Holy Moments

My Sunday school class had a discussion on the word “holy” a couple of weeks ago. Actually it started out with the idea of each of us being priests, which ultimately led to us talking about what is holy.


None of us latched on to the idea of being priests. I mean, we’ve all read the papers in recent years and no one wants to sign on for that label. However, we all agreed that each of us had experienced moments in our lives that felt “holy.”

Even without a working, common definition, we described holy moments in the woods and forests, with the sun shining through the branches. We acknowledged times when the beauty of music or the grandeur of the sanctuary led to what we considered a holy time. Thinking back, we didn’t get much further than this.

More than what we actually listed, I noticed what we didn’t include: attending elementary piano recitals or church business meetings, walking the dog. Line dancing, mowing grass, and painting trim on a house were other moments also missing. As I write this now, I’m struck by the fact that most of what makes our actual lives did not make the list. I mean I’m very rarely in the woods looking at the sun and Easter & Christmas only come one time a year. But mowing grass and walking the dog, well, that’s another story.

Webster (I really hate writers who use the whole Webster thing as a segue but I couldn’t think of anything else, so. . . ) Webster defines holy as “devoted entirely to the deity or the work of the deity.”

I like that; if I choose to be a follower of Christ’s teachings then shouldn’t my life be devoted entirely to the “work of the deity.” (As my kids say, “Go big or go home,” which is a loose translation of the verse where Jesus said he really can’t stand the whole lukewarm thing, so much so that He would just as soon spit it out.)

Actually, I’m thinking that maybe my Sunday school teacher may have taught us that our very beings (bodies) were holy temples. I personally thought she shared that with us as we approached puberty to keep us from drinking or smoking or having sex – all of those things that you would never do in a temple, no matter how depraved you might be.

Now that I’m older and my BFF is menopause, I’m finally beginning to understand that maybe there’s more to this holy thing than my classes first response and maybe what Mrs. Bramel was referring to didn’t include drinking or smoking or sex. OK, I take that back. I’m pretty sure she meant sex, but maybe she also meant the way we actually live our lives should be holy.

A book that I recently read (which I can’t recall the title.. . remember my BFF) had a great quote that I actually wrote down: “There is a difference between what is pretty and what is holy.” Our recent Sunday school discussion, along with Webster and the holy temple thing made me begin to consider that maybe we were wrong about our holy moments.

I think that we sometimes confuse pretty for holy. Even my images of the Holy Mother are of a beautiful young woman, who gave birth (in a very neat fashion) to an equally beautiful baby (who never had projectile vomiting or diarrhea that shot up the back of his diaper.) But if the definition for holy is being completely devoted to the work of  God, my image doesn’t have to be reconfigured to fit my own interpretation of holy. Mary can be disheveled and screaming bad words and still be holy as a result of her devotion to His work.

Lucky for me, I’ve been witness to some holy times recently.

At my uncle’s funera, people stood in line for over an hour in an overcrowded, too hot room, to greet my aunt and cousins, most with sweat trickling down their back into their, well you get the picture. They were just a bunch of holy people hanging around to hug on Aunt Blanche.

The rest of the aunts hauled food and drinks and paper products, even a microwave, up two flights of steps so that we could all eat together after the visitation. They cleaned up late into the evening. That night they were all exhausted from holiness.

Ladies at my aunt’s church fixed macaroni and cheese and chocolate cakes to feed our family after the funeral. I bet their kitchens were messy with holiness.

On Saturday, a small, devoted group from my church continued to paint and clean a fellow member’s house. They good-naturedly harassed one another, gave water to the dog, shared their personal stories with the one standing next to them. . . big-time holy stuff.

Sunday afternoon was spent with Will and Carly. We played banagrams, ate lunch, listened to each other’s struggles and worries. We confessed and offered forgiveness; we even had a group hug, reminding each other how much he or she is loved. It was a fairly holy afternoon.

With all of this new found knowledge, I’m thankful that while my life is seldom pretty it certainly is holy.