My son and I are two of the regular Sunday instrumentalists at church, and we play up on the balcony, which at least in my opinion is the best spot to be. From the balcony you have a comprehensive view; the human landscape is all laid out for you. You see the older folks and the younger folks, the single folks and the married folks, the ornery folks and the quiet folks, the beautifully dressed folks and the just-got-out of bed crowd too. It's a meaningful sliver of humanity. A small circle that lets me practice the task of drawing the larger one. A micro-cosmos. A Sunday village of 150. And when I'm not playing a melody or improvising a descant, I really do like to look down and see who it is (in particular) that Infinity stoops to concern itself with, and asks me as well, to love.
To tell the truth, the ones I most enjoy having a view of are the kids. We have a pretty nice number of them in our congregation, and since their families often sit in the same places every week, you can look for the children in the same way that, if you were an informed boy scout, you could look for certain stars in the sky, because you're prepared and you just know where to look, and even know a lot of their names. There's so-and-so reading a book, and there's so-and-so rolling a matchbox car over the road of his fathers thigh, and look so-and so's just figured out how to hoop cheerios over her canines, she's the cheerio vampire, and look so-and-so is spending the sermon time just peering up at the wooden beams and the chandeliers....
And I know I'm supposed to be participating in the service, and really I am, I'm listening, I'm thinking, I'm considering, I'm all of that. But put it this way: often the kids serve for me as the medium through which the service transmits itself to me--the way the window-glass here at my desk serves as the medium through which the scene of my garden is transmitted to me. And I think that's just fine. What's a better window than a kid? I figure if a sermon doesn't transmit through a kid, then it needs some editing and maybe even wholesale reconstruction. Kids are translucent to the good stuff: God so loved the world, and Mary treasured all these things in her heart, and consider the lilies, and love is not envious or boastful or rude, and there is a river in the city of God...
My own tradition of worship--pews, organ, hymnals, liturgy--is often considered pretty hard on kids, on their attention spans and cognitive stages and so forth, though I myself tend to think that the difficulty is over-rated, in part because there are pleasures for kids in the whole business that we adults often underestimate. For one thing, for many of our congregation's kids, I'll bet church is the one time in the whole week when they have their parents right there with them for a whole hour. Right there holding them. Rubbing their shoulders. Whispering yes yes that's a pretty picture you've drawn. Yet, note as well, that it's also a time when those same children see that they're not the center of attention, no, something else is clearly going on around them, and THAT, whatever that is--that's clearly the center. All of this is very good practice. You can't grow up until you know that you're not the center, though the center may be said to be in you.
I'm thinking right now of a ten year old girl, a member of our congregation. Her grandmother's a longtime fixture in the place. Her mother and father are both ambitious professionals, and she has two brothers as well, both older than she is, and both confident and outgoing. Both boys have read the scripture lessons to the congregation during services, and they knock your socks off every time they do. It's hard to find boys like that these days, expressive and authoritative so young. Where's that come from? Well, a theatrical streak runs through the family, beginning with the grandmother who has worked in the local theaters for ages now, and who I owe some credit to, for helping me out in my first attempts at producing my own plays. Beware the tiger though. Whew. She's going to give it to you straight.
"You think you guys got a show here? Well let me tell you..."
Anyhow this girl, several weeks ago, after the weekly service, showed up in the balcony space, where I'd never seen her. Actually her mother brought her up, and it was the mother who did the talking. Her daughter, she said, had expressed some interest in cello lessons. Did I have any recommendations, thoughts, concerns, advice?
I looked at the girl, who was standing in the doorway. She was about the size of a cello, but skinnier. Lessons would be good, I said. In fact, I knew a cellist, who was probably looking for students.
"Oh?"
"I don't have phone number handy, and honestly I'm not sure I even remember her last name, but I could get both for you, would you like that?"
"Sure sure," said the mother, and the two of us--the mother and I--went on to talk about the local orchestra program. She said that whether the lessons happened or not, her daughter would participate in that program. In fact within the next few days, she'd have her rented cello, and she'd be plucking and bowing away. She looked back toward her daughter, but by this time, the girl had sort of faded out into the hallway, and was looking steadfastly into the office of the music director. Was she feeling contrary? Bored? Just embarrassed by her mother exposing her interests to the world? Just shy?
Well, I was out of town for a week or two. Then their family was. But finally this past week I had the teacher's number and name, and sometime during the service, noted that the girl's family was sitting in its usual place toward the rear, on the left side of the nave. Although the mother was not there. Well, I thought to myself, I could just talk to the girl; it was her lessons after all, her cello, her musical education. She sat in the pew just to the left of her brothers. She was wearing a blue dress. I could catch her after the service.
So after church, I descended to sea level and there she was, sort of flowing toward the front door. I called her name, which I'll pretend was
"Blue."
She kept on walking. I followed. Maybe she had not heard.
"Blue." Had I gotten her name wrong? Because if it was shyness, she really had changed in that department. Goodness four or five years ago, at every children's sermon, she had again and again been the firecracker, the innocent comedian, the industrious generator of bon mots. Quoting Jesus maybe, or maybe her grandmother. Sometimes my wife and I would think of these moments during the week, as a pick me up or a chuckle.
"Blue." Third time's the charm. She turned around and smiled and touched her bangs. She was standing just at the top of the stairs, which led down to the glass doors and the exit.
"Have you started with the cello now?"
She nodded.
"Oh good, because I had the name of that teacher for you, if you still wanted it."
Oh goodness, she was quivering, actually quivering. No parent in sight. No brothers. No grandma. Just her against a musician intent on general recruitment. She was managing though.
"Um. We said that I could just learn at school. For now. Maybe I'll take lessons later?"
"If you liked it enough?"
She nodded, gratefully.
"Well good, I just wanted to make sure. And I can give you that number for that teacher anytime. When you decide."
"Okay."
"See you around," I said.
"Okay."
I want to put in a good word for going to church, or temple, or whatever expression you might use for a place where we come together, in order to express a sense of unity in the One to whom we all belong, and a love for one another and the rest of the world. There are all sorts of reasons to belong to such a community, but the one I'm thinking of now has to do with this ten-year-old in the blue dress.
Dear Blue,
I like going to church. I like it for a fairly high number of reasons, the view from the balcony among them. But I like it particularly right now (as I'm writing this to you, thinking back on our short conversation last Sunday) as a place in which the raising up of young people is still in some way viewed as a job for everyone. Everyone who cares to help. A place where I can walk up to you, and you'll probably know my name, and I'll know yours and I can talk to you about your life (with or without the cello) and feel as though all that's the right and the proper and even the expected thing to do. Part of the theory of the place. And you can respond. And get through. As you managed to do on this occasion, when, even in spite of your shyness, at the top of the stairs you turned, whipped out your secret sword of spunk, and talked to me. You're wonderful, Blue.
Sincerely,
HB
PS: I hope you're enjoying the cello. If you like it (even just a little bit) keep at it. You'll probably like it better and better, the better you get. Generally this is true of all skills in life. The more you master the skill, the more enjoyment you get out of it.
Now I can anticipate two possible objections to this post, from different sides of the religious divide. First, some on the secular side might feel nettled at the implication that opportunities for collective child-raising are experienced only in religious settings. Second, when it comes to believers, a few may feel dinged around the fenders that I seem to consider church mostly as a social opportunity.
To the first set I would say that I wish that community involvement in the raising up of children happened everywhere all the time, but it's sad how the circle of trust needed for that has narrowed to one so small. It wasn't always so. Not so long ago for instance neighbors everywhere could count on neighbors to keep an eye on the kids, and to know them by name, and to give them advice and just wave them a hi on the street. But the world has become so complicated and big, so anonymous; it's like a factory of suspicion, and we buy the yucky goods; I think we eat them. Of course, if you find any opportunities anywhere to be helpful to kids, I'm thankful for that. I expect that you are too.
To the second set, the ones who think I'm in danger of reducing faith to a social hour, no, for the most part I'm just enumerating a blessing, just telling about a certain moment and where it happened and what it meant to me, and why I'm grateful for it. Though I am also not ashamed to say that for me abstract doctrine and cosmological assertions play second fiddle to the truths of human experience, unless in fact they have something to say to that experience that is relevant and useful. This is to say that I love my church less as a place to say "I believe in such and such a God who has such and such properties," and much more as a community of Love in which the human generations come together and worship and pray and bury their dead and celebrate their marriages and congratulate one another on their achievements and sympathize with one other in their sorrows and griefs, and through it all, that Love is always there. I don't think there's anything strange in this. Or culpable. Precisely because doctrine and our love for one another ought to be one and the same thing, and understanding of the divine ought to be embodied in action i.e. "God is love (a cosmological assertion if there ever was one), and God is within me, and acts through me; therefore I will express God's Love to you."
Finally, to give a nod to the grand theme of the blog, I just want to say once again (to everyone) that as we go forward and life gets materially more difficult and expensive, and weather-wise more uncertain, and politics-wise less effective and more explosive, and just in general things feel less stable and predictable--in the face of this, the immediate human community is one of the wisest places to invest your time, energy, affection, patience, and love. Get to know your neighbors and their children and their gardens and their dogs. Find a set of people who will support you as you pass through all the stages of life, and to whom, in return, you too can be of service. And of course I don't mean this just as pragmatic preparation for the future. I mean it foremost for today! So much meaning lies in being able to give yourself away. It is a good thing now.
HB
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