I have a friend with whom I discuss religion fairly often. Our discussions are always friendly, even though we believe differently – he’s a former Jehovah’s Witness turned atheist, and I’m… well, you know. ;) I'm actually not sure if he knows that I'm pagan, since I'm not always forthcoming about what I believe in public. I don't yet have the chutzpah to be fully "out." However, I've explicitly stated I'm not Christian, and I think it's also apparent that I'm not an atheist either.
It's surprising how much we actually agree about, which is probably why we get along so well; even though he doesn't believe in the divine, he recognizes the cultural weight that religion has, and that's what most of our discussions center upon. We both know non-Christians who attend church not because they believe, but because they want to take part in the cultural and societal aspect of it. I'm torn on the subject. I think it's unfortunate that people have to participate in a religion that they don't believe in if they want to be more fully involved in their community. And while there are secular alternatives, as well as other religious groups that one can be involved in, there's no denying that the US as a whole has a Christian culture.
This is not the same as saying, "The US is a Christian nation founded on Christian principles," which conservatives are often fond of claiming when they feel threatened by religious diversity. Or at least, even if that statement may be technically true, it doesn't mean what conservatives want it to mean. Yes, the United States' citizenry has always been predominantly Christian of one denomination or another. (Excepting the members of indigenous tribes, but then again they haven't always been considered US citizens.) And this undoubtedly has affected the structure of US society, customs, and values. But this does not mean (as much as conservatives may wish it) that the US is a Christian theocracy.
It does mean that even non-Christians will adopt Christian traditions, whether unconsciously or consciously. Besides the example of non-believers attending church, I know for a fact that non-Christian Americans will use, "Oh my god," "Jesus Christ," and "Goddamn," as epithets. We'll also say, "Amen!" to express emphatic agreement. The act of holding up something cross-shaped to ward off "evil" is invoked by Christians and non-Christians alike. This is because, even if we personally don't believe in Christian doctrine, we've been raised in a society that is permeated with them. It's likely that our parents are Christian, and if not, then most definitely a good number of our friends, teachers, neighbors, and random people we interact with from day to day are. Thus, it's impossible to escape Christian culture, and so it rubs off in the way we speak and in the little gestures and habits we express.
On the one hand, this doesn't bother me too much. After all, pagans still have at least one God, even though He's not at all like what Christians believe their God to be. Also, if one believes that there are multiple valid ways of forming a relationship with the Divine (as I believe), then a mixing of Christian and pagan isn't as hazardous. As long as the intent is understood, the net result is the same, right?
On the other hand, it frustrates and saddens me that I don't have a "pagan culture," as it were, to ground myself in. Not to say that there isn't a pagan culture, but I haven't been raised in it, and I haven't been exposed to it to the same extent. Adopting it feels false and affected; I have to consciously make myself replace "God" with "Goddess," and that act of deliberation - instead of just letting the epithets well up - makes me wonder if it is less genuine. When I want to speak with the Divine, my first reaction is to kneel and clasp my hands in the Christian gesture of prayer - and then I berate myself for slipping back into old habits instead of consciously, deliberately devoting myself to my new path.
It's a real catch-22 I've put myself in. On the one hand, I want to be more mindful and conscious of my religious practice. On the other hand, doing exactly that makes me feel like I'm not being genuine; I feel like I'm thinking too much when religion is supposed to be a matter of heart and soul.
Perhaps this feeling is shared by everyone (or most people, in any case) who converts from the religion they were raised in. I don't know; I'm only one person, and this is my first religious conversion. One data point does not make a trend. So I ask you, whoever may be reading this: if you've undergone a religious conversion in the past (and, if you're a pagan, this is probably the case), did you experience awkwardness as you adopted new practices? Did you get over it? How?
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
To what end?
Apologies for my long absence. Again.
Last month, long before the snows fell, I was driving to work along a residential boulevard. It's four lanes with a grassy median dividing it, lined by pre-planned, upper-middle-class suburban communities with names like "Seminole Forest," names that pay lip service to the land's history without actually understanding it. It's a moderately busy road, but that day traffic was slowed down to a crawl. I didn't know why, until I saw the stag.
He was absolutely beautiful - six points at least - with a thick dun coat and a broad, well-muscled body. I'm not sure how big he actually was, however. It's hard to gauge size when the animal is on the ground.
A police officer had parked his squad car in the lane closest to the median, where the buck lay, and he stood next to the king's felled body with a bemused expression on his face. No doubt he was wondering what to do now. On the pavement behind the squad car was a thick red smear.
I felt an incalculable sadness at the sight. Here was one of the oldest, proudest stags I had seen in years - a far cry from the small, young bucks that usually populate the liminal space where "civilization" and "wilderness" merge. What was he doing here? What did he possibly gain from entering the world of humans?
Rationally, I know the answer. The truth is, humans are one of the best things to have happened to white-tailed deer. We cut down the old growth, clearing the way for deers' favorite habitat. We provide plentiful, nutritious food in our gardens and fields and kill off the apex predators who hunt them - the added danger of hunters and cars are small potatoes compared to the cornucopia of suburban living.
But emotionally I couldn't accept this. The stag is a potent symbol of the wild - when he dies, it should be the result of a meaningful hunt, not careless happenstance. The hunt celebrates the vibrancy of his life even as it ends it. Whereas the driver that hit him didn't even know he was there until it was too late.
I wanted to do something to acknowledge the tragedy of his death, but I didn't know what. The only hand symbol I could think of was the Christian cross, and that was obviously inappropriate. (I do not know why I didn't think of signing the pentagram, other than that I am not quite settled into a pagan identity yet.) So I did nothing except meet his glassy gaze and send him a prayer of well-wishes as I slowly drove by.
Every day, to and from work, my eyes sought out that crimson swath in the road. Even after the rains came and washed it away, and even now, with everything covered in a crystalline blanket, I still seek the place where the wild king died.
Last month, long before the snows fell, I was driving to work along a residential boulevard. It's four lanes with a grassy median dividing it, lined by pre-planned, upper-middle-class suburban communities with names like "Seminole Forest," names that pay lip service to the land's history without actually understanding it. It's a moderately busy road, but that day traffic was slowed down to a crawl. I didn't know why, until I saw the stag.
He was absolutely beautiful - six points at least - with a thick dun coat and a broad, well-muscled body. I'm not sure how big he actually was, however. It's hard to gauge size when the animal is on the ground.
A police officer had parked his squad car in the lane closest to the median, where the buck lay, and he stood next to the king's felled body with a bemused expression on his face. No doubt he was wondering what to do now. On the pavement behind the squad car was a thick red smear.
I felt an incalculable sadness at the sight. Here was one of the oldest, proudest stags I had seen in years - a far cry from the small, young bucks that usually populate the liminal space where "civilization" and "wilderness" merge. What was he doing here? What did he possibly gain from entering the world of humans?
Rationally, I know the answer. The truth is, humans are one of the best things to have happened to white-tailed deer. We cut down the old growth, clearing the way for deers' favorite habitat. We provide plentiful, nutritious food in our gardens and fields and kill off the apex predators who hunt them - the added danger of hunters and cars are small potatoes compared to the cornucopia of suburban living.
But emotionally I couldn't accept this. The stag is a potent symbol of the wild - when he dies, it should be the result of a meaningful hunt, not careless happenstance. The hunt celebrates the vibrancy of his life even as it ends it. Whereas the driver that hit him didn't even know he was there until it was too late.
I wanted to do something to acknowledge the tragedy of his death, but I didn't know what. The only hand symbol I could think of was the Christian cross, and that was obviously inappropriate. (I do not know why I didn't think of signing the pentagram, other than that I am not quite settled into a pagan identity yet.) So I did nothing except meet his glassy gaze and send him a prayer of well-wishes as I slowly drove by.
Every day, to and from work, my eyes sought out that crimson swath in the road. Even after the rains came and washed it away, and even now, with everything covered in a crystalline blanket, I still seek the place where the wild king died.
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