I'm really enjoying all the media coverage that atheism is getting in the wake of the Reason Rally. One thing that has jumped out at me is the old debate about whether or not atheists should proselytize. How aggressive should we be? It turns out it's not just me who is put off by Dawkins and Hitchens (of blessed memory) and the more aggressive sorts.
I guess to me, that's part of Humanism. If I'm in favor of human dignity, how does telling someone they're stupid for believing in God increase that person's dignity, or mine? There are so many reasons that people are religious, and most of them are helpful--community, tradition, family, charity, philosophy, etc.
It also has to do with why we need a Humanist religion. If we make something that's attractive and vibrant and satisfying, then it will grow on its own. And we can do that. It's just a matter of time and effort.
I just got a copy of Religion for Atheists by Alain de Botton. I'm looking forward to seeing what he has to say about the importance of ritual in our lives.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
Maybe I've already found it...
There has been a tragic death in my community. A husband and father in his 40's died suddenly this week. His wife is a teacher at The Little Jewess's school, one of his daughters is a student and the other is an alumna.
I barely know this teacher, and I don't know her daughters. But I am proud to be a member of this community. And maybe this is how Humanist communities work.
Tomorrow there will be a visitation and service at a funeral home, followed by a reception at the school. Today, people were asked to volunteer to bring food to the reception. In less than three hours, the sign-up sheet was full.
I was so happy when they asked for food, because before that I didn't know what to do. My child wasn't traumatized (because she, like me, only barely knows the teacher in question, and the daughters are much older than TLJ (The Little Jewess.) So I didn't need to avail myself of the grief counselor the school made available. I thought about going to the visitation or the reception, but the family probably wouldn't recognize me and I wouldn't want them to feel awkward. I thought about sending a card, but again, what would I say? And what meaning would it have to the bereaved? I can't remember ever meeting this man.
But I can bake brownies. I like to bake brownies. And I know how necessary good dessert is when one is in mourning, as well as what a relief it is to have enough food to offer to those who visit.
In some ways, this is the ultimate in Humanist response to death. A community comes together in a completely non-religious way to support the bereaved with food, comfort, therapy and friendship. God doesn't need to enter into it. And for me, bringing food feels appropriate because it is the traditional Jewish thing to do when someone is bereaved. But of course the school community, as wonderful as it is, can not fulfill all the needs that a religious community does.
For one thing, it's transient. While I have made some friendships that I hope last for a lifetime (and so has TLJ) the community will not. I have already lost touch with people I liked whose children are much older than TLJ and who have moved on. And some day we will move on. Although I'll always feel connected to the school, it won't be a part of our regular routine forever.
And then I come back to the need for ritual. I am enormously comforted by the outpouring of support for this family, because should something this tragic happen to me, I know the community will be there for my family, too. I feel somehow a little bit safer dropping TLJ off at a place where the families respond this way to tragedy. But I don't know what to expect tomorrow. This teacher still has to find an appropriate way to honor her husband's death, and someone outside the school will have to help her with that, whether it's a religious leader or someone else. Because a school just can't be a foundational community. It has to be a school.
It's a damned good one, though.
Anyone going to the Reason Rally tomorrow?
I barely know this teacher, and I don't know her daughters. But I am proud to be a member of this community. And maybe this is how Humanist communities work.
Tomorrow there will be a visitation and service at a funeral home, followed by a reception at the school. Today, people were asked to volunteer to bring food to the reception. In less than three hours, the sign-up sheet was full.
I was so happy when they asked for food, because before that I didn't know what to do. My child wasn't traumatized (because she, like me, only barely knows the teacher in question, and the daughters are much older than TLJ (The Little Jewess.) So I didn't need to avail myself of the grief counselor the school made available. I thought about going to the visitation or the reception, but the family probably wouldn't recognize me and I wouldn't want them to feel awkward. I thought about sending a card, but again, what would I say? And what meaning would it have to the bereaved? I can't remember ever meeting this man.
But I can bake brownies. I like to bake brownies. And I know how necessary good dessert is when one is in mourning, as well as what a relief it is to have enough food to offer to those who visit.
In some ways, this is the ultimate in Humanist response to death. A community comes together in a completely non-religious way to support the bereaved with food, comfort, therapy and friendship. God doesn't need to enter into it. And for me, bringing food feels appropriate because it is the traditional Jewish thing to do when someone is bereaved. But of course the school community, as wonderful as it is, can not fulfill all the needs that a religious community does.
For one thing, it's transient. While I have made some friendships that I hope last for a lifetime (and so has TLJ) the community will not. I have already lost touch with people I liked whose children are much older than TLJ and who have moved on. And some day we will move on. Although I'll always feel connected to the school, it won't be a part of our regular routine forever.
And then I come back to the need for ritual. I am enormously comforted by the outpouring of support for this family, because should something this tragic happen to me, I know the community will be there for my family, too. I feel somehow a little bit safer dropping TLJ off at a place where the families respond this way to tragedy. But I don't know what to expect tomorrow. This teacher still has to find an appropriate way to honor her husband's death, and someone outside the school will have to help her with that, whether it's a religious leader or someone else. Because a school just can't be a foundational community. It has to be a school.
It's a damned good one, though.
Anyone going to the Reason Rally tomorrow?
Sunday, March 11, 2012
What's a Humanist Passover?
Being a Religious School teacher, I'm always one holiday ahead. It's our job. So even as I'm wearing my Purim costume, I'm thinking about Passover.
A few years ago I decided to write my own Haggadah. Although I had not yet heard of Humanism, I was well on my way, and I wanted a Hagaddah that would be short and simple but would foster discussion. Last year, I added the full text of the Passover story from Exodus.
This was something I'd been meaning to do for some time. Every year, I read the story to my third graders, and I learn a lot. More than that, I struggle, and the kids struggle too. There is a lot in that story that is truly frustrating. I wanted to share that frustration with those closest to me.
To me, that frustration is the essence of Judaism. We have this text, and it is our job to wrestle with it. It's not hard to find meaning in it, but no sooner do we find some than something else contradicts it. But year after year, the struggle continues.
And yet, we keep doing it, because we're Jews.
I remember my rabbi growing up used to say on Simchat Torah, when he welcomed the new Religious School students, that the Torah is the only book we love so much that we dance with it. And to me, there's value there that transcends God. This is our story. We have carried it with us--literally--through great adversity for generations. And it's not perfect. There's a lot in there that makes me angry, or confuses me, or makes me wonder who wrote this thing and why they made God the way they did. But it's my job to keep struggling, to wring every bit of wisdom I can from the story, and to pass the story along.
So I'm working on my Haggadah. It's got the traditional prayers in Hebrew with Humanist versions in English. That's partly to make my parents feel comfortable and partly because I can't quite feel comfortable changing the prayers altogether. It's got the whole story from Exodus. And it's got some good funny songs at the end.
Maybe this year I'll remember to make notes about what to change for next year.
What would you include in a Humanist seder?
A few years ago I decided to write my own Haggadah. Although I had not yet heard of Humanism, I was well on my way, and I wanted a Hagaddah that would be short and simple but would foster discussion. Last year, I added the full text of the Passover story from Exodus.
This was something I'd been meaning to do for some time. Every year, I read the story to my third graders, and I learn a lot. More than that, I struggle, and the kids struggle too. There is a lot in that story that is truly frustrating. I wanted to share that frustration with those closest to me.
To me, that frustration is the essence of Judaism. We have this text, and it is our job to wrestle with it. It's not hard to find meaning in it, but no sooner do we find some than something else contradicts it. But year after year, the struggle continues.
And yet, we keep doing it, because we're Jews.
I remember my rabbi growing up used to say on Simchat Torah, when he welcomed the new Religious School students, that the Torah is the only book we love so much that we dance with it. And to me, there's value there that transcends God. This is our story. We have carried it with us--literally--through great adversity for generations. And it's not perfect. There's a lot in there that makes me angry, or confuses me, or makes me wonder who wrote this thing and why they made God the way they did. But it's my job to keep struggling, to wring every bit of wisdom I can from the story, and to pass the story along.
So I'm working on my Haggadah. It's got the traditional prayers in Hebrew with Humanist versions in English. That's partly to make my parents feel comfortable and partly because I can't quite feel comfortable changing the prayers altogether. It's got the whole story from Exodus. And it's got some good funny songs at the end.
Maybe this year I'll remember to make notes about what to change for next year.
What would you include in a Humanist seder?
Saturday, March 3, 2012
On Davy Jones and why Humanists need rituals
As you have probably heard, Davy Jones of the Monkees died suddenly on Wednesday. This may not have been a major news item for you, but I spent my early adolescence madly in love with a young Davy Jones (although Davy was no longer young--we don't need to analyze my psyche here) and so I spent the end of the week receiving condolences for the death of a man I never met.
And then I read this, from fellow Monkee Mike Nesmith:
While it is jarring, and sometimes seems unjust, or strange, this transition we call dying and death is a constant in the mortal experience that we know almost nothing about. I am of the mind that it is a transition and I carry with me a certainty of the continuity of existence. While I don’t exactly know what happens in these times, there is an ongoing sense of life that reaches in my mind out far beyond the near horizons of mortality and into the reaches of infinity.
In other words, "Don't be sad: Davy is still out there somewhere."
Now, obviously Mike Nesmith lost a friend and a former bandmate. The kind of friendship that must have formed among the four Monkees during their rocket to fame and subsequent touring, followed by the difficult on-again, off-again relationship they had professionally over the past 45 years is deeply significant. In contrast, I had a schoolgirl crush on a young man who had long since grown up, gotten married (twice, at that point) and fathered four children (all daughters, more's the pity.) I see the difference, and I realize that Mike was trying, in his way, to offer comfort to Davy's fans and to share something of himself.
But I get to be sad, dammit. Because someone who brought me joy, and who touched my life with his art, and who made me happy with brilliance like this, is gone. And even if you believe he's in Heaven, he's not HERE. He's gone from this world, and that is a loss, and I grieve that loss.
But this is one of those moments where not believing is a problem. Not because I want to believe that Davy is in Heaven, or with God, or will be reanimated when the Messiah comes. Precisely because I don't believe any of that. I believe that he's gone. And I recognize that those who loved him (really loved him, not fan-loved him) need the comfort that comes from words and rituals. But that doesn't mean they need God.
One of the reasons I want to get more involved with the Humanist movement is that we all need rituals, especially for important life cycle events. Birth, coming of age, marriage, death--they are all transitional periods, and they all involve a whole lot of stress. The rituals that have been developed (by people, through religion) help people through these transitions, because we need the help. But those rituals were developed by people, for people. We can have rituals that don't involve God, but do bring the comfort and assistance that people need.
Around death, the most important thing is to honor the pain that the survivors feel. We need to support people in grief and help them through the pain so that they can return to life fully when they are ready. And that's why I was disturbed by Mike Nesmith's statement. Because through his statement of belief, he was telling me--all of us--not to grieve. And not just about Davy, but always. He's saying that death is not really loss and so we shouldn't be sad. That's not fair.
So this is a call to action, fellow Humanists. We need to work to form communities, and to form rituals, and to make Humanism a force that will provide for people's needs without forcing God on them. For humans.
And then I read this, from fellow Monkee Mike Nesmith:
While it is jarring, and sometimes seems unjust, or strange, this transition we call dying and death is a constant in the mortal experience that we know almost nothing about. I am of the mind that it is a transition and I carry with me a certainty of the continuity of existence. While I don’t exactly know what happens in these times, there is an ongoing sense of life that reaches in my mind out far beyond the near horizons of mortality and into the reaches of infinity.
In other words, "Don't be sad: Davy is still out there somewhere."
Now, obviously Mike Nesmith lost a friend and a former bandmate. The kind of friendship that must have formed among the four Monkees during their rocket to fame and subsequent touring, followed by the difficult on-again, off-again relationship they had professionally over the past 45 years is deeply significant. In contrast, I had a schoolgirl crush on a young man who had long since grown up, gotten married (twice, at that point) and fathered four children (all daughters, more's the pity.) I see the difference, and I realize that Mike was trying, in his way, to offer comfort to Davy's fans and to share something of himself.
But I get to be sad, dammit. Because someone who brought me joy, and who touched my life with his art, and who made me happy with brilliance like this, is gone. And even if you believe he's in Heaven, he's not HERE. He's gone from this world, and that is a loss, and I grieve that loss.
But this is one of those moments where not believing is a problem. Not because I want to believe that Davy is in Heaven, or with God, or will be reanimated when the Messiah comes. Precisely because I don't believe any of that. I believe that he's gone. And I recognize that those who loved him (really loved him, not fan-loved him) need the comfort that comes from words and rituals. But that doesn't mean they need God.
One of the reasons I want to get more involved with the Humanist movement is that we all need rituals, especially for important life cycle events. Birth, coming of age, marriage, death--they are all transitional periods, and they all involve a whole lot of stress. The rituals that have been developed (by people, through religion) help people through these transitions, because we need the help. But those rituals were developed by people, for people. We can have rituals that don't involve God, but do bring the comfort and assistance that people need.
Around death, the most important thing is to honor the pain that the survivors feel. We need to support people in grief and help them through the pain so that they can return to life fully when they are ready. And that's why I was disturbed by Mike Nesmith's statement. Because through his statement of belief, he was telling me--all of us--not to grieve. And not just about Davy, but always. He's saying that death is not really loss and so we shouldn't be sad. That's not fair.
So this is a call to action, fellow Humanists. We need to work to form communities, and to form rituals, and to make Humanism a force that will provide for people's needs without forcing God on them. For humans.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Soldiers Without Heaven
I just read this article on the blog Unreasonable Faith, which I'll be adding to the link list at right. It speaks to something very similar to my post from yesterday: the dedication to story, which has nothing to do with God.
The reasons that people enlist in the military are many. Religious faith has certainly always been one of them, since many wars have been fought for religious reasons. But the thing that drives a soldier to put himself (or herself, of course) specifically in danger is elusive and rare, and I suspect it has more to do with earthly considerations than the promise of eternal bliss. Really, this Rev. Griem is suggesting that American soldiers are the same as terrorists, motivated only by the selfishness of future gains in heaven.
I like to give our soldiers more credit than that. One can rationally examine a situation and determine that the loss of one life is better than the loss of many, and some people who come to that conclusion will follow it through to make the decision that self-sacrifice is the most ethical thing to do. I'm not saying it's easy, but wouldn't we all like to think that we'd put our own lives on the line to save, say, a trainload of children? This calculation has nothing to do with God or even legacy, though we all hope to be remembered for our selfless deeds. It's a logical, rational calculation that has at its root a deep valuation of human life. If human potential is good then it makes sense to sacrifice the life of one middle-aged woman to save the life of many children.
Likewise, it is the fight for human dignity that we hope drives our soldiers today, especially in a time where our wars have fundamentalism on one side and Democracy on the other. When our soldiers are engaged in nation-building, it is essential that they treat each person in an occupied country with dignity. And when we are trying to convince people from another religious and cultural background to change their ways, the only viable argument to make is one based on rational thinking.
So shouldn't we be evaluating military volunteers on their Humanism, rather than their spiritual health? Ask them about their understanding of the value of human life, their definition of the word "dignity" and what is the difference between the words "loyalty," "faith," and "fanaticism?"
The reasons that people enlist in the military are many. Religious faith has certainly always been one of them, since many wars have been fought for religious reasons. But the thing that drives a soldier to put himself (or herself, of course) specifically in danger is elusive and rare, and I suspect it has more to do with earthly considerations than the promise of eternal bliss. Really, this Rev. Griem is suggesting that American soldiers are the same as terrorists, motivated only by the selfishness of future gains in heaven.
I like to give our soldiers more credit than that. One can rationally examine a situation and determine that the loss of one life is better than the loss of many, and some people who come to that conclusion will follow it through to make the decision that self-sacrifice is the most ethical thing to do. I'm not saying it's easy, but wouldn't we all like to think that we'd put our own lives on the line to save, say, a trainload of children? This calculation has nothing to do with God or even legacy, though we all hope to be remembered for our selfless deeds. It's a logical, rational calculation that has at its root a deep valuation of human life. If human potential is good then it makes sense to sacrifice the life of one middle-aged woman to save the life of many children.
Likewise, it is the fight for human dignity that we hope drives our soldiers today, especially in a time where our wars have fundamentalism on one side and Democracy on the other. When our soldiers are engaged in nation-building, it is essential that they treat each person in an occupied country with dignity. And when we are trying to convince people from another religious and cultural background to change their ways, the only viable argument to make is one based on rational thinking.
So shouldn't we be evaluating military volunteers on their Humanism, rather than their spiritual health? Ask them about their understanding of the value of human life, their definition of the word "dignity" and what is the difference between the words "loyalty," "faith," and "fanaticism?"
Friday, February 24, 2012
Simchat Torah
When I started listening to Humanist podcasts, I thought it would only be fair to throw in a Jewish one, so I listen weekly to the JTS Weekly Torah Commentary. It was sort of a random decision: there it was on iTunes, so I subscribed. On the one hand, I like keeping up with the weekly parsha, and it's a convenient way to do so. On the other hand, Exodus is bogging things down a bit, which seems odd since Exodus is such a great story.
I was listening to the podcast yesterday on my way to work when I drifted off (we are in Exodus, have I mentioned?) and started thinking about why Torah is even important to me. I think it started because I had been reading about the riots in Afghanistan because of some Korans that were accidentally burned by American soldiers. People have died, and I thought, "These are books. You can print more." I wondered, then, how I would feel about people burning Torahs. And I'd be angry. I'd be viscerally angry, because the Torah means so much to me. So I can understand that much, but I hope I'd stop short of violence, because in the end, a Torah is an object. And if the people who burned them apologized and weren't trying to stop us from making more, then I'd have to get over it.
But that brought me to the question of my relationship to Torah. If I don't believe in God, then what's the big deal? And I remembered that when I spoke to the Humanist Rabbi, I was disturbed to find out that Humanistic Jews don't revere the Torah. But if I don't believe in God, why does that bother me?
And then, maybe because I was getting close to work, I started thinking about my conversation with David, which I blogged about before. David is a 63-year-old black undergraduate student at the University where we work, and he was telling me about his theory (he's a philosophy major) that the stories a community tells itself have a lot to do with the success of the community. He even pointed out that the stories don't have to be true.
When I put those two things together, it all started to make sense. To me, without Torah I'm not sure we're Jews. And I think David's theory is the reason. The Torah is our story, or at least the beginning of our story. So whether you believe that we are Jews because we obey certain laws or because God made a covenant with us or because we have a certain history and culture in common, the Torah is the root. At the very least, the Torah--the physical object--is a symbol of our cultural story. And I don't think we will benefit from dismissing our story.
The story has always been that we revere the Torah because it is the word of God. Because of that, we are to literally risk our lives to save a Torah. People have run into burning buildings to save Torahs. People buried them when the Nazis were coming and went back years later to resurrect the Torahs. We have one in our congregation that was purchased from a community that no longer exists--everyone was killed, but we have the Torah. Does owning that Torah bring us closer to God? Or does it help us remember the people who saved the Torah in the first place?
Maybe the reason that Jews have survived for so long despite the odds is that we have something bigger to believe in. And that something is not God: it's us.
My brother is not "of the faithful." He has nothing Jewish in his house, he married outside the faith, and although his wife was raised without religion, they have a Christmas tree and celebration every year. Still, he wants his children to celebrate Chanukah and attend a seder and eat chicken soup and fahnkuchen. Why?
I think the reason is that he wants his children to know their story. His story. No matter how involved he's become in the American story, the hipster story, and even the story from his wife's culture, he's still connected to the Jewish story and although he doesn't feel the need to connect his children to a Jewish community, he wants them to know the Jewish story.
So why would we throw out something so powerful?
For centuries, Jews have celebrated the Torah and used it as a symbol. We have literally danced with it, literally passed it from generation to generation, literally tasted sweetness from its parchment. Because the Torah is a symbol. By literally passing the scroll to a child at her bat mitzvah, a parent symbolically hands down all of our learning, the wisdom of generations: our story. Ours, not God's. If we don't believe in God, then we don't believe that God wrote the Torah. People wrote the Torah. Our ancestors wrote the Torah in order to set down a dramatized version of history along with all of our laws so that future generations would have that story to pass to our children. It's a story powerful enough to have sustained us for thousands of years and to spawn two other religions that have done a pretty good job of taking over the world. The greatest story ever told.
If we give that up, what are we?
I was listening to the podcast yesterday on my way to work when I drifted off (we are in Exodus, have I mentioned?) and started thinking about why Torah is even important to me. I think it started because I had been reading about the riots in Afghanistan because of some Korans that were accidentally burned by American soldiers. People have died, and I thought, "These are books. You can print more." I wondered, then, how I would feel about people burning Torahs. And I'd be angry. I'd be viscerally angry, because the Torah means so much to me. So I can understand that much, but I hope I'd stop short of violence, because in the end, a Torah is an object. And if the people who burned them apologized and weren't trying to stop us from making more, then I'd have to get over it.
But that brought me to the question of my relationship to Torah. If I don't believe in God, then what's the big deal? And I remembered that when I spoke to the Humanist Rabbi, I was disturbed to find out that Humanistic Jews don't revere the Torah. But if I don't believe in God, why does that bother me?
And then, maybe because I was getting close to work, I started thinking about my conversation with David, which I blogged about before. David is a 63-year-old black undergraduate student at the University where we work, and he was telling me about his theory (he's a philosophy major) that the stories a community tells itself have a lot to do with the success of the community. He even pointed out that the stories don't have to be true.
When I put those two things together, it all started to make sense. To me, without Torah I'm not sure we're Jews. And I think David's theory is the reason. The Torah is our story, or at least the beginning of our story. So whether you believe that we are Jews because we obey certain laws or because God made a covenant with us or because we have a certain history and culture in common, the Torah is the root. At the very least, the Torah--the physical object--is a symbol of our cultural story. And I don't think we will benefit from dismissing our story.
The story has always been that we revere the Torah because it is the word of God. Because of that, we are to literally risk our lives to save a Torah. People have run into burning buildings to save Torahs. People buried them when the Nazis were coming and went back years later to resurrect the Torahs. We have one in our congregation that was purchased from a community that no longer exists--everyone was killed, but we have the Torah. Does owning that Torah bring us closer to God? Or does it help us remember the people who saved the Torah in the first place?
Maybe the reason that Jews have survived for so long despite the odds is that we have something bigger to believe in. And that something is not God: it's us.
My brother is not "of the faithful." He has nothing Jewish in his house, he married outside the faith, and although his wife was raised without religion, they have a Christmas tree and celebration every year. Still, he wants his children to celebrate Chanukah and attend a seder and eat chicken soup and fahnkuchen. Why?
I think the reason is that he wants his children to know their story. His story. No matter how involved he's become in the American story, the hipster story, and even the story from his wife's culture, he's still connected to the Jewish story and although he doesn't feel the need to connect his children to a Jewish community, he wants them to know the Jewish story.
So why would we throw out something so powerful?
For centuries, Jews have celebrated the Torah and used it as a symbol. We have literally danced with it, literally passed it from generation to generation, literally tasted sweetness from its parchment. Because the Torah is a symbol. By literally passing the scroll to a child at her bat mitzvah, a parent symbolically hands down all of our learning, the wisdom of generations: our story. Ours, not God's. If we don't believe in God, then we don't believe that God wrote the Torah. People wrote the Torah. Our ancestors wrote the Torah in order to set down a dramatized version of history along with all of our laws so that future generations would have that story to pass to our children. It's a story powerful enough to have sustained us for thousands of years and to spawn two other religions that have done a pretty good job of taking over the world. The greatest story ever told.
If we give that up, what are we?
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Lent
Obviously I've never been a Christian. There's a lot in Christianity, like the concept of the Trinity, that I just can't fathom or get behind. But there are two things about Christianity that I've always envied.
One is the "Spirit of Christmas." I've always longed to be part of the whole season of joy and I love the idea that everyone is more generous and kind to those less fortunate at that time of year. Of course it would be nice if people were that generous all year round, but as a Humanist, I've got to understand the limits of Humanity, too, and once a year is better than nothing.
The other is Lent. I guess it's an odd thing to envy, but as a child I enjoyed books about old-fashioned girls, like Anne of Green Gables and Betsy-Tacy. The girls were always Christian and church was always an important part of their lives. I enjoyed reading about the challenges and feelings around Lent. I particularly remember Betsy from the Betsy-Tacy series giving up fudge for Lent. Fudge-making was a common activity for teenage girls at the beginning of the 20th century, and at every gathering Betsy would take one piece of fudge, bring it home, and keep it in a box. At the end of Lent she had a wonderful sense of accomplishment and a big box of stale fudge.
Well, today is Ash Wednesday and there's been a lot of talk among my Christian friends on Facebook around the start of Lent. One is giving away candy she won't be able to eat until Lent is over, another is debating what to give up, and a Minister friend of mine posted a pancake recipe yesterday for Shrove Tuesday and is asking her congregants what they're doing to observe Lent. I, of course, jumped right in to these discussions with suggestions and questions, and I learned something new.
Some people do something positive for Lent instead of giving something up.
What a wonderful Humanist idea! Now, I believe that giving things up is good for you. It's why I give up bread on Passover and why I fast on Yom Kippur. Perhaps that's the origin of my Lent envy, or maybe it's the other way around. But giving up sweets or alcohol or meat doesn't really help anyone else (well, the meat does, I guess.) On the other hand, deciding to be nicer to those around you or more generous or to start a new volunteer project does help others. When I heard that Catholics in the town where I grew up have been adding positive acts for Lent since the 1980's, I thought, "Wow! Humanist Catholics! Who knew?"
Which is when I realized that I'm in trouble.
Because I don't see Humanism as having much to do with disbelief in God. I define Humanism differently. To me, it's about putting the dignity of others first and making decisions based on rational, rather than textual, reasons. It's the embrace of science and skepticism. To me, none of that precludes religion. If you do it, you're a Humanist.
So what does that make me?
One is the "Spirit of Christmas." I've always longed to be part of the whole season of joy and I love the idea that everyone is more generous and kind to those less fortunate at that time of year. Of course it would be nice if people were that generous all year round, but as a Humanist, I've got to understand the limits of Humanity, too, and once a year is better than nothing.
The other is Lent. I guess it's an odd thing to envy, but as a child I enjoyed books about old-fashioned girls, like Anne of Green Gables and Betsy-Tacy. The girls were always Christian and church was always an important part of their lives. I enjoyed reading about the challenges and feelings around Lent. I particularly remember Betsy from the Betsy-Tacy series giving up fudge for Lent. Fudge-making was a common activity for teenage girls at the beginning of the 20th century, and at every gathering Betsy would take one piece of fudge, bring it home, and keep it in a box. At the end of Lent she had a wonderful sense of accomplishment and a big box of stale fudge.
Well, today is Ash Wednesday and there's been a lot of talk among my Christian friends on Facebook around the start of Lent. One is giving away candy she won't be able to eat until Lent is over, another is debating what to give up, and a Minister friend of mine posted a pancake recipe yesterday for Shrove Tuesday and is asking her congregants what they're doing to observe Lent. I, of course, jumped right in to these discussions with suggestions and questions, and I learned something new.
Some people do something positive for Lent instead of giving something up.
What a wonderful Humanist idea! Now, I believe that giving things up is good for you. It's why I give up bread on Passover and why I fast on Yom Kippur. Perhaps that's the origin of my Lent envy, or maybe it's the other way around. But giving up sweets or alcohol or meat doesn't really help anyone else (well, the meat does, I guess.) On the other hand, deciding to be nicer to those around you or more generous or to start a new volunteer project does help others. When I heard that Catholics in the town where I grew up have been adding positive acts for Lent since the 1980's, I thought, "Wow! Humanist Catholics! Who knew?"
Which is when I realized that I'm in trouble.
Because I don't see Humanism as having much to do with disbelief in God. I define Humanism differently. To me, it's about putting the dignity of others first and making decisions based on rational, rather than textual, reasons. It's the embrace of science and skepticism. To me, none of that precludes religion. If you do it, you're a Humanist.
So what does that make me?
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