This is (really late) Essay #50 of The 52 Essay Challenge, (I'm almost there!!) a series in which I write a new (unpolished & messy) essay each week during 2017.
I would be remiss if I didn’t write about Christmas and
spirituality and everything in between. And so, predictably, on this 25th
day of December, I will write about Christmas and what it means to me (man, how
cliché is that sentence?! I feel like throwing up from the cheesiness dripping
off that sentence! Hahaha!).
In all seriousness…
Because I have kids who still believe in Santa, we attended
the Christmas vigil mass yesterday afternoon. This has been our custom. How can
I reasonably expect to get this family to mass on Christmas morning? There are
presents to play with, breakfast treats to eat, assembly instructions to read,
family to visit. When they are older, I’d like to take them to midnight mass.
There’s something sacred about being in a church lit only by candles held by
congregants.
So, if you don’t know, I’m a practicing Catholic who also
practices yoga and believes in yogic philosophy and Hinduism and Buddhism. My
faith practices are a mosaic of these. There’s this one devout Catholic I know
who believes I’m going to burn in hell for this; she didn’t say so directly,
but paraphrased some priest who said, in so many words, that people who
practice yoga are going to hell as it is akin to paganism. Whatever, dude. God
loves all people, no matter how they practice their faith or religion, if they
even do that. He loves all of us even if some of us don’t believe he exists.
This is what gets me about religion: so many rules, so many
“dos” and “don’ts”. Listen, as along as it’s done with love and causes harm to
no one (including yourself), do whatever you want, do whatever connects you,
whatever works for you. We’re all God, you know.
Anyway, while I have my issues with the Catholic Church, I
still go to mass because there is something there for me. Yes, the
predictability of ritual can get boring. (Though my favorite hymns can never
get boring. Sometimes I wonder why the music director even tries new songs.
Let’s stick with the tried and true!) Yes, most folks in attendance are there
out of obligation rather than celebration (often, I ask myself why they even
show up at all – but my Tita Emma says at least they’re there. There’s an
opportunity for something to happen. Ever the optimist she is.). Yes, the
patriarchal structure of the Church bugs the shit out of me (remind me why we
can’t have women as priests & deacons??). But still, I still go to mass.
There’s something about being in a space deemed sacred,
about being in that place with other people, and sharing, more or less, the same
intent. But also having the opportunity to go within oneself in the midst of
all this. It’s kinda like going to yoga class. For me, anyway. Yoga is a sacred
practice for me and while I have my own home practice, it’s different when I
practice with a class. There is collective energy that usually, but not always,
feeds me.
Christmas mass is always special for me. The familiar hymns
get me misty, especially “Joy to the World” because it’s so big in its joy, its
celebration over the birth of a tiny baby who has come to light our way. The
packed house gets me, too. And while I know most of those folks never step into
a church except for this day (no, they don’t even come for Easter), the fact
that they’re there, that it fills the church where it’s standing room only – it
fills me, for some reason. It could just be the sheer volume: all of these
people, I tell myself, have come to celebrate the birth of this baby who is
pure love, pure joy. How can we be that all the time? How can we be joy and
love? How can we keep practicing towards that: pure love, pure joy?
But there are also moments during the mass itself when my
eyes tear up a bit. Most of those moments are when I close my eyes in prayer. I
can feel an energy in the room, a brilliant light, a high vibration. This, I
dare say, is what joy feels like. And this is why I keep coming back to mass.
Know this about me: I serve in my church as a Eucharistic
Minister. So last night, I played in the all-star game (yeah, I got jokes!). I
always forget how amazing it feels to offer the Body of Christ to congregants.
(I’ll save the religion talk about the Body of Christ for another time) For me,
it’s not what you might think. It’s not: whoa – I get to hold the Body of
Christ in my hands! How cool is that?? For me, I have this honor of sharing
something holy with others, whether they share this belief or not. And by holy,
I mean it in the sense that the act of sharing in and of itself is holy. Food
becomes holy when it’s shared (this is something food writer, Simran Sethi, has
said & I agree!) Yes, it’s an honor because not everyone gets to do this,
but mostly because I get the serve and to share. And to do that with people who
may or may not believe in the same things I do. With people who may or may not
see me at all. (And when I say “see”, you must know by know that I mean for
people to really SEE, to acknowledge the presence of one’s soul, one’s
existence as an individual.) But then again, it’s not about me. It’s not about
anyone seeing me –not in this role. I am only there to facilitate the communion
of believer with Christ, to commune self with Self.
I was thinking about this while I offered the host last
night. Then, I noticed each person that came up to receive was white.
Seriously. I don’t think there was one person of color in my section. I
remember thinking to myself: man, I
didn’t think my church was this
white! Hahaha! What was interesting in that moment of realization, though
(and the re-realization that most of these folks put Cheetoh in office), was
that I didn’t have an emotional reaction to this. It was more just a noticing:
they are white, I am not.
I could also tell by how they prepared to receive the Body
of Christ that they were either out of practice or, more likely, they didn’t
see this ritual as sacred. I noticed their hands. Were they placed one on top
of the other, palms open? At heart level? Or at belly level? Hands cupped like
I was going to pour water in there? Some people just held out one hand and
tossed the host in their mouths like popcorn. Some approached with a grumble;
others with a smile. One person opened his mouth to receive— I raised the host
and began to carefully place it on his tongue in the way I’ve been trained so
as not to touch; he darted his mouth forward and almost ate my finger. Most
people who receive by mouth usually hold the Body of Christ as so sacred that
they cannot touch it with their own hands. I thought this was true of this
person. But then as he turned away to move along, he was laughing a little with
his friend, as if someone had just told a joke. I was puzzled. But the amazing
thing? No emotional response – I didn’t get mad like I might have (take this seriously, would you?!), but
instead, just noticed. Interesting, I
thought to myself.
As I write this, I think about the neutral mind (one of the
bodies of existence according to Kundalini – go look it up!) – is that what
this is? I also wonder if this is a sign of my heart growing wider, expanding
with unconditional love. And then I think about the sound of my kids fighting
over who’s winning (or, cheating) at foosball, my skin starts to prickle, and
suddenly I ask: unconditional love? Really? Haha!
But in all seriousness, if we can put aside all the shit
that we have allowed Christmas to become –which, it seems, is the checking off of
a to-do list by a hard deadline (when I mentioned that I hadn’t done my cards
yet, my uncle’s wife said: there’s always next year. To which I said: no, there’s
tomorrow – it’s still the season. Does everything end on the 26th??)—then
maybe there’s room for love, for real pure love. And for joy, absolute joy.
I wish you and yours a blessed and joyful Christmas, no
matter what faith you practice, because really, I’m wishing you love.
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