I actually had to leave church today. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt uncomfortable with the way the worship service was conducted, or that I had a strong disagreement with the pastor on any subject.

I consider myself a pretty good Christian; my spirituality is primarily Christian, though I suppose it’s been heavily influenced over the years by my study of other religious traditions in the world, such as Buddhism (particularly Zen Buddhism), Islám, Judaism, and even Wicca. My approach to religion these days is not so much as to insist that my way is the right way, but that I have only partial access to the Truth (whatever that is). Not everyone who disagrees with me is wrong, I learned a long time ago, and I always try to keep in mind that I’m not necessarily right. I chose Christianity because, when properly exercised, it is a moral imperative that I can accept and because the theology makes sense to me on intellectual, moral, and spiritual levels. Christianity, for me, is a way of loving people, a way of relating to God, and not a way of imposing judgement on others. The two most important commandments in the Bible are Jesus’: “The first great commandment is this: to love God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. The second is like unto it: To love your neighbor as yourself. This is the sum of all the prophets.” And just in case you have any doubts about who your neighbor is, read Matthew 5-7, where he lays out explicitly that we are to do things like pray for our enemies, etc. I could go on and on about this but I won’t, not here.

However strong I feel about my faith, however, I know that it rests on shaky intellectual grounds. I cannot provide any logical or syllogistic or Aristotlean proof that God exists, that Jesus is our Savior, or that certain moral choices are right and others wrong (and besides, moral choices are often ambiguous anyway). But I do know that because my faith is not intellectual, I cannot use it to justify intellectual sloppiness. I try to be a skeptic with regards to claims of the supernatural or paranormal, or even with bits of folklore that I receive over the Internet or by word of mouth from friends and family. I can’t take these things at face value. When my sister received an e-mail a few years ago purporting to contain a recipe from Mrs. Smith’s Cookies (with the old saw about how the sender had been overcharged for a cookie, etc.), I immediately did some research online to find out the veracity of the e-mail, and found that it is a classic urban legend.

So today our church is basing an entire service on the traditional Christmas song, “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. The rationale is that the song is an old one which was invented in England to help Catholic children learn the tenets of their faith in order to keep them safe from English persecution (for many years after the Reformation, it was illegal to practice Catholicism in England). This is nonsense, of course. A moment of common sense will urge you to ask why the Catholics had to codify their beliefs in a song like this when they were so similar to the belief of the Anglican church? But someone on our worship committee heard the legend and didn’t investigate it, and today there was an entire service based on it.

I’ve been uncomfortable with this ever since I heard that it was going to happen. My faith is an odd one, I know, and part of it means that it’s simply immoral to use faith to justify untruth. Scientific Creationism, in this context, is simply wrong; you don’t use faith to justify bad science. And you don’t excuse your lack of research into an urban legend just because some other church said it was true. How can you possibly assert moral and spiritual truths, I feel, when you blindly accept intellectual falsehoods?

Ther sevice would have twelve little speeches about the symbolism of the song, followed by twelve special carols. I was asked to sing along with the carols, and this morning I went to the church early to rehearse. But when I saw the insert and the program, I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to stay. I was going to fidget uncomfortably during the entire service, and I was going to feel like a hypocrite and a liar. I don’t like feeling this way, especially not in church.

A couple of weeks ago I went to Snopes and found a long entry about this urban legend. I printed it out, complete with resources, and dropped it off anonymously to our pastor. As far as I know, no good came of it.

I don’t blame anyone; I try not to. I know better than to think for an instant that anyone in our church went out of their way to knowingly present bad information simply because it makes Christianity look better. I know it’s just laziness. But I couldn’t be there and be a part of it.

And that’s why I had to leave church this morning.

Update: 3:00 p.m., December 28, 2003: Jennifer, who went to the service, informs me that our pastor did emphasize that the full truth of the urban legend is ultimately unknown. I feel better now.

I cheerfully admit that by the standards of some people — the more fundamentalist of them — I am probably destined to go straight to Hell. In some sort of handbasket, I don’t doubt. My understanding of God and my approach to religion and spirituality are by no means traditional or even very conservative. I just feel, sometimes, like God is… well… just a bit too small.

I’ve just returned from midnight mass at my parents’ church. In years past I have always found midnight mass inspiring and exciting, in spite of my less than orthodox faith. But this year, something was different. I found myself feeling short-tempered, grumpy, and irritable. When mass was over I quickly made my excuses and left the church to head straight back to my parents’ house in order to take some medicine that I should have taken earlier anyway. Perhaps it was that I was tired, or that my allergies were starting to kick in along with my asthma. Perhaps it was that my heart is two sizes too small. For whatever reason, my temper was short and I just didn’t find Mass as inspiring as I usually do.

Religion, I admit, frequently puzzles me. While I am nominally a Christian — more specifically, a Methodist — I just don’t find myself entirely moved or inspired by the story of Jesus Christ or the Christmas story. It may be that I just don’t "get it", or that I didn’t pay enough attention in Sunday school when I was a kid… Or perhaps my faith is simply the measure of a mustard seed.

It’s not that I don’t believe in Jesus Christ; I believe that Jesus certainly existed, historically, and that he was a wise and intelligent man. Was he divine or God incarnate? I don’t know. There are times when I think about it and find the idea of Jesus Christ as God an exciting one; the myth made flesh — or, if the Episcopalian catechism is correct and God is love, then Jesus was a physical incarnation of love.

But at Christmas mass I see people moved to tears by the Christmas story, and I can’t identify.

I do consider myself a spiritual person. I have seen too many miracles in my life to not believe that there is something which exists which is bigger than me, which watches over the universe and possibly even set things in motion in the first place. I don’t believe in a personified deity, someone who sits in a throne and passes judgement on us based on our sexuality or our beliefs or who we voted for in the last election (yes, I have met people who have tried to tell me that I am going to hell because I’ve voted Democrat or even Green in past elections). But I’ve had a hard time ever finding a place where I can feel comfortable expressing my own spirituality. I grew up as an Episcopalian, one of the more liberal denominations of Christianity; but in my time I’ve also attended Catholic Masses, Jewish temple, Moslem prayer circles, Baha’i festivals, Buddhist meditation ceremonies… I’ve even taken part in a Wiccan invokation of the four winds, and danced in a circle to honor Shiva. But I haven’t found an expression of spirituality which doesn’t feel, somehow, small and stifling.

While exploring all of these religious traditions, I’ve also read a wide range of holy books; I’ve read several versions of the Bible, of course, as well as the Qur’an, the writings of the Baha’i Faith, the Bhagavad Gita, the Upanishads, the Tao Te Ching, the Analects of Confucius, and on and on and on. I have found a lot of wisdom in all of these books, and I can easily believe that many of them were divinely inspired; wisdom is wisdom, after all, no matter where it comes from or what trappings it’s hidden in. But none of the holy books can pass for literal truth; the best way to experience the scriptures of any religious tradition, Christianity included, is as metaphor. God is not a concept that can easily be explained or experienced; metaphor is the best that we can do.

With Christianity, I am most bothered by the notion that eternal life and salvation are reserved for those who believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ. It seems to me that this turns Christianity into an exclusive club of some sort, where if you accept the tenets of the club you get to play in the clubhouse; and if you don’t believe in what the club believes, no matter what kind of person you are, you can’t play in the clubhouse. Some people find this inspiring. I don’t. I find it frustrating; some of my favorite playmates, when I was a child, were the ones who couldn’t get into the clubs. I know that there are plenty of Christian flavors that don’t believe this way — the Episcopalian church and the Methodist church both spring to mind — but it is certainly true of an overwhelming number of Christian folks.

None of this, though, really explains my feelings at Christmas Eve mass this year; why I was short-tempered, or why I was uninspired or unmoved at service this year. Perhaps next year, when Jennifer and I are attending service together with my parents, before driving home and spending Christmas Day with her family, I’ll feel better about everything.

"I’ll keep Christmas in my way," said Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. I will, too; by reflecting on the season, by remembering that Christmas is not about the presents or the money or the credit card bills; nor is it about being "the one time of year when everyone loves each other and peace reigns throughout the earth" (because, honestly, in my experience, people are just as cruel and mean to each other at Christmas time as they are during the rest of the year; more so, in some cases); it’s about remembering the presence of the divine in the world and reconnecting to it. For me, that is, even if I don’t really identify heavily with the Christmas tradition. Other people do it in other ways; and that’s all right, too.

My own spiritual explorations have been all over the map: I’ve toyed with Catholicism, Unitarianism, Mormonism, Judaism, Shinto, Islám, and even the Bahá’i Faith. Even though I am a "cradle Episcopalian" — born, baptised, and confirmed in the Episcopal Church — I can’t bring myself to say that the church I identify with is any more "right" than any other faith, nor that any other faith in the world is "wrong" simply because it isn’t mine. Indeed, I identify myself as an Episcopalian for no very good reason at all except that it’s the religion I grew up with. I haven’t been to church in months.

Even so, the idea of entering the clergy has entered my head from time to time. The last time I seriously thought about becoming a priest or even a monk was probably close to five or six years ago (or longer), but that time has passed, and I’m certain now that that’s not where I am called to be. And yet, I can’t help but feel a little bit of awe for those people who are called to ministry in their own faith.

Last Saturday, I accompanied Jennifer to the Northern California/Nevada Methodist Convention in Sacramento, because her mother was to be consecrated as a diaconal minister in the Methodist church. Now, I don’t pretend to understand anything about the hierarchy of the Methodist Church, any more than I understand the hierarchy of any other church (even the Episcopalian church!); but I know that this is an important honor for Jennifer’s mother. I was glad to have been invited to the ceremony, to provide support as her "son-in-law-in-training".

Being in the same convention hall with thousands of people who share a common faith is a memorable experience. I seem to recall looking out over the throngs and muttering to myself, "Wow, look at all these Methodists!" I’ve attended Easter Mass at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, and I’m not sure there were as many people there as there were at the Sacramento Convention Center for the Methodist conference. Jennifer led me over to sit with some friends of her family’s from the Roseville church that they had once attended; and we were soon joined by one of her sisters, and her sister’s in-laws, who immediately began to tease me; "Are you sure you know just what kind of family you’re marrying into?" they asked me. I looked over at Jennifer, who was making some sort of silly face at the moment; and over at her sister, who, with her husband, was making google-eyes at their 2-year old son; and I replied, "You might have a point…"

The ceremony began. I had been entrusted with Jennifer’s mother’s camera, and as she and the other candidates for consecration processed into the convention center and past the crowds and on to the stage, I took as many photographs as I could. Jennifer’s mother had a huge smile on her face (not an unusual thing, and, thankfully, a trait that Jennifer has inherited from her), and her husband, who was walking beside her, was beaming as well, in his own stoic way. During the consecration itself — which also involved Episcopalian bishop Jerry Lamb — I kept on eye on Jennifer’s mother, and on Jennifer herself. The look of pride on Jennifer’s face was powerful, as was the look of joy on her mother’s.

After the ceremony, Jennifer and I joined her parents for a late dinner at Baker’s Square. We had a lot of fun, made silly jokes, and laughed a lot. At times, I think our waitress was completely frazzled by our table.

So I’m pretty sure now that I know just what kind of family I’m marrying into. Honestly, I couldn’t be happier. And now that I’ll be marrying a minister’s daughter, I suppose there’s some extra pressure on me.

Heh. I guess we’ll see.