I’m not a member of the congregation that
gathers inside the church walls, but I’ve always felt it belongs to me just the
same. It was the site of my bus stop on
brisk back-to-school mornings long ago, and today I often take the daycare
children there to romp in the Crayola green grass. But during the week leading up to Easter
Sunday (Holy Week if you’re Roman Catholic, which I am), I was forced to
examine the possibility that maybe I shouldn’t consider it mine.
This
sad thought came to me after a conversation with my youngest son. “I don’t have
a problem with anyone else’s religion Mom, so why do people have to have a
problem with mine?” he asked me after school one day. Apparently a friend has been asking him
questions about his faith, but when he tries to answer the questions his
answers are dismissed as wrong. This
friend fervently believes in the teachings of his own religion and has an
admirable understanding of those teachings.
In fact, it’s a sincere desire of mine to have a better understanding
and respect for the spiritual beliefs of others, and I don’t think I’d hesitate
to ask this youngster to give me the official low-down on his. What I wouldn’t do, however, is ask him to
explain mine to me.
Having
grown up Catholic in the snow globe, I’m not surprised by the usual misinterpretations. I can even understand where they come
from. My son was caught off guard
though, a little upset to be told he’s not a Christian (huh?) and can’t pray
directly to God (say what?), far more upset to feel suddenly different and
distanced from his friend. We had to
have a string of long talks.
Don’t
worry—I’m not going to dust off my copy of the Catechism and give you a lesson
as well. You don’t need it because you
have your own beliefs, and while they may offer a clearly marked road for you
to follow, as mine do for me, the truth is we’re all going cross country on
this journey. Sometimes we get lost,
sometimes we take the long way by clear-eyed choice, sometimes the road is
uphill for miles and miles. Sometimes
we rest where the water sings and the sun dances. My son is walking next to his not-Catholic friend
and sometimes on the path the wind is nudging them shoulder to shoulder and
sometimes it’s blowing them apart.
The
important thing to me is that simple fact--we are walking together. We have formed our beliefs from our life
experiences, from the influence of people we love, as protection against things
that have hurt us. The Catholic faith came to me through generations. My tiny but bold Italian great-grandmother
crossed the ocean alone at the age of fourteen and I’ve no doubt she was
holding her Rosary close the whole way.
Brief personal experience and family lore have made it clear I wouldn’t
have wanted to mess with her or her religion but that aside, my faith holds a
comfort for me beyond debating and on a level deeper than any controversy. And yet, I feel blessed to live right here
next to those who believe differently, about religion, no religion, or which
religion, beer or wine or caffeine-free Diet Coke, Chevy or Ford, Broncos or Vandals, and any number of
other things large and small.
After
this week of talking and praying my son through confusion and hurt feelings, I
had to ask myself, why exactly do I feel blessed? Simply because when I meet someone along the
path and make a connection with them the feeling I get leads me to believe we
are meant to connect. That connections
are made with people who believe differently than me assures me without
question that we are all in this together.
Here
in the snow globe it could be said there are so few of us floating around that
we can’t avoid connecting. True
enough. And sometimes it’s much more
like colliding. Which is why it’s a blessing that we can’t help but be called upon
to work together, and so we do. When my
son and his friend help the school counselor carry boxes of food to the food
bank together, when I’m forced to acknowledge the great idea of the PTO member
who usually annoys me, or I share a
laugh over an everyday thing with someone I’ve been uncomfortable with since 8th
grade, that’s when the sparkle happens.
We don’t
have a little white church in my snow globe, but we do have a First Baptist
church. I’ve thought about it and I’ve
decided it does belong to me. I walked
there yesterday with my granddaughter. I
showed her how the seed pods from the trees twirl gently down like tiny
helicopters when you toss them in the air, just like they did when I was a
little girl. We waved at the folks who
live across the road. We took our shoes
off and wiggled our toes in the grass, delightfully cool in contrast to the unseasonably
warm spring evening. It’s a resting spot
on our journey, just as it is for the believers who sit in the pews on Sunday
mornings, and I can’t help but believe we’re most likely headed in the same
direction.
