June 30, 2013
Day Eight....or is it NINE?!
Sunday ....church day in the Heartland. I’ve journeyed up from the South - land of the Baptists - to where the ‘true’ Christians reside. And if you forgot your own personal copy of the King James Version of the Holy Bible...just keep your eye on one of two giant screens located at either end of stage...and todays scripture will scroll for your reading enjoyment.
I was raised with a kind of ‘church-rummage’ faith. We lived smack dab in the middle of a Wesleyan Methodist community, but I don’t ever remember my parents - or grandparents - attending church or even providing any kind of religious instruction. And I don’t fault them for that....not at all. It freed up my Sundays. What I DO remember are the various neighbors and classmates over the years who invited me to attend church services with their families; my Mom always said ‘sure,’ probably because (a.) she didn’t want the wrath of some Wesleyan God coming down around us on Harmon Street, and (b.) if I was out of the house, that meant one less kid to tend to for the morning. And being a working Mom in the ’60’s, she was always seeking opportunities to engage her children and free her up to run errands or just relax.
I would go with a couple of different families to the Methodist service....they were very strict; couldn’t wear short dresses (it was the ;60’s...miniskirts!), no makeup, not a lot of laughing, or frivolity....very plain. I recall the edict of ‘no drinking, no smoking,’ and several other ‘thou shalt nots,’ from the pulpit. Intrinsically, I just knew I didn’t ‘fit in,’ with this way of worship. But each time I was invited, my Mom or Grandma dressed me appropriately, and waved me down the driveway.
I would go with another family - across town - to the Episcopalian service. They found it critically important to ‘dress up,’ to be in the presence of God - little while gloves and all. What I didn’t understand was all the kneeling and standing and chanting...but the congregation was always smiling so I guess there was gratification for them in the ritual. What I loved about the Episcopalian church was the social afterwards; everyone went down to the church basement where there awaited mounds of buttered cinnamon toast and hot chocolate or coffee....and no one cared if you went back for seconds or thirds for the toast. You didn’t get that with the Methodists.
Once or twice I remember attending a Catholic service.....way beyond my comprehension. That’s like dating outside your species.
By the time I was in high school - and Free Will had firmly taken hold - I stopped being parceled out to evangelical neighbors for my religious instruction. I didn’t decide on a ‘church home,’ until after my first daughter was born and I was pregnant with the second. As a parent, I wanted to be the one responsible for indoctrinating my children in the belief of God....or something like that. I wasn’t totally clear on the concept myself, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. I just knew I wanted to provide more of a religious structure ....not the church rummage faith I grew up with.
When I started ‘shopping’ churches, experience told me not to seek the Methodists, the Episcopalians, and certainly not the Catholics. I had married into a family of Southern Baptists (please, no) and Seventh Day Adventists (really!?), so I could check those two denominations off my list as well. I knew I would not survive the teetotaling Baptists, and attending church on Saturday was just plain weird. So I chose the Presbyterians; they seemed the least ‘religious.’ I dragged my pregnant self and my toddler to the two different Presbyterian churches in our little town (their Dad refused to attend church - he was a product of the ‘mixed marriage’ of his Baptist Father and Seventh Day Adventist Mother - can you imagine?)....trying to decide where would be comfortable. I chose Hope Presbyterian because Dr. McGrath embraced me and my toddler the very first Sunday by saying, ‘children are always welcome in our sanctuary.’ Dr. McGrath and I remain friends to this day, although I personally no longer attend formal services.
My daughters were brought up in the ‘church home’ of the Presbyterians; Sunday school, church pre-school, Wednesday Family Night, Youth Group, Holiday Celebrations, and all. I allowed the ‘professionals,’ to indoctrinate my daughters with God’s word....I still reserved the right to believe as I saw fit. I have always been more spiritual than religious, I have always trusted a ‘higher power,’ and I have always believed in Miracles.
One day, when I picked the girls up from Youth Group on Sunday evening, my oldest daughter asked me, ‘Mom, do we have to go to Youth Group anymore?’ After a brief discussion about the whys and wherefores....I told her, ‘no, you don’t. Not if you don’t want to.’ She was 13 and her sister was 12; and that was the end of their (and mine) weekly attendance at church. But we never left our God; we each just found a more personal relationship with a deity unfettered by a formal participation in ritual.
My parents didn’t start ‘going to church’ until my Mom got very sick...about ten years before she passed. I’m grateful they found a church-home when they did. Over the years, when I returned home for a visit, I would gladly attend church service with them - I still maintained that ‘church rummage’ faith - and I felt comfortable in almost any sanctuary. Its about the ritual; there is comfort in the order of worship - regardless of the denomination.
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| Jesus Rides a Harley |
Worship is worship; sometimes my prayers are complicated, sometimes my prayers are vague and timid, sometimes my prayers are as simple as ‘Thank you.’ Regardless of the building - or absence of one - I know my God hears my prayers....and that’s alright with me. My only dilemma today was that I was sitting in church thinking about riding my Harley Davidson, instead of riding my Harley Davidson.
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