Why? Church prompts questions from my son
I went to church as a child. It was part of the rhythm of the week. We would get dressed up; rushed to get there just (about) on time, and then time passed sitting and singing until it was done (or Sunday School, which ever came first). As a teen, bored in boarding school, our chaplain hosted communion on a Wednesday night. It was a reason to be out of the boarding house. I remember liking the quiet. and the nice wooden altar.
My clearest memories of our first church (in Montreal, Canada) mostly hinge around the seasonal bazaars - selling angels made out of pine cones and making many, many, red felt Santas.
In Arizona, USA, I remember being squeezed into the back rows (because we were still usually late) and once being elbowed very hard by BOTH brothers at once when I had very loud hiccups. In this church I did my first communion. We weren’t catholic but I remember learning the Nicene Creed and completing my new outfit by getting a single pearl on a necklace (from a shop where first you chose the oyster out of the tank).
In England, I was now 9, living with my grandparents while my family were scattered. I don’t ever remember being late - and we always sat in the front row. It was a given that this was our family pew. We took our turns to read the lesson, which meant practising in front of grandpa a few times in the week as preparation.
Church to me is a given. So when my son was born, I knew I would get him christened. It was important to have Henry welcomed into a community, a ceremony of arrival. I was touched that the vicar was unflinching in her support - me be a solo parent caused her no question - and she even knitted baby Henry a very cute cardigan. Church was a community of people who cared and acted
Henry came home from school last week and told me that because he had been Christened, he must be a Christian. This meant, he continued, that he (and by extension we) believe that Jesus rose again on the 3rd day. I hummed, and then nodded.
I like the rituals in Church - candles, songs, quiet. It is familiar to me that we mark the seasons with certain songs (you don’t hear '“a green hill far away” anywhere else). I never questioned church that much. The actions of faith for me were an act of community - more songs and fairs than Bible study and statements of beliefs. As immigrants, we were accepted quickly into a Church family in Canada and Arizona, and for Henry, being part of this village where I grew up it was a way to connect and commune.
With my meditation practice, there is no requirement to have a belief. The vicar is retiring soon - I know the congregation is apprehensive that we will not get a replacement - but I could hear she was joyful as she sang the last song. Holding the spiritual guidance of a community who may be entirely apathetic or vehemently against you is no easy task and it was a delight (and a change) to hear the uplift in her voice.
We listened to the story of Moses. Henry’s eyes widened in concern, and he wanted to know how long the baby was in the boat-basket. On Mothering Sunday we hear tales of desperate mothers. I am reminded how the Old Testament stories can be pretty graphic and violent, in a place that promotes a religion based on a message of peace and love.
Am I a bad boy? Asked Henry again as we prayed for forgiveness. In the Vedic Worldview there is an understanding about Dharma - ‘right action’ vs Karma ‘action that binds’. There is no sense of sin, and certainly not of children arriving in the world tainted by sin. My church-going is less about dogma and more a chance to sit and enjoy familiar rituals - and quiet! Henry will make up his own mind as he grows up. I like him to know the church as a place to visit. These ancient walls have sheltered people as they sit in meditation for centuries. Our village church now hosts music concerts, and I hope it stays open to community gatherings of every kind for a long time to come.
Happy Easter everyone, wherever you go for quiet, reflection and inner refreshment.
