"Casually Quaker, with occasional whiffs of Catholic" is how I describe
my religious views on my Facebook page, and I feel like that sums up my
theological leanings pretty well. Religion is such a personal thing, and
has become such a hot-button political issue of late. I rarely discuss
it, and yet it's an important part of my life.
I was raised Catholic,
but even as a kid, I was always distracted by anything and everything. I
could never concentrate on the Mass. The stained glass windows, the
sniffles of the lady in front of me, the crying baby. The droning
lectors and priests lulled me into a catatonic state, and I was never
sure what I was supposed to be doing. And the readings bothered me.
(Really, God? You got mad at humans, so you wiped out everyone, babies
and old ladies included, and just saved Noah and his sanctimonious
clan? And what did all the animals do to deserve a watery death?) There
was never any silence, when I could focus on praying. I wanted to
pray, to thank God for his blessings and ask for more, but there was
always someone talking or music playing. I would get muddled and forget
how many Hail Marys I'd said, but then it didn't really matter because I
didn't listen to the words anyway. I wondered if Mary got tired of
hearing the same prayer repeated to her robotically, a billion times a
day. I went to a Catholic high school, so nearly all of my friends were
Catholics. Catholicism was the religion of my family, and I didn't
encounter any other religions that were any better, so I stuck with it.
Until
the sex abuse cases started coming to light. Then, I lost nearly all
respect for the Church, not only because of the pedophile priests, but
because of the indifference of the church leaders over the suffering
until the lawsuits and arrests began to make for bad press. I tried to
look past the human crimes and think of only the dogma and purity of the
Church, but I couldn't. Part of the Catholic belief was accepting papal
infallibility, and I felt that all of the modern popes who had turned a
blind eye to the abuse were deeply fallible. It became almost
impossible for me to sit through Mass and not squirm every time the
priest came within five feet of an alter server. I started skipping
weeks, and eventually stopped going altogether.
But I still believe
in God, and wanted to be part of a community that shared my beliefs. I
tried other religions, but found that each service held the same
pitfalls as the Catholic mass. Too much talking, singing, fidgeting,
and empty words from an ancient book about how we were all supposed to
live our lives. One thing that formal religions have in common is that
they all have a LOT of rules, more than I can remember. So I prayed
every day on my own, and slept in on Sundays.
I first encountered the
Friends Society (or more commonly known as the Quakers) in
Philadelphia, and again in London. The silent stillness of the meetings
fit my introverted nature, and the lack of dogma and ritual helped me to
focus on a sense of spirituality without distraction. It seemed like a
good match, but life got hectic and I didn't pursue it.
Over the last
year or so, I've been feeling like I wanted to be a part of a religious
community again, and I started doing some research and reflecting. I
spent a weekend at the New Camaldoli Hermitage, trying to become
enlightened about what I wanted as a spiritual life, and the Quakers
kept coming to the foreground as the religion that made the most sense
for my beliefs and personality.
I'm not going to preach the word
about the Quaker faith. If you're interested, there are many good sites
and books about it. I read two books by J. Brent Bill, Holy Silence: the Gift of Quaker Spirituality and Sacred Compass,
both of which were insightful and helpful. The belief systems vary
among different Friends groups (or meetings, as they're called) and are
not easily summarized. What appeals to me is the idea that God wants to
talk to us, not through a book, or ministers, or prophets, or songs,
but just one-on-one. All we have to do was be still and quiet, and
listen.
I started attending Sunday (or First Day) meetings at a
meetinghouse about 25 miles from where I live. The silence is hard to
adjust to, at first. I'm conscious of the noise I make when I walk, or
shift in my seat. During the first thirty minutes of meeting, my mind
races and bounces around. I try to focus, but grocery lists and outside
drama seep in. I use visualization to quiet my mind. I recall a time
when I was sitting in a London park, on the grass, and I closed my eyes
and turned my face to the sun, and I felt a lovely sense of serenity. I
had no thoughts or mental images beyond the feeling of warmth on my
face. I try to recall that feeling in meeting. If someone's image works
their way into my mind, I imagine helping them into a rowboat, and
sending them off gently downstream, out of sight. I wish no harm for
them, but I don't want them in my head. That takes awhile, but then
there's always a moment when all the imagery falls away, and my mind and
heart feel open and peaceful, almost like floating. I understand the
concept of expectant waiting, a feeling of contemplation. That's when God and I talk. And so I sit
until one of the elders stirs, wishes everyone good morning, and starts
to shake hands, which is the signal that meeting is over. Then there
are announcements and general chatting. I never get smacked over the
head with some great epiphany, but I always feel tranquil and purposeful
afterwards.
Quakers believe, as most religions do, that one's
religious striving doesn't end at noon on Sunday. I try to practice the
Quaker testimonies of peace, equality, community, integrity, and
simplicity. When a student, colleague, or rude driver enrages me, I try
to "hold them in the light," to wish them peace and grace. It doesn't
always work. but taking a breath and trying to lessen my anger or
frustration does give me perspective and diffuses the rage a bit, even
if I do still want to wring someone's neck.
I do attend Catholic Mass
occasionally, when I'm visiting my parents. I still pray to Mary for
her intercession when I'm scared, and I pray to St. Anthony when I can't
find my car keys. There's much to the religion that I like, so I don't
think I'll ever denounce it forever. And I don't know if I'll ever be a
good Quaker, because as with other religions, it is only a part of who I
am, and I haven't committed fully to it. I will keep the epithet
"Casually Quaker, with occasional whiffs of Catholic" and face the
consequences of being a dilettante in religion, as with everything else.
