Mass Effects (Part II)

It's like riding a bike. The prayers and responses rolled off my lips, and my limbs recalled the rhythm of sitting and standing. My friends' church choir brings sacredness to the room throughout the service, drawing a holy presence that I felt in my heart. I do appreciate the mystery of ritual in the Catholic church.

While moved by the music, I found myself listening closely to the words, wondering if their meaning would resonate in my soul as they had many years previous. Music is a path to the spiritual for me, and despite holding different beliefs that directly expressed by the songs, I found the music lifting me to a higher plane. Further into the Mass, however, I hit the curb and lost my balance.

The RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults) group were to be presented to the bishop later in the day, but they also appeared with their sponsors during this Mass after the homily. While appreciating the dedication these men and women were making to their faith and Church, I felt acutely uncomfortable hearing their sponsors questioned as to their charges' commitment and efforts. How can anyone else know what dwells in one's heart? How can one attest to the faith of another? While I've seen this ritual many times, one year as a sponsor, I hadn't witnessed it since leaving the Catholic church about five years ago and don't recall questioning it previously.

Indeed, how can another person validate anyone's belief system, sanctifying it beyond what the individual and his or her Ground of Being can do? Why is a person, lay or clergy, needed for a person to make that leap? Initially, I thought the public nature of the event was my sticking point, but further reflection led me to my struggle: how could another human be a mandatory conduit between a person and the divine?

I don't question that people and all of creation can and do facilitate links between the individual and the divine, but I fail to reconcile with that being as a requirement for connection, salvation, or fulfillment. Not even as a practicing Catholic did I feel certainty in that bit of doctrine, but only now outside of the Church does the thought discomfort me so much.

I firmly believe in the divine, in something beyond me that encompasses the universe. I rest peacefully knowing my vision of the divine need not be the same as the men and women in the RCIA program, yet feel certain we share a spiritual truth beyond creed and doctrine. Back on my bike, and on to communion. Stay tuned.

Mass Effects (Part I)

This afternoon, the boys and I arrived home from restorative visit with some dear friends from Ohio. I caught up with a companion from seventh grade onward while our children furthered their skills in Rock Band II and Monopoly. We spend Saturday at the Air Force Museum in Dayton, a destination desired my my guys for quite some time and generally enjoyed by all. While I remain a champion of peaceful conflict resolution, I was repeatedly amazed at planes in the museum's three large hangers.

This morning, we attended their Catholic church, a change of pace from our usual UU experience. Raised a mixture of Catholic and Methodist (attending both many Sundays of my youth), I chose Catholicism at age 12 and continued with the Catholic church until about six years ago. A few years of a liberal Episcopal experience led to a few years without a church and deep questioning about my beliefs. I found a home in a Unitarian Universalist community a year and a half ago and have never felt more truly at peace in a religious community.

After a bit of prep with the boys on Lent, Mass, and why we wouldn't be taking communion, I decided we'd join our friends at Mass today. While both boys were baptized Catholic, only my older recalls any of his time in the church. Our friends' church is university-based with a large non-student congregation at the service we attended. The sanctuary, while large, is non-imposing and quite spare and not at all like the century old meeting house my boys know so well. Despite the size, the room exudes warmth and community, very much like our religious home base. We all settled into our seats and waited for the service to begin.

War and Peace

My younger son is a war fanatic. For the past two and a half years, not so coincidentally starting when we began our study of history, he's obsessed over the wars throughout recorded time. His first true passion was the ancient Romans, specifically in the Punic Wars. I knew nothing of the Punic Wars before our year of ancient history, on of many blanks in my shoddy history education, while he was well versed in the years of that conflict at age 5. I can see the appeal of Hannibal crossing the Alps with a herd of elephants, but this wasn't but a small part of the interest to him.

So why does he love to read about, talk about, act out, and discuss war? I believe the answer is three-fold: weapons,conflict, and power. Those parts of history enrapt him, and war embodies all three.

Weapons. While I'm a pacifist by nurture and nature, I can see why a small child would delight in weapons. The catapult and trebuchet are pretty fascinating machines, but even the spear in all its simplicity captivates my son. Longbows, crossbows, swords, maces, cannons, guns, and bombs hold endless delight to him, in structure and use. All allow one to reach beyond the self with greater force than can be created by a small human body alone.

Conflict. My younger lives in conflict with his world. He's still quite convinced that he is indeed the center of the universe (aren't well all, really?) and dares anyone to oppose. He creates conflict with his brother when bored, hungry, or fatigued; holds firmly to his view of the world in spite of evidence that contradicts his view; and can't stand his own human imperfections, preferring to blame personal shortfalls on the wrongs of others. He's been at conflict with the world and himself since soon after birth.

Power. Nothing like being the youngest in the family with a streak of perfection to create a quest for power. Feeling powerless clashes with each person's ego, and while some of us either gain perspective then peace regarding our place in the universe or learn to struggle less overtly, meeting this powerless feeling head-on suits my younger's mindset right now. Warring with the world and his own fallible human nature, he searches out weapons with which to settle the conflicts resulting from his feelings of powerlessness.

Weapons, conflict, and power. Whether our weapons be words or wealth, our conflict internal or external, or our power quest overt or subtle, we all share the elements of war. As I watch my younger reach for his duct tape sword or home-made armor, I know I'm seeing him play with struggles we all face and know he's relating to history and the world as works best for him now. I also have faith he'll move beyond this obsession and can see progress in this area as he notices patterns through our studies that brought nations to war and the patterns of his own behavior that bring him into conflict with others. I have faith that we all can grow right along with him.

Seeing Red

Valentine's Day brought three inches of snow and our Tang Soo Do testing day. The boys and I have studied this form of Korean martial arts for almost two years, and this test brought us to the next level of our karate studies, moving us from 4th Gup to 3rd Gup, green belt with two stripes to the long-awaited red belt. It was a proud day as well as another milestone I never would have anticipated before 2007.

We began Tang Soo Do as a "promotion" of sorts from my younger's nine months OT and PT. Faced with the choice of twice-weekly swimming or martial arts, both sports increasing core strength and midline-crossing skills, my then five-year-old elected to avoid getting his face wet. He took "Tiny Tiger" karate classes at our local rec. center with other young ones for the first three months, and he really didn't care for the sessions. After all, he was expected to speak loudly, acknowledge an adult he hadn't known for the past three years, and generally do what the group was doing in front of a bunch of parents. It was hardly a smooth transition, and I'll admit I found the "Yes, Sirs" and push-ups uncomfortably militaristic.

A few months in, our instructor invited us over the dojang for a class. My older joined in reluctantly and under a bit of duress, truth be told, but whispered, "I love this!" about halfway through that first session. Before we left for home, we had our uniforms and white belts in hand and were swelling with enthusiasm.

I'll freely admit the sport truly has pushed the limits of my coordination, but by pushing at those limits, it's moved them further out. I've never felt so strong, flexible, and able. I even almost know my right from left. We've worked together, supporting, encouraging, and correcting each other along the way. It's not all been pretty. Perhaps 39 is a bit too old for mastering a jump spinning crescent kick, or perhaps I'm just not there yet. There are days the boys fight going, and there are days I'd rather not make the drive, but we end up there, twice a week, continuing our Tang Soo journey. Stay tuned!

Practicing

For the last few years, I've struggled to develop a regular spiritual practice. Intellectually, I'm quite drawn to meditation, but I've not successfully integrated it into my daily life. I have the usual excuses -- lack of time, fatigue, two kids who are continually present when I'm conscious, but deep down I know the issue is priorities. I'm loathe to wake at 5:00 a.m., although I know I'd be uninterrupted at that hour, and I'm pretty beat at the end of the day. I guess that leaves all that time in between... Hmm.

This week, I've returned to the strand of prayer beads I made last winter. I was raised Catholic, among other things, and while rosaries weren't in use in my home, I knew how they facilitated prayer and focus on the divine by adding some structure and repetition to a contemplative time. Some online searching brought me to a page on ideas for UU prayer bead use. (http://www.uua.org/religiouseducation/curricula/tapestryfaith/spiritpractice/workshop2/workshopplan/handouts/59197.shtml). A trip to the craft store, a painstakingly long examination of the beading materials, and another trip to google "making prayer beads" and I was on my way.

Creating the strand was prayer in itself, and for awhile, I was using the beads as a meditative tool, sometimes based on the structure delineated at the above UUA site, sometimes just holding them during meditation. Over a few weeks, my attempts at quiet prayer time dwindled and faded. I've spent time on my cushion here and there over the last year, but mostly it waits faithfully by my dresser, calling quietly, while my beads sat a few feet away on the dresser, beckoning gently.

This week, I'm back on the cushion, beads in hand, quiet time with my breath between more "cognitive" meditation. I'm making it my own, finding time because it's important. I like it, and, for now, it's just right. Present moment, only moment...

Religious Tolerance and the Crusades

This morning began slowly, partially out of cold-winter morning inertia, partially due to my weekend lesson-planning and work-checking avoidance measures, which were highly successful. After checking my older's math, we sat down together over my cup of coffee to discuss his weekly work on his Connect the Thoughts Religious Intolerance unit study (http://www.connectthethoughts.net/upper--current-events.php#course-21677). Four the last four weeks, he's studied definitions of religion, information about a variety of belief systems, and the general issue of religious intolerance.

The study ends with an exploration of the United Nations' declaration on elimination of religious intolerance, a sweeping document challenging countries to speak and act with respect to those of all belief systems. We spent about twenty minutes discussing the ramifications of befriending a country intolerant to other religions and possible ways to avoid war when neighboring countries have opposing views on religion. While we didn't solve the world's problems, we had meaningful dialogue about the issues, starting at the level of individuals, gradually moving to communities and nations. The course complements his world religions study at our UU as well, a big plus.

While my older and I were having a fairly erudite conversation about the advantages of religious tolerance, my younger built a costume from duct tape and fleece for his passion of the week: the Crusades. The day brought us his incarnation of a Teutonic knight, complete with armor and shield. His outfit was his own design, and it shows the versalitity of duct tape as well as his creative side. Toward the end of the costume making, he asked, "Why do the crusaders wear all those crosses?" Somehow he missed the crux of the events -- religious intolerance. I reviewed the basics again (my version being why the wars were fought in the first place), he nodded in understanding and then proceeded to his reinactment portion of the program. Obviously our conversations are just beginning.

Awakening in Rome

My younger son performed his filial duty of waking mom at 6:30 this morning. Earlier than I would have liked, given some insomnia last night, but later than other awakenings. He's 7 and wakes with fear, sure something is under the edge of the bed or peering down from the empty top bunk, ready to, well, I don't really know what. He won't move til I'm there but will yell from under the covers should I try to pretend his holler was a dream. Once I arrive, he creeps out from his covers and changes his jammies, a necessary action when you aren't yet dry at night and your pj pants are a bit damp despite precautions.


Within two minutes, he's snuggled up next to me, allergic-kid morning breath paired with the softest skin on earth, all warmth and love. Before I can revel in the moment, I'm barraged with the history of ancient Rome, his current passion. "Mom, did you know why Hannibal chose elephants when attacking Rome in the Punic Wars? Do you thing it would be worse to be a slave or a gladiator?"


I'm still trying to maintain a position of sleep, closed eyes and all, but he's warmed to his subject and oblivious to my fatigue. "Will you read me some history, Mom?" he queries.

I give up on sleep, accept the Usborne History Encyclopedia he offers, and find Rome. Again. We've read these sections before and will read them again. He reads them to himself, but nothing's better than hearing them aloud. As we read, I pause periodically to make a comment or listen to his consolidation of information. He makes new connections every time we go through these pages, and it's fascinating to listen to his ponderings and conclusions. It's a privileged view into his incredible brain at work as well as a view of history through the eyes of a child.

These moments are homeschooling at its best. Curiousity aroused about Rome two years prior (when we were actually studying Rome as a family) returns. With much more history under his belt, he has new ways to look at Caesar, Octavian, and Hannibal. His view of the world, two years older, allows him to turn the history around and around, mixing it with all he's experienced since he's last played with that part of the past.

I know this affair with Rome won't last forever, but I'm just as certain this interest will return down the road, taking on the shades of knowledge not yet aquired and life not yet lived. And I'm hoping to awaken in Rome with him, although maybe just a bit later in the day.