52.17 ..... faith
My Dad grew up Catholic, and I have a charming picture of him in his alter boy outfit looking angelic from the neck down, and devilish in the eyes. My Mom was a little more vague- "fire, brimstone, and holy roller" was her way of saying that in her rural Indiana upbringing they worshipped with what ever traveling preacher was in town at the time. Since she was not particularly affiliated with any sect, she was a pushover for my feisty paternal grandmother who was insistent that the children be raised under the Catholic holy trinity.
I loved, loved, loved church- the Latin mass, the rituals, the nuns, the beautiful church we attended (a miniature blond wood cathedral of sorts), lighting candles in the lady chapel, and most of all Monsignor Anderson, who was a family friend. But I was a skeptical child, and a bit willful, and slowly but surely doubts began to creep into my little brain. If the scapular I was never supposed to take off was really going to guarantee the Virgin Mother would come to purgatory to fetch me to heaven if I died wearing it, shouldn't it be made of something more permanent than the red felt and cardboard that ran dye all over my eight year old neck when I took a bath? And howcome my grandfather and the monsignor needed to have a shot of Irish Whiskey in the back room before 11 o'clock mass if this ceremony was so holy?
Further circumstances began to separate me from my beloved church. In high school, I had just two years of Latin under my belt before services were changed to the vernacular. Huh??? And then, as I was going away to college in 1971- the height of the women's liberation movement- I began to feel indignant on behalf of those nuns I'd cherished all my life. Why exactly was it that they could not say mass? And as a child of the hippie era (the original one, not the neo-hippie fashion statement that has nothing to do with living close to the earth) who was concerned about overpopulation (we won't mention personal sexual freedom) I was very concerned about the church's rigid stance about birth control and abortion. I was in a terrible personal crisis.
Thinking that perhaps I'd strayed too far from the teachings, I volunteered to teach catechism classes in the church where I'd been confirmed. Every week for three months I took a bus an hour each way to my hometown to teach 7 year olds out of the Baltimore Catechism. Big BIG mistake for me. As a freshman in college, I was way too unwilling to suppress logic to faith, so teaching from that book just widened the chasm that was growing between me and my religion. Finally, in a desperate last-ditch effort to retain the anchor of a faith I'd practiced for more than 20 years, I signed up for a comparative religion class. Surely studying Catholicism in conjunction with other religions would put everything in perspective for me.
And it did. But not in the way I'd hoped. The more I studied the differing forms of faith, the more I discovered that they were- in the most basic terms- quite similar. They taught you to be good people and good neighbors. To help others. To not harm people or property. To learn lessons from wise teachers. To think about the larger world around you. To put that world into the context of history.
To make a very long story shorter, basically what I figured out was that what most people look for in religion are these four things.
They want an answer to the question of how we came to be.
They want guidance for an acceptable code of conduct.
They want a community that accepts them, no matter who they are or what they've done.
They want comforting rituals.
With my own peculiar logic, studying how much religions are basically the same made me quite comfortable- for the next almost 30 years- practicing my little religion of one.
I am perfectly content to not understand how we came to be. I don't understand physics either, but that doesn't make me skeptical that physics exists.
I learned all those "moral" ways to act in church when I was young. I don't have to be Catholic, or any other religion, to know that we need to strive to be good, helpful, giving people for the world to progress in a positive way.
I belong to many communities where I thrive... I don't NEED one to validate my beliefs.
Over the years, I've developed many personal rituals... around gardening, holidays, seasons, people... I am not lacking in ritual.
I was content. Except for one little thing. When my mother was quite ill before she died, and when my father went though a personal crisis, and when crises befell close friends... I was missing the kind of ritual that is a physical manifestation of FAITH. Like lighting candles in the lady chapel at church. Or the way some will pin the photograph of a suffering loved one near a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. So there really was something missing. I didn't need the deity or the services. But I did need that specific sort of ritual.
Enter my sweetheart Matt. Matt has been practicing in a small sect of Buddhism for decades now. It involves chanting twice a day. For what you need. To improve yourself. To reach your goals. For those you love. There is no deity or fat little iconic Buddha... you are the buddha. There are no rules. There is simply the practice. A community full of people, each with "a little religion of one". And he didn't prostletize at all... just answered my questions when I was curious. There was a lot that was compelling. So now, after being quite content having faith without form, I'm again part of a community that believes much what I do. And I have the ritual I was seeking, even when I didn't know it.
So now, twice a day, I take the time at my altar to:
think about my place in the world
think about how I can give more than I take
focus on personal goals
think about my ancestors and loved ones who've died
think about what happens in my next lives
celebrate the wonder of the world
pray for peace
and now I'm more content
52.17 ..... faith
My Dad grew up Catholic, and I have a charming picture of him in his alter boy outfit looking angelic from the neck down, and devilish in the eyes. My Mom was a little more vague- "fire, brimstone, and holy roller" was her way of saying that in her rural Indiana upbringing they worshipped with what ever traveling preacher was in town at the time. Since she was not particularly affiliated with any sect, she was a pushover for my feisty paternal grandmother who was insistent that the children be raised under the Catholic holy trinity.
I loved, loved, loved church- the Latin mass, the rituals, the nuns, the beautiful church we attended (a miniature blond wood cathedral of sorts), lighting candles in the lady chapel, and most of all Monsignor Anderson, who was a family friend. But I was a skeptical child, and a bit willful, and slowly but surely doubts began to creep into my little brain. If the scapular I was never supposed to take off was really going to guarantee the Virgin Mother would come to purgatory to fetch me to heaven if I died wearing it, shouldn't it be made of something more permanent than the red felt and cardboard that ran dye all over my eight year old neck when I took a bath? And howcome my grandfather and the monsignor needed to have a shot of Irish Whiskey in the back room before 11 o'clock mass if this ceremony was so holy?
Further circumstances began to separate me from my beloved church. In high school, I had just two years of Latin under my belt before services were changed to the vernacular. Huh??? And then, as I was going away to college in 1971- the height of the women's liberation movement- I began to feel indignant on behalf of those nuns I'd cherished all my life. Why exactly was it that they could not say mass? And as a child of the hippie era (the original one, not the neo-hippie fashion statement that has nothing to do with living close to the earth) who was concerned about overpopulation (we won't mention personal sexual freedom) I was very concerned about the church's rigid stance about birth control and abortion. I was in a terrible personal crisis.
Thinking that perhaps I'd strayed too far from the teachings, I volunteered to teach catechism classes in the church where I'd been confirmed. Every week for three months I took a bus an hour each way to my hometown to teach 7 year olds out of the Baltimore Catechism. Big BIG mistake for me. As a freshman in college, I was way too unwilling to suppress logic to faith, so teaching from that book just widened the chasm that was growing between me and my religion. Finally, in a desperate last-ditch effort to retain the anchor of a faith I'd practiced for more than 20 years, I signed up for a comparative religion class. Surely studying Catholicism in conjunction with other religions would put everything in perspective for me.
And it did. But not in the way I'd hoped. The more I studied the differing forms of faith, the more I discovered that they were- in the most basic terms- quite similar. They taught you to be good people and good neighbors. To help others. To not harm people or property. To learn lessons from wise teachers. To think about the larger world around you. To put that world into the context of history.
To make a very long story shorter, basically what I figured out was that what most people look for in religion are these four things.
They want an answer to the question of how we came to be.
They want guidance for an acceptable code of conduct.
They want a community that accepts them, no matter who they are or what they've done.
They want comforting rituals.
With my own peculiar logic, studying how much religions are basically the same made me quite comfortable- for the next almost 30 years- practicing my little religion of one.
I am perfectly content to not understand how we came to be. I don't understand physics either, but that doesn't make me skeptical that physics exists.
I learned all those "moral" ways to act in church when I was young. I don't have to be Catholic, or any other religion, to know that we need to strive to be good, helpful, giving people for the world to progress in a positive way.
I belong to many communities where I thrive... I don't NEED one to validate my beliefs.
Over the years, I've developed many personal rituals... around gardening, holidays, seasons, people... I am not lacking in ritual.
I was content. Except for one little thing. When my mother was quite ill before she died, and when my father went though a personal crisis, and when crises befell close friends... I was missing the kind of ritual that is a physical manifestation of FAITH. Like lighting candles in the lady chapel at church. Or the way some will pin the photograph of a suffering loved one near a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. So there really was something missing. I didn't need the deity or the services. But I did need that specific sort of ritual.
Enter my sweetheart Matt. Matt has been practicing in a small sect of Buddhism for decades now. It involves chanting twice a day. For what you need. To improve yourself. To reach your goals. For those you love. There is no deity or fat little iconic Buddha... you are the buddha. There are no rules. There is simply the practice. A community full of people, each with "a little religion of one". And he didn't prostletize at all... just answered my questions when I was curious. There was a lot that was compelling. So now, after being quite content having faith without form, I'm again part of a community that believes much what I do. And I have the ritual I was seeking, even when I didn't know it.
So now, twice a day, I take the time at my altar to:
think about my place in the world
think about how I can give more than I take
focus on personal goals
think about my ancestors and loved ones who've died
think about what happens in my next lives
celebrate the wonder of the world
pray for peace
and now I'm more content