I’m not a big church goer, preferring my own interpretation of things, but there’s a beautiful chapel right behind where I live when I happen to hang out in Poland, and an even more beautiful church, so when I was invited to the carol singing for Epiphany, I decided why not. The original plan was to let those who wanted to go to church attend in the morning (yay lie in), then hang out during the day and sing carols from seven onwards. The hanging out happened, the earlier church service less so, hence a new plan was adapted: attend church service at 6pm, then have those who don’t (necessarily) want to attend (i.e. me) catch up with the group just before 7. I am a bona fide social animal who recharges best while being among people, so the thought of catching up with everyone later – despite the extremely short distance – was unbearable. 

As an aside, my exposure to church in my childhood was a mixture of “if you don’t go to church on Sunday not only can you not go to communion, God will also punish you.” Ditto if you disobeyed your mother or – horror of all horrors – made her cry. What exactly that punishment entailed was of course never revealed, but the implication was of something beyond horrific. And if I keep repeating this several times, it’s because this kind of upbringing and introduction of God, is beyond horrific in its abuse and transmission of concepts entailing power. It achieves nothing except at best obedience out of fear, which has precious little to do with the message of love and being saved that is meant to be instilled in each new generation. Eventually, people either submit completely losing themselves, or they drift away from a message that was meant to be good in its intention but like any message living past the life span of its creator sadly gets corrupted. 

I’m also not sure about prayers and supplications that run to the tune of “bless our Fatherland,” but then if that is the standard message you’re hearing and praying for every time you go to church (or at least every Sunday), you can’t really take issue with “God bless America.” But back to the story. 

Usually I don’t do all that well in a Polish service. The ones I’ve been to – with a very few exceptions – place way too much emphasis on saving the Fatherland and way too little if anything at all, on actually living the message. I have it on good authority that the subhumans who threw a pregnant refugee back into the forest so she wouldn’t be able to “anchor herself in Poland by giving birth to a child here” over a year ago were not only praised by way too many self-declared christians, but were prayed for from pulpits across Poland (“pray for our Good Polish Boys Defending the Fatherland”). Really makes you wonder how exactly these dupes expect to find Jesus, the very Savior they claim to be looking for when they sing of the poor babe in his manger, but then deny any help to people who look exactly like Him. 

But something about the church and the decoration and the nativity and just having dressed up in one of my favorite winter turtlenecks bought last year made me want to be appreciative and accept with grace what I’d been given, namely someone extending an invitation to what was very important to them, so we could share that moment. That this same person also brings the same energy when going to the services of other denominations most certainly had an influence on me in wanting to embrace this experience. Of course I’m not saying that the priest’s words were a direct result of my new mindset, but rather my mindset made me receptive to the gentle rebuke in the irony of the way the supplication was worded. Instead of “Lord bless our Fatherland,” it was “Lord have mercy on our Fatherland,” literally as the Polish speakers in our group confirmed (much to their undisguised delight). Maybe, just maybe, even amidst the nationalistic religious fervor displayed, there were a few minds like ours. 

And indeed that was the case with a few more people we met at the carol singing afterwards: 

• The organizer of the carol singing, whom we’d met before and who greeted us with a hug and a genuine smile of happiness when she saw us, inquiring what we’d been up to since we’d last seen her, again in a genuine way. 
• The priest who acted as musical director and pianist before surprising everyone with a rounding rendition of  Con te partirò which surprised everyone, despite most of the congregation knowing that he also doubled as a Music teacher. Quite frankly if you’re putting together a musical program, people would hope for some musical knowledge, but forming a mini band à la Muse with another priest on guitar and including secular pieces that allowed the female soloist to showcase her immense talent was exactly the kind of move your encouraging Music teacher would make. The organizer and our group later grabbed her and told her that she better be going places, because her voice really was that beautiful and amazing. And killing that song at the age of 21 without any significant training other than the musical priest (no pun intended) pretty much speaks for itself. 
• The priest on guitar, whom we’d spoken to several times and who said I could call him by his first name when I asked how to address him properly in Polish as it really didn’t matter. His sermons were always “joyful, of appropriate length and to the point as someone in our group pointed out, adding that “he gets his point across without making you feel like you want to jump into a fiery pit of hell.” Same priest who’d told me there was nothing wrong with missing mass, he too liked a good lie in, a statement made without the Polish sarcasm I’d been used to from people perceived to be higher than you (a priest to some Poles is the Highest Authority on Earth Bar the Pope). 

All in all it really was a great night and I’d honestly forgotten how much I loved singing. So I’m seriously contemplating joining a choir in the near future. Or just belting tunes out on my own (or with friends). 

I actually thought this song was much older, 1920s. It’s one of those pieces you’ve known all your life, even though you were probably on your way to grad school if you followed the classic path. For me they are both names you remember and voices you just automatically navigate towards, because of their familiarity and beauty. But the thing I remember most right now was Christmas dinner a few weeks ago. Even though the TV was on the same way it always was, that was merely for background noise. I do the same at home a lot of times, so I always feel drawn to people who do the same. But when Andrea Bocelli came on, a hush fell over the room and people just listened, everyone’s eyes on the screen. I remember someone making a comment about his eyes, saying how no one must have taught him to open his eyes. That it was something you needed to be taught if you weren’t using your eyesight and why had no one cared enough to tell him. It stuck with me that comment. As if the song wasn’t already sad enough. Because I love sad songs. And even though I only remembered the comment just now, and not throughout the performance we’d attended earlier, it had somehow wound its way into my subconscious, intermingling with the song. Why hadn’t anyone cared enough to tell him that he should open his eyes?