A Heathen in Church, or Visits to the House of the Lord

By Bronwynn Forrest Torgerson

 

            What is about me and churches?  As a child, I sat in the hard wooden pews of an Apostolic Christian church at least twice a year.  Although a family Bible lurked in our home, it was mainly used to record births and deaths and not to badger or bludgeon anyone into a spiritual corner.  I and the folks were ‘C & E’ church guests.  We went to Christmas Eve services, where the kids all got red mesh plastic stockings, filled with apples, oranges, candy, one of those numbered tiles games where you slide around the numbers until they’re in perfect sequence, and of course the tiny plastic nativity scene.  The East potluck was a gastronomical extravaganza.  Little old ladies smelling of mothballs swooped down on youngsters like big birds of prey, the veils on their pillbox hats brushing close as they planted loud kisses on hesitant cheeks.  The scent of lilies filled the place and the glory of the Lord shone all around.  Then I and my parents departed and life as usual resumed.

 

            When I turned six, my folks regretted having raised me to speak my mind.  A visiting missionary came to the apostolic church, newly returned from Peru.  He showed slides of villages, spoke of poverty, then went into a harangue about those ‘heathen savages, some of whom were still cannibals, who would all burn in hell having known the love of the Lord, amen!’  At the end of his program, he waited by the door to shake hands and shake down donations.  My mom, the diplomat for once, simply said that she was glad she had ‘heard what he had to say’.  “And what of you, little lady?” the speaker pressed, bending low to hear my reply.  “I’m awfully sorry, sir,” I said.  “Oh yes! Sorry that those heathen cannibals will all burn in hell!” he exclaimed.  “No sir,” I shook my young dark head, “I’m sorry they never ate you!”  As he turned purple and gulped, my mom led me out by the nape of the neck and we made our hasty getaway.

 

            In my teens, my love of singing brought me back to sing in that same church’s choir.  After a few weeks though, I had my first experience which led to my awareness that ‘one of these is not like the others’.  I was approached by the old minister and asked if I’d been considering baptism.  Uh, no sir.  I should explain that that little country church used a large metal horse trough for full body immersions.  The dunking was done with the pastor hanging onto the terrified dedicant’s hands and dipping them over backwards until they came up spluttering, drenched white garments clinging to their forms.  The Christian version of a wet t-shirt contest for some spectators, I presume.  And no, I had no desire to go through that.  But why?  The old preacher wasn’t going to let it alone.  And so I replied, “Because sir, I bathe at home!”  My singing career didn’t last long after that.

 

            I am the one to whom Holy Water will not stick.  I smile ruefully, remembering a movie theater church that I and my own kids attended sporadically when they were young.  That minister had a more humanistic bent and a popular television ministry.  The movie theater seats were comfy and the slides and secular, nature-oriented music made for a pleasant Sunday morning experience.  Then one day, inexplicably, that pastor decided to baptize everyone in the place.  All attendees were asked to sign in and list their addresses, and the Rev. commenced to go a-sprinkling of the masses, aisle after aisle.  He explained that our certificate of Baptism would be coming in the mail.  Uh – what if we hadn’t planned or that, or even maybe wanted it?  Didn’t matter.  Okaaaaay.  A couple weeks later, my certificate arrived in the mail.  He had forgotten to sign it.  I returned it to the pastor with a sticky-note, asking if I was still a heathen?  I never got back the baptismal certificate, and I don’t think he spoke to me again.

 

            I became a Unitarian Universalist in 1998 in Illinois, after seeing the flaming chalice lit and having that kind-hearted minister point out to me that ‘earth based religion’ had a voice and a place in UUism.

 

            UU’s are fairly mellow folks with a ‘you find your truth, I’ll find mine and we’ll throw a potluck somewhere in the middle’ approach to religion.  However, even UU’s get flapped.  One day in Bellingham, Washington where I lived and attended for awhile, a homeless lesbian poet took colored chalk and wrote on the sidewalk outside the church:

“Religion is dogma.  Spirituality is essence.”  I knew what Cosmo was saying.  I and some others truly got it.  But there were a goodly number who questioned her sanity, her intent, her involvement in some kind of conspiracy plot and whether or not this was a rebellious act of vandalism.  The rumbling went on for a week, until the next bout of drizzle erased Cosmo’s art and her intent.

 

            Here in Phoenix, I attended the beautiful Paradise Valley UU church for quite awhile, and loved the ambience and magnificent choral music.  However, in such a sea of people, I felt it was hard for one face to be remembered or one voice to be heard.  I also experienced a sense of ‘intrusion’ one day when I proudly drove with a visiting guest out to PV UU church, to show her the statuary garden in the back of a desert garden, where four bronze female nudes face the four directions.  An uplifting, awe-inspiring place.  No sooner had we parked in the parking lot and entered that area though, than we were asked by two separate church members what we were doing there, who we were, and how long we planned to stay.  Trespassers on sacred ground.  I guess I should’ve written to Mother-Father God and told Them I was coming, so don’t sic the dogs on me.

 

            In my present incarnation at smaller West Valley UU church in Glendale, I’ve discovered the joy of being known on an individual basis.  I’ve had the opportunity to present seasonal Pagan celebrations.  Last Yule, we burned a Wishing Wreath in the church’s courtyard, in a portable fire dish loaned by a member.  Other members were genuinely honored to light the Wreath.  We sang as the wishes blazed to the heavens.  I was invited to become involved with the Sunday Services committee and I love being able to offer my own suggestions for speakers into the diverse mix.  My husband and I recently taught an Intro to Wicca class, where there were good questions and committed attendance.  When the class concluded with a Global Peace ritual in the church courtyard, everyone applauded.  My last lay-led service, Work is a 4-Letter Word, received rave reviews and I’ve attached a copy of that text here.

 

            We as Pagans are still trying to make our peace with organization, affiliation and legalities.  One day we will set up a larger number of recognized churches of our own.  Meanwhile,  it behooves us to meet our spiritual neighbors.  Some are friendly.  Some will invite us in.

 

Work is a Four-Letter Word…by Bronwynn Torgerson

To those of you whose work is your passion and fulfillment, who greet the clamor of your alarm clock as an invitation to yet another day at a job you love, you have our profound admiration.  For many of us, you have our envy too.

Whether we refer it to “the daily grind”, “working for the man” or “punching the clock”, the concept of work weaves throughout our culture. The childhood cartoons on my era, such as Bill Jetson with his miserly boss Mister Spacely of Spacely Sprockets, or Fred Flintstone and his pal Barney Rubble trying to coax an even shake out of old man Slate, who owned the gravel pit where Fred and Barney work. Today, many of us ‘children of all ages’ snicker at The Simpsons, where Homer and his boss Mr. Burns plot and scheme against one another.

A vast repertoire of songs has been written about the subject of work, including today’s prelude, “Working Nine to Five”. For over 200 years, protestors, laborers, unionizers and rebels have galvanized the working people through common anthems. Musicians protesting unfair labor practices seldom wrote original lyrics, but rather would rework existing songs to point out injustices. The famous Joe Hill, a member of the Industrial Workers of the World union, reworked the classic folk song Casey Jones. However in Joe Hill’s version, instead of Casey Jones being the hero who keeps his train going in all kinds of weather, Casey is depicted as a scab laborer who disregards unsafe railroad working conditions that the regular crew is on strike over.

Labor historian and musician Joe Glazer says the unofficial song of America's labor movement is the song called "Solidarity Forever." It was written in nineteen-fifteen by Ralph Chaplin, to the tune of “John Brown’s Body”. He was a poet and organizer for the Industrial Workers of the World union. Ralph Chaplin wanted to write a song of revolution. He said it should show that workers would always unite to claim their rights. Part of the lyrics to Solidarity Forever are:

“Is there aught we hold in common with the greedy parasite  
Who would lash us into serfdom and would crush us with his might?  
Is there anything left to us but to organize and fight?  
For the Union makes us strong.
Solidarity forever!  
For the Union makes us strong.”

To most Americans today, labor songs are part of the past. One reason is that labor unions have gotten smaller. Another reason is that American culture has changed. People do not sing in group meetings as much as they once did.

Even if labor protest songs have now become merely an important part of America’s cultural past, our ears still tend to prick up at the sound of work-related lyrics, whether it’s Shanana from the 60’s, singing “Get a Job” or Johnny Paycheck’s “Take this Job and Shove It”. On good days, we laugh. On bad days, we relate.

Movies make us think about life altering events, i.e. birth, death, marriage and work. In his 1936 film “Modern Times, Charlie Chaplin depicts a regimented, micromanaged, clockwork world where human bodies are simply extensions of machinery, right down to "a practical device which automatically feeds your men while at work. Don't stop for lunch: be ahead of your competitor. The Billows Feeding Machine will eliminate the lunch hour, increase your production, and decrease your overhead."

“Brain Candy,” a sleeper film released in 1996 had the megalomaniac boss of Roritor Pharmaceuticals cracking the whip on underlings scientists and pressuring them to release an untested anti-depressant called “Gleemonex”. While the drug is marked with the snazzy catch phrase, “Like it’s 72 degrees in your head all the time,” people in a constant state of euphoria tend to fall into comas. Hmmm…that could be really bad for repeat business.

“Office Space,” also a 1996 release has us empathizing with poor pushed around Milton, who just wants to hang onto a shred of dignity and his red stapler. The list of work-themed movies goes on and on. Americans also have a fascination for ‘career’ type television shows, from sit-com to drama, from LAPD to Scrubs, The Office to Boston Legal (one of my own favorites). We want to see how other people earn their pay, and we may want to feel that maybe there’s a better workplace than ours.

Has Work always been the “Bad Place?” Traditional Judeo-Christian beliefs state that Adam was originally placed in the Garden of Eden, “to work it and take care of it” (NIV, Genesis 2:15). Upon being given his eviction notice, Adam was told in Genesis 3:19 that, “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return from the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.” The Hebrews viewed work as “a curse devised by God explicitly to punish the disobedience and ingratitude of God.” The ancient Greeks concurred. The Greek word for “work” was ponos, taken from the Latin word poena, which meant “sorrow”.

In the Middle Ages, work held no intrinsic value. Christian thought at this point time emphasized the shortness of time until the return of Christ, and any attempt to accumulate material goods was frowned upon. The function of work was to meet the physical needs of one’s family and community and to avoid idleness which could lead to sin.

The Calvinists, in the 16^th century, brought a new perspective to work. Two key religious figures, John Calvin and Martin Luther felt that work was to be sought and honored. Luther believed that people should serve God through their work, and labor should be confined to the social class into which one was born. Calvin taught that all men must work, even the rich, and that they must keep investing the same earnings over and over again to finance further ventures. Using one’s profits to help others rise from a lower subsistence level, however, violated the will of God since persons could only achieve righteousness through their own labors. Since work was still viewed as the penalty for original sin, intolerance increased towards those who had no work.

This attitude persists today. Those have lost jobs and are struggling with emotional and financial hardship often find themselves the object of scorn from those employed. Many years ago, a friend who had been laid off from her job shared a home with my children and me. Her very welcome contribution towards the economic survival of our single parent home was to use her monthly allotment of food stamps to help purchase food for the household. One Saturday, our friend was down with the flu, so she handed her food stamp booklet to me with instructions to go buy whatever meat we might need. I had never seen food stamps before – I earned $12 too much a month to quality for such assistance myself, ‘though it would’ve been a godsend. I went to the grocery store where I always shopped and the checkers knew me on sight. I loaded my purchases on the counter, the clerk smiled and greeted me. Then she asked, “Will this be cash or check” (it was before the age of debit cards). When I replied, “Neither, this will be food stamps”, her whole demeanor changed. She scowled at me and announced to the checker in the lane behind hers, “It’s food stamps!” Suddenly I had gone from a paying customer to an object of contempt. For those of us accustomed to working to pay our way in the world, the loss of a job can be devastating to one’s self esteem.

The changing nature of our work has distanced us from others, made us disposable and taken ownership of our work out of our hands. Although farming life was hard and your nearest aid in times of sickness or disaster might be several miles away, farming lent a sense of intimacy in one’s work that we seldom see today. In her book, Once There was a Farm, Virginia Bell Dabney, raised on a farm in the Depression era writes of the wonder of chickens laying eggs and the sensation of milking cows. She states, “We felt like we were rooted in the earth”. In good times or bad, several generations of a family owned the farm.   I remember my own childhood in the 1950s and 60’s with a grandfather who raised hogs, cultivated honeybees and worked a field.  Nothing smelled like sunshine as much as the first ears of corn as we husked them or tasted as rich as new potatoes just dug up from the earth.

If farmers were “rooted in the earth”, workers today are the tumbleweeds. According to the US Department of Labor, Americans change jobs every three and a half years. We no longer own the family farm. Gone are the days where several members of a family retired from the same steel mill or factory (Caterpillar in the Midwest). In our nation’s shift from industry to technology, our jobs are taken from us and handed over to those who will do them more cheaply. There is nothing quite like being asked to train one’s replacement. The US division of labor estimates that at any given time, 34% of us are considering changing careers.  I’ll raise my hand on that one too.

How does one survive the workaday world and stay sane? 

First and foremost, remember that you are not your job. There are very few ‘lifers’ among us today, so put yourself first. Make a list of your non-job related endeavors, interests and sources of pride to remind you of who all you are. One of the most powerful listings of priorities I ever saw was a small hand-printed piece of paper on the door of a bank vice president. Beginning with the man’s name at the top, it read something like this “Matthew’s grandpa, Randall and Jennifer’s dad, Annalee’s husband. Colonel in the US Army in WWI and WWII. Winner of the Tri Cities chili cook off, head of the Lucky Strikes Tuesday night bowling league. Amateur photographer, Rose gardener. Vice President of Southside Bank.

Look for the humanity in your job, that like minded connection that tells you there is regard for you as a human being and commonality instead of competition with those around you. Although it sounds like a small and simple thing, one good friend in a workplace can help you stay afloat when the going gets tough. And if the tough get going, at least you’ll have company in the unemployment line. 

Let me share with you two glimpses of humanity that I have witnessed. A former boss at Bradley University, back in Peoria, Illinois knew that he could catch more gossip with a cup of coffee. Every morning, he’d brew up 30 cups and invite any groundkeeper, plumber, carpenter, electrician or dormitory housekeeper to stop by for a morning cup on him. They opened up, he listened and he had a bird’s eye view of achievements and issues all over campus. 

Here’s another for you that I carry in my heart still today. Several years ago, I waitressed banquets for a motel chain on the weekends. The trays were heavy, the hours were long and by the end of the evening, my back and my feet both were hurting.  On New Year’s Eve of 1999, there was a senior’s dance. The older folk came out in their suits and cufflinks, satins and silks and corsages. At 11:30 p.m., half an hour before midnight, a gentleman flagged me over. “Miss,” he asked, “Could we all have an extra candle for our tables?” Although elegant tapers had burned down throughout the dinner dance, there was still plenty left. At my puzzled expression, he explained, “All of us have lived through wars, the Depression, rationing and lots of hard times. If the power goes off with Y2K, we’ll manage just fine. We just don’t to fall down and hurt ourselves in the dark.” They got extra candles all around. As the band was playing Auld Lang Syne a short time later, a silver-haired couple came waltzing up to me as I stood watching from the kitchen doorway.  They said, “We have something to give you.” I held out my hand for a glass or utensil. Instead, both wrapped their arms around me and gave me a hug. “It’s New Year’s Eve,” they explained, “Everyone needs to feel loved, because we don’t know when any of us will see one another again.”

Remember aesthetics aren’t everything. I have worked at a shipyard in Anacortes, Washington where the chemical fumes of fiberglass yachts being finished about knocked me off my pins in the morning. The wooden counters were splintery and the restroom was a dingy basement cubbyhole. Yet those people knew my name. When they discovered that I was driving 30 miles each way from Bellingham, Washington in a gas guzzling van, they counted their petty cash. “We’ll give you an extra $15 per week,” they told me, and they did. They kept me through the Christmas season, when my job was to accept the gift baskets sent by wealthy buyers of the boats.

In contrast, I’ve worked here in the Valley in the Biltmore area of town, in the corporate office of Checkmate payday loans. Fountains flow and there are marble corridors. Thick carpeting and glass doors that swing noiselessly shut. Yet, it’s a sweat shop. Employees processing NSF checks from many states were forced to work a “straight 8”, from 6 a.m. until 2 p.m. without a lunch hour. Breaks were discouraged, as was trying to choke down a fast bite of food on a break. One morning I looked over at a fellow processor keying away at her computer with one hand, shoveling dry cereal frantically into her mouth with the other. “It’s Captain Crunch,” she said to me apologetically. “Don’t be embarrassed,” I told her, breaking my own baggie of dry cereal out of my purse, “I’ve got the Cinnamon Life.” When the collections crew entered that big open room at 10 a.m., it was like the devil himself had walked through the door. Within our earshot, calls were made and those unable to make their payments were denigrated, screamed at and harangued. When the boss called me, after only working there 6 weeks and fired because, “I just didn’t seem happy,” I smiled, shook hands all around and thanked them profusely!

Remember that no one starts at the top. Madonna was a Dunkin’ Doughnuts girl. Stephen King got the inspiration for his first best selling novel ‘Carrie’ while he was a janitor at a high school, cleaning the girls’ locker room after hours.  Brad Pitt hauled refrigerators. Your own contribution in the end scheme of things may astonish you. You are only where you work now, for now.

Lastly, and really think about this, there is a vast difference between your job and your work. A few years ago, I did a black and white film project for a college class on the nature of work. I snapped photos of many paid employees performing their tasks, all the way from airline baggage handlers to restaurant fry clerks and Salvation Army bell ringers. Then I took my camera out for a ride. Near a university campus, on a Saturday afternoon, I spied two political science professors holding up protest signs as cars went honking by. Were the teachers getting paid for the efforts? No. Were they working? Yes. They were following their passions, convinced that their message was too important to ignore.

In an old historic rambling cemetery, a stocking-capped gaunt old fellow raked leaves, huge piles in one sprawling cemetery section, bagged them and hoisted them with an effort into the back of his pick-up truck. I pulled up alongside him, got out and asked if he had someone buried there. “Nope,” he said and went right back to his raking. Was he on staff, I asked him. “Nope,” he told me again, gloved hands tying off another bulging bag. Then why do this, I asked. He stopped, straightened his back, squinted at me and said, “How can we respect the living if we forget the dead?” He was working very hard to ensure that someone remembered.

My friend told of her parents, now deceased, who both had careers outside the home. Yet, when friends and family came to call, they were headed for their vegetable garden. “We’ve got work to do,” they explained.

There is a difference between one’s job and one’s work. A job is what we do with our hands to earn our pay in this world. Work is what we do with our hearts, seeking nothing but to enrich this world. Your job is your obligation, your work is your offering.

May you find a balance between the two and know the blessing of the both intertwined. Blessed be.