The Seven Pillars of Faith, Part 1

By now most of you know I’ve been on a lifelong search for spiritual meaning and have ended up at this ripe age pretty much exactly where I started when I was eleven. Pundits say the answers are simple. That’s probably true, but we humans have to paddle through a lot of complications before we can grasp the concept. Each journey has its benchmarks, events that linger in one’s memory, representing the essence of the pilgrimage. Allow me to share a few moments that represent my personal odyssey. Forget about childhood. I’ve already droned on about that in earlier blogs. Let’s begin when my first husband was in Vietnam and I found myself drawn into a local Catholic Church during empty afternoon hours before clocking into my graveyard shift. The church was empty because it was in the afternoon and there was no graveyard next to it. I worked nights. It didn’t matter that I was looking at images of Jesus on the cross, something that was making my ancestors turn over in their real graves. The Sanctuary was filled with the aura of peace that seeps into places of worship over time. I could quietly sit in a pew and feel comforted. A priest noticed my presence and one day approached me as I walked out.

“I’ve seen you coming here lately, but not on Sundays. Is there some special reason? Are you in need of confession?” “Um. I’m not Catholic.” “No?” “No, I’m Jewish.” “Ah. I see. You are engaged to a Catholic boy.” “No, I’m married to a Protestant man.” “Then why do you come here?” “Because it feels good.” I wish I could tell you he said he was glad and I was welcome any time. But the truth is he looked at me like I was a Martian and turned silently to reenter the vestibule. However, this was in the 1960s and maybe we weren’t as ecumenical that year. Regardless, sitting in a Catholic Church all by myself helped me get over my culturally imposed prejudice and restored my faith. That was Pillar number one. Now jump past the war to the the small apartment we rented soon after our daughter was born. It had two bedrooms but, alas, no space for a meditation room. My husband, the Devotee, was nothing if not ingenious. He discovered that the little wooden door in the hallway ceiling led to a tiny attic tall enough for him to sit cross legged at one spot and not have his head hit the roof joists. Somehow he dragged slats of wood through the small opening, built a platform and laid a blanket on it. His meditation room was ready for use. All he had to do was access it. This was not exactly straightforward as we didn’t own a ladder. Instead, he would put a wooden bar stool in the middle of the hallway, stand on it and haul himself through the access opening. He could do this because he was very tall and very strong. Once he initiated his meditation nook, he realized all the heat of Southern California gathered under our apartment roof, drowning him in sweat, distracting his Ohm Shanti Ohm. Yet again, the man was ingenious. From that point on, every afternoon he would strip down to his whitey tighties, climb into the nether regions, attempt nirvana, and then descend in time for a late lunch. (He worked nights. Days were for sleeping, meditating, and eating.) As you might imagine, getting down from the attic was a tad trickier than climbing up. I can’t tell you from which type of crouching position he began his descent because I was never in the attic as witness. What I saw was a toe and then a pointed foot and soon a skinny naked leg cautiously lowered from the ceiling, tentatively feeling for the top of the stool. Once his foot reached the wooden surface, he still had to proceed slowly and carefully lest he accidentally knock over the stool and remain dangling half in and half out of the apartment. So there I was, one hot summer afternoon, entertaining the Avon lady, completely forgetting the existence of an attic husband and grateful for the nap of my sleeping daughter when I noticed the Avon lady was dribbling lemonade down her chin and staring in fear toward the hallway. “What’s happening?” she asked in frightened tones. “What is that?” I followed her glance and saw the toe, the foot, and the skinny leg descending like a cobra about to fall out of the tree. “Oh, that’s just my husband climbing down from the attic. That’s where he meditates.” By then the second foot landed on the stool, giving the Avon lady a full view of a strange man’s sweaty legs and the white briefs that substituted for a loincloth. Hopping off the stool, he gave her an embarrassed look and dashed to our bedroom without saying a word. “Does he do this often?” “Yes. Every day.” “Why?” “You’ll have to ask him next time you see him.” She never asked him because she never came back. Makes me giggle every time I think about it. Yet that’s my second Pillar. The third followed my decision to become a Sunday school teacher at a Unity church after failing as Sunday school teacher at SRF. (All I remember about the SRF school was showing up one Sunday realizing I was still wearing my bedroom slippers. I’ve been told this is not that uncommon.) Why would I want to try herding cats again and what was I doing in a Unity Church? The answers are simple. A dear friend said she’d joined and, wanting to support her, I attended one service. The Minister was so awesomely spiritualistic, I started going with her. However, attendance was dwindling as the neighborhood had changed and members had moved on or died off. Something needed to be done to attract new attendees. It was decided to promote the Sunday school and hopefully drag parents in along with the children. The plan worked and didn’t work. Neighboring parents did send their children over to play in a supervised environment but they stayed home to enjoy a quiet child-free hour. Stupidly, during this experimental period, I volunteered to be in charge. After all, I’d had practice teaching little ones how to make spaghetti necklaces at SRF. This worked OK for awhile, until we had more children than space and the cleverest of the lot began climbing on the tables to play war using crayons as weapons. A new plan was needed. Rescue came in the form of a neighboring mother. When she arrived to pick up her son, she asked if Sunday school would be open on Good Friday. I stared at her dumbly for a few minutes not knowing what she was talking about and then picked the safest answer. “No.” “There really should be.” “There won’t be.” “I think that’s something you should do so we can attend services.” “Thank you. I’ll look into it.” I did. I asked the Minister, “What’s a Good Friday?” He seemed dumbfounded by my ignorance. I added, “Apparently part of the Unity mission is to teach a form of Christianity. Perhaps you should replace me with someone who is Christian and knows about these things.” He nodded thoughtfully, said he saw my point, and agreed with my assessment. Soon qualified teachers were found and the Sunday school morphed from battle zone back to a place of learning. Also the attendance declined. Still, I learned from the experience. Never again volunteer as Sunday school teacher if you aren’t a follower of the church/temple faith. Also, it’s good to help out for awhile to get things rolling because pasta necklaces and paper plate note holders never run out of style. That’s it. That’s Pillar number three. Pillar four involved a band of wandering Jews. But I’ve run out of space to tell you about that so you’ll have to wait for Part 2. Inshallah it will be worth the wait.