It’s Christmas, and I haven’t been to a church service in years.

When I was a child, I went to Catholic Mass a few times, mostly as a spectator.  We weren’t Catholic.  My mother, an agnostic, married my non-practicing step-father, whose mother was very much a devoted Catholic.  So we went to church because we were Judeo-Christian in our upbringing, if not in our practice.

Of all the annual masses that I attended, the one that stands out the most was a particular midnight mass on Christmas Eve.  I was about 10 years old.  The church was cold and the priests (I am guessing they were priests) swung incense which made it very difficult for me to breathe.  Everyone else seemed able to handle it, but I couldn’t breathe.  My mother took me out to the vestibule where there was a wooden bench and told me to wait there.  Then she went back to the service.  It was even colder in the vestibule than it was in the sanctuary.  I was so sleepy (it being midnight after all, and me being 10 years old) that I lay down on the bench.  I knew I wasn’t supposed to lie down on a bench in a church, but I was so tired.  I managed to ignore the cold to get some sleep, but it wasn’t very deep.  At some point a man walked by and saw me lying there.  I immediately sat up.  I didn’t want to appear homeless.  When he left, I lay back down.

So that is my most vivid memory of a Catholic mass- being tortured by cold and sleep while my parents sat through a service they didn’t believe in.

Although we weren’t practicing Catholics, it was always in the background of our lives.  My step-father, a voracious reader, often invoked that if he were stranded on an island and could only take three books with him, the Bible would be one of them.  However, I’ve never seen him personally read the Bible, although we always had one on the bookshelf.  He had deference for God in an abstract sense but I never saw him read the Bible or talk about him personally.

“Who are you to question God?” he would ask if I questioned God.

Catholicism hung in the air like a picture that hangs on a wall: always present, always watching, but never really a part of our lives.

In college I joined the born-again Christian movement.  I got baptized, felt noticeably high for three days, then went back to feeling normal.  I continued going to church for four years after college.  During this period I had attended Anglican, Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal, and nondenominational churches.  Away from church, I felt lost.  By 2000, something didn’t feel right.  I felt church was impinging more than helping me.  I was scared to death of leaving because by then, I truly feared going to hell for not being a Christian.  I wrestled with my doubts.

“Who are you to question God?” I remembered.

I had to leave or be a fraud.  I left.  I was 26 at the time, and I prayed that I wouldn’t die and go to hell.

Over time I became more comfortable with being non-Christian.  It felt more natural to me than being a Christian, which I saw as a hypocrisy, particularly after the child sexual abuse scandal by Catholic priests.  However, I continued to pray and speak to God.  I lived life with Him, if you will.  I would question Him when I needed to and say thank you when something good happened.  I can’t say that He was always there, but I was there, and I communicated to Him, even if I didn’t know exactly who He was.

Last year I began attending an arts and crafts meetup at a local church, which actually takes place in a building owned by a Boeing subcontractor.  You could say it was my first foray into church in fifteen years.  The meetup is not overtly religious.  There is play time followed by story time.  The last story is one from the Bible.  The teacher allows parents to leave early to begin the arts and crafts activities, but I haven’t seen anyone leave early.  After a short story from the Bible, there is a short activity for children involving fastening hearts, a cross, a crown and a tree to an even bigger heart, which signifies God’s love.  The religious aspect of the 90 minute event lasts 10 minutes.  I go because I appreciate the community, and even though I am not a believer, I am Judeo-Christian in my thoughts and culture.  I wanted Polina to have this experience, and when she is older she can decide for herself what to believe.

One day, on a road I travel on regularly, I saw a sign for a Christmas choir concert performed by the Boeing Employees Choir.  After work one Saturday, I went.  I took Polina with me because I wanted her to experience choir music.  I was worried about being asked who I was or why I was there because I wasn’t a member of the church.  People have asked me that before in a friendly way, but it makes me uncomfortable.  Their goal is to get you to come back and be “saved.”

In my mind I contemplated responding, if anyone asked why I was there, “We’re going to hell.  We’re just here for the music.”

Fortunately, no one asked me about myself or why I was there.  I chose a seat in the front row off to the side not far from the piano, where Polina wouldn’t bother anyone.

The choir performed standards like Away in a Manger, Deck the Hall, Perfect Christmas Night, and White Christmas, but they also performed Cats’ Memory by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the Gershwins’ Summertime. 

Summertime?  I guess instead of dreaming of a white Christmas, we could also be dreaming of summer.  And what does Memory have to do with Christmas?  But I have an open mind.  Everything is connected.  Old life, new year…..

Ofcourse the first song they performed was Memory.  It’s one of several songs that leads me to tears.  I heard the murmur of people’s voices in the background as the music started.  It must be nice to be able to talk and not cry in these situations.

What is it about music that permeates your soul, makes it quiver until your face feels heavy and your eyes sting with tears?

How embarrassing.

When my skin tingles and my eyes swell well up, it’s usually because of something good.  I rarely cry about anything bad anymore.  I don’t cry about accidents or bombings or starvation.  When I hear bad news, I usually change the station.  In my younger days I was an activist of sorts and cared deeply and passionately.  Now, I’ve kind of gotten used to bad things.  At times, I’ve become indifferent.  But something good in the midst of distress, a sprout in the midst of desolation, that makes me cry.

I saw the beauty of these ordinary people, all working for Boeing, come together to make music.  There was a middle aged man standing on the end closest to us who sang bass.  He had greying hair on the edges above his ears.  He looked like he was in upper management.  He had that glow of the upper middle class.  And here he was singing, giving.  It doesn’t matter that they all went to college.  To me, working for Boeing, the daily grind of the machine to produce a product, they are working class.

I admired them coming together to sing.  For as long as I can remember, I felt uncomfortable singing.  It feels like something so personal and vulnerable, like unveiling my shirt, which I’m not, but that’s what singing feels like to me.  I used to feel anxious when a solo artist sang.  I was afraid they would choke or something wouldn’t go right.  In short, I felt anxiety for them.  I no longer feel that way.

It was beautiful to watch these people come together when they could have done anything else.  It was beautiful to watch people come together for a higher good.  It is so rare these days.

The choir sang individually and in concert.  The beauty of their voices came from the people themselves- their discipline of training and rehearsal, their ability to keep standing and singing without having to pee or shake a stiff leg .  The music was beautiful because of the people behind the music.  That’s why it’s so powerful.

And this other group of people, the audience, who could have stayed home on their couch, also moved me because they left their routine to come to this event to experience something higher.  It seems ordinary now as I write this but in that environment I was moved to tears.

The other thing that happened was that I was filled with inspiration.  I had all of these ideas flowing and I wanted to write, but I had nothing to write with.  Stuck with nothing with which to expel my thoughts, inspiration competed for attention with the choral music.

Why did I have so much inspiration?  Is it because I’ve already gone through church and questioned God through trials?  (I mean really question God and not make excuses for Him.)  Did I feel what I feel because I dared to address God face to face?  Did I feel the good energy in the room because my life had been so dire?

I realized recently that I am surrounded by Christians.  All of my coworkers are Christian.  There was one holdout, a self-identified non-practicing Catholic.  Later he told me, “I believe in Jesus.”  I said, “V–, I thought you weren’t Christian?”  He said, “I’m not. I believe in Jesus.”  The last beacon had fallen.  Being surrounded by Christians is rare in this corner of the world, where many people identify as secular.

We recently had a real estate agent come to our home to appraise it.  After he left, I turned to the back of his business card and it quoted Romans 10:9-10:  “If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.” 

If you declare with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. 10 For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you profess your faith and are saved.

Who puts that on their business card, particularly in this corner of the world?  I felt like every time I question God, he does something like this to let me know He’s there.  How do I know?  I don’t.  It just feels that way.

Several years ago I encountered some young Mormon missionaries.  They encouraged me to attend a Mormon church.   I asked them how they knew that what they believed in was real.

“We know,” they said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“We know,” they said.

“I think it’s great that you know,” I responded.

If I knew, I would share it too, but I don’t know.

Jesus- what a fantastic story.  A bright star, wise men, not to mention a virgin birth.  A Messiah, and we killed Him.  But we’re not the only ones.  Where was God when Jesus died in this painful, brutal way?  Recently I had this thought about forgiving God.  A couple weeks later, I realized it wasn’t about ordinary people.  The thought was about Jesus forgiving God.  Did He?

There is so little in the Bible about Jesus’ childhood.  There is no chapter about being a parent, perhaps life’s most important and challenging job (after securing nuclear weapons and making sure people don’t die).

Christians believe in something I don’t, even though we hear the same message.  Pardon the analogy, but maybe being Christian is like being gay- you either have the receptors to accept it or do not.  Or maybe accepting Jesus is a matter of stretching your mind.  Like if I think about being gay… Uh, no.  I don’t want to cross that border.  I’m not attracted to people of the same sex nor do I want to be.  There are some gay and bisexual people that are attracted to each other and want to be.  Maybe that’s what being a Christian is like.  You’re either attracted to it and/or want it or not.  Did I not want to be a Christian bad enough?  Was that the problem?  But if I accept it, it doesn’t feel genuine.

Listening to the choir music, I figured I would be sitting in hell with the gay people.  Wait a minute.  There’s a rainbow flag in the church lobby. Gays are welcome here.  I’ll be in hell by myself.

When I stand before God, if I have a chance to plead my case, I can say that I have a relationship with Him.  Not in a church setting paying homage to the cross, but every day, multiple times talking, feeling, questioning.  God could make it easier for us.  He could give us an oracle.  He could open a Twitter account.  So far, I understand Him this way- through tingles and tears when I encounter something good.

Polina had a hard time sitting still during the concert.  She moved between the floor and the chair.  I sat straight in my chair, trying to set an example to her.  I whispered for her to sit still and listen.

“I’m tired waiting for the music,” she said.  She continued to move from her chair to the floor.  At times she lay on the floor like a starfish.  It was difficult for me to enjoy the performance and keep an eye on her that way.  She didn’t take a nap that day, and that made her behavior more difficult.  I tried to coax her to sit still, but it wasn’t working.  It occurred to me that maybe that’s how God tries to reach out to us, but we’re too immature and doing our own thing.

I soon realized she was too young for this performance.  (No wonder there weren’t any other kids her age there.)  At some point she will be able to sit in her seat, like the older kids seated behind us, but right now the situation was torturous for both of us.  I decided to drive her home during intermission.

After the first half of the performance, just before intermission, a man who said he was the Finance Director of the church came to the front of the stage.  After the pleasantries, he said they recently got new carpet.  I thought he needed donations to help pay for it.  Then came something shocking.  “The chairs don’t match,” he said.  “We’ve had these chairs here since 1985,” and he proceeded to ask for donations.

Wow.  The chairs don’t match?  I didn’t even notice the chairs.  At least you have chairs.  I couldn’t help thinking of the worship services I’ve seen in Africa where people don’t even have chairs.  They don’t even have a floor.  How privileged we are.

I would have been happy to pay for admission to hear the choir (and thereby give some money to the church), but I thought it was inappropriate to ask people who came to hear a third-party choir support chairs in a church that we don’t attend.  Our reason for being there was to hear the Boeing choir.  I guess he thought he had a captive audience.  Good thing I had a long sweater that covered the hole in the back pocket of my jeans.

While he was still talking, I got up and walked with Polina to the back of the church.  Fortunately, we could exit early without being questioned.  (I really don’t like it when the church brings up ulterior motives.)  I drove Polina back home, dropped her off with my husband, who was on the phone, quickly explained that she couldn’t sit still during the performance, and raced back to the church.  It was still intermission. I looked for a writing utensil on the tables in the church.  I couldn’t find any and in the end, I borrowed the only pencil from the prayer request box.  Even before the music started, I was so filled with inspiration I wrote in the margins of the program.

In the last portion of the program, the pianist led the audience in singing a few Christmas classics.  She played one of my favorite songs- O Come All Ye Faithful.  It is such a beautiful song.  I opened my mouth to sing.  I couldn’t, and I didn’t want to.

I picked up my borrowed pencil and kept writing.  When the program ended, I collected my things and returned it.