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Monthly Archives: December 2011

Diwali (The Hindu New Year) Part I: Preparation

December 31, 2011:Rotating religious New Year’s is great: it is like Keeping Resolutions for Dummies 101…you can keep starting over until you get it right! When the ball drops tonight, I will celebrate my third New Year’s 2012. Having already attended Yom Kippur and Diwali services, I will be fully prepared to keep my New Year’s resolutions (because I’ve already started and failed twice)!
      Circa October 26, 2011:  Hindu Diwali occurs today: it is a celebration of the start of the Hindu New Year and the year’s most important holiday. A festival of lights and the of triumph of good over evil, Diwali is a time for both reflection and parties. Much like Christmas Eve, even non-practicing Hindus will attend temple services this evening. Those who do not will create altars and perform the holiday’s rituals at home. Diwali honors the goddess of wealth, Lakshmi, and many rituals revolve around requesting financial blessing for the New Year. 
      Celebrating Diwali requires the performance of specific rituals which require pre-planning to properly execute. Unfortunately, I do not realize this until the morning of Diwali, so I find myself scrambling for A.) Proper attire and B.) Required ritual materials. Fortunately, I am a champion at leaving things until the last minute (My college major? Procrastination), and therefore well-versed at working under pressure.
      The Bharatiya Hindu Temple Diwali services commence at 6pm local temple time, so I start my preparations around 9am thinking I would have plenty of time. I am wrong: even with nine hours, I struggle for time. Here is the list of rituals, along with my results:
1.Clean my home–Check. (Sort of). Though this was the only thing on the list that really needed to be done, I manage to only clean the living room and kitchen.
2. Wear new clothes–Ummm, yes please! Hindu clothes are like Prom and Indian New Year at once! I call the temple to inquire about proper attire, and reach an unfriendly man who either doesn’t know where I could buy a sari and/or doesn’t want me to know. His statement, “Please wear traditional dress if possible,” starts a quest that lasts almost all day. I start calling costume shops, none of whom have anything but “Sexy (Halloween) Saris” which I do not believe appropriate for the occasion.Since the holiday specifically calls for the shopping for and wearing of new clothes to the temple, why would the only Indian store in town be open today? AHHHH! After three hours, I reach the store which (yay!) is open today in honor of Diwali. I inquire about approximate prices and (yikes!) realize my household budget doesn’t exactly allow for a $150 Sari. But, as far as spiritual quests go, it’s cheaper than a trip to India.(This day is about attracting wealth, but I just seem to be repelling money right out of my bank account.)

3.Place mustard oil lights around my home to attract Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth. –I turn on every light in the house (including closests and bathrooms), prompting me to wonder whether I’m attracting wealth or an electricity bill. I don’t have mustard oil and (believe it or not!), it is not readily available at the grocery. I improvise by dabbing French’s Yellow mustard on spice-scented candles.
4.Set off fireworks. Problems: A). There is not a dearth of fireworks in Ohio in October. (Sexy Saris? Yes. Sparklers? No.) B). Setting off fireworks downtown is illegal C). My leftover 4th of July sparklers fail to spark. Instead, I watch authentic Diwali fireworks via YouTube. Excellent display, not unlike our patriotic holidays—if the background to our holidays included a soundtrack of hollering Indians.
5. Trace Rangoli (lotus patterns) on the floor with chalk and fill with powder. I discover that sidewalk chalk does not work  on wood floors, so I use paper draw my poor excuse of a lotus flower. The type of powder is not specified, so I use chili powder. (Maybe some gods like it hot?) Oxley the puppy has to be outside for this part, lest he eat and puke up the chili powder, thereby offending Laksmi and dooming us to a bad financial year.

6.Open doors and windows to let Lakshmi in–Check. Thankfully it was a warmer-than-average fall day. (Oxley continues to be outside, lest he escape).
7.Decorate shrine to Lackshimi to attract propserity-–Check it out!

Altar for Lakshmi

Items included are:
1. Flowers and fruit (offerings to Lakshmi) 2. Candles (to guide her to me?) 3. Money and representations of prosperity(all I had was change, blank checks,losing lottery tickets and credit cards. I added my student ID for good measure…gotta pay off those loans someday.Also, champagne corks. What says wealth & success like a little bubbly?) 4. Representations of career success--thus bringing money through work (my letters sign, sue goodwin’s card, a few favorite inspirational books, my book writing journal) 5. Oxley’s current favorite toy. Why? I would consider myself quite a bit richer if he stopped pooping in the house. And, of course, Mustard. Prompting my husband to ask, “Why is there mustard on the wine bar?” Ummm, not quite sure…but I am nothing if not thorough!
8.Finalize all account books to be ready for the start of the new financial year–Mmmm, avoided doing my expense report because I hate numbers. I paid bills instead!
9.Exchange gifts of nuts and sweets. We do not have nuts, so I exchange gifts of granola bars with my husband. Later I forced force him to eat an Indian dish. Usually he is a human garbage disposal, so I am surprised when he makes a face. “Tastes like…chai tea yogurt rice?”
      To my amazement, I have all the same feelings of  Christmas joy and excitement while accomplishing the Diwali preparations. One significant difference: I have never been afraid to approach the throne of baby Jesus, but goddess Lakshmi is a bit terrifying. I mean, a woman with the power to give or take away my wealth who has more breasts than hands? That is one scary deity. Further, I can’t shake the ingrained Christian notion that in building Lakshmi an altar, I might be worshipping a demon. (Even though I don’t believe this, I cross myself a few times.)
      After hours of preparation, I leave for the temple. I am very excited and nervous. This is the first time since starting Thirty by Thirty that I’ll be an obvious pretender. I locate Maaya, the one sari store in a 100 mile radius. How fortunate that is is only a few miles from the temple! I walk into a lovely little shop filled to the brim with gorgeous Indian wear: clothing, jewelry, shoes, purses…I could get lost in here. There are two Indian ladies working, and one is lighting candles. Oh, I mentally congratulate myself, I know why she is doing that! “Happy Diwali!” I say, butchering the word. With the authentic ethnic music and both women barefoot and wearing traditional Hindu dress, I feel like I have stepped straight through to India, minus the 24-hour flight and jet-lag.
      I’m exuberant about the novelty of celebrating this holiday and the chance to try on these gorgeously colored, beaded saris. I enter the dressing room, er, bathroom (apparently Indian women don’t have to try things on—they already know their size) with the selections. I am both happy and dismayed that none of them fit. Clearly I look smaller than I am! (Or,gulp, the ladies never see someone my size in the store?) After I few tries, I slip into a red and blue traditional celebration sari and have the same feeling as when I found my senior prom dress…perfect! I love this dress. I never want to take it off. Sure, it would be difficult to go to work and my stomach would freeze in the winter, but this feeling of gauzy, flowing red fabric and blue satin, with ten pounds of beading? I want to hang onto this. Despite my lower-than-average hair and makeup, I twirl in front of the mirror, feeling exotic and sexy and…temple ready?Coming from a background with strict church and school dress codes, the idea of baring my midriff —the one that is not as toned as I would prefer— in a temple is both thrilling and nerve-racking.
      With a mouth full of pins, one women dresses me, murmuring instructions about the elaborate pinning of the (sash?). There are 35 pins…make sure you get them all out before undressing tonight so you don’t bleed! I stand perfectly still while she fusses over me, getting the sari just so and draping me in jewelry and bracelets.
      I half-heartedly protest because of the cost (already ringing in at $170+), but it was all so… lovely. I couldn’t resist. The shopkeeper says she will give me a discount. You are going to temple all alone, without anyone? We dress you to find a nice Indian husband! I cough that I’m already married. Too bad,this sari could get you nice, young doctor!
      Assuring her I am happily married, I pay and walk carefully to the car, sitting gingerly to avoid the 35 pins. Wait, she rushes after me. You need this! She hands me Indian desserts then presses a red jewel (a bindi) on my forehead. So the men know you are married! I glance in the rear-view mirror and, satisfied with my preparations and dress, drive off to the temple.
Tomorrow I will post about the Diwali temple celebration….Have a safe and Happy New Year’s Eve!
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Meditation: Imperfectly Perfect

    Background:  Without a transforming personal spiritual practice, a journey like mine resembles swimming in a pool without water; I could practice the butterfly all day without gaining a stronger stroke. Aside from the proven physical benefits of meditation, the practice appears universally in the world’s major religions.  Hence, meditation is the pool in which I am choosing to swim in order to try and build a stronger faith. I am studying with an Eastern Orthodox monk who practices ancient Christian mediation while incorporating the Buddhist techniques he learned while spending time under the Dalai Lama.
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      My problem: when in comes to meditation, I possess all the focus of a puppy mind: an Oxley mind to be precise. Oxley, our nine-month old Welsh terrier is lively, wiggly, jumpy…everything but quiet.  While meditating, my thoughts wrangle me with all the weight of a hyper puppy: following scents to and fro, enjoying everything and accomplishing nothing.
      I tend to beat myself up about my poor excuse for meditation, as if doing so will fight my way into harmony (note: this technique is self-defeating). I often feel disappointed and chide myself for my bad behavior as I do with Oxley when he misbehaves on walks. When we adopted Oxley, I was full of the high hopes of a new pet parent. I especially wanted Oxley to become a certified therapy dog so we could cheer up the children in Ohio State’s cancer hospital.
      When I started meditation, I dreamed I would quickly arrive at some zen state that would lead to eternal bliss, or at least a lack of over-reacting.(Ok, maybe I didn’t actually believe that, but I did hope.) I quickly realized, however, that just as Oxley lacks the calm temperament  required of a therapy dog, I lack ability to be calm while meditating. (Or so I thought.)
      I was rather dismayed about these “facts” until a rainy night a few weeks ago (ironically, right after meditation class) when I took my puppy for a walk. Cold, wet, and slightly miserable, I was pondering my sad lack of meditative peaces while being annoyed by Oxley’s antics when we encountered a disabled man waiting at the bus stop. Oxley was afraid of his umbrella and started barking at it, and the man took down the umbrella and gestured that he wanted to pet the puppy. So I scooped Oxley up and offered his furry little head to the stranger. For a few minutes, the man smiled, engrossed in my puppy, and petted him until the rain necessitated his umbrella. With a heartfelt, if somewhat slurred voice he yelled, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I love dog! I love dog!” as we walked away. Suddenly. I realized that for this man, in this moment, my little terror-ier was a therapy dog. For a few minutes, Oxley brought this man joy. So perhaps I had been too limiting in  my definition of a therapy dog. I idolized this archetypal animal, who surely never messed in the house and always obeyed commands…unlike my little one, whose idea of fun is playing “Mommy, watch me run around with poop on my paws!”
      Then an idea blossomed: maybe even one small encounter, just one moment with peace and grace during meditation, could be just as meaningful as one of the “big” moments between a therapy dog and his patients, or a monk in his meditation. This thought moved meditation into reach for me. Life, after all, is merely a series of moments…and the only one we have is now.    Maybe, just maybe, my idea of the perfect meditation is just as distorted as my view of Oxley. After all, no one lives in a meditative cloud of peace,even monks.And even therapy dogs misbehave sometimes. Granted, many mediators are more trained and skillful than I,  just as working therapy dogs are more well-behaved than Oxley. But perhaps I need to let go of the pursuit of absolute perfection and instead be alright with a little touch of it right now, right here, in this moment in the rain.
     
     P.S. : Seeking mystics of all faiths refer to the meditative state as reaching the “other, higher self “, the watcher who is outside time and space and thus completely at peace. I’d like to think this ultra-sentient self holds the leash of my mind like I do when while walking Oxley: tethering my panting, runaway thoughts with the rhythm of the walk, of the breath, of the mantra. But try as I might, I still identify more with Oxley and his escapades than I do with the wise walker. And that is the journey of my meditation: to climb out of the puppy skin, slither up the leash, and take the hand of my true self, the one who knows only God’s unfailing love, and walk together.
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Urban Legends

“I’ve heard of things like this happening, but they’ve never happened to me…or anyone I know.”-Mormon Missionary #1 to me, after I invited him and his partner-in-missions to witness to me, handed over my cell number, followed through with a meeting… then asked to accompany them to church.

          I am a Mormon Urban Legend.  I feel quite certain the story of The Girl Who Asked To Come To Church will circulate evermore among the sweet, suited missionary-mafia. It will grow from the truth (I approached a table of twenty tie-wearing, name-tag bearing Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-day Saints missionaries at a gourmet grilled cheese restaurant, gave them a green post-it with my phone number, and told them to call me)…to a full-on legend. I heard she got saved right then and there… I heard she begged them to tell her the Truth of The Book of Mormon…on her knees! I heard she disappeared right in fromt of them…she was an angel sent from heaven to test their knowledge! (Well, maybe not the angel part… but still, I plan to fully enjoy my fame.) It’s not every day a gal gets to become an Urban Legend. 
     Anyhoo. They were definitely salivating more over the prospect of my salvation than their delicious grilled cheese. And I really did make their collective day. Possibly their collective year. Mostly they get doors slammed in their faces, or ( if they’re having a good day!) get invited in only to be “witnessed to” by “real” Christians trying to save their Mormon souls. (Sort of like a spider inviting an insect in for polite conversation. First I tempt you…then I eat you!) I was, in their words, “a breath of fresh air!”
     Two missionaries, both named Elder, were assigned to my case, and they promptly called to set up a meeting. (If you want to avoid waiting by the phone, date a Mormon missionary. They call precisely when they say they will… Oh wait, they’re not allowed to date during their two-year mission commitment. Too bad!) All male missionaries are named Elder for the term of their mission, and they do not use their given first names (even with other Mormons) until after their service is complete. It reminded me a little of giving prisoners numbers, and upon further review, a strong case could be made for missionary life as jail. If you are considering joining the LDS Church and becoming a missionary, please first consider the following:
1. You will give up: TV, Internet, email (except once a week to family only), radio, music, reading (except religious books), all your friends, dating, thinking about dating, and even thinking about thinking about dating
2. You will have already given up/never partaken: sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, porn, caffeine, and cigarettes
3. You will not see your family for 24 months. You will call home only twice a year: on Mother’s Day and Christmas
4. You will have no control over where you live, with whom you live, or when you are moved
And you will like it!
And the amazing thing is, these guys do! It’s not jail for them, it’s service to God. And that means more to them than giving up all of the above.Impressive.
     These Elder guys are a highly dedicated, well-organized, backpack-carrying militia of world savers. Compared to the well-oiled Mormon missionary machine, all the other Christian denominations look like pansies. Upon high school graduation, these guys take the Great Commission (Go ye all into the world and preach the gospel) to a breathtaking level of commitment by “giving it all up” for God.Which is why it is literally painful for them when people say they are not Christians; “It hits me right here [fist to chest], and it really hurts. I love Jesus. I believe in God the Father and the Holy Spirit.How can they say that?” asked Mormon Missionary #2. These guys believe so hard that their faith almost shimmers. And of this, as I mentioned in my Jingle Bells post, I am truly envious.
     It’s actually tough for me to hear Mormon Missionary #2′s question; I used to be one of those people. And sitting there with those fresh-faced, shiny guys, so earnest in their beliefs and fired up for the cause of Christ and Latter-day prophet/leader Joseph Smith…it made me wonder if the people who taught me Mormanism is a cult!They’re not Christians! ever actually took the time to sit down and listen without judgement.
    Because here’s the thing. People, especially mainline Christian people, like to talk about how weird the Mormon’s extra-curricular beliefs are. And they are a bit (or a lot) strange. Believing you have to change into sacred clothes before entering the temple, like some kind of Holy Locker Room? Strange. Believing in multiple heavens and that you have to be married to get into the highest level? Stranger. Believing you will eventully get your own world in the afterlife? Stranger still. But…are these beliefs weird because they are actually abnormal or because we’ve never been exposed to them? I guarantee an African bushman would think it’s more than a little strange to curtsy before a statue of a hanging dead guy, then eat his body and drink his blood. I’m just sayin’.
     If man looks at the outer appearance, but God looks at the heart, I think it’s time we tried to see things from His perspective. And I’m guessing that when God looks at the Elders? He doesn’t see the Book of Mormon or Joseph Smith’s sacred gold plates…He sees hearts of gold.
     I have much more to say on the topic of my visit with The Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-day Saints…especially the story of how I testified in front of the congregation. But I’ll save that for another day :)
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two gold hearts on the white background Stock Photo - 5876351
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UFOs: Unidentified Flying Objectors

UFO: n. Unidentified Flying Objector. n. A person who flies through cyberspace loudly objecting when any statement fails to exactly fit his (very narrow) personal belief system.Highly active online in religious debates, which he starts several times a day. Often a polarized fundamentalist who considers it his Holy Calling to correct the errant beliefs of those who dares to disagree with him. Especially violent against anyone who is even thinking about thinking outside the spaceship he has locked God in.
                A word of caution: If you ever decide to, say, write a blog/book which exposes your bare soul and spiritual journey to the world-at-large, BEWARE! UFOs will quickly cover the horizon, seeking to abduct or to destroy you.
                  If possible, they will attempt abduction by trying to beam you up with vast theological arguments. If you could only see the Light as we do, you would agree with us! And be saved!   (Well. The “Light” the UFOs are trying so hard to show? It’s hidden under a bushel of ego.)
                  If abduction is impossible? They will try to destroy you. Quickly! By reducing you to tears with word-weapons of mass soul destruction, aka spiritual exclusion-ism. (Everyone is going to hell! And you are leading them there!). Don’t worry, they will conduct all of this attacking in the spirit of brotherly love! By always being ready to mount a defense offense of their faith!

You probably know at least one Unidentified Flying Objector. However, if you desire to be prepared for inevitable abduction/destruction attempts, and are not certain whether you are dealing with a certified UFO, evaluate him with the following criteria:

1. If he appears in a courtroom, he is quickly be thrown out for disorderly conduct.
2. If he is a moviegoer, he yells “Fire!!!” at the first glimpse of a lighter.
3. If he is a guest at a dinner party…oh wait, he wouldn’t be invited because he would offend all the other guests.
4. If you read his posts, you want to throw your computer against the wall and quit searching for faith, because he stands for everything you hate about religion.

UFOs are usually very good people. Unfortunately, you would never know it.

So.

This is my personal appeal to the UFOs of the world: Please. Stop. You aren’t helping your cause. You are hurting it.

After publishing this article and thereby inciting UFO wrath, I plan to postion my tin foil hat, descend the stairs to my soul shelter, and work on exercising my forgiveness and tolerance muscles during the coming blog post-a-pocalypse.

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My Very Bare-y Christmas

Sharenator.com

Sister #1: I got a remote start in my car for Christmas!

Sister #2: I got an IPAD!

Me: I got a pair of socks from the emergency room…

Brother-in-law: At least your present was the most expensive.

Henceforth this holiday shall be known as: The Christmas Rebecca Landed in the ER. (For a case of hives that migrated to her throat, which started swelling shut.)

It shall also be known as: The Year a Doctor Scares Trent. (When, upon our arrival at the urgent care clinic, we were immediately sent away by the attending physician to the “Real ER, where they can do something for your wife.”)

And this is why I do not have a post about attending a Christmas service.

On the bright side, I did pray fervently between the urgent care and the “Real ER”.

Lesson Learned: Only go to the urgent care clinic with urgency…not an emergency.

Bonus Lesson: If, in the excitement of a swelling throat, you fail to wear socks, the ER nurse will gladly provide you with a  pair for the nominal astronomical price of your stay. But only AFTER you have bared your bottom* to your mother-in-law, your mother-in-law’s neighbor’s son [he is a doctor! I do not expose myself to visiting neighbor's sons for fun!], three urgent care nurses, one incompetent urgent care doctor, three ER nurses,two ER physician’s assistants,and a partridge in a pear tree.

(*My bottom would like to note that it prefers to remain covered. However,  if it is called to duty, in such cases as it being eclipsed by welted, migrating hives and thus becoming a threat to the life of its owner, my bottom is very patriotic and willing to be bared, even if said baring causes much shame!)

Apology:

I realize this post has nothing to do with going to places of worship, except that I skipped going to church on the biggest church day of the year. So….sorry about that.

In my defense, I am certain more people find God in the Emergency Room in one day than find Him in some mega-churches on Christmas. 

FAQ:

1. Do you know what caused the hives? No.

2. Have you eaten anything new or changed anything recently (add long list of things you think I may not have considered as a cause but, believe me, if you think your throat is swelling shut you ponder possibilities. Very.Very.Thoroughly.)  No.

3. Can the doctor tell you what caused them? No.

4. Are you OK now? I am drugged up on Benedryl, steroids and various antihistamines. Everything is OK.

Shout-Out!

A big shout-out to Jen Lancaster,  NYT best-selling author of multiple books (including my fav Bitter is the New Black),whose hilarious, sharp-witted voice I heard in my head while considering the absurdity of my Christmas Situation in the ER. Though I have not the faintest idea of Ms. Lancaster’s religious views outside of her former attendance at the Magnificent Mile Mecca,I believe we share an affinity for mild, mind-altering meds (Her: Ambien. Me: Benadryl). Thanks for your great sense of humor…it ( and the drugs) helped get me through My Very Bare-y Christmas.

cheezburger.com

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Jingle Bells?

“Aunt Rebecca, do you believe in Santa Claus?”
(Carefully) “Do you believe in Santa?”
(Vigorous head-nodding and jumping around) “Yes!!!”
(More carefully) “How do you know he’s real?”
(Puzzled) “Don’t you know if you believe in Santa you can hear jingle bells when you close your eyes?” (Squishes eyes tightly) “I’m hearing them…right…now! Do you hear them?”
I shut my eyes, but all I hear is my seven year-old niece’s  excitement.

How I wish I could hear the jingle bells: my niece’s irrefutable proof that Santa lives, that elves are working happily away in the North Pole, that presents will appear under the tree, that the world is full of joy and peace, that all is safe and right and magical.

Her bells hold all the magic of Christmas wrapped into a sound that fights the inevitable hows and whys. How can Santa reach all the children of the earth in one night? Why do people without chimneys still get presents? How do reindeer fly? Why is there a Santa at every store?

But all these questions? They mean nothing to her now. Because she can hear the jingle bells.

When my niece talks about Santa, she glows; her eyes light up with the wonder and magic of Christmas, and reflected in her is all the world’s joy. I encountered the same shiny look on the faces of the Mormon missionaries, and I wanted to throttle them—actually lean over the coffee table and strangle them with their Army of God-issued ties.

Because I felt very, VERY jealous…as evergreen with envy as a Christmas tree.Because they shut their eyes and hear jingle bells, but when I close mine questions are all I hear. I know how it feels to be so, SO certain of everything. To believe. To hear the jingle bells.

It is so happy and easy to have all the answers handed to you, to wrap yourself tightly in the peace that surpasses understanding. To share the belief, the wonder, the magic, with people who love you because you can hear the same jingle bells as they.

But what happens for my niece when someday her best friend whispers more questions in her ear, planting the seeds of doubt? When a boy makes fun of her on the playground, taunting “You still believe in Santa?Don’t you know he isn’t real?”

What happens when the Mormon missionaries open a closet before Christmas Eve, and all their presents tumble out?

When they all close their eyes…and can’t hear the jingle bells?

I’ll tell you what happens: you lose your faith. In Santa, in religion, maybe even in God. And you push it all out of your mind, ignoring the ache that lives where there once was magic. You denounce everything that you once put your belief in, grow up, and don’t acknowledge the hurt, the betrayal, because it simply hurts too much.

And then.

Nine years later.

You wake up and realize you want to believe in something real. You want to hear jingle bells without closing your eyes.

And seven months later, on Christmas Day, you realize you DO hear them ringing… loud and clear.

With your eyes wide open.

Because you are the one shaking them.

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Stadium Worship

“Why is there is a Stadium listed on your To Go list?”  I have been frequently asked. In honor of Jesus’s favorite quarterback, Tim Tebow, playing (winning?) today, and the vast amount of media attention being given to God in football, I think now is the perfect time to answer this question.
Based on overwhelming evidence, I hereby declare Ohio Stadium a Place of Worship, and plan to include a chapter on sports worship. Let us pray…

Yes, this is a Buckeye Rosary. Available for $39.99 at College Traditions. And no, I did not make it.

Punctuated by raised hands and uplifted voices, the crowd sways in time with a historic tune. Energy crackles through the air as the full band simultaneously entertains and calls to worship. Am I enjoying a Pentecostal service, or perhaps a rowdy Methodist gathering? No on both counts. Though I sit in pews with my nearest and dearest, chanting time-honored lyrics and engaging in age-old rituals, I am not worshipping at the altar of the Good Lord. I, along with 102,328 of my closest friends,  am worshipping  at the shrine of college athletics.
Welcome, dearly beloved, to Ohio State Football.
Our church is a horseshoe-shaped stadium, and we spend our appointed Sabbaths (the first few Saturdays of Autumn) in attendance  (for four or more hours per sitting), happily enduring rowdy crowds to do so. We put up with both bodily discomfort and mental anguish, all for the love of the game.

Church?

If anyone questions the validity of Ohio Stadium (or any sports sanctuary) as a place of worship, consider the following question: How many believers go to church like they are channeling the creed of United States postmen “Neither rain nor snow, nor sleet nor dark of night shall stay these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds”?  Though many religious folks stay home due to a sprinkle, do football fans? No! We PAY to sit in rain/snow/sleet/heat.Who among us builds a shrine–nay–devotes an entire basement to– traditional worship? We would name fanatical one who converted 1,000 square feet to a prayer chapel. But 1,000 sq. feet of OSU Buckeye gear? That’s just business as usual.And just how far are we willing to travel to church? Would we be willing to make it a twelve-hour affair?
With breadth and scope considered, religious fervor pales in comparison to sports fever. We have our saints and angels: legends of the game whose numbers are retired and names enshrined in the stadium. We have our theologians: sportscasters who publicly agree and disagree on a wide variety of issues. We regard with awe our appointed Pastor (most recently Urban Meyer) and grieve when he falls from grace (Tressel). True, most pastors are not famous for sweater vests, and their sermons are not relegated to the Holy Locker Room, but as a congregation,we scrutinize the every decision of our coaches more than any religious leader’s proclamations.
We take careful interest in observation of pre-service, er, game, rituals including the imbibing of the sacred sacrament: beer.

Forget not the Sacred Sacrament of Game Day

And forget not the holy communion of soda and concessions topped with stadium mustard! In a world where sports fans outnumber churchgoers, is it not fair to call “Religion!” on athletics? Especially now, considering the status afforded to Tim Tebow for winning in the name of Jesus?
       And now, Reba’s Moment of Theology spiral pass:
When it comes to football, the rules are pretty clear. We know who the winner is by the scoreboard, and everyone agrees on the outcome even if they don’t like it.

But in religion, where the rules are perpetually in question, how can one team declare themselves  the everlasting champions, and deem everyone else the eternal losers?  If this same uncertainty plagued football, players would just quit in the first quarter, hijack the the ref’s whistles, overthrow the announcer and yell “We’ve won, we’ve won!”, while the opposing team rushed the field to pull out the goal posts.“We’ve got the press box!” one side would shout . “We own the field!” the other would counter. It would be dangerous pandemonium…hey, kinda like religious debate!

With a field of faith that’s 1 yard earth and 99 yards eternity, I’d like to believe people could agree to fair play, without injuries and insults to one another. After all, we’re stuck in the same stadium, just trying to figure out the game.

Amen.

And look…I’m not the only who thinks so! Check out this article on Religion and Sports!

 

Reba Riley’s Thirty by Thirty project, 30 by 30 book, 30 by 30 blog, 30×30 blog, 30 by 30 book, Thirty by 30 blog, ThirtyxThirty project , Thirty x Thirty book. Re; Tebow, Tim Tebow, Tebomania, Tebomania, Ohio Stadium, Sports worship

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The First Christian Spiritualists: Part Deux

Post-Christian Spiritualist Temple Experience, no one was more surprised than me to discover the existence of dark energy outside the confines of Paranormal Activity I, II and III.

I boast a long and rich history with Satan, wherein certain parents and pastors of mine systematically rebuked him in the name of Jesus, regularly banishing his malevolent minions from our house, my bedroom, and the church. I even witnessed the exorcism of a church camp sound system that was behaving badly. Clearly this was no ordinary power surge! The Evil One himself infested the equipment to keep 4th graders from hearing the message of salvation for the twenty-seventh time in six days! This process, known in Christian circles as Spiritual Warfare, was simultaneously comforting and frightening.  I understood said warfare to mean  that Satan could enter our house and possibly hide out under my bed (scary!), but my Dad could easily make him depart by praying (calming!) until he came back again (alarming!).

If Satan does indeed sabotage inanimate objects, I feel quite certain this lamp is in grave danger.

Upon considering the Devil as an adult, I threw out the idea of a lurking,evil entity preoccupied with ruining church camp sermons. I also tossed the notion of intelligent evil altogether and, carefully refraining from exorcisms of inanimate objects, proceeded happily along in my life without the heavy burden and time-commitment of telling Beelzebub to Depart from me! In the name of Jesus!

Around the same time, I rejected praying out loud. There are more reasons for this than the exorcism factor, but it suffices to say here that 99% of the (few) prayers I uttered after my 21st year rose from my mind to the Almighty’s ear. I conscientiously objected to spoken prayer on the grounds that an all-knowing God needed not hear my voice. And, it was just too traumatic to pray out loud. Much to close to my past for comfort.

Anyhoo. An alert reader needs this background information to understand just how bizarre the events following my time with the Christian Spiritualists really were. Please keep said background in mind when I say this: something sinister followed me home from the witchcraft/Christian-craft conference.

You know that time you randomly stepped in a pile of dog poo? And didn’t realize it until you walked in the house, took off your shoes and sniffed? That’s how it was when I arrived home after five hours with the Christian Spiritualists.I discovered (too late!) some metaphysical ju-ju clinging to my spiritual shoe-shoe.
In the immortal words of bumper sticker-ists everywhere, “Sh** Happens”. And apparently it happens to me…in the First Christian Spiritualist’s temple sanctuary…with a crystal. Or maybe it was a tarot card–or a divination rod–or a hymnal?

It started simply enough— with a headache—which became a bad headache— that turned into  The.Worst.Headache.Ever. EVER! My head hurt so badly I thought it was going to split open right there is the bed, which I was in for a full fourteen hours. Note: migraines have never, ever plagued me, but plagued I was, and would continue to be, for the next three days.

I awoke that night and the following two nights promptly at three a.m., with a disturbing weight on my chest and terrible anxiety. Once awake and thoroughly freaked out, I felt some kind of dark presence in our bedroom. Note:I have never felt unsafe in my own bed, unless you count the time Oxley knocked over the laundry basket and I thought someone was breaking in.

I prayed silently;it went away. I stopped praying; it came back. Feeling crazy, I woke up Trent, who rolled me into a bear-hug and told me to calm down. But calm down I could not…not while this creepy energy was hanging out with me.

After two days of this weirdness, my spiritual circuitry was so hot you could fry a metaphysical egg on my chakras. I was on high-level alert, like a red rating of spiritual terrorism. I considered calling a priest, even though I am not Catholic. Instead, what did I do? I called my father. In the middle of the night. To pray for me. OUT LOUD. It helped, until the next day when the weirdness forced me to do the unthinkable.

I personally got down on my knees and prayed. OUT LOUD. Rebuking whatever evil was lurking around me and commanding it to Depart from me! In the name of Jesus!

And…it left.

I refuse to name the weirdness Satan, and I suspect that invoking the power of Christ against it was a conditioned knee-jerk reaction based on my childhood and watching too many scary movies. My best guess is that in willingly (and foolishly) joining my energy with about twenty other psychics of dubious origin, I managed to carry home some transference of negative energy. Spiritual or natural I do not know, and I realize this whole thing is very New Age-y and stinks of sensationalism. But still.

If I ever consult a psychic, or medium, or Christian Spiritualist again, I plan to take a crucifix, garlic, and a rosary with me. And possibly bathe in Holy Water before and after.

I am thankful, however, that the spiritual ju-ju forced me to break through my praying wall. I can now pray out loud with anyone, anywhere, for any reason. Except maybe to banish Satan from church camp sound systems.

 

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Witchcraft or Christian-craft? The First Christian Spiritualist Temple

Mom, I'm scared! How does psychic Pastor Carol know about me?

Circa August 2011. Temperature: 90+ degrees.
I just allowed a thug look-a-like (white tee, cocked-hat, multiple chain necklaces,loose jeans belted at mid-thigh) to lead me into a small room, take off my shoes, and touch my bare feet while I try (in vain) to relax on a medical-grade table covered in a Mexican blanket. What the heck am I doing? I mentally panic as the thug closes his eyes, places his hands an inch above my now-bare feet and proceeds to channel healing energy into my foot chakra. I’d cross the street to avoid this guy in broad daylight.** Under what circumstances would I allow this to happen?

The circumstance is the spiritual forum at the First Christian Spiritualist Temple, and I am sweating bullets. Is it because I actually feel heat radiating from Mr. Fro-Bro’s hands or because this historic church building lacks air conditioning?

I’m about to grab my sandals and bolt until I notice an angelic, white-haired oldster rise from a seat in the corner. She hobbles over, lifts her hands over my forehead, and begins channeling energy into my crown chakra. I relax. Nothing truly bad is going to happen to me in the presence of Psychic Grandma.

I’m in a church building, with a totally normal sanctuary and yet things are just….off.

Temple Sanctuary. It looks so...normal.

Aside from the Reiki healing treatment I’m receiving in this little room off the sanctuary, psychic phenomena is taking place all around me. Twenty-five card tables line the church’s perimeter, each staffed with a medium, psychic or healer consulting with a supplicant wishing to know their future. There are crystals, tarot cards, hymnals and Bibles. There is a even a Bible with tarot cards on top of it. I think I have just entered an alternate spiritual country where divination and Jesus combine to create a haven for all things spiritually strange: one fortune-telling nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and communing with the dead for all.
Despite the familiar stained glass and paintings of Jesus holding lambs, the Christian Spiritualist God is one I do not recognize.The Trinity I grew up with frowns upon witchcraft, Ouija boards,alien-abductions and crystals of all kinds. But are these spiritualists actually practicing Christian-craft since they profess to be consulting the Holy Spirit and practicing the gift of prophecy? Hmmm…
Post-reiki healing, I make the psychic table rounds. There are a few total wackos, like the lady who sees me as a queen rat standing on its hind legs holding a spear and dancing to the sounds of rock-n-roll. She interprets this to mean I should stand up for myself and have more fun. (There are a great many things I need improve in my life, but standing up for myself? Not one of them. I’ve already got great standing-up skillz. And nun-chuck skillz, if my nun-chucks are defined as standing-up-for-myself profanity.)
However, there are a few mediums who are right on– including Pastor Carol. She tells me I just got a pet (yes, puppy Oxley) which makes me look to see if I am covered in fur. (I’m not.) She informs me I am on a spiritual journey to enlighten many. (I hope.) She channels my long-dead grandfather who encourages me to, “Persevere!”. Which, according to my mother, is something he said. I ask another woman –she of the Bulging Eye and plaid shirt–, “What about my writing career?” to which she replies, “I’m getting the number thirty regarding your writing.” Ummm, my book is entitled Thirty by Thirty so, yeah, my jaw drops open on that one.

First Christian Spiritualist Temple

I took a few lessons away from this experience:
A.) The term “Christian” is more pluralistic than I thought. That is, you really need to ask a person what they mean when they ask, “Are you a Christian?”
B.) Avoid psychics that do not have a table on the perimeter (aka: rat lady).
C.) It may be best to avoid psychics and energy readers altogether. More about this in my next post.
If you too would like to experience the strangeness of the First Christian Spiritualist Temple, you can do so at their Saturday spiritual forum on the first Saturday of every month. For the bargain price of $15 (with coupon), you can obtain hours of Christian-psychic fun with multiple readings, healing, and a light vegetarian lunch. http://www.christianspiritualisttemple.org/index.html
Truthfully though, I do not recommend it based on what happened to me after I got home; it was not good. More to come on that…
**FYI: I would cross the street to avoid a man of any race dressed like this.
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Da-da-daah….(Drum roll please)… The Inaugural Blog Post!

I view religion from a different perspective

I am the original Spiritual Scrooge.

      If the Ghost of Rebecca Future had appeared to me this time last year, all Dickens’ Christmas Carol-style, and told me what I’d be doing today (December 9, 2011), I would have borrowed Tiny Tim’s crutch, boinked the haunting over the head, and sent her packing back to her future. “No way am I ever going back to church,” I’d huff and puff, stewing in all my Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome rage. “I’ll never, ever have daily conversations about my spiritual path. Heart awakening? Journey of the soul? Bah, Humbug!”
     I’d pull together all my bad memories, all the pain inflicted on me by hard-line theology and hurtful people, and wrap them around me like a miser’s coat. “How dare she!” I’d say in total exasperation, “just imagine me going to thirty places of worship before I turn thirty…and writing about the experience? Yeah…. right.” I’d recall how the church ate my faith for breakfast at 20*, and when faith broke up with me in a Starbucks*. I’d hoard all these thoughts in my little treasure trove of spiritual self-pity, and continue sitting in the cold, dark house I’d built to keep God out… to keep me in… to keep things safe.
     And just like Scrooge, I’d soon be proven wrong.
     Because today I awoke at 4:45am to attend morning prayers in a little Eastern Orthodox chapel with an archbishop monk who looks alarmingly like Santa Claus (aka Father Christmas). I did this willingly, of my own volition….it was even my idea. And that’s not all, folks. In the past 208 days since my 29th birthday (5/15/11), I’ve attended eighteen places of worship…and liked it. (Well,most of it.)
     I’ve revisited the church of my childhood without breaking into hives and ventured into uncharted Atheistic territory. I’ve suffered through an awkward pickup attempt at a post-meditative Buddhist tea service (poor guy didn’t notice my left-hand ring), hugged it out with the African-American Baptists, and been nearly evicted from my synagogue seat for breaking the Sabbath rules. I’ve found out why Hogs Are Evil from the Seventh-Day Adventists and endured an ear-splitting “THOU SHALT TITHE SO THE LORD WILL BLESS YOU” sermon courtesy of the Pentecostals. I’ve attended church in a basement, a movie theater, a cathedral and even a parking lot.
     But the most important thing I’ve done is what I’m still in the process of doing… cracking open my door to the Light and warmth that is the God-iverse. (God+Universe=God-iverse). I’m trading in my wardrobe of bad memories for the wealth of a God who is is bigger than I’d ever imagined.
     I’m discovering  there is room at His** table for all His children…and I’m just now pulling up my seat. Care to join me?
     If so, please follow my ThirtyByThirty.com blog for tales of my thirty visits to places of worship and my thoughts on the God-iverse.  I realize I’m starting this blog smack-dab in the middle of Thirty by Thirty (157 days to go), so forgive me if I have to backtrack at times to fill in the story. What I do not cover in the blog will be addressed in the book…to be published after I get an agent and a publisher! Feel free to ask questions, post comments, and challenge my assumptions and experience. The only thing I know for sure is that I know nothing for sure.
     My spiritual journey doesn’t fit neatly into a box with a pre-printed label, and it may not be wrapped as prettily as yours. Mine is the ugly present under the tree—you know, the one with newspaper that’s barely duct-taped together?
But even so, I believe every journey (even mine) comes with a little tag that reads just as Scrooge’s story ends and this blog begins: God Bless Us, Every One!
*Stories for another post.
**The use of the masculine form of God is in my spiritual DNA. If it doesn’t fit for you, please substitute the feminine. The capitalization denotes my reverence for the God-iverse.
And now…on to Thirty by Thirty,  30×30,  30 by 30, Thirtyx30, or 30byThirty…no matter how you spell it; it’s 365 days, 30 places of worship, and once chance to find faith.
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