Godsmack

When I was young, my mother deposited my sisters and me on the sidewalk in front of the Methodist Church every Sunday morning. It only made sense to go inside. Especially in winter, since Sunday was the one day a week we were forced to wear dresses. Vicious winter winds whipped the hems of our skirts, pushing us towards the double doors leading to the sanctuary.

Before long, it became achingly apparent that those double doors actually led to a sort of sanctified catwalk and, as soon as the Richway opened on the opposite corner, my entry into the sanctuary was little more than a detour.

As a teenager, summer Sundays found me in a tiny, white, clapboard church, chiefly populated by elderly Baptists. Attendance was requisite to spending the weekend at Mrs. Wise’s magical, heart-of-pine farmhouse. I liken the experience to being a visitor in a strange country. Few of their traditions were familiar to me. But, we were allowed to wear pants, and the friendly parishioners seemed uninterested in where you had bought them or how much they cost. Everyone appeared truly happy to be there, and even happier to see a new, young face.

I toyed with the idea of converting, until I learned that Southern Baptists disallow a plethora of enjoyable activities; among them, dancing. I am not a frequent dancer, and when I do dance, I don’t do it particularly well. But, I value the freedom to do so when the spirit moves me…

As a mother, I returned to the Methodist church. And, not just to make a deposit. I actually attended along with my children. By this time, a few avant-garde women were wearing pants, but I stuck to my skirts. As a stay-at-home Mom, I embraced any opportunity to wear make-up and pantyhose.

We attended for several years. My children joined youth groups and were baptized on video. Several years ago, while cleaning the attic, I found the VHS tape in a box filled with books. I gave it to my daughter who watches it with her brothers, on occasion. It reminds them of a pleasant time.

While my children were being sprinkled, however, florid men in Sunday suits were arguing the benefit/cost ratio of a lottery in Georgia. The argument spilled over into the church. Political fire-storm soon superseded religious education, and it became apparent that, while this congregation didn’t stand in judgment of one’s fashion sense, it made no bones about dictating a political stance.

I didn’t attend church in search of a political science lesson. I attended church in search of religious education, for me and for my children. As the level of negativity within the congregation grew, I once again beat a retreat, with one yearly exception.

Every Christmas Eve, we happily interrupted the preparations and festivities for an opportunity to touch God. Inside the sanctuary, the lighting was ambient, the music inspired, and the presence of God more tangible than at any other time in my experience. I always left the church better than when I went in, grateful for the peace and hope He had placed within my heart.

Of course, I see God everyday. What more perfect evidence is there of God’s presence than a bird? These marvelous creatures, who carry everything necessary for life in a tiny feathered bundle that defies gravity, effortlessly. What better proof could there be of the Divine?

And I feel Him working in my life, especially when I have dropped the ball. He usually lets me have my head long enough to realize I’ve lost sight of the finish line, before pulling back on the reins hard enough to unseat me. And, often, it’s not until I’ve regained my composure enough to brush myself off that I realize I’ve just enjoyed a Holy Smack-Down. This realization usually prompts the first smile I’ve allowed myself for days.

You have to smile. It’s just like being a kid; a kid who does something she knows she shouldn’t. And Dad comes in with that look on his face that tells you he knows. He knows and he isn’t happy about it. The only relief for the anxiety inspired by that face is retribution. And, you secretly smile. After Dad leaves the room, you smile. And, for a while you behave, content in the knowledge that when you don’t, when humanity rears its ugly head again, He’ll be there to jerk the reins.

“Kirkin’ of the Tartans”

Joy was hard to find amongst the throng of worshipers gathered in the narthex of the church. Standing at 4’11”, in her sensible shoes, and colorful tartan skirt, her painted lips broke into a smile as we rounded the pair of taller men blocking our view. Her arms flew wide in my son’s direction, and he fell into them, as expected. As he pulled away, she retained her hold on his arms, looking him almost eye-to-eye, and exclaimed her delight at seeing him. Turning towards me, she fussed with the vest she’d squeezed beneath her jacket as I complimented her skirt.

She’d seen the pastor’s wife, so she was relatively sure the pastor had arrived as well, but she hadn’t seen the bagpiper. We discussed seating. She hoped it would be alright if we sat near the front. “I can’t sit too far back. It’s hard to hear…”

Three rows from the front, she sidled into a pew, allowing just enough space for our three bodies. Joy likes to touch. I could smell her perfume.

She’d been to the opera since I’d seen her. Rossini was one of her favorite composers, but she’d not seen this performance before. She described it as beautiful, light, and airy. She’d liked it very much.

The pews around us filled as I refreshed my memory of the sanctuary. Fashioned from gracious blonde wood, the ceiling arched high to accommodate and enhance the majesty of organ music, and the builders had preferred graceful curves to corners, giving the room a fluid feel. There was little decoration, save for a table on the rising in front of us, holding a single round of bread and a silver goblet. Behind the table, a three-piece band readied itself for the service, opposite a large, tartan-draped pulpit.

I sat, appreciating the warm simplicity of my surroundings, as my son surveyed the crowd of strangers. I wondered what he was learning. I complied with Joy’s request for a stick of gum.

And the music began…very softly at first, as though far away; a single bagpipe playing a familiar refrain. Placing my hand on his leg, I directed my son’s attention, and we turned to look behind us.

The piper was a sturdily built, older woman dressed in traditional Scottish garb. Heavy, utilitarian boots covered thick woolen socks that met her kilt, the plaid of which was repeated in the sash that partially covered her black woolen jacket. Her reddened cheeks alternately expanded and deflated as she sucked for air between blows, and I was immediately struck by her effort.

Behind her, a stately procession of tartans flowed in on tall poles carried by practiced, stern-faced parishioners. Each pole featured a symbol, and the name of a clan, above their corresponding plaid, and, as they passed, the large swatches of colorful material fluttered at us, gracefully. The music resounded against graceful blonde arches above us, and as the procession continued, my eyes filled with its proud beauty.

The musician took her place to one side of the rising as the tartans flowed in and around her, coming to rest at their designated spots along the thoughtfully curved walls, until we were surrounded by ancestral colors, the haunting strains of a lone bagpiper, and synchronicity.

The speaker, an older man of Scottish descent, and one-time pastor of this church, took the podium, proudly wearing the kilt of his clan. He began his address by explaining Jewish tradition, and, at first, I found myself captivated more by his soft, brogue-enlaced speech, than his message. His focus was on the concept, and importance of, “we, first-person plural…”. He credited early Jewish tradition with introducing the concept, and early Presbyterians with embracing it. He related the history of the “Kirkin’ of the Tartans”, and the prohibitions and ensuing violence that his ancestors had survived. As he spoke, I surveyed the proud plaids lining the walls behind him, and I understood.
We rose, as directed, and I added my voice to the others, as we sang “Amazing Grace” to the accompaniment of a single bagpipe….

As a child, I attended church every Sunday. The car rolled to a stop, and my mother unlocked the doors to let us out. As an adult, I attended for many years until politics monopolized our Sunday school lessons, souring me. World history classes, required by my major, officially debunked most of the Bible, assuring me that my soul was, indeed, in my own hands. Since that time, my attendance in church has been sporadic, and usually socially driven.

My choice to attend today was fueled by a desire to provide, for my son, an experience. The emotion I experienced was unexpected. As I sat in the sanctuary, surrounded by parishioners, and tartans, and history, I came to understand why they were there. I felt their belonging.

The bagpipe began to whine again, announcing a reversed procession. The plaids fluttered in the opposite direction, and I watched through tear-filled eyes. The music faded as the last tartan passed, before growing stronger again, causing me to turn, again, towards the front of the church.

She stood, singularly; framed by double doors. Sunlight rained upon her and the unlikely instrument, and after several minutes, the music continued as she turned, proudly, and walked away.

For Mattie…

She reads the words, but doesn’t hear them.

Years of indoctrination fail to police her actions, so that her beliefs have form in word, only.

She may seek repentance for her unmitigated attack, ignorant of the original Greek interpretation of the word; “to think differently afterwards”.

She will hope for atonement, based on a set of man-made beliefs.

And, should those beliefs be shown to have merit, she will surely find redemption,

as will we all.

Because, after all, the sacrifice has been made.

Arm-wrestling God

We share 20 years.

She hosted a beautiful wedding as I joined my life to my first real love, and provided a haven when he returned to his; liquid, cold, uncaring, and violent.

She was there through the howls of birth; first mine, and later, theirs.

And, as I suffered through the death of one not to be born alive, she was there as I emerged from the examination room, holding a single rose, and her tongue, on the long, silent ride home.

When I determined to try again, staring down forty, she propped me up when my feet were too swollen to carry me, and never failed to remind me of the folly in my decision.

Now as I bare my soul, share my guilt, and bemoan my lack of restraint, she does what only she can do….

“You arm-wrestled God for a man, honey! What did you think was gonna happen?”

This is her gift…

A Fork in the Road

The World History class was required for my degree. I have no particular interest in World History.

The professor, a bespectacled, soft-spoken man; dumpy, mousy, and pastey.

Within a week, unheeded, I was bringing a Bible to class. As he methodically dissected human history from it’s very beginnings, he hearkened back to that holiest of texts, debunking fiction after fiction until the leather-bound volume in my back-pack became akin to an early incarnation of Aesop’s fables.

And he never raised his voice, or spoke in tongues, or gestured wildly, or challenged, or questioned. He stated facts, eloquently, quietly, and intelligently.

I aced the class. He changed my life.

I remember, as a child, following my mink enshrouded mother into the sanctuary and becoming aware of countless pairs of feminine eyes taking her measure. Inside my child’s brain, the experience felt incongruous.

I remember sitting and listening to my ancient Sunday School teacher recite, by rote, long passages of contradictory verse, and as I sat, looking at the faces around me for some sign that I wasn’t the only one who suspected we were all part of some kind of wild mind-bending experiment.

I saw lots of things…

I saw rapt eyes over gaped mouthes.

I saw girls whispering, posturing, and primping, and boys, doodling or dexteriously fashioning paper footballs whose mitered edges never really resembled a football, at all.

I saw lots of yawns.

But, I never saw real doubt.

I didn’t dare to interrupt Dr. Dick’s diatribe. I sat, obediently, until creativity, in the form of a more adventurous friend, suggested we skip Sunday School. A local shopping plaza absorbed the time, until our parents came to collect us, none the wiser.

Later, as an adult, I began what has been suggested to be a genetically inclined quest for knowledge. My father, you see, while seldom attending church, has spent his life in study of various relgions and spiritual dictates.

I began to read and study religions of all types.

I read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover, finding some solace in it’s words, but more interest in it’s story.

I have read several different versions of the Bible, ranging from King James to New World, as the highlighted pages of my current, more traditional, volume will attest.

I read, with interest, L. Ron Hubbard’s, “Dianetics”.

I have studed Daoism, Buddhism, and currently own two translations of the Tao Ching; one stays at home, the other travels with me. This poetic text has served me well in times of unrest and insecurity…

After over 40 years of research, and soul-searching, and education, and experience, I have reached a place of comfort.

As I sit on my patio, early morning light dances between green needles in the towering pines that surround my landscape. And birds, whose very existence attests to a power greater than that enjoyed by any man, dart to and fro in my periphery. As I breathe the soft, clean air of daybreak, I know, deep in my soul, a loving power. A higher power. A wiser power. A driving energy that exists within every living thing.

And this knowledge imbues in me a respect for all creation; from the smallest insect to the largest mammal.

And it soothes me, with the surety that deep within each us is a voice, full of reason, full of love, and flush with wisdom.

Our impetus is to listen; to listen and to hear, to allow this rich wisdom to permeate our consciousness and guide us, without restrictions imposed by those who would control behavior in an effort to create a monochromatic society, without traditions imposed by those soothed by sameness, without dictates that would keep us from recognizing our true potential as fellow holy spirits.