The Church Bells Are Ringin'

I've been thinking a lot lately about one's affinity to church or, more accurately, to religion or organized religion. When I hear the word religion, I think organized religion, Christianity and church. Those terms are all glommed together for me, due to my upbringing. I believe I knew one Jew before I went to a secular (meaning "not Seventh-day Adventist-sponsored) college at age 19. I never even heard the term "Eastern religion" until I was in my late 30s, and still know very little about that, so it doesn't factor into my thinking.

A couple of Sundays ago I was standing in my bathroom at 10:00 a.m. and heard through my open window some church bells ringing. They sounded charming. They sounded like small-town, middle America. They sounded like Norman Rockwell. Simply charming. But then I thought of people going to church. And I remembered how I never liked to go to church, whether as a child or an adult. As a child, on Saturday/Sabbath, I remember a couple of times asking Mother if we could skip church and being told in no uncertain terms that we didn't skip church. The guilt that followed was not something I wanted to relive, so I didn't ask again for several years. (Let's be clear—my mother is the queen of guilt-laying.)

I didn't like the sermons. I didn't like the scripture readings. I loved the music. The only thing that ever spoke to me in any church I ever attended—Seventh-day Adventist, Southern Baptist, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Roman Catholic, Lutheran, United Methodist, LDS, Christian & Missionary Alliance, non-denominational Charismatic dancin'-in-the-aisles speakin-in-tongues—was the music. I love to sing; bring on the music. I would try to read the Bible, but it was always an effort of moving my eyes across the words. I even tried that through-the-Bible-in-a-year program when I was about thirteen. I think I lasted about eighteen days. There was never any life in those words for me.

My first husband was excellent at denigrating me for not being a good-enough Christian, for being less of a Christian than he was because I didn't spend enough time praying or reading my Bible. (Okay, yeah, this was the same guy who told me I wasn't as good a musician as he. I'll let this discussion go at that and suggest maybe he was lacking in self esteem and chose a wife he could use to bolster that sagging self esteem.)

Here in the middle America of northeastern Ohio, I am surrounded by devout church-going Christians. The colleagues with whom I spend the most time, with whom I lunch the most frequently, all bow their heads and offer thanks before their meals. I pause and honor that, but don't join them. One of the young men at work drives a car covered in magnetic signs with scripture verses proclaiming our need to be saved. When we went to the ball game the other night, he wore a bright red shirt with the words "Jesus saves" printed on the back.

Why do so many Christians feel the need to evangelize? Why do they believe everyone must convert to their way of thinking. People! Really! There is no One Way! For a very rudimentary proof, look back up in this post to the list of churches I've attended in my life. There are lots of ways to believe, both within and without Christianity, within and without religion, within and without the concept of a God, a Divine Being. Lots Of Ways! Aren't there better ways you can spend your time?

One of my favorite lines in my stand-up comedy routine is "I was raised a Seventh-day Adventist, then married a Southern Baptist who got off into all that Charismatic stuff, then I married a Lutheran, then a Mormon, then a golfer. I liked his religion the best." Dearies, I've had it all crammed down my throat. I don't need anything else crammed down my throat. I want to live and let live. Respect and be respected. I'm so happy you've found a belief that floats your boat. I may not agree with you, and it may confound me that you can actually believe in that [whatever], but I'll defend to the death your right to believe that way.

Back to the church bells: As I listened to the church bells and wondered what might have been wrong with me that I didn't "get" church, it occurred to me that maybe there are different types of people. (Yeah, that's part of the upbringing also—it's always me there's something wrong with. And there's always something wrong, never just status quo. I'm pretty sure I can thank the Adventist church for that, too.) Maybe there are people whose personality is compatible with belief in God and Christ and that whole faith and evangelism thing, who need that for their lives to be complete, to have meaning. And maybe there are people who find the meaning in their life through caring about and for their friends or their community or the less fortunate. I don't know the exact number of readers who are now studying Eckhart Tolle's "The Power of Now" through Oprah Winfrey's focus on that New Thought writing, but I believe it's significant. I believe there's a need in the human condition to believe. To believe in something.

There are so many different -isms and -phies and ways of thinking out there. For me, it comes down to one thing. (Remember City Slickers and Curly's finger held aloft?) Be kind. Be kind to your spouse, your children, your co-workers, the clerk at the grocery store, the agent at the airline ticket counter, the child who throws his ball into your newly-pruned flower bed, the street person who asks you for a dollar, . . . .

• Implicitly remind your spouse/partner why you chose him or her. (I think living it is so much more powerful than saying it.)
  
• Implicitly reinforce to your children how lucky you are to be their parent.
  
• Implicitly let your coworkers know you're glad to be working with them.
  
• Remember that the clerk at the grocery store and (especially) the stressed-out agent at the airline ticket counter are only doing their job. They're not paid enough to put up with all the abuse they take from disgruntled customers. Do what you can to make their workdays a little better.
  
• Imagine that the child with the ball has a hellacious home life and his few moments of peace and happiness culminated in fright when he accidentally kicked his ball in your flower bed. Can you show him there are nice, friendly adults in the world?
  
• You don't have to give the street person a dollar. You don't have to support his lifestyle. But you can look him in the eye and treat him with dignity as you say, "No thank you."

In my third marriage, when I would leave my home at 5:30 every morning for the two-hour commute into D.C., living in a home where I didn't feel welcome and wondering every night whether my stepson would shoot me to death overnight, I developed great compassion for people. I wanted to try to be less critical and more understanding, to try to look through a window into people's lives. I told my staff, "When that attorney or that paralegal snaps at you, remember that his dog may have bitten him as he walked out the door this morning, or her husband may have just told her he wants a divorce."

Compassion. Respect. Kindness.

I'll attend that church any day.

That's my religion.