Tags
chautauqua theater company, Christianity, church, Essays, Nonfiction, Plays, Religion, Spirituality, Theatre, young jean lee
I’ve never been a regular churchgoer. In my defense, most nice Jewish girls aren’t. I’ve been TO church before—more often than not, to impress a nice Christian boy—but I’ve never turned to church as a place to seek the divine.
I was, however, raised as a regular synagogue-goer. All through my childhood, my mother was adamant that I attend Friday night Shabbat services. When I went through what I now consider my obligatory atheist phase, I asked my mother what the point of going to services was. God, in my mind, didn’t exist; no one was keeping a heavenly attendance record, so why sit in an empty classroom?
“We go because Shabbat makes us feel good,” she said, and I wasn’t allowed to argue further.
Young Jean Lee, I suspect, would hate this answer. Just as Reverend Jose rails against pointless “masturbation rage,” so might his author hate “masturbation joy.” The divine, in Lee’s writing, is wrapped up in action: an end to injustice, kindness between humans. Any outward, selfless action cuts it.
Still, feeling good, in my mind, isn’t sin. Life is a long enough and rough enough slog that finding some delight is the least we can do for ourselves. Sure, all traditions have a spiritual elite who rail against this luxury—monks, nuns, and the like—but for most of us, attaining this level of selflessness is unlikely at best, impossible at worst.
I’m a fan of gentler treatment, to myself as well as (hopefully, hopefully, oh on my best days) to others. I believe in securing my own oxygen mask before assisting my seatmate. I believe that martyrdom is impressive but certainly not for me. I believe that small kindnesses, while not earth-shaking, are at least sustainable.
My mother, in addition to being a devout synagogue-goer, also believes in ghosts. She thinks that the dead contact her in dreams. She thinks angels watch over us. She watches The Long Island Medium with more conviction than a reasonable person should have.
Religion and spirituality help my mother cope. Through losses and cancers, depressions and struggles, this particular brand of self-help has guided her through.
Reaching out to God, to the divine whatever, helps us feel good, and this is not sinful. We owe it to ourselves to reconnect. But we also owe it to others to focus on interpersonal reconnections.
I watched Chautauqua Theater Company’s production of Church and thought, “If real church services were like this, maybe I’d attend.” At the few services to which I’ve been, I’ve resented the moralizing, sure, but I’ve also felt uncomfortable by the earnest, constant reassurance that Jesus loves ME, individually and specially. I’m all about filling up my cup, but a cuddlefest with my Heavenly Father goes too far. I’d feel better if Jesus redirected the energy he spends loving me toward a suffering person who needs it more.
We don’t need to feel special. We need to feel centered, but that is all. The mission of Lee’s Church reaches outwards, a worship conducted by giving, not by singing and assuring everyone that God loves them. “God is love” is a great mantra, but it too easily gets twisted into “God loves me.”
God, I think, is more likely to appear when I love others, and when I trust myself to do so well.