of upper middle-class Anglicans in Kerrisdale, a very upscale and bourgeois neighbourhood. I think that some of them are okay, and I am even assured that if they weren't out of town this Christmas that they would have at least invited me into their lovely homes for a token glass of eggnog and still get out of there in time for them to get dinner ready for the people who are really welcome. But I am still struggling to believe that some would actually be sincerely welcoming. There is still time to prove it.
As tempted as I am to demonize everyone for being well off, I am going to try to avoid that pitfall. On the other hand, with the others who will be here for Christmas but simply couldn't be bothered with reaching out to the stranger in their midst, well, I am not pulling any punches. These are the same class of people who, especially at Christmas, pull out all the stops to go relentlessly twee for their loved ones, which is to say their families and only such friends as will not leave an odour of poverty or neediness in their sumptuous homes.
To cut the clergy slack, I know that inquiries were made to see if anyone would be willing to accomodate me, if only for a token cup at the local Starbucks in the afternoon, or even a phone call should I get really desperate as I did last year and had to persuade myself to not practice my skydiving off the Granville Street Bridge (without parachute, natch.) No one is biting.
It is of course safe to assume that only those who have families and social status and nice incomes are going to be embraced as full members in a lot of Anglican parish churches. This is one of the many unwritten rules and polices of Anglicanism. Which naturally rules out yours truly. I have found this out yet again. When it became clear in my rather intense conversation yesterday with the parish manager and the priest, following the service, that it wasn't a psychiatrist or mental health services I was needing, it was suggested that I get a spiritual director. But spiritual direction is a corrupt and profit driven racket in the Anglican Church.. That's right, you have to pay for it. They know I am on a low income. So, I was informed there could be a sliding scale, but my reply is why should I participate in a process so corrupt and still expect spiritual benefit. They were not happy when I told them that this is a corrupt and ugly practice, this demanding money for spiritual services, and the Anglican Church has to find a place of repentance about this. And it is also a prime example of how much this Anglican Church still skews themselves in favour of those who have money, excluding by default anyone who is poor.
They repeated that no one can even offer me so much as an invitation to Starbucks on Christmas Day, or even a phone call, given that I am alone and isolated and vulnerable to trauma at this season. The proffered solution? That I go to emergency services so they can put me on pills and numb my emotions enough so I can get through it okay. But that I please do not bother them further with my problems (well, they didn't say that, but didn't really need to?) Never mind that it is the lack of caring human contact that makes us vulnerable to trauma in the first place. Nice people only, you know. And please don't upset us. We are delicate.
In other words, to stop reminding them that people like me exist and that they are never going to be interested in accommodating us, except in their token Christmas lunch in the parish church basement, so that everyone feels safe, and no one has to ever see the likes of me in their home. It's that odour of poverty you know. Support Anglican style: whimpering sympathetic noises and a little evident hand wringing. And nothing else.
Fortunately, I will likely have a couple of people to visit on Skype, both friends who live in Colombia, where people tend to treat each other more decently, when they're not killing each other in the jungle, that is. One of them, like me, is going to be alone this Christmas, so at least I can also offer him support. Of course, if I could, I would move there to Colombia to be closer to my real friends. I don't seem to have any real friends here in Canada. Certainly not in the Anglican Church.
And I am quite sure they would only be too happy to be rid of me. Except for one little detail. I'm not going away. I am not going to give them the satisfaction, and even if my presence of poverty and marginalization can do just a little bit to help kick their privileged ass forward, that makes sticking around worthwhile It also gives me something to forgive. The gift that goes on giving.
I think I'll be okay this year. I am working hard on some of the roots to my trauma around Christmas and I think I have found where some of the dots connect. I will still have people to be with, though on Skype, and I suppose I can get through the morning eucharist and lunch at St. Faith's without getting too unpleasant. We might even genuinely enjoy each other. Stranger things have happened, after all.
However, to offer as a solution emergency services when all I am needing is friends on Christmas Day is unconscionable. I can forgive the priest but I will not forgive what was said. And should I be faced with having to choose between jumping off the bridge or emergency services, I will probably pick the bridge. But I don't think it'll get that far this time. I have people expecting me in Colombia and in Costa Rica this February and March. Real friends. And I don't want to disappoint them. And the priest has invited me to lunch after church next Sunday. Don't want to disappoint her either.
And I really do want to stick around if only to keep being a pain in the ass to the people at St. Faith's. At least until they get their collective head out of their own collective ass.
Merry F**king Christmas.
(the asterisks are snowflakes, darlings, lovely little snowflakes!)
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