“Eat, drink and be merry” says the preacher – Qoheleth – in the book of Ecclesiastes. It’s my favourite bible quote, key lyric in Dave Matthews’ Tripping Billies, and an idea which I’ve been giving much thought to of late. Of course, I’ve heard unfortunate interpretations of these words from the pulpit – snapshots provided by triumphalist preachers of a depressed hedonist who, at this time of his life, had all but given up hope. Regrettably, such mindless mis-readings can fail to glimpse some profound wisdom, not to mention perpetuate an environment of positive confession so stifling that honest dialogue is deemed subversive.

In any case, I’m in no way pretending that the following is an exegesis of Ecclesiastes. Instead, I simply want to reflect on the current significance of these words to me – my own brief homily on the perspective they instill. Eating, drinking and being merry, you see, is something I fail at dismally. Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I eat plenty, and am certainly becoming quite adept at drinking. What’s more, when the mood strikes me, I can make merry with the best of them. But there’s something about these words that whispers of a notion beyond their literalist interpretation – an ancestral voice calling its listeners toward… beauty.

I use that term, beauty, in the broadest sense, far from fascinations with luscious lashes and perky pouts. And, even while Qoheleth’s words serve as a poignant reminder of our fragility and life’s fleetingness, in doing so they also highlight the preciousness of what we have today, and the beauty to be found where you least expect it… in your microwave meal no less! Well, obviously Qoheleth didn’t have Lean Cuisine in mind (I hope)! My point is, despite there being unfathomable darkness, pain and oppression in the world, there is also much to be marveled at, soaked up, and deeply appreciated; the comedian who miraculously causes you to forget your inbox awhile – launching you into a full-scale belly laugh, the dancer whose style and grace brings you to tears, the lyric that resonates so deeply – giving voice to hopes which have long laid dormant, the room with its light and shade, warmth and redolence, which invites you home!

At the same time as I fascinate over this pithy biblical phrase I’m also reading Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, and in doing so I get the sense of the author’s deep-seated appreciation for the beautiful. Amid the epic tale of dark times in Middle Earth, the loveliness Tolkien repeatedly points to is unmistakable. Hidden treasures of forests and forgotten folk, friendships old and new, feasting and frivolity. And he lingers in these sections too, as if perhaps reminding the reader of the whole point behind the journey to the gates of Mordor. Of course the end goal is to destroy the ring, overthrow Sauron et cetera but, more than that, it’s so the vast beauty of the Shire, of Entwood, of Rivendell and Rohan may flourish once more.

I guess all this is occupying my thoughts so much because in my life thus far I’ve only fleetingly appreciated the beautiful, always keeping it subservient to more practical matters. But, the older I get (though I’m far from ‘old’), the greater appreciation I have for beauty and the more I want to participate in, create and cherish such things. Who knows where it might lead!

Over the past twelve months, I’ve found myself needing to redefine who I am. Needless to say I’m a phD escapee, but that only demarcates who I am not, which is actually much easier than discerning who I am… or who I am now… and who I’d like to be tomorrow. In fact, I could prattle on all day about who I am not, about what I am not going to do, about the things I don’t like and so on. But, as I continue the journey of becoming me, I’ve found (at the very least) that I have been, and continue to be, a sojourner and collector of memories.

I find this notion helpful, as it provides at least a loose connection between my past, present and future selves, and paints these portraits in a friendly hue. It acknowledges that I’m a restless soul with an inquiring mind, who pays attention on her travels! I collect memories and thoughts and ideas… and I cherish them all. Of course, this is not to suggest that all these memories are fond. Yet even the bitter memories, the ones which arouse my anger and the ones that make my heart ache, are cherished for what they have taught me. I know I wouldn’t be who I am today without them, and they help light my path as I continue on my journey.

It’s difficult! I’ve spent the last 20 years in a Christian community that has had a particular culture, a particular way of being, of talking, of living. Of course, enculturation is true of any community, Christian or otherwise, and enculturation is not necessarily a bad thing. But, when the various aspects of enculturation are not reflected on, compared to other cultures, and the elements of social construction inherent to them understood, they tend to be reified (Berger & Luckmann). That is, they become absolutised as the ONE right way of being – and ‘look out’ anyone who dares disagree. These days you won’t get your head chopped off, it’ll just be your ‘balls’.

For most of the past 20 years (decreasing rapidly over the last 7), I’ve been an absolutiser and, regrettably, an unthinking parrot. Of course, I would have objected to anyone naming me as such but, reflecting back, I recall a sickening sense of fear when any of my ‘disciples’ asked me a question that I didn’t know the church stock-standard answer to. The fear was that I’d be discovered to be not-quite-spiritual-enough, and that this would be detrimental to fulfilling my ‘calling’. If that’s not the hallmark of a parrot then I don’t know what is.

In my defence, there was a lot of emotionally charged reasoning behind why it’d be best for me to parrot, rather than actually think for myself ( btw – some ideas on emotion and belief are delineated in the following article http://motherjones.com/politics/2011/03/denial-science-chris-mooney). It was repeatedly (i.e. at least monthly) taught from the pulpit that we should submit to the God-ordained authority of church leadership, that questioning of leadership was generally a sign of a bad attitude (of which we needed to repent), and that we’d miss our God-ordained destiny for ‘greatness’ if we aligned ourselves with anyone who exhibited the aforementioned ‘bad attitude’, rather than aligning ourselves with those who’d take us toward our destiny (i.e. kissing arse to those who could give us a position with more leadership responsibility). Just looking at these three simple aspects sends shivers down my spine. Surely these are warning signs of a manipulative – dare I say it – ‘cultish’ community!! And this is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve heard story after story of people’s genuine questions in Bible study group being dismissed, people being reprimanded for only attending ONE church service over the course of the weekend, and even a number of stories of people who’ve had a healthy long-term relationship, decided to get married, and have subsequently been hauled into a secret church meeting to be informed that their partner of choice is not the ‘God-choice’ for them. FREAKY much!!

Having said all this, it would be remiss of me to fail to point out that the above scenario is certainly NOT true of all Christian communities and not even true of all leaders and participants in the community of which I was a part (thank goodness)!! But, unfortunately, it was the overriding culture of my particular church. I remember lecturing a class one day that consisted primarily of students from this church. The topic was on the nature of conscience. Having shown a video simulation of the famous social-psyc experiment by Stanley Milgram, I asked the class what implications this held for religious communities. One bright spark quipped that the class couldn’t possibly answer such a question, as it necessarily involved questioning authority… which they were not ‘allowed’ to do.

I’ll admit that this current post is not out-of-the-blue but, rather, precipitated by a story which a family member directed toward my husband and I this Easter. Our current faith community wasn’t holding a Good Friday service so, needless to say, we didn’t attend! And, whilst we could have gone elsewhere, we didn’t feel compelled to. So the story was told, at Good Friday lunch, of an old friend who had decided to go fishing one Good Friday instead of participating in the church choir, where they would have been (quote) ‘a good witness for the Lord’. Turns out the guy should’ve gone to church because, as he was fishing, a rock ended up slipping, landed on his head, and killed him! I’m afraid the family member’s story may have backfired, however. Because, if these two events are in any way connected, then it actually gives me every reason NOT to go to church. Sorry, but I don’t want anything to do with a God who gets his/her nose out of joint just because someone misses a service. Needless to say, this story got me thinking about the many and varied manipulative strategies that I’ve witnessed AND participated in over the years… over which I now repent.

Anyway… I write all of this because if you’re following Jesus and want to participate in a faith community, just make a note of whether the overriding culture is toward genuine faith, thoughtfulness and open-mindedness or toward control and manipulation. If it’s toward the latter, you might choose to be a shining light in that context, discouraging manipulation and allowing genuine exploration of faith, or you might choose to find a different faith community, which is already geared toward travelling the journey of faith with openness and honesty.

I’m still going to church. Well… once or twice a month at least. My reasons for going, however, are very different to what they used to be. Admittedly, one of the primary reasons is simply to ‘keep the peace’ with my family. Spilling the beans about the unfolding re-orientation of my faith to my mum, and to my parents-in-law, just doesn’t seem like a helpful thing to do. Cop out? Maybe! But I really don’t see what it would contribute, so I go along to church and I suspect that they are none the wiser.

Mind you, my dad does actually know a fair bit about my current disposition. But his faith is not fixed – it’s not black and white. To be frank, he’s quite the cynic… I’m becoming a little more like him each day. Anyway, back to church. So I attend every so often, and only sing along with a few lines of each chorus, before daydreaming through the sermon. The lines I sing along with are those that I feel I’m able to sing honestly, with integrity. Lines that I really mean! Sometimes they’re few and far between.

Well, the other week Chris Tomlin’s “How great is Our God” was being sung. And, if you’re at all familiar with the words of the chorus you’ll know that one of the lines reads: “And all will see how great, how great, is our God.”

As it was being sung, something struck me! It occurred to me that an ‘obvious’ interpretation of that line, from a traditional Christian perspective, might be to conclude that one day all creation would see that our God, the Christian God, was the real God, the great God… the one that everyone else should have been worshipping! But a different interpretation struck me… and I started to sing along. I wondered if one day all would see that God, the divine one that all seekers pursue, truly is OUR God, the God of us ALL (over whom we need not fight nor bicker).  He/she/it is the God (if you even want to use the name ‘God’) not owned by any of us! Maybe one day all will see that “beauty, truth and goodness” (terms I prefer instead of ‘God’) truly exist and truly are infinite.

In all of this, the funny thing is that I’m still convinced that this ‘God’ is revealed in Jesus Christ – which is to say I see beauty, truth and goodness exemplified through Jesus’ life and teaching. Another line of the same song speaks of “the lion and the lamb.” According to Richard Bauckham, the actual point of the references in the Book of Revelation to the “lion” and the “lamb” is, in fact, that the lion IS the lamb. That is, that the powerful one is not the one that roars, that coerces, that manipulates, that dominates but, rather, the one that is self-humbling, self-humiliating, self-sacrificial. This, to me, is true and beautiful and good.

It has been said that “religion is the opiate of the masses” and, whilst I’m yet to read any Marx, I find that the meaningfulness of this comment bears itself out particularly in relation to the traditional evangelical understanding of hell. In the ancient development of the concept, I don’t know that it was originally intended to function in this way. Hell, in the Jewish tradition, was originally ‘the grave’ or the ‘underground’ (NB: Joel Green brilliantly outlines the development of theologies of death in the Judeo-Christian tradition/s). For the Hebrew people ‘life’ was where God was, and this was on earth… above the ground, that is. People who died and were buried were separated from God in the ‘grave’, the ‘underground’ the ‘shadowy place’ (‘Sheol’ in Hebrew, ‘Hades’ in Greek).

This fate, as the writer of Ecclesiastes laments, seemed a little unfair. And his conclusion, of course, was that we should eat, drink and be merry. I really like Ecclesiastes! Anyway, this aforementioned unfairness was particularly poignant when understood in relation to a good, just, and sovereign God. The righteous and the wicked have the same fate? Surely not! And so the idea developed, in an effort to defend God, that the righteous would be raised again to life on earth with YHWH, at some point in the future.

Following on from here, separate areas in Sheol/Hades were proposed; an area for the righteous called Abraham’s bosom, or Paradise, and an area for the unrighteous. The area for the unrighteous obviously wasn’t depicted as a terribly fun place… with dreadfully hot and perpetually thirsty residents etc (as featured in Jesus’ tale of the Rich man and Lazarus). Anyway, it remained the case that a common idea of what would happen in the end would be a resurrection of the dead (not for all Jews of course – the Sadduccees didn’t affirm resurrection, which is probably why they were trying to make the worst of a bad situation with the Romans).

Anyway, when God’s rule came on earth and the righteous were raised to life again, things were gunna be great, especially for the Pharisees… or so they thought. Their participation in this perfect earthly kingdom of the future had, for them, become contingent on their following of rules and regulations to the nth degree (NB: I can totally understand why they would have thought this). However, Jesus comes along and makes the criteria of participating in this perfect kingdom one’s feeding of the poor, one’s visiting of the sick, one’s caring for the widow, one’s releasing of the oppressed. The strict adherence to ceremonial rules and regulations was exposed as having missed the point. In fact, according to Jesus, if all you do is follow the rules, and your heart isn’t moved toward action for the oppressed, you’ve got another thing coming. Rather than life in the perfect kingdom, your future life will be spent in Gehenna, yes, that big ol’ rubbish tip down the road. You know the one! Literally that place in the the Valley of Hinnom, Jerusalem, where the mangy dogs roamed and there were perpetual fires to extinguish the rubbish which stank, and so on and so forth. The point??? Well isn’t the point here simply that our hearts need re-orienting towards the ‘other’, to the excluded one, the poor one, the oppressed… and, then, that our hands and feet need then follow this new re-orientation? Was Jesus on about hell or was he on about helping? My guess is the latter.

Back to modern day thinking on the topic. In a brilliant book I read last year called ‘The Sacredness of Questioning Everything’, David Dark paints the picture of the ominous figure ‘Uncle Ben’ about whom the townsfolk always speak well. “Nice day we’re having?” “Oh, yes, isn’t Uncle Ben good to us” and so on. One day each week the townsfolk meet together with Uncle Ben, who sets about questioning their love for him. “Do you love me more than anything? More than anyone?” he asks. “We love you and you alone Uncle Ben” they reply, to which Uncle Ben responds “You better love me, or I’m going to put you… in here (he opens the furnace door to reveal a gaping darkness)— “forever.” It’s here that I pause and note that this is where a religion, framed by an understanding saving souls from hell, rather than allowing life to flourish, functions as the opiate of the masses. It’s oppressive, fear-based and centres on rules and regulations. Seems a bit ironic when one considers what primarily ticked Jesus off.

Later in Dark’s book he looks at questioning “interpretations” and writes about an occasion where he suggested to his class (in his days as a high school English teacher at a Christian school) that rather than being honest and open and admitting they didn’t know the definitive truth about God and the world they, instead, went around pretending to know… for fear of going to hell. He goes on to elaborate… “Uncle Ben is a false god… the Nobodaddy on the brain who keeps us afraid of our senses, wary of imagination, frightened of looking too hard at ourselves, and too fearful to think things through. This god who isn’t love, made in our worst image, would keep us doubled up inside, putting on a brave face of fake confidence.” I couldn’t possibly put it any better! If the primary orientation of a religious group is on hellish concepts which pinion its followers, then it’s not a religion I want anything to do with. For me, James was onto something when he wrote that true religion is looking after the widows and the orphans and keeping oneself from being tainted by worldliness. Maybe true religion is a life of grace?

Whilst perusing the shelves at Borders bookstore during a recent Christmas shopping expedition, I stumbled across a text which piqued my interest. The book was entitled Ishmael, written by Daniel Quinn, and first published about 15 years ago. My gift purchasing efforts were immediately seconded by this discovery, as I found a seat and began devouring the text, as it were.

This post is not meant to be a detailed review of the novel. Instead, I just wanted to highlight something in the text which really struck me at the time of reading, and has since stayed with me. Just to give you a general idea of what the book’s on about though, I’ll set the scene.

Ishmael is a gorilla! SURPRISE!! What’s more, he’s a gorilla that can communicate with humans. In fact, he does more than communicate. Ishmael is a teacher… a teacher in the true sense of the word. As a teacher, Ishmael doesn’t give you the answers. Rather, he leads you toward insight by asking a series of questions which probe and penetrate not so much what you think as the way you think… and why you think that way. With some recent adventures probing my own social construction and instilled ways of thinking, it’s no wonder I was hooked from the start.

Anyway, as I said, this post isn’t a review of the text in general. I wanted to comment on an intriguing interpretation of the Old Testament story of Cain and Abel that’s found in Ishmael’s pages. In coming to understand why we think and act the way we do in modern society Quinn, via Ishmael, goes back to the very beginning. Why is it that society is so anthropocentric, so consumerist and materialistic, so self-oriented, so… destructive? Some insights into contemporary culture are provided through reflecting on the birth, spread, and ‘triumph’ of agriculturalism.

What on earth has this got to do with Cain and Abel you ask? Well, Ishmael posits that the story found in the Hebrew scriptures draws on a story from an older Semitic tradition. The pre-Hebrew Semitic people were pasturalists, rather than agriculturalists. What is pointed out about the agricultural way of life is its insatiability! By that I mean, when more food is produced, humans reproduce more. As a result, there are more mouths to feed and you obviously need, and so produce, more food. When there’s enough food to provide for this greater number of people, though, then more people survive to adulthood and there are more babies! You can see how the cycle continues, right? To produce more food, however, you also need more land for these purposes. To acquire more land, it is often the case that you need to very politely ask those occupying the land to find somewhere else to pitch their tents or, alternatively, you skip the niceties and simply expunge them. This is where Cain and Abel come in. It’s Quinn’s hypothesis that Cain, in the Semitic story, represents the agriculturalists, and that Abel represents the pasturalist Semites. Obviously ‘Cain’ skips the niceties! Interestingly, the Hebrew people, according to Quinn, were agriculturalists. Their story of how ‘sin’ embeds itself in society following the ‘fall’, however, is itself a critique of the very way of life of the Hebrew people. An interesting commentary, yes!?

If I can be called a theologian at all these days, maybe I could say I’m a liberation theologian, and perhaps even an open theist. Well, at least I might be an open theist inasmuch as I understand the motive behind this theological development, even if I don’t support the logic of it. Of course, I’m a hypocrite in relation to both. Firstly, I don’t live amongst the poor of Brazil (or Redfern), and, secondly, I don’t even know what it means to suggest that God has a mind with which to know, or not know, the future… or a mind with which s/he can be infinitely wise. A year ago I would have poked holes in these theologies, but nowadays they’re the only ones that make any sense to me, existentially speaking.

Any theology can have strips torn off it of course, depending on the perspective from which one is coming. There are many who don’t want to admit it, but everyone brings their own perspectives and presuppositions to the scriptural text and to the theological task more generally. And, as for me, well I simply like liberation theologians’ presuppositions the best!! They fall under my banner of what I consider to be “true and beautiful and good” (terms which might easily be exchanged for other more suitable terms but, again, I simply like these words). Having said this, I actually think many liberation theologians do a lot of justice to the context within which Jesus was preaching, oftentimes more so than ‘traditional’ theologians. From where I sit, the picture of 1st century Palestine that Leonardo Boff paints, actually lines up pretty well with the views of many well-renowned biblical scholars such as N.T Wright (although I’m sure Wright would critique liberation theology on a number of fronts).

Anyhow, despite what (to me) seems like a faithfulness to scripture, people critique liberationists’ understanding of salvation… arguably based on what they themselves, and the tradition they’re relying on, have read into the text. I’ve often seen people distinguish between liberation and salvation, for instance. I just don’t see that there’s much difference, if any! Going back to the Old Testament (OT); salvation for the Hebrew people IS liberation from oppression (from Egypt or whoever/whatever was oppressing at the time) and a coming into freedom and promise. This idea is right throughout the OT and carries into the NT in Jesus’ proclamation. Yes, Jesus preaches a different *way* but he doesn’t change salvation to some “pie in sky in the sweet by and by”… some ethereal sense of peace or whatever. It’s very earthy… and very much about liberation from oppression, be it economic, physical, relational, political.

Anyway, all of this to say, I really do side with Boff when he suggests: “It is not those who are Christian who are good, true and just. Rather the good, the true, and the just are Christians.” Salvation, liberation, comes when we live, in the here and now, the way that Jesus proclaimed. In this sense I do believe Jesus is “the way, the truth and the life.” His way is the way to life, true life, in the here and now. Who knows… (who cares) what happens after we die? Hopefully, after we die, we live on through the impact we have made on people, policies, the planet and so on… through having lived according to *the way* and having passed it on to our children.

I’ll get back to you later regarding my thoughts on open theism…

Growing up, first as a Roman Catholic and then as a conservative evangelical Christian, my understanding of what it means to be spiritual has, up to now, been largely shaped by these two contexts. If you would have asked me a couple of years ago what it means to be spiritual, I’d almost certainly have uttered something suitably nebulous about “loving God… and stuff.”

The specific outworking of “loving God… and stuff” in my earlier Catholic upbringing, consisted of attending mass and confession, as well as being a good moral person. And, whilst spirituality as a conservative evangelical also included church attendance and evangelically-defined morality (nb: depending on my “fervour” at any particular time, boys, alcohol… even singlet tops may have been off the cards), it definitely didn’t include confession or, more importantly, any prayers to, or adoration of, Mary! There were other “spiritual activities” to fill in these gaps though, including daily Bible reading, listening to Christian music, attending Christian conferences, running a Bible study group, memorising scripture verses… and MUCH more (such as, more cynically, being slave to some pastor’s semi-narcissistic vision for church growth and “success”).

The challenge I’m now facing is that I really don’t see much value in many of the above activities and, more fundamentally, I don’t even know what “loving God” means any more. Having said this, I don’t want to do away with seeking to be a spiritual person… perhaps for no other reason than I feel, rightly or wrongly, that the alternative would be to resign to amoral, consumerist materialism.

When I think of the popular use of the term “spiritual,” I think of someone in touch with nature, someone embracing, accepting… someone who is at peace. Interestingly, when I reflect back on the Hebrew and Greek words for “spirit” (ruach and pneuma), both are suggestive of “breath” and are closely associated with “life.” For me, then, perhaps if we get down to the nitty gritty of it, something can be considered spiritual if it breathes life or, alternatively, if it allows life to breathe (and to thereby be energised)! With this in mind, I guess a reasonable question that might follow this idea is… “What *ways of being* generally allow life to breathe?”

I’m sure there’s a long list of possible answers to this question, but perhaps such a list would include things like… caring for the flourishing of all other life, being full of wonder – open to mystery, taking sabbath – allowing space for quietness & rest, being grateful, and being honest & genuine. There are a gazillion ways that each of these might be outworked… which I’ll proceed to ponder in “Re-defining Spirituality (Part 2)”.

For the past 15 years, I’ve had the opportunity to observe, first hand, some interesting characteristics of people who attend Bible college. At first, my observations were conducted by having students board in my home. Several years later, my observations were self-reflective, as I studied at Bible college myself. And, finally, the third phase of my observations came through being a lecturer at a college (probably the most enlightening phase of all). I’m hesitant to outline any hard and fast characteristics or categorisations, but I’m well aware that I won’t be able to avoid making at least some generalisations.

Before anything, the first thing I should note is that Bible college students often start out their course with a clear sense of conviction that, for whatever reason, they’re *meant* to be there. Interestingly, however, there are large numbers who, when asked, have absolutely no idea what they’ll do at the end of their studies. They know they’re *meant* to be there, they just haven’t figured out why. The plan is typically that they’ll “wait on God” and “see what happens.” I guess it’s kind of the same in any Arts degree… well, the latter part that is. I don’t know that there’d be too many students in a typical BA program who just feel like it’s their “destiny.”

Anyway, even though years ago it may have been the case that by attending Bible College one, quite clearly, planned on being a minister (in the traditional sense of the term), this is far from the case anymore. The sense of being “called” to college, though, is still very strong for many students. Some will even tell you that God told them to go. In part, this may have something to do with the fact that in the last 20 years (at least) there’s been a heck of a lot of talk from the evangelical pulpit about being “great for God,” fulfilling one’s “destiny” and so on. With texts like Jeremiah 29:11 plucked unashamedly out of context, swarms of suburban teens in youth groups across the Western world have been indoctrinated with the belief that, if they only desire it strongly enough and pray hard enough, they too can preach (or, alternatively, sing) “the gospel” to stadiums full of thousands of people… they too can be a *star* (although I don’t think I’ve ever heard that latter phrasing actually used). Whilst it’s far from true that all, or even many, Bible college students these days still hold to the stadium dream per se, there’s still a notion that there’s some unique destiny on their life, something “eternally significant” that only they can do and, so, they’re getting trained up for it.

With such strong conviction, getting prepared for such a destiny can arguably be considered a very noble thing. And, I should point out that many college students make untold sacrifices to complete their studies; sacrifices that impact their finances, family and, for some, even their health! I do wonder, however, whether they’ve wound up at Bible college through an intricate series of manipulations. Not that the manipulations have necessarily been consciously orchestrated as such, but maybe the whole overarching metanarrative of “destiny” has so influenced their social construction that, for some, it’s the only option they see for themselves….

(Part 2 still to come – Reflections on what Bible college students actually come to learn).

People will often comment, for one reason or another, that “it doesn’t feel like Christmas.” I’ve made the comment myself in years gone by, but it’s never been truer for me than it has been this year. I should note, however, that this is not from a simple lack of being in the “festive spirit” or anything. I’ve joined in Christmas choruses, exchanged gifts and gone to church. But, due to the fact that in these past 12 months the content of my faith has so entirely shifted, what all of these traditions now mean to me has become completely obscured. Even certain lines of Christmas carols that I once sung with such gusto are now mumbled through or skipped over altogether.

Typically attending a Protestant congregation, for Christmas my husband and I attended the local Catholic mass this year, the tradition I participated in as a child. We’ve done this a couple of times before around Christmas time and the feelings of nostalgia, along with the weighty sense of tradition it brings, is both intriguing and strangely comforting. These feelings were certainly heightened this year. I cherished, firstly, the anonymity I had amongst an unfamiliar people. But, more than this, I appreciated that no-one even blinked when I didn’t recite a particular liturgical line, when I stood silent through the entire Nicean creed, or when I didn’t receive communion. For whatever reason I felt, in this context, that it didn’t matter where my personal faith was at. I could join in as much or as little as I liked… and it would be okay.