There’s a lot written about dating between the sexes out there, in books, articles, gazillions of blogs and even more, it seems, online dating websites that are raking in bucks while their clients spend hours seeking for Mr./Ms. Right. Recently I met a woman who runs a website for single women, and she urged me to blog about my dating experience.
I can just see everyone out there falling asleep reading my dating stories. Besides, I have two grown sons who read my blogs and God forbid I shock them! (They’re probably ROTFL at that sentiment.)
But, seriously, folks. Dating is big business. If you live in a place such as Silicon Valley, you either meet someone where you work or where you go to church. But when you work 60+ hours a week, as many in S.V. do, when do you have time for a cuppa, a chat, or attending church? People don’t go to bars as much as they used to for the purpose of meeting people, unless they can walk or take public transportation. It’s not fun to be arrested for a DUI or DWI! Not that I know firsthand, mind you. There was a time, back in my post-divorce days when the laws were not so strict that ‘there but for the grace of God go I’ was my mantra. I don’t want to say too much about all that—I’m not sure about the statute of limitations in New York State, and if I confess, they’ve got me cold.
So how on earth do people meet? There are some great people at church. At the church I go to, there are a number of handsome, educated, articulate, thoughtful men. They have only one thing wrong with them. They each have a round band on the third finger of their left hand, and she usually shows up with them. I’ve had two experiences with meeting someone in church. The first one was really great—but wasn't a long-term deal. Long story. The second was fairly recently, late last fall. I try to welcome new people who come to St. Mark’s—we need all the bodies we can get—and this geezer (that’s not really fair; turns out he’s a year younger than I am!)—standing by the door looked kind of lost, so I spoke with him. He proceeded to tell me his tale of woe, and being the hugger that I am, I gave him a huge one. More than one, actually. Without having to publicly own up to every mistake I made that day, suffice it to say that he got what he thought was a clear message that I was really interested in him. Not so, and it took a few more occasions to make my message quite clear. I'm not interested. In his brief time at St. Mark’s, he hit on every one of us single women, as long as we were older than jail bait. He has moved on to a megachurch where there are far more available ladies from which to choose. So, for me, church is out. Besides, if it doesn’t work out, then someone usually has to leave the church, particularly if the congregation is as small as ours is.
Several years I took classes of some sort, mostly for work. They were evening classes, and I wasn’t going to them for the purpose of meeting men, but hey, if you can kill two birds with one stone, why not? Sadly, the ones that were interesting either had that ubiquitous wedding band or…well, what difference does it make, because there was no time whatsoever for chitchat and everyone had been working all day and wanted only to go home, have some dinner and a nightcap before bed.
I’m not much of a joiner anyway. I work all day, too, and I run out of gas about 4:00 p.m. I don’t like to go out mid-week more than once, at the most twice, even for things I enjoy doing!
In my group of six women, three of us are single (one fairly recently; the other two of us for decades) and three are married. The three married ones have on occasion admitted to envying us single folk, while two of us single folk (the decades ones) envy those who have a good man at home who will scratch a back or take them out to dinner.
So, the other decades-single woman and I have done the online thing from time to time. She has gone on lots of first dates, and on one occasion announced (before even meeting the guy) that she has met “the one”. We didn’t burst her bubble; that happened all on its own, and was truly popped when she met him and found that while she’s looking for someone to have adventures with—museums, concerts, travel—he, slightly disabled, was looking for a companion cum care-giver.
Yeah, when you get to the age of Methuselah, not only are the pickings slim, they generally want a companion cum care-giver. The other side of that coin are the guys just slightly younger than the aforementioned Biblical character, and regularly ski, sail, play a mean game of tennis, enjoy riding their Harley, as well as their bicycle, and love to hunt and go deep-sea fishing. Of course, they also love fine dining, beach walks at sunset in the moonlight, all that stuff we begin to gag at. And they’re “spiritual but not religious”, honest, fit, financially independent. In other words, way too good to be true. And are probably looking for a trophy on their arm, not an old broad like myself.
I’ve given up. I “winked” at a few online possibilities, and even sent a couple of emails. A few were kind enough to write back and say “I’m sorry; I don’t think we’re a match.” The utter nerve! To suggest from a photograph and a little “profile” that we’re not a match! How dare they! However, when I do the same thing….well, it’s different.
So, my juicy dating stories will have to come from an earlier chapter in my life, the first 10 years or so after my marriage ended. That’s another blog or three.
I will say on this subject, however, that I know online dating works. My son Brian met his wife online, and they are a real success story. My niece met her husband, after many, many tries, by expanding the geographical parameters, and is now living in Idaho with him—they seem to be meant for each other. So it works. But not for me. Hey, that would be a good song title!
More to come…
March 24, 2009
Snow Boys
(or how I [allegedly] tried to kill my sons)
I need to set the record straight. My younger son, Scott, asks friends of mine when he meets them, “Has my mother ever told you about the time she tried to kill my brother and me?”
The trouble is, I start to laugh when that happens, probably because I enjoy being teased, but the last time that particular son told the story, he changed a few things. Yes, it had me laughing and protesting, but I want to set down the very true story of what happened.
It was a normal November day on Grand Island, N.Y. Grey, cold, a Saturday. The 15th, I believe. The boys, at that time almost 11 and just 12, seemed itchy, which is also normal on a Saturday when it’s grey and chilly. So I did something my mother did when I was itchy—I sent them to the store.
“OK, guys, I need a few things from Mesmer’s. We need milk, better get a gallon, and I need some eggs; a dozen is fine, and oh!, get a bag of noodles.” They were pretty happy to have something to do, and knew there was probably a candy bar or other treat in it for them. After all, I didn’t believe in slavery!
Off they went, and I continued on with whatever I was doing, and their Dad continued whatever he was doing barricaded in his recliner. Seriously: the chair was in sort of a corner, with a floor lamp and table on one side and another table on the other side. One couldn’t get around him on either side—table, lamp, and wall on one side; table and then plant stand on the other side, and with the chair reclined one couldn’t get around to the back either. No way to approach, except a frontal attack, but that wasn’t really safe—the recliner could possibly tip backwards and that wouldn’t have been for either the tipper or the tippee. No sir. But I digress.
Anyway, Mesmer’s was about half a mile away, no more than half an hour for even dawdling boys, and another half hour at the most back, probably less with a gallon of milk and the two other items. They wouldn’t have taken much time at the store either.
I noticed snow falling a bit very soon after they took off. Within half an hour, it had begun to accumulate rather seriously, and after an hour it was getting a little harder to see. Ten minutes later I couldn’t see the church across the parking lot, at most 50 yards away. Worry was not in my nature—there were no streets to cross and Grand Island was a pretty safe little town to live in—but it wasn’t snowing when they left, so no boots on their feet.
I called Mesmer’s, asked about two young boys, and the woman who answered laughed and said “Oh, the two little snowmen? Yes, they were here, covered with snow, but they started back home at least half an hour ago.” I put on boots, coat, hat, and went out the back door, thinking I’d go to meet them. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face—literally—and figured that I could just as easily miss them as find them. The wind was fierce and blew my calls over my shoulder, away from where they’d be. I went back inside.
It wasn’t much later that we could hear them at the front door. Stamping feet, the usual sounds of two children entering the house, only slightly muffled by the snow.
“Mom, we could have died out there!” Scott complained. “In fact, Brian would have if I hadn’t been there. He was tired and wanted to rest, but I wouldn’t let him, ‘cause he would have died.”
“Well, the milk was heavy! You weren’t carrying the milk!” Brian retorted.
"No, but I had to be careful I didn't break the eggs!", sniffed Scott, quite self-righteously.
“Why didn’t you just leave the eggs and milk?” I asked.
“You woulda killed us!” they said in unison.
I need to set the record straight. My younger son, Scott, asks friends of mine when he meets them, “Has my mother ever told you about the time she tried to kill my brother and me?”
The trouble is, I start to laugh when that happens, probably because I enjoy being teased, but the last time that particular son told the story, he changed a few things. Yes, it had me laughing and protesting, but I want to set down the very true story of what happened.
It was a normal November day on Grand Island, N.Y. Grey, cold, a Saturday. The 15th, I believe. The boys, at that time almost 11 and just 12, seemed itchy, which is also normal on a Saturday when it’s grey and chilly. So I did something my mother did when I was itchy—I sent them to the store.
“OK, guys, I need a few things from Mesmer’s. We need milk, better get a gallon, and I need some eggs; a dozen is fine, and oh!, get a bag of noodles.” They were pretty happy to have something to do, and knew there was probably a candy bar or other treat in it for them. After all, I didn’t believe in slavery!
Off they went, and I continued on with whatever I was doing, and their Dad continued whatever he was doing barricaded in his recliner. Seriously: the chair was in sort of a corner, with a floor lamp and table on one side and another table on the other side. One couldn’t get around him on either side—table, lamp, and wall on one side; table and then plant stand on the other side, and with the chair reclined one couldn’t get around to the back either. No way to approach, except a frontal attack, but that wasn’t really safe—the recliner could possibly tip backwards and that wouldn’t have been for either the tipper or the tippee. No sir. But I digress.
Anyway, Mesmer’s was about half a mile away, no more than half an hour for even dawdling boys, and another half hour at the most back, probably less with a gallon of milk and the two other items. They wouldn’t have taken much time at the store either.
I noticed snow falling a bit very soon after they took off. Within half an hour, it had begun to accumulate rather seriously, and after an hour it was getting a little harder to see. Ten minutes later I couldn’t see the church across the parking lot, at most 50 yards away. Worry was not in my nature—there were no streets to cross and Grand Island was a pretty safe little town to live in—but it wasn’t snowing when they left, so no boots on their feet.
I called Mesmer’s, asked about two young boys, and the woman who answered laughed and said “Oh, the two little snowmen? Yes, they were here, covered with snow, but they started back home at least half an hour ago.” I put on boots, coat, hat, and went out the back door, thinking I’d go to meet them. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face—literally—and figured that I could just as easily miss them as find them. The wind was fierce and blew my calls over my shoulder, away from where they’d be. I went back inside.
It wasn’t much later that we could hear them at the front door. Stamping feet, the usual sounds of two children entering the house, only slightly muffled by the snow.
“Mom, we could have died out there!” Scott complained. “In fact, Brian would have if I hadn’t been there. He was tired and wanted to rest, but I wouldn’t let him, ‘cause he would have died.”
“Well, the milk was heavy! You weren’t carrying the milk!” Brian retorted.
"No, but I had to be careful I didn't break the eggs!", sniffed Scott, quite self-righteously.
“Why didn’t you just leave the eggs and milk?” I asked.
“You woulda killed us!” they said in unison.
March 17, 2009
At-One-Ment
I read my son’s most recent blog about disambiguity and anxiety, and I liked what Tolle had to say about sin and missing the mark. I absolutely agree! My son’s dad used to say that sin was something that separated us from one another and from God. I agree absolutely with that too, and I’ll get to that later. I’ve experienced anxiety in different ways, but in reflecting on that, I realize that they all have the same result. Having deadlines for school or work and worrying about getting it all done in time caused anxiety for me. Slighting or sniping at a loved one causes anxiety for me as well. Not doing something I promised to do causes anxiety for me. In all those examples, I have missed the mark. If I were better prepared or had not waited so long, I would have anxiety about a deadline. If I thought before I spoke, not hurting someone I care about, I would not have anxiety. And if I lived out my promise (or didn’t make one in the first place), I wouldn’t feel anxious.
When we don’t do what we intend to do, and know that we can, we are falling short of our own self-expectation. When we do something intentionally that we know can be hurtful, we are also falling short of our self-expectation. And we are in a state of cognitive dissonance. We feel separated from what we consider our “best” self. We feel separated from a person, or a group of people, that we hurt or disappointed. We’ve missed the mark.
My belief, which is where my spiritual searches have led me, is that God represents our “best” self. When I am the most disambiguous, to use my son’s word, is when I am sure that what I’m doing, where I’m going, and what I’m feeling, are all with my best self. That’s when I feel a oneness with God, because I’m at one with myself. That feeling can come over me especially when I’m in a place of peace: watching the waves at the ocean, sitting in a boat on Gull Lake with the beauty of trees, rocks, water, sunlight, and quiet all around me. It’s not as easy when there are the distractions of phones ringing, demands on our time, all those things that must be done. We lose track of our best self because we’re trying to take care of too many things. I think that Buddhists and those who meditate regularly have the answer. They are able to clear their minds and focus on the calm and their oneness with all creation. It doesn’t matter whether that oneness has a name. One can call it God or a spiritual state or nirvana or best self or light. I love that my son use’s “Namaste” as his signoff. I first saw that word when my friend’s daughter Katie used it in her email address, and I had to look it up. One definition says “The light within me honors the light within you”. It could be “My best self honors your best self” or “The holy within me honors the holy within you” or “God within me honors God within you”.
That’s what I think it means to be “spiritual but not religious”. God to me is not a religion; God is always there within me and everyone else, our best selves, and when we honor one another’s best self…spirit… light…God, whatever is all good, then we are doing and being all that Christ taught us to be. One needn’t go to church, and so very many people who don’t go to church and would say they don’t believe in God are doing “namaste” every day of their lives.
We see all that goodness in nature because nature does not have the human tendency to separate itself into “good” and “bad” or into any state of polarity. Summer doesn’t fight with winter; trees and grass live peacefully together. Wild animals accept that they have predators just as they need prey. They need to eat, and that weakest gazelle will be the lions’ next meal. No intention to harm, and they kill quickly. Snap the neck.
What many find in going to a church is a community of people, a way to do caring things for people more efficiently as a group, a way to give from their best self. I think that many other people have a need or desire to be told what to do and what to believe because they somehow haven’t gotten past the judgmental part they grew up with. It’s hard to understand how someone can “worship” a God who they believe would strike down a homosexual or a prostitute or a thief.
When I was eleven and in 6th grade, I had a friend from the other end of the street who introduced me to shoplifting. I knew it wasn’t “right”, but it was fun for a time, it was daring. I didn’t need any of the things I stole; I did it for “fun”. My mother questioned me on a few acquisitions. “Jane gave (or loaned) them to me”, I’d say, and I knew I was lying. I don’t remember how long this went on, but I began to feel separated from my mother; I began to believe I might go to jail. Finally, I broke down one night and told my mother (for whom it was certainly not news) that I’d been stealing from Kresge’s. I swore I’d never do it again. And I cried a lot. But my mother held me, assured me that she loved me, and I slowly began to feel reconnected with her. Religions call that “atonement”, which means “to become at one with”. At-one-ment.
That’s what I seek. Namaste!
More to come…
When we don’t do what we intend to do, and know that we can, we are falling short of our own self-expectation. When we do something intentionally that we know can be hurtful, we are also falling short of our self-expectation. And we are in a state of cognitive dissonance. We feel separated from what we consider our “best” self. We feel separated from a person, or a group of people, that we hurt or disappointed. We’ve missed the mark.
My belief, which is where my spiritual searches have led me, is that God represents our “best” self. When I am the most disambiguous, to use my son’s word, is when I am sure that what I’m doing, where I’m going, and what I’m feeling, are all with my best self. That’s when I feel a oneness with God, because I’m at one with myself. That feeling can come over me especially when I’m in a place of peace: watching the waves at the ocean, sitting in a boat on Gull Lake with the beauty of trees, rocks, water, sunlight, and quiet all around me. It’s not as easy when there are the distractions of phones ringing, demands on our time, all those things that must be done. We lose track of our best self because we’re trying to take care of too many things. I think that Buddhists and those who meditate regularly have the answer. They are able to clear their minds and focus on the calm and their oneness with all creation. It doesn’t matter whether that oneness has a name. One can call it God or a spiritual state or nirvana or best self or light. I love that my son use’s “Namaste” as his signoff. I first saw that word when my friend’s daughter Katie used it in her email address, and I had to look it up. One definition says “The light within me honors the light within you”. It could be “My best self honors your best self” or “The holy within me honors the holy within you” or “God within me honors God within you”.
That’s what I think it means to be “spiritual but not religious”. God to me is not a religion; God is always there within me and everyone else, our best selves, and when we honor one another’s best self…spirit… light…God, whatever is all good, then we are doing and being all that Christ taught us to be. One needn’t go to church, and so very many people who don’t go to church and would say they don’t believe in God are doing “namaste” every day of their lives.
We see all that goodness in nature because nature does not have the human tendency to separate itself into “good” and “bad” or into any state of polarity. Summer doesn’t fight with winter; trees and grass live peacefully together. Wild animals accept that they have predators just as they need prey. They need to eat, and that weakest gazelle will be the lions’ next meal. No intention to harm, and they kill quickly. Snap the neck.
What many find in going to a church is a community of people, a way to do caring things for people more efficiently as a group, a way to give from their best self. I think that many other people have a need or desire to be told what to do and what to believe because they somehow haven’t gotten past the judgmental part they grew up with. It’s hard to understand how someone can “worship” a God who they believe would strike down a homosexual or a prostitute or a thief.
When I was eleven and in 6th grade, I had a friend from the other end of the street who introduced me to shoplifting. I knew it wasn’t “right”, but it was fun for a time, it was daring. I didn’t need any of the things I stole; I did it for “fun”. My mother questioned me on a few acquisitions. “Jane gave (or loaned) them to me”, I’d say, and I knew I was lying. I don’t remember how long this went on, but I began to feel separated from my mother; I began to believe I might go to jail. Finally, I broke down one night and told my mother (for whom it was certainly not news) that I’d been stealing from Kresge’s. I swore I’d never do it again. And I cried a lot. But my mother held me, assured me that she loved me, and I slowly began to feel reconnected with her. Religions call that “atonement”, which means “to become at one with”. At-one-ment.
That’s what I seek. Namaste!
More to come…
March 12, 2009
Organized Religion and Lost Boys
One of the things that inspired me to start blogging was when my Chicago son started his blog, and in his list of things he wanted to share was the following:
“I am mistrustful of organized religion, but deeply respectful of spiritual people.”
When I saw him in December, he voiced that sentiment as well, and after getting the message twice, I feel moved to respond. Not just to him, but to examine my own feelings on the subject.
More wars have been started and more people have died defending or opposing religious ideals than for any other reason. Well over 6 million people were killed and countless more subjected to unspeakable living conditions simply because they were Jews. I don’t know the body count from the Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition, but all those “holy wars” were no less a blot on humanity than the Holocaust. The situation in the Middle East, the Holy Land, the Cradle of Civilization, is solely based on the differences between organized religions.
I deplore these practices, these prejudices, the proposition that “my religious beliefs are more valid than your religious beliefs.” I am sad that I grew up in a household where I heard prejudice against Roman Catholics and Jews. When I liked a boy, in junior high and high school, my father would say “it’s OK as long as he isn’t a Catholic or a Democrat.” Seriously! My parents were good people, educated, well read, non-practicing Episcopalians, and devout conservatives. Early-learned stereotypes die hard.
Organized religion has caused governments to remove children in indigenous populations in order to dilute the gene pool (leading to the eventual dying out of the culture), teach them Christianity and insist that they never use their native language. I didn’t know anything about these practices until I saw “The Rabbit Proof Fence” several years ago, and after that I learned that the Anglican Church in Canada, and even the Episcopal Church in the U.S. were involved in similar activities with the Native Americans. These practices certainly weren’t taught in any history class I had!
Organized religion has produced continuous fodder for psychiatrists and psychologists, as they try to help people deal with their guilt, resentment, and anger at a God who they believe has let bad things happen to them.
All of the above are valid reasons for hating organized religions, but it is only one side of the coin.
I am a member of an organized religion, the Episcopal Church of the United States of America (ECUSA). Yes, after all that. After learning that “my” Church was complicit in the “cleansing” of indigenous peoples, I continue to maintain my affiliation with them. As was so passively said by our outgoing president in 2008, “Mistakes were made”. And we can’t go back. I believe our National Church has apologized for that mistake, and so now we move on.
The Holy Wars continue and, like the poor, will probably always be with us. But let’s take another look at what organized religion means.
When disaster strikes, such as the Tsunami in Indonesia, hurricane Katrina, and the devastating earthquake in China, not only ECUSA, but countless other major religious organizations provided immediate help with people and money. There are ministries in the Sudan and other African countries, which aren’t solving the big-picture issues, but are providing food, clothing, clean water, education, and hope to millions of people. Some of those providing aid in the form of clinics and education are the “Lost Boys of the Sudan” (see paragraph at the end, copied from Wikipedia) who found refuge in the U.S. in 2001 and have returned, many as medical personnel, to help their own. And they do that under the aegis of ECUSA and other religious denominations. There are missions in every city that are organized, staffed, and financially supported by organized religious groups. There are volunteers from most every religious denomination in hospitals, nursing homes, blood banks, food banks, homeless shelters, etc., who give their time and talents to be where people are in need. Of course, there are always individuals who do that on their own, and there are other organizations that perform equally “good works”, such as Rotary International, other fraternal organizations, business clubs, etc.
But in my humble opinion (which contrary to popular belief is not an oxymoron!), the most important thing about organized (and unorganized) religion is the community it provides for its members. A community arises because of a shared value or interest. In general, people want to hang with like people. An individual may be part of many communities—a little theatre group, the PTA, the Masons, a temple or church, a knitting guild, where together they are more than the sum of their parts. People may gather in an ad hoc manner to deal with an issue that one person alone cannot handle or present credibility. A petition is an example of an ad hoc community—the signatures represent a community of people who may never meet, but their interest and commitment to an issue bring them together and are very powerful. However one feels about labor unions, they were formed because individual people could not force changes in the workplace. We no longer work 16 hours a day for a pittance. We no longer tolerate sexual harassment or gender/race discrimination in the workplace. It’s not always perfect, but it beats the conditions of a century ago.
There’s no undoing the past. The human suffering over countless generations cannot be glossed over or ‘canceled out’ by any amount of good. However, let us acknowledge and give thanks that there is good being done every hour of every day by good people out there making small and large contributions of their money, time, and talents to move toward a better world of compassion and peace.
I still struggle with what it means to be “spiritual”. I have often said the same thing myself, “I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual.” What does that mean to me? What does that mean to my son? What does that mean to you?
Following is information about the Lost Boys of Sudan, from Wikipedia:
“Many of the boys came from the predominantly Christian and animist southern section of Sudan who were fleeing persecution by Arabs that dominated northern Sudan. The name was given by aid organizations, including the International Rescue Committee program which resettled some of these refugees from Sudan to the United States.
In 2001, about 3801 Lost Boys arrived in the United States, where they are now scattered in about 38 cities, averaging about 100 per city. Halted after 9/11 for security reasons, the program restarted in 2004, but peace talks were underway in Sudan, and so other refugee crises in other countries took priority. As of 2006, the largest population of Sudanese refugees in the United States is in Omaha, Nebraska which hosts about 7,000 people. A variety of charities helped bring Sudanese refugees to the United States, such as Catholic Charities. A variety of programs have been done to help and understand these displaced people, everything from reconnecting them to their traditional dancing to dental work to replace teeth which had been removed by traditional custom, but whose loss is negative in the USA.
Most of the boys were orphaned or separated from their families when government troops systematically attacked villages in southern Sudan killing many of the inhabitants, most of whom were civilians. The younger boys survived in large numbers because they were away tending herds or were able to escape into the nearby jungles. Orphaned and with no support, they would make epic journeys lasting years across the borders to international relief camps in Ethiopia and Kenya evading thirst, starvation, wild animals, insects, disease, and one of the most bloody wars of the 20th century. Experts say they are the most badly war-traumatized children ever examined.
When villages were attacked, girls were raped, killed, taken as slaves to the north, or became servants or adopted children for other Sudanese families. As a result, relatively few girls made it to the refugee camps.”
More to come...
“I am mistrustful of organized religion, but deeply respectful of spiritual people.”
When I saw him in December, he voiced that sentiment as well, and after getting the message twice, I feel moved to respond. Not just to him, but to examine my own feelings on the subject.
More wars have been started and more people have died defending or opposing religious ideals than for any other reason. Well over 6 million people were killed and countless more subjected to unspeakable living conditions simply because they were Jews. I don’t know the body count from the Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition, but all those “holy wars” were no less a blot on humanity than the Holocaust. The situation in the Middle East, the Holy Land, the Cradle of Civilization, is solely based on the differences between organized religions.
I deplore these practices, these prejudices, the proposition that “my religious beliefs are more valid than your religious beliefs.” I am sad that I grew up in a household where I heard prejudice against Roman Catholics and Jews. When I liked a boy, in junior high and high school, my father would say “it’s OK as long as he isn’t a Catholic or a Democrat.” Seriously! My parents were good people, educated, well read, non-practicing Episcopalians, and devout conservatives. Early-learned stereotypes die hard.
Organized religion has caused governments to remove children in indigenous populations in order to dilute the gene pool (leading to the eventual dying out of the culture), teach them Christianity and insist that they never use their native language. I didn’t know anything about these practices until I saw “The Rabbit Proof Fence” several years ago, and after that I learned that the Anglican Church in Canada, and even the Episcopal Church in the U.S. were involved in similar activities with the Native Americans. These practices certainly weren’t taught in any history class I had!
Organized religion has produced continuous fodder for psychiatrists and psychologists, as they try to help people deal with their guilt, resentment, and anger at a God who they believe has let bad things happen to them.
All of the above are valid reasons for hating organized religions, but it is only one side of the coin.
I am a member of an organized religion, the Episcopal Church of the United States of America (ECUSA). Yes, after all that. After learning that “my” Church was complicit in the “cleansing” of indigenous peoples, I continue to maintain my affiliation with them. As was so passively said by our outgoing president in 2008, “Mistakes were made”. And we can’t go back. I believe our National Church has apologized for that mistake, and so now we move on.
The Holy Wars continue and, like the poor, will probably always be with us. But let’s take another look at what organized religion means.
When disaster strikes, such as the Tsunami in Indonesia, hurricane Katrina, and the devastating earthquake in China, not only ECUSA, but countless other major religious organizations provided immediate help with people and money. There are ministries in the Sudan and other African countries, which aren’t solving the big-picture issues, but are providing food, clothing, clean water, education, and hope to millions of people. Some of those providing aid in the form of clinics and education are the “Lost Boys of the Sudan” (see paragraph at the end, copied from Wikipedia) who found refuge in the U.S. in 2001 and have returned, many as medical personnel, to help their own. And they do that under the aegis of ECUSA and other religious denominations. There are missions in every city that are organized, staffed, and financially supported by organized religious groups. There are volunteers from most every religious denomination in hospitals, nursing homes, blood banks, food banks, homeless shelters, etc., who give their time and talents to be where people are in need. Of course, there are always individuals who do that on their own, and there are other organizations that perform equally “good works”, such as Rotary International, other fraternal organizations, business clubs, etc.
But in my humble opinion (which contrary to popular belief is not an oxymoron!), the most important thing about organized (and unorganized) religion is the community it provides for its members. A community arises because of a shared value or interest. In general, people want to hang with like people. An individual may be part of many communities—a little theatre group, the PTA, the Masons, a temple or church, a knitting guild, where together they are more than the sum of their parts. People may gather in an ad hoc manner to deal with an issue that one person alone cannot handle or present credibility. A petition is an example of an ad hoc community—the signatures represent a community of people who may never meet, but their interest and commitment to an issue bring them together and are very powerful. However one feels about labor unions, they were formed because individual people could not force changes in the workplace. We no longer work 16 hours a day for a pittance. We no longer tolerate sexual harassment or gender/race discrimination in the workplace. It’s not always perfect, but it beats the conditions of a century ago.
There’s no undoing the past. The human suffering over countless generations cannot be glossed over or ‘canceled out’ by any amount of good. However, let us acknowledge and give thanks that there is good being done every hour of every day by good people out there making small and large contributions of their money, time, and talents to move toward a better world of compassion and peace.
I still struggle with what it means to be “spiritual”. I have often said the same thing myself, “I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual.” What does that mean to me? What does that mean to my son? What does that mean to you?
Following is information about the Lost Boys of Sudan, from Wikipedia:
“Many of the boys came from the predominantly Christian and animist southern section of Sudan who were fleeing persecution by Arabs that dominated northern Sudan. The name was given by aid organizations, including the International Rescue Committee program which resettled some of these refugees from Sudan to the United States.
In 2001, about 3801 Lost Boys arrived in the United States, where they are now scattered in about 38 cities, averaging about 100 per city. Halted after 9/11 for security reasons, the program restarted in 2004, but peace talks were underway in Sudan, and so other refugee crises in other countries took priority. As of 2006, the largest population of Sudanese refugees in the United States is in Omaha, Nebraska which hosts about 7,000 people. A variety of charities helped bring Sudanese refugees to the United States, such as Catholic Charities. A variety of programs have been done to help and understand these displaced people, everything from reconnecting them to their traditional dancing to dental work to replace teeth which had been removed by traditional custom, but whose loss is negative in the USA.
Most of the boys were orphaned or separated from their families when government troops systematically attacked villages in southern Sudan killing many of the inhabitants, most of whom were civilians. The younger boys survived in large numbers because they were away tending herds or were able to escape into the nearby jungles. Orphaned and with no support, they would make epic journeys lasting years across the borders to international relief camps in Ethiopia and Kenya evading thirst, starvation, wild animals, insects, disease, and one of the most bloody wars of the 20th century. Experts say they are the most badly war-traumatized children ever examined.
When villages were attacked, girls were raped, killed, taken as slaves to the north, or became servants or adopted children for other Sudanese families. As a result, relatively few girls made it to the refugee camps.”
More to come...
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