Joining

I never thought I'd attend a church service even once in my life, let alone show up regularly.  I have always been a critical thinker, more prone to disagree than agree with much of what I hear or read.  And I have never in my history been a team player or a "joiner" of any description.

I figured that any religion required handing over one's brain on a silver platter to the clergy in charge.  I've never, in my adult life, been able to believe something just because someone told me to.  There was no way I'd be able to suspend my critical thinking and substitute the dogma supplied by a religious authority.  I couldn't even participate in any secular clubs when I was in university, because their rules seemed stupid to me, and their sense of superiority pissed me off.  I always ended up lonely.  I figured that was the price I had to pay for my integrity.

When a series of personal experiences convinced me that Jesus is real, here, now, and present in my life, I kept it a virtual secret for six months.  I prayed alone in my bedroom.  I downloaded episodes of 100 Huntley St. and watched them, alone.  I had other reasons to feel uncomfortable with organized Christianity besides my anti-joinerism, and it all added up to keep me isolated.  

However, eventually I had to give in to the message I kept hearing: following the example of Jesus means loving others and being in community.  Eventually I had to push myself through my fears and out into a church.  

In preparation, I had help from a dear friend, the only practicing Christian I knew at the time (many thanks, Logan!).  I also called one of those toll-free prayer lines, the one offered by 100 Huntley St., to see what kind of reception I would get.  It was scary.  I felt extremely vulnerable.  But I was encouraged by these interactions, and so I was able to find the courage to go to church.

I am comfortable at my church, because no one has asked me to hand over my brain on a platter.  It's OK for me to have questions.  It's OK that we don't all agree on every point of scriptural interpretation.  Nobody has interrogated me in depth regarding my theology.  And when I offered a critical opinion in a Bible study group, I was actually encouraged.  The pastor leading the group thanked me for my contribution.  Then he told the other pastor, who made a point of telling Ken and I that it was a good thing to bring lively discussion to the meetings.

Of the congregants, some of them got very quiet when I offered my critical opinion.  But others engaged with me and offered some very interesting points of view.  We definitely understood each other better by the end of the discussion.  

So, all in all, I think my church is pretty cool.  And I have learned something from this experience.  I've learned that being part of a community doesn't mean agreeing 100% with everyone else.  In fact, there are probably no two people in any church who agree 100% with each other, not even the pastors.  We start with "good enough agreement" and good intentions, and then we grow from there.

Public Devotion

On November 1st I attended a Christian worship/song-and-dance performance with around 14,000 other people at Toronto's large domed stadium.

A non-church-going but somewhat-Christian (and also somewhat New-Age) friend accompanied me. Thank goodness for her. I found the experience overwhelming on several levels, but my friend was there at my side like a life preserver. She's a teddy bear. When I felt like it was all getting too much I'd lean up against her comforting arm which was wrapped inside a comforting fuzzy sweater, and she'd look over at me and giggle in her lovely way.

To start with, I am not a lover of crowds. There are many events which I outright avoid simply because of the crowds.

I assure you, this place was CROWDED.

Our seats were on the field, right in the middle. The tickets had mostly been sold in blocks, one block to each church, so people were sitting with members of their congregations. The whole point of the concert was to bring together Christians from all over Toronto and the surrounding area, so there were people from all denominations and all backgrounds. The show of solidarity was good to see.

One consequence of the seating arrangement was that differences in church cultures and congregations were easy to spot. My friend and I were seated in row 16, with four more rows dedicated to my church behind us. Starting from row 15 was another church, with a completely different character. The average age of my church is, I'm guessing, at least 50. The average age of the church in front of us was less than 30.

My friend and I were seated directly behind a posse of energetic teenagers. As soon as the music started, those kids were up out of their seats, grooving with the rhythm and raising their hands to the heavens. Meanwhile, my church, for the most part, sat quietly with their hands folded in their laps. I looked over at my friend. Neither of us could see anything from a seated position behind the dance squad, so we stood up too. And, since we were up, we danced. I wouldn't have felt comfortable being the first one to stand up, but the teenagers went first and thereby "gave us permission".

Much as I do feel a strong desire to show devotion to the loving God who is with me when I pray, it's not easy to make that connection in an unfamiliar, loud, public place. I sang along with the worship songs and copied the movements of the teenagers, but for the most part I felt that I was going through the motions. There were points at which I felt my heart was touched, and I looked over several times to find my friend weeping with her head bowed in devotion, but it was just too alien an environment for me to fully "go there".

The concert had officially started at 6:30 pm.  Around 8:30 pm, I started getting really hungry. I had eaten dinner at 4:30 pm because we arrived early to find our seats. I waited for an intermission, but despite the fact that the programme was divided into "Act 1" and "Act 2", there was no break. I got hungrier and hungrier. I wondered if I should leave my seat and go all the way back up through the stands to find a hot dog or something. But I've heard a lot lately regarding the benefits of fasting with prayer, so I decided I'd just stay put.

Of course, since my blood sugar was low, I felt my passion for dancing along with the teenagers ebbing away. The heat wasn't on in the stadium, and I become more and more conscious of the cold. I thought: this is good. I never stop to think about how hard it is to be cold and hungry. Experiencing this will make me more sympathetic to the suffering of less fortunate people.

Actually, it mostly just made me cranky.

By the time the grand finale was done at 10:00 pm, I was ready to eat my chair.  But it wasn't as simple as rushing out the door and finding the closest food vendor.  There were over 14,000 people in that stadium, and remember, I was in the middle of the field, up near the front.  People funneled up the stairs and out the exits at a snail's pace.  It was 10:45 pm before we finally made it outside.

My friend headed off to the train station.  I went straight to the nearest Harvey's (a Canadian burger franchise).  Of course there was already a giant line-up.  I got into the line directly behind a couple in their early 20's who had obviously just come from the same concert.  Up past my bedtime, cold, and hypoglycemic, I was feeling less than patient.  You can imagine how tolerant I felt when three friends of the young couple casually slipped into the line ahead of me without the slightest acknowledgement that they were butting in.

At that moment, my thoughts were decidedly un-Christian.

I debated voicing my outrage, but by then I was so low on energy that I couldn't summon the oomph to tell all five of them off.  I waited another 20 minutes as the line inched forward.  

By the time I got home around midnight, I was completely wiped out.  The next day, my first thought was that attending the concert hadn't been worth the trouble.  However, I did gain something from it.  My curiosity was satisfied.  And there were a few choice moments when I felt in touch with the awe of worship.

I will always remember one woman, standing a few rows ahead of me, in the darkened stadium, in a lull between musical numbers.  She stretched her arms out, waaay out, tilted her head back, and shouted from her guts:  "Yes, Lord!  Thank you!  Thank you, Jesus!"  

Her voice echoed across the enormous space, spontaneous, raw, and beautiful.  I broke out in gooseflesh from head to toe.  In that moment, I witnessed something unrehearsed and real.  That's what I went for.  

Maybe it was worth it after all.

Penguin Tag

A couple of years ago I took an improvisational comedy course. Every Sunday evening from fall through to spring, our group gathered in a room with nothing in it but a few folding chairs, to conjure up skits from nothing.

We'd shuffle in the door still thinking about the outside world, sometimes with worries on our mind. Perched on folding chairs, making idle conversation until the teacher showed up, we were our regular, moderate selves.

But you can't make magic from moderation. The teacher's first priority in each class wasn't to impart information to us. It was to shake us free from our rational, linear selves. He wanted to rev up the crazy. He wasn't happy until he saw us being downright rambunctious, because that is when the comedy magic happened.

My favourite of all our warm-up exercises was Penguin Tag. It's exactly like regular tag, except for one additional rule: your knees must remain touching each other at all times. He wouldn't warn us in advance which warm-up was coming. He'd get us all up and standing in a circle, and then suddenly bellow:

"Penguin Tag! I'm It! Go!"

There would be a mad scramble as a dozen or so people frantically waddled around the small room, trying to evade It. I don't suppose it would make a great spectator sport, but I can tell you that it really gets the adreneline pumping. It only took about three minutes of Penguin Tag before we were all flushed, laughing hysterically, and completely in touch with all the wild possibilities of the child mind.

Exuberance is a wonderful thing, and sadly lacking in adult life in mainstream North American culture. Where it exists, often chemicals have been called upon get us there. It's tragic.

The other time I was part of a group that frequently had spontaneous, non-chemical, unplanned expression was when I took a course called "Soundwork as Soulwork". It involved improvised group singing, drumming, and movement. Sometimes we were more "in the groove" than others, and there certainly were times when I felt like a silly fool, but there were also magic moments when we touched something truly beautiful together.

Once I attended a black Baptist church in Indiannapolis (with my ex-in-law family), and there was a lot of improv going on there. I particularly remember one older lady who sat behind me, prim and proper in a navy blue suit with white trim, and a matching hat. She came bursting out with spontaneous praise in response to everything the preacher said.

"Yes, Jesus!"

"Thank you, Jesus!"

At the time I thought it was really weird, and I felt uncomfortable. Now I think back and I understand the spirit that moved her. Celebrating the divine should make us want to shout out in joy and agreement!

My current church is much too well-behaved and quiet. The congregation is Baptist, liberal, and multicultural. There are approximately equal numbers of white, black, and Asian faces in the crowd. The black folks are best at giving the pastor an "Amen" here and there. There is one lady, old as the hills and with eyes clouded by cataracts, who belts out "Praise the Lord!" at regular intervals. She makes me smile.

But the rest of us sit quietly, and take flack from the pastor for being too restrained. I'm as guilty as the rest. I have occasionally found the juice to give an audible "Amen", but most of the time I'm as quiet as the proverbial churchmouse.

The hardest part is Going First. If there were just a few more people expressing exuberance, I tell myself, I could do it too. It's like I feel I need permission to be heard, to possibly call attention to myself.

Granted, I'm new there. Maybe as I feel like less of a stranger I'll feel less shy. Because if someone has to Go First, if someone has to be the one to establish Permission, why not me? There's no rule that says a little white girl can't shout out Hallelujah!

Instead of switching churches, I'd rather see what I can do to bring that kind of spirit to my local church. I can't be the only one who's waiting for a cue to loosen up. The pastor would definitely like to have a more lively congretation, and he lets us know that every week. I pray to be brave enough one day. That's the kind of devotion that God deserves.

Getting Baptized

Everyone is asking me:  "How did your baptism go?"

The answer is 1) Good, and yet also 2) I'm not sure because I don't feel that it's over yet.  I mean, clearly I got out of the font, dried off, put on my regular clothes and went home.  But in another sense, energetically or emotionally or something, I feel like I jumped out of an airplane and I'm still free-falling, hoping that my parachute will open soon so that I can land.

Being baptized is most closely analogous to having a major birthday.  Like when you turn 16 or 18 or 30 or 40.  You know the birthday is coming.  You feel a building anticipation.  Then on the actual day, you wake up feeling surprisingly unchanged, and yet aware that you have passed a significant milestone and you can never go back.  It marks the midpoint of a process that extends to a fuzzy fade on either side, with no clear beginning or end.

Technically, it all went very smoothly.  Ken and I arrived at the church early to meet the three other folks who were also being baptized, and to get some stage directions.  We changed into our bathing suits, and then covered ourselves with royal blue gowns, the type you wear at graduation.

I had been under the impression that we were to wait in a holding room at the back until our names were called for the ritual.  Then I expected we would immediately go and change back into regular clothes before joining the congregation.  However, the pastor's wife led all five of us, barefoot and feeling naked under our voluminous robes, downstairs and into a pew, where we sang hymns with everyone else and listened to the weekly announcements.

There is nothing like being barefoot, underdressed, and nervous in a room where everyone else is smartly outfitted and serious to put one in the mindset of being around six years old.  I kept catching myself swinging my feet under the pew, or digging my toes into the carpet.

The gowns had generous slits at each side to allow the wearer to reach through and into his or her pockets.  This is a greatly convenient feature, if one is wearing pants.  In my case, I noticed that as I modestly clutched the front of the gown over my bare legs, the pocket-holes gaped, flashing slices of blue-white thigh at anyone who happened to be looking as we shuffled to and from our seats.  Well, anyway, God is familiar with my thighs and wouldn't be offended by them.  Everyone else just had to cope with the scandal.

After a few more hymns, we were led upstairs to what would be "stage left" in a theatre.  Or the green room if it were TV.  There were steps leading from this room directly down into the baptismal pool.  A microphone was set up on the edge of the pool.  One by one, we waded into the chest-deep water, then stood up on a little box that was at the bottom of the font to speak our testimony into the microphone.

I was 4th in line out of 5.  It was nerve-racking to watch as each individual spoke, voice cracking with emotion, and was then plunged underwater, returning to us dripping and forever changed.

When it was my turn, I descended gingerly into the water, gripping the handrail.  It was surprisingly warm, like stepping into a bath.  By the third step, I could see what I estimate to have been over 150 people looking back at me.  I cleared my throat, and heard the sound echoing back at me in stereo from speakers all around the ceiling.  I unfolded the paper containing my testimonial speech.  The microphone picked up the rustling and magnified it into every corner of the sanctuary.  Suddenly, I felt extremely small and self-conscious.

I stood up on the little underwater box, and read directly from my paper in as clear and steady a voice as I could muster.  Once I got started, it came easily.  At the end of my speech, I placed the papers at the edge of the font, along with my glasses.

The pastor asked me two ritual questions, to which I answered "Yes".  Then he took my wrists in one hand and, placing the other behind my back, bent me backwards until I was completely under the surface.  Chlorinated water rushed up my nose and into my sinuses.

Then I was up, wiping water from my eyes, pinching my burning nose, and finally locating my glasses, as the congregation launched into a hymn.  Dripping and shivering, more from emotion than cold, I climbed the stairs carefully back up to the green room, out of sight of the 150-plus pairs of eyes.  The pastor's wife smiled kindly and handed me a towel.

I joined the rest of the recently baptized folks, all of us sopping wet, and we watched the last woman give her testimony and then go under.  Once she returned, we shuffled off to the restrooms to get dry and change back into clothes.  Wonderful clothes!  It's been a long time since I was that grateful to be wearing shoes.

We returned to the sanctuary.  The pastor, who had also changed from his robe back into a suit, said a few words that drew on all five testimonies, weaving them into an inspiring closing message.  That was the end of the service.  But not the end of the experience.

As soon as we were dismissed, I'd estimate that half the congregation queued up to give us hugs, handshakes, kind words, and big smiles.  Everyone seemed completely genuine, and it was absolutely incredible and overwhelming to receive such a flood of support and love from people I'd never met before.  In the 7 weeks we'd been attending church, we'd met a dozen people at most.  

I was grateful that no one felt it necessary to introduce themselves by name, because my memory for names is horrible under even the most favourable circumstances, and by that point my rational brain was overwhelmed.  All I could do was smile, accept the hugs, and feel grateful to the bottom of my heart that I had joined such a lovely community.

Authority

The primary issue that had my brain (and my guts) twisted into knots for the past month was the question of whose authority to trust regarding matters of the spirit.

Frankly, I would love to find one earthly source to feed all my otherwordly needs; to answer all the hard questions; and to take the onus off of my own notably fallible judgement.  

In the past, I've searched high and low among New Age self-proclaimed gurus (and one Buddhist monk), hoping to find someone who actually lives up to their claim of having all the answers.  No luck there.  I had a very specific spiritual problem to solve,  i.e. my tendency to pick up other peoples' feelings and take them on as my own, so it was easy to tell what worked and what didn't.  None of these people, even those whose theories were very convincing, were able to give me practical tools to change my situation.  After several years of consecutive disappointments, I stopped expecting to find anyone who could help.

As you know (or if you don't, read the post I linked to above), I finally found someone who could help me, in the person/God who goes by the name of Jesus.  One answered prayer led to another and another, and now my days of feeling overwhelmed by psychic bombardments are just a fading memory of a nightmare.  It wasn't about faith to begin with: my first prayer was almost sarcastic, with just a sliver of hope, and I still got an answer.  I can't prove it to anyone else, but in my personal world it's a repeatable experiment with consistent results, proving that Jesus really does exist.

Will I ever get used to making that statement?  34 years of turning my nose up at Christianity do not fall away in an instant.  But how can I argue with what I personally know and have experienced to be a fact?

The Bible is another matter entirely.  Just because I believe in Jesus doesn't mean that I automatically accept everything else that comes along with any of the major Christian combo deals.  It's supposed to be pretty much a given that if you call yourself a Christian you're going to put some amount of faith in the Bible, but how much?

It appears that no two people on the planet, even including those who claim to take the Bible as the inerrant word of God, can agree exactly on a complete interpretation of scripture.  Every human who reads it has their own bias.  Not to mention that there are over 50 complete modern English translations of the original scriptures before we even get to divisions on the basis of personal opinion.

Unless you're someone who was born into a particular denomination and 100% accepts your church's interpretation of scripture from when you're first able to understand Sunday school until the day you die, your personal opinion is going to colour the way you read the Bible. Therefore, any person who disagrees even in a small way with the tradition they grew up with, or who converts to Christianity as an adult, makes choices about the way in which they approach scripture.

There is a very convincing argument which I have read from more than one source, critiquing the New Age movement and encouraging people to pick one faith and submit to its authority.  It goes something like this:  The New Age movement treats the world's spiritual traditions like an all-you-can-eat buffet.  New Agers pick and choose among the elements of each tradition that they find beautiful, attractive, comforting, and non-threatening.  This approach, the argument goes, will always result in a faith that cannot result in personal growth, because by definition it will never take you out of your comfort zone.

If you really want to grow beyond the limits of your own small soul, you have to submit to a greater authority and trust it to guide you through deep waters to a greater truth, the argument concludes.  

The bottom line seems to be: don't trust your own preferences, because they will limit you.  You have to set your judgements aside and follow a tradition that has accumulated wisdom for years equalling many times the span of your brief life.

But which one?  I mean, you have to choose to begin with.  And if you're choosing, you're still exercising your own judgement and preferences.  

This is where everything starts to get circular and confusing.  

Even within the first few weeks of my education in Christian theology, I ran into disagreements between interpretations of scripture.  I was listening to some podcasts from this source , and also taking verbal instruction from a pastor at my local church.  Which one of them should I trust?

Honestly, there are things that rub me the wrong way within both views.  So let's say, for argument's sake, that I went ahead and picked one of them to be My Trusted Authority.  If someone were to ask me why I picked that source as Correct In All Things, I wouldn't want to say "well I just picked one at random because you have to give yourself over to something greater".  I'd want to give some compelling arguments based in fact and logic to show that this was a basically trustworthy source.  The subtext of this is:  I have good judgement!  Therefore I made a good choice!

But let's say that there are some points upon which I disagree with My Trusted Authority.  I could put my own views on a shelf and try to force my mind to accept the view of the Authority.  If someone were to ask me why I was ditching the beliefs I'd held strongly for all of my life in order to embrace the theology of the Authority, I'd have to answer "I don't have all the answers, and I believe that one must give oneself over to a wiser tradition in order to grow spiritually".  The subtext of this is:  My judgement is flawed!  Therefore I must be protected from making bad choices!

Let's review.  I've made one choice, and someone has asked me two questions regarding that choice.  The answer to the first question ends up being "A" (I have good judgement).  The answer to the second question ends up being "Not A" (I have bad judgement). 

Can I tell you how many hours of sleep I lost going through these arguments over and over in my mind trying to find some way of breaking through the impossibility?

In the end what it comes down to is this:  I can't find any way of half-trusting myself.  Either I believe that my judgement is basically good and I check in with myself to see if things feel right before I believe them, or I distrust myself entirely and let myself be led.  If I trust my judgement even a wee little bit, I'm going to end up questioning things.  You can't have A and Not A at the same time.

And considering that I wasn't born into a Christian faith that I could accept unquestioningly for the duration of my life, exercising no judgement at all is not an option.  Not that I find that to be a problem.  I hated thinking that I had to force myself to throw my own feelings and opinions into the garbage when it came to controversial topics.  Before I'd had enough time to puzzle it all through, I thought that might be what God wanted.  

My judgement might not be perfect every time, but it's been good enough to get me this far.  I'm going to keep counting on it as much as I always have.

I do believe that there's a lot to the Bible.  The past 20 years have unearthed quite a lot of archeological evidence that supports the historical points in some of the scriptures.  And, when it's interpreted through the eyes of love, the wisdom contained in the Bible does come to life.  Oddly enough, I find that I enjoy reading the Bible, even when I find the content leaves me with questions.  

I came this far in my journey, hugely outside my comfort zone, without accepting any human authority as fundamentally superior to my own.  Sure, lots of people have more education, or do more good works, etc.  I can learn from them.  But the only person I'm willing to surrender to completely is Jesus.  I reserve the right to disagree with anyone else.

I realize this post leaves many questions hanging, but it's long enough.  Tune in next time, when I plan to get more specific regarding the disagreements which trouble me most, and hopefully answer any questions you good folks leave in the comments.

Sleazy TV Causes Identity Crisis

So, I was watching Wife Swap a couple of weeks ago. Wife Swap. Could they have come up with a skankier name? How about "A Revealing Exploration of the Psychology of Families with Contrasting Lifestyles"? Don't they know I have a reputation to uphold?

Wait... I think I already admitted on this blog to watching Sponge Bob and Fraggle Rock when I have time. I guess my cultural snobbery is already shot.

As I was saying, I turned on Wife Swap, and was immediately sucked in by what I saw. It was about two practicing Christian families, with completely different styles of devotion.

The liberal family said prayers every day, several times per day, however in all other ways they were non-traditional. The wife was an executive and the breadwinner. The husband had three Masters degrees and a PhD. in Christian theology. He was the stay-at-home parent and housekeeper. They each had a daughter from previous marriages, ages 11 and 12.

The conservative family was very traditional. The stay-at-home mom cared for her husband and six children. The kids were all home-schooled. Every step they took was dictated by reference to the Bible. They even did their chores with instructions to maintain an attitude of cheerful obedience to Jesus. All but one of the kids seemed happy to maintain their lifestyle. The cute, blond, 18-year-old twin girls were adamant that they had no interest in dating until they were ready to be married. The 13-year-old daughter was a bit of a rebel, but in the end she always respected her parents wishes.

The liberal family gave their children lots of leeway. The girls were permitted to spend their time as they pleased, and to come up with their own dreams for the future.

The Dad of the conservative family bluntly admitted that he was brainwashing his kids. I think he meant it in the sense that he wanted their minds to be clean, which is why he didn't mind fessing up. He was extremely controlling of his family, especially his rebellious, 13-year-old daughter. When the liberal mom took her aside to offer her some new ideas, the Dad literally removed that child from the house for the remainder of the week. He didn't want her being exposed to bad influences, like the idea that she might have her own career someday instead of being a stay-at-home Mom.

Everything I've always believed told me that the liberal parents were right and the conservative parents were wrong. But when I looked at their kids, I had to start questionning my own beliefs.

The two girls from the liberal family always seemed bored and miserable. They didn't do their assigned chores. They didn't respect their father. They were what you might expect from a couple of hormonal, pre-teen girls: moody, selfish, and whiney.

The six kids from the conservative family were absolutely the opposite. They were energetic, cheerful, motivated, well-spoken, and helpful. They were respectful to each other and to their parents. There was none of the sullenness one normally associates with teenagers.

Given a choice, I would much rather have spent a day with the conservative kids. This despite the fact that the father's strict parenting techniques are completely against what I've thought were beneficial. So how do I explain that?

I started out watching the show to observe how the Bible can be interpreted with wildy differing results by different people. Part of the miraculous nature of that book is that it creates itself anew each time it falls into a new pair of hands. Even the so-called fundamentalists can't agree with each other on what it finally means. These two family represent two of the extremes.

So, what do you think of all this? Because I am seriously questioning my liberal presumptions.

Dinner at the Pastor's House

I wasn't sure what to expect, but I wasn't nervous either. The pastor, K, seemed like such a warm, genuine person. His smile alone had put me at ease when we met. He's a wiry, fit man who must be in his late 50's, according to his life story, but who looks ten years younger. He has great posture and preaches with passionate energy.

Ken and I arrived at his little bungalow at the appointed time of 7 o'clock. We were welcomed in by K's wife, L. We passed them our host/hostess gifts. They offered us a seat and a glass of guava nectar.

We learned that K was born on the tiny island of Mauritius, off the east coast of Madagascar, which is off the east coast of Africa, south of the equator. His mother was French and a non-practicing Jew; his father was a non-practicing Muslim. Initially K's dream was to become a fine artist. He stopped and gestured around the living room - all the oil paintings on the walls were his creations. Beautiful! The man has skill! He moved to France to go to art school, and was introduced to Jesus there.

Considering my own newbie status to the Christian faith, I always feel more comfortable in the presence of converts. Technically (according to Jewish law), K was also born a Jew. It's like, we're practically related! OK, well, maybe not. But it does make a big difference to me that he's coming from that perspective. I know that he can speak to my experience as a kindred spirit.

L was very much a traditional hostess, although neither of them were at all stuffy or formal. We were offered starter snacks on a table with a white doily on it, and after some introductory conversation we were asked to be seated at the dining room table. L served us Mauritian chicken curry stew from a tajine.

(This isn't my photo - I swiped it to illustrate what a tajine is.)



I had been a little worried about the curry, as K had been building it up quite a bit since he invited us for dinner, but it wasn't insanely spicy. Just hot enough to be delicious.

The conversation turned to matters of faith. K inquired after my own story, and then Ken's. He and L asked us quite a lot of clarifying questions to figure out where we were coming from. At one point L got up from the table and returned with a bible, to look up a quote that K had referenced. At that point I had one of those weird splits where the critical part of my brain backed right off from the rest of me.

"Woah!" it said. She just brought a bible to the dinner table!"

"Yep," I said to it. "We're at the pastor's house, remember? This type of thing is to be expected."

"But... it's so WEIRD!" said my critical brain. "I was willing to play along for the sake of good curry and pleasant conversation, but do you really expect me to take this seriously? Isn't it a little much?"

"Get used to it," I said. "You and I both know that I need this faith to get me through the rest of my life without falling back into depression. We've tried everything else. Unless you want to start taking medications, this is it. Take it seriously."

"grumph" said my critical brain, and shut up.

(I maintained enough self-control not to use my out loud voice for this exchange.)

I left with a stack of books on loan from K, some old questions answered, and some new ones already forming.

This past Sunday, the other pastor, B, was back from holiday. His wife, M, made some comments to the effect that she would like to get to know us better, so there may be another pastor's house dinner in our future. I'll keep you posted.

My New Habit

I have a new habit. A year ago, I would have laughed if you had suggested to me that I would be doing what I do.

Let me stretch out the suspense for a few beats...

*DRUMROLL*

Christian evangelistic television shows. Yup. No one's more surprised than me. I don't even keep up a shield of irony while I'm watching. My Jewish grandmothers would cry if they knew.

I used to watch the news every morning. I still do, but I keep the TV on for over an hour while I do my stretching and exercises, and the news stories start to repeat themselves after the first 30 minutes. I flipped around looking for something else to watch, but there's not much choice in the 7:00am to 9:00am timeslot.

I stumbled across the evangelists by accident, and thought I'd watch for a bit of a joke. I've always been suspicious of organized religion, for multiple reasons. I'm not capable of believing anything without asking questions, no matter how good the payoff sounds. And generally I'm not comfortable with pressure to conform.

I do have spiritual beliefs, but they are hard-won and ever-changing as I progress through life and accumulate wisdom. I come from a Jewish background. I have explored New Age territory. I studied weekly with a Buddhist monk (Nichiren Buddhism from Japan) for six months. Christianity is a new one for me.

I quite like these preachers and missionaries. They are charismatic and sincere, positive and caring. Joyce Meyer exhorts me to recite positive affirmations every day. Bill and Gwen Prankard tell inspiring stories about bringing food and clothing to needy tribal peoples living in Russia above the Arctic Circle.

They're not perfect. I don't swallow everything they say unquestioningly. But it's nice to switch over to them after hearing about the latest shootings, traffic problems, increase in gas prices, etc. A little inspiration in the morning goes a long way towards getting me through my day. I'm a pragmatist by nature, so if it works for me, then I'll stick with it. It's very weird, but good.