Just to clarify, for those who might have those I was making fun of Christians or Buddhists in my last post, I wasn’t. (I don’t take myself seriously, you shouldn’t either) Some of us are part-time Buddhists, (my husband goes to a Zendo; I just think about going, which makes me halfway there) and… I’m a recovering Catholic. Not to say, I’m not down with Jesus. I am. He’s the coolest dude in the book, by far. My only issue is with people trying to convert me door to door, not asking at all what my religious affiliation is or might have been. My angst about giving and who to give to first, or not at all, stems from a deep seeded grain of guilt. I feel guilty for not giving, and guilty for giving, and guilty for not helping, and then for helping too much. I can’t win.
My husband and I were in Spain ages ago, in a beautiful and extremely huge church, and we passed an amazing votive candle display. A sign read: “Small, 2 euros. Large 4”. Bigger prayer, bigger money. One might just feel bad for not buying the big prayer, you know? As if they weren’t really worth the 4 euros?
“I think I’m getting how this works,” my husband said. But it’s complicated, religion, which is why people say never to bring it up if you want to be “safe” in your conversations.
When I was a kid I was totally enthralled with the pomp and circumstance of it all. We also had two extremely good pastors that packed the church every Sunday. They were SO great, in fact, that they eventually left to become touring “clean” comedians. No shit. God+Funny = Awesome. They were replaced by someone we could only describe as… well, Father Potato Head. Not only did he resemble his plastic namesake, but he had a tiny edge of a lisp, and tended to rain down on everyone’s parade with good old-fashioned fire and brimstone. God+ Lisp +Hellfire = Bummer. This was quite a stretch from the packed-to-the rafters sermons that breathed life and love into every message. Still, I felt good about it. So good in fact, that I thought maybe one day, I could be a nun. That, or go into the air force. (A friend later remarked that I could have done both, and actually been the Flying Nun). Stop laughing, I am totally serious. Even from an early age I could tell there was more to this thing than just us, that there was serious magic going on here, and I wanted all things magical in my life. That, and I wanted to fly a big-ass plane.
A day came when all the little second-graders were called to the front of the Church for some Q and A. The first question was about the most important people who had influenced our faith today. I raised my hand, this one was soooo easy.
Father Potato Head called on me, my hand winging around wildly.
“Mary!” I said in earnest.
I mean, duh, she gave birth to Jesus. What could be more freaking important than that. Snickers, from the audience of parents, and from my classmates.
“Weelllll,” said Father Potato Head. “I was thinking more along the lines of the apostles…”
He turned his back and went on to ask another question. I felt my face go red, and I thought, how could I get that one wrong? And why did it have to be a guy? I looked for my parents in the audience. My dad smiled at me, his eyes shining (he was probably laughing, but I didn’t catch this at the time). He gave me a big thumbs-up, which was all I needed. My old man was with me. Cue an early interest in feminism.
One day that next summer, I was at Bible camp, and all the kids had to write a message in a balloon and send it off to God. We actually sang Kumbaya (I love that song. This was the seventies) and released our prayers into the sky. I watched as my prayer sailed up, up, and into the top canopy of a maple tree, where it promptly got stuck. Didn’t budge, actually.
Huh.
I turned to find the camp counselor. What did it mean? Would my prayer get there? Was it because I wasn’t nice to my brother? Why was mine the only one not to go up? Cue early anxiety about how messages reach God, whether Karma has a play in it, and perhaps I wasn’t worthy of it somehow. Doubt starts to creep in. Doubt, and guilt. (Can you see the neurosis building here? Anyone?) I have many such stories, about my wavering faith, my (almost) not getting confirmed due to my argument about divorced/gay people, and why I eventually decided to just become “a spiritual person”. I sometimes feel bad for not giving my kids any kind of religious education, but then again, we’ve read some bible stories and I can’t say they don’t know who Jesus is. They do: he is the coolest dude in the book. I hope to give them the best of it if I can, the magic of the world, the basics about doing unto others. I get to take away the best parts of my upbringing, with a little Buddhism thrown in for good measure. And if there’s one thing I can teach my kids, it is to be the good Samaritan. To help, when you can, if you can, to go outside of your comfort zone when doing so. If I can model this, then I can give them a true gift, not one secured in its package with 300 twist ties from the bowels of China. (Damn you, twist ties!) So happy birthday Jesus, thanks for all the love. Thanks also for letting us borrow your birthday to make up stories about a creepy fat guy descending from chimneys, bringing presents and eating up all the cookies. That’s a helluva lot of fun too.
And as for my stuck balloon, I’m pretty sure it got there.