I am paying attention although sometimes that just means I am aware of my inattention.

Words float around in the high space above. Sunlight through stained glass illuminates the pews across from us. The scent of perfumed parishioners and powdered babies mingles with incense past and, oddly, Old Spice. All is familiar, routine.

The words drop from above, and I focus on them, or I try to.

“… let us give thanks to the Lord.”

Two boys of the same age stand in the row with me, my wife beyond them. I look down at the closest one as he says, “It is right and just.” He doesn’t just mumble or mouth the words, he enunciates them, slightly jutting his head and chin forward and up as he says “right” and “just.”

He is 6 years old. He knows these words and has a sweet, beginner’s understanding of the depth and power of concepts like righteousness and justice.

The celebrant continues: “It is truly right and just, our duty and our salvation, always and everywhere, Lord, holy Father, almighty and eternal God, through Christ our Lord.”

The same boy, mouthing silently now, recites the sentence, his cadence and commas in perfect order.

Of course, since we are in this holy place, all I can think is: “Holy crap, he knows all the words to the Mass.” That may seem, well, frankly, it may be sacrilegious. And that may be my point, but I’ll come back to it.

A few years later a story of those same two boys, coming out of their religious ed class, and …

+   +   +

You know what?

I can’t. At least I can’t very well.

You see, I had this all planned out with notes and quotes and heartfelt stories, but I don’t think that’s going to work. I had every hope of defending my faith, an unpopular one these days, and explaining why we continue to go to church every Sunday. The problem is, I’m not sure.

Is “because I always have” a good enough answer? Is the memory of those Sundays of my childhood, spent with family and friends in a modest Protestant church in small-town middle America enough to explain my presence now in a bigger Catholic church in a big town not far from that old, white steepled church of my youth?

Is “our sons have been nearly every Sunday and Holy Day of their entire lives” any kind of real reason to keep showing up? Has it just become habit? A routine that perhaps needs to be reexamined? Has it become a thing we do because we simply think we should?

Sometimes I look around our church and wonder why row after row of families make the effort to be there, week after week, and I wonder if the effort is still worth it. Are they all – are we all – crazy for our faith and ardent in our belief? Are we pious and good and righteous and full of the fire of the Holy Spirit? I know these people … many of them are not.

I’m not, particularly.

Then, again, I ask: Why are we all here? What’s to be gained? We can teach these morals to our children without the stained-glass structure, without the ritual and rules. “Love thy neighbor as thyself” isn’t too difficult a concept, is it? Why those doors? Why this pew? Why that altar?

+   +   +

From just beyond that altar the words float into the high clerestory on a melody both ancient and modern, chanted both by monks centuries ago and on the vinyl recording of Godspell I spun in the ’70s. I focus on the words: “For all things living, You have made good. Harvest of sown fields, Fruits of the orchard. Hay from the mown fields, Blossom and wood.” Such poetry – good, wood, sown, mown — such serenity, such simplicity.

Later, a story from a book marked Mark. The main character heals a man’s deafness and speech impediment by sticking his finger in his ear and spitting on his tongue as he “groans” toward heaven saying “Ephphatha!” the Greek form of the Aramaic word meaning “be opened.” What a beautiful word, what an important command: be opened.

Sometimes there is fragrant incense or the scent of the Baptismal oil chrism. There is the taste of wine and bread. A high school boy sings a “Hallelujah” and cantors a psalm with growing confidence, his modern style counterpointing the sonorous tones of the celebrant.

Just this Sunday, I looked over at my sons: engaged, attentive, comfortable. My wife, beyond them, smiled at me as a boy – a mancub, really – leaned against her, peaceful, as he has been for as long as he remembers. I thought of how, well, how damn beautiful it all was, this inundation of senses. But, that wasn’t all of it. I knew I was missing something.

I know that, for me, my religion is just a frame around my spirituality, more within, I’d say. I don’t mean this the wrong way, but, I don’t really care if the boys become followers of Christ, per se. Buddhism seems cool. Judaism is so long and rich. Islam so stunningly visual and respectful.  Nihilism is nice and hedonism has its place. But I can’t teach all those ideas. I don’t know the languages.

Christianity is the picture frame I know and grew up with. I know the stories and the words and the songs of redemption and creation within this place, at this altar. Shouldn’t I want to pass that faith tradition on? No, really, I just want to show it to them.

And, perhaps in so doing, I am showing them beauty.

Maybe, someday far from now, they will sit in a concert hall or they will stand in an art gallery or they will overlook a great canyon. And they’ll remember. Maybe, they will feel the love of sons and daughters, wives and husbands, or hear the cries of lament and longing, and think back. A melody.  A fountain. A wafer. A glass of madeira, incense on the wind.

My hope is that the sacred and beauty will become one for them. That Faith will be Hope; Love will be Beauty. God; Good. Peace, a Goodbye.

Am I being sacrilegious? Probably. Is this all bad theology? Yes. Is this piss-poor apologetics, indeed. I did, however, answer why we will be there next Sunday.

Now please don’t tell my pastor I wrote this. Peace

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bill Peebles left a 30-year career in the restaurant business to become a stay-at-home dad to twin boys. He writes a blog, I Hope I Win a Toaster, that makes little sense. He coaches sometimes, volunteers at the schools, plays guitar, and is a damn good homemaker. He believes in hope, dreams, and love … but not computers. 

Man in church pew photo: Karl Fredrickson on Unsplash

No matter what you believe, or choose not to believe, you are welcome in our home. That is the example we will set for our son.
______

Some people complain about the phrase “Happy Holidays.” Why not just say “Merry Christmas,” right? While we can’t speak for everyone, here’s why my family says “Happy Holidays.”

If you look up at our window, you will see a menorah, and just past that, a Christmas tree. I grew up Catholic and my wife grew up Jewish. Both religions formed who we are today. And even though we are now both atheists, neither of us sees any reason to exclude or disrespect the traditions and beliefs of our families. We have both experienced too much joy throughout our lives from these belief systems not to do so. And our son deserves these same joys.

Outside of our window, the world is in turmoil. In just one day, we have seen the assassination of a diplomat in Turkey; a horrifying mass murder using a truck in Germany, for which credit has been claimed by extremist zealots; and a mass shooting at a mosque in Zurich. All of this happened while America’s Electoral College confirmed the presidency of a man who lost the popular vote after running on a platform heavily trading on fear-mongering, hatred and bigotry.

We will not have this in our home. We will choose peace. We will choose joy. No matter what you believe, or choose not to believe, you are welcome in our home. That is the example we will set for our son.

He will benefit from both holidays. He will spin the dreidel and he will decorate a tree. He will know the rituals of Hanukkah and will sing about Santa Claus. He will have the best of both of our worlds, and that includes the holidays of this season.

Which right now he loves, by the way, because of all the presents!

But will he be Christian? Jewish? Will he be an atheist? Maybe he’ll be something else altogether. We can’t say right now. It is his choice. If we are to be good parents, we must present him with all the options for his own life. The path he decides to travel will be his own. Both of us will be happy to guide him no matter how he chooses to live his life.

My wife and I fell in love both because of, and in spite of, the differing belief systems we were raised in. What we’ve discovered is that the difference between right and wrong, between good and evil, the essential morality of humanity, is the same across all religions.

Need a baseline? Sure. If you’re hurting people because of your religion, you are doing your religion wrong. If you’re hurting people because of their religion, you are doing morality wrong as well, and that applies whether you are religious or not.

Everything else — how you choose to worship, how you choose not to worship — is all up to you. Just don’t hurt anyone. And no matter what religion you do or do not worship, this is a season for joy.

So. We say “Happy Holidays,” and it is in no way an insult. Wishing you joy cannot be offensive.

“Merry Christmas” leaves out half of my family. “Happy Hanukkah” leaves out the other half. “Happy Holidays” includes them all. It means Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. It means, “I wish you joy, no matter who you are and what you believe.”

We wish you a Merry Christmas. We wish you a Happy Chanukah. We wish you a Joyous Kwanzaa, and we say “Serenity Now” as we air our grievances at the Festivus for the Rest of Us. But most of all, we wish you “Happy Holidays.”

We wish you joy. Because wishing people joy is what the holiday season is actually all about.

All photos: Chad R. MacDonald