Tall Windows

I no longer worship in any traditional sense, nor do I anticipate ever worshipping in a church again, but there was a time when I went to a church and one of its most wonderful architectural details was tall, clear windows above the altar. For me, I would sit in spring and look at the shoots of leaves, and sit in summer and stare at the lushness of the season. I would sit in fall and admire the breathtaking colorful beauty of autumn, and I would sit in winter and be humbled by the stark gracefulness of bare branches. Mostly, I would sit and be aware I was in the presence of Something Greater Than I Am.

In the course of attending this house of worship, I started a food pantry, drove hundreds of pounds of food to the food bank, helped someone I love through the tragedy of losing a child, taught ESL classes, and generally busied myself being part of Something Greater Than I Am. In May of last year, I got a disturbing phone call from someone from that house of worship telling me I should "get down on my f***ing knees and pray for what a b****" I was." She told me I was loathed, "hated," and surrounded by "minions." It was a frightening call full of vitriol. In July of last year while the church was still in a state of turmoil over truly petty things, my Significant Other took my kids to a small church party--and returned home with my van keyed from one end to the other--truly gouged. I can't prove who did it. Of course, I think I know. But regardless, I knew whoever did had a lot of ugliness spilling from them.

Shortly after that, I received another call. This time telling me the leadership of that church, including the Man in the Collar, were, in essence, asking me never to reference church on this blog or mention the abusive call I'd received. I could ATTEND their church of tall windows, but I could not lead--which meant my ESL classes, and numerous other programs would no longer be things I could do unless I found someone new to lead them and I merely helped or assisted. Apparently, a blog I wrote offended someone there. Rather than self-censor my morning thoughts on writing, motherhood, spirituality, my children, life, and themes, I opted to leave this place of worship. What I found myself longing for, though, even aching for, were those tall windows, and the seasonal reminder of Something Bigger Than I Am.

But over time, I wondered. Were there more mean people in the world than kind people? Or was it simply that those who relished cursing and keying cars, or making scenes simply . . . were LOUDER and more out of control, so we noticed them more?

For months I pondered this. Thematically, in the themes of good versus evil, I wrote about it in fiction. And still I wondered. And still I longed for the tall windows.

After a while, I came to a new conclusion. That the people who think it's okay to curse at people were NOT more in number than the kind people. But that all of the people who stood around and said, "We feel bad that this happened to you, but . . . what can we do?" were more populous. They were, silently perhaps, tacitly saying "it's okay." I myself, I think, sometimes fell into that category. Because ever since I came to study spiritual figures like Buddha, and Ghandi, and Jesus Christ, "nonviolence" and turning the other cheek, and compassion were such deep-rooted themes, and conflict so against those ideals, that I often was silent in places where I felt outnumbered, or where I felt silence was the more graceful way. Oldest Daughter once even said, "I liked when you didn't study Buddhism because then you were in touch with your inner b****"--which admittedly can come in HANDY when fighting against bureaucracy or some other of the thousands of little battles we can find ourselves in during our lives.

And still, I missed the tall windows. I stopped feeling there was anything Bigger Than Myself because whoever that was . . . Bigger Than was silent, too.

And then I realized there was a reason for the silence. Bigger Than, if he/she existed, really expected the people with a conscience to do more than shrug and say, "We're sorry but . . ." I think Bigger Than expected that people of conscience would speak up.

So now I have watched the horrific news on the shooting in Arizona. And whether it's mental illness at the root of it, whatever it is as the story unfolds, there is a sense that we have allowed the loudest, ugliest of voices to talk about hit lists, and locking and reloading, and that people--whatever their politics, who have their disagreements but disagree in quiet ways--have allowed the Loud Ones free reign. It's not just politics and talking heads. I see it in grocery stores, in restaurants, even in a church with tall windows. Those who speak the ugliest of language are the ones we appease, we step aside for.

It's somehow my hope--I don't pray anymore--but somehow my hope, that if there is something Bigger Than I Am, Bigger Than ALL of US, that people can learn to disagree with civility.

I am also ever and ever more aware that words are weapons. I've been trying, this year, to choose my words wisely.

So for today I say . . .

Shalom.

Namaste.

Peace.

Love.

Compassion.

Kindness.

And remember, that sometimes silence is a good thing. But sometimes silence is cowardice. And may we all learn to discern the difference.

Thoughts?

[NOTE: I posted this last night and then pulled it. In some weird coincidence, my friend Natasha Fondren read it in the half hour in the night it was up and asked me where I went. I told her I didn't want to contribute to ugliness . . . only ask for tolerance. So my hope is it's taken in that spirit. Thanks, Natasha, for asking me to post it.]