Christmas traditions and going to church

A new poll looks at Christmas traditions, and finds that Americans enjoy the "cultural" aspect (trees, gifts, Santas), and their practice really depends on what THEY experienced as a child.  But an ever-shrinking number sees the holiday as religious.  From Al Jazeera: 

Whereas 90 percent of Americans of all creeds will celebrate Christmas in 2013 — including 80 percent of non-Christians — Pew found that only about half view Christmas mostly as a religious holiday, and a full third of the population considers it to be primarily a cultural event. 

The gradual erosion of religion’s role from American celebrations of Christmas .... is especially pronounced among 18- to 29-year-olds, who are less likely than older Americans to attend Christmas religious services or to believe in the biblical miracle Christmas is said to celebrate: that Jesus was born of a virgin. 

Even so, churches will burst this Christmas with the once-a-year attendees.  I know our church, which has a robust ASA as it is, will be close to standing room only for the Christmas Eve family service and for midnight mass.   Many will be there for the cultural connection, rather than an overt belief. And many will be young.

Writing in the National Catholic Reporter, a young columnist reflects on the role of church in this context:

One of the worst-kept secrets, particularly among members of my generation, is that secular people go to church. They may not go weekly, and they may not participate in the life of a parish, but they do find certain expressions of their spirituality in the back few pews. 

Often, these times and places are well-known and shared: a weekly vespers service here, a Taize service there. The promise of beautiful music, of a place of quiet, of a safe space for one's thoughts, is enough to bring many people through the door. A tremendous sense of both peace and reverence can be taken away from hours like these. Like the Magi, there's a sense that something powerful and meaningful goes on here and that such power and meaning must be taken in. 

I've certainly written enough about this, about connecting with the space and place, even if not a "believer".  I know I am not the only nonbeliever in the church we attend.  (I'm just the most open about it.)  And if the slogan is, "whoever you are, wherever you are on the journey of faith", then welcoming people without belief, and being content just to have them there if that's what they want, is part of it.  That's radical inclusion.

And another part of it is to let them come and go.

Older parish members often express great interest in this seemingly elusive population of young people. On their minds: How do we convince young people to stay here, to join us every week? How do we bring them into the regular work of this community? What are we doing wrong that they don't find us attractive or meaningful? 

Though extraordinarily well-intentioned, I've come to believe these questions are the wrong ones. They express a desire to serve the spiritual needs of young adults on terms other than their own. They conflate offering hospitality, which is essential to any church, with someone taking us up on that offer. They represent a kind of focus on results, on numbers, which isn't an appropriate measure of the richness of a spiritual life. 

You know the thing, because you've seen it:  middle-aged folks trying to be more "hip" for the youth (and too often, turning off their older members).   Sure, we'd all like them to come back.  But the author suggests that maybe this is what church is for.

No one truly knows today which churches will sustain social prominence for the next 50 or 100 years. As times get tough, we may need to let go of schools, offices and buildings that are part of our cherished history. But the primary spiritual obligation of the Christian -- an open door to our neighbor -- costs relatively little. The church that loses formal members and tithing but provides a service to its community, provides the mystical body of Christ in its neighborliness, may not be a failure. It may instead be returning to the church's roots.

This is the "if you build it they will come".  Because, they are coming.  They are coming for the deeply spiritual experience, the music, the quiet space, the ancient liturgical rhythms.  They are coming for the traditions even if they only come once a year.

So, when your church burgeons to overflowing at Christmas, don't get annoyed at the people who don't know when to stand or who are sitting in your favorite pew.  Direct a welcoming smile at the new faces. Make them want to come back,even it it won't be till next Christmas.

Wandering and welcome in the desert

IF you fly into Southern California from Atlanta, say, or Texas, you fly over the great Colorado desert. As your plane starts its descent over the Colorado River, you may forget that, since below is the unnatural greenness of the agricultural Imperial County (one of the most staunchly conservative and antigay parts of the state) and then suddenly the landscape below looks bleak and brown as you look out on a vast expanse of desert, rippled into folds of badlands and canyons.

Most visitors don't realize they are also looking out on an expanse of North American history. Spanish explorer Juan Bautista de Anza led an expedition into California from Mexico through this region in 1774 establishing an overland route to the coast. The famed Butterfield Stage pushed a brute-force route across the southern desert during the Mexican-American War, and in the late 1850s, this was the main route into California, the great Southern Emigrant Trail, across the desert and up over the mountains before descending into the fertile farmland on the other side.

Despite its monochromatic appearance from the air, the desert floor teems with life, from the dark green creosote bush, with leaves that smell like tar if you crush them in your fingers, to the ephemeral grey-green of the smoketrees, to the branching cholla cactus, each branch topped with pale golden thorns giving it the look of a halo aglow. Animal life also survives and even thrives: insects, snakes, and at night, scorpions, doe-eyed kangaroo mice, and singing coyotes. The endangered Peninsular Mountain bighorn sheep sip water from the occasional canyon oasis shaded by the rare California desert palm. (Borrego, the Spanish for "sheep", combines with the early explorer to name Anza-Borrego Desert State Park).

Desert living is hard, and communities often are boom-or-bust. The shells of lost commuities can be see along the desert roads, sometimes with a few people still scraping out a life in the searing summer heat. Palm Springs, in the Coachella Valley, is a booming vacation community popular with rich Angelenos. Sixty years ago, developers thought that they might create another Palm Springs in the next valley down. The small community of Borrego Springs was then home to a few cattlemen and farmers raising grapefruit and dates. Surrounded by a nascent state park (soon to become the biggest in the state, and the nation), it was almost unreachable in the early days. Although roads were eventually built in to the valley the developers failed in their goal to bulldoze a superhighway up to LA, with their desired route being blocked to protect the bighorn. Thus, the drive from more coastal cities remains slow and sleepy on twisting 2-lane mountain highways. Although Borrego Springs is a vacation and retirement destination (the population quadruples in the winter as the snowbirds return, but there are fewer than 3000 year-round residents), it lacks the big glamorous and expensive resorts, and maintains a quirky, small-town feeling.

Along the edge of the valley runs a narrow and unevenly paved road called "Church Lane" where four churches sit side by side: Lutheran, Catholic, Methodist (shared with the 7th day Adventists) and Episcopal. BP and I walked to the Episcopal church, St Barnabas, on Sunday Morning. It's a pleasant building, simple and light inside. Strikingly, the wall behind the altar is a huge picture window with a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. Si monumentum requiris, circumspice.

The parish reflects the Borrego Springs demographic, being older overall, with many retired folks. It's a small community, but they were clearly involved and collaborative with each other. We felt very welcome, although they seemed a little disappointed we were just visiting, rather than new residents (the start of high tourist season is still a few weeks away). At coffee in the tidy little hall, with excellent home-made carrot cake, we were interested to see flyers about various activities, like helping at-risk youth in the grim farming town of El Centro in Imperial County, or helping farflung poorer desert residents deal with rural challenges like disposal of old appliances. There's a labyrinth laid out with rock in the sand outside the church which I bet is spectacular at sunrise. They are searching for a new rector and relying on supply clergy, although we were quite taken with their interim, Fr Juan, a retired priest. Clearly despite their small size, they are a vibrant and engaged group. So, chalk up another welcoming visit to TEC in the wanderings of IT and BP, desert rats.

The landscapes are mine, the other photos from the web. In 15 years of regular visits, I have yet to see an actual bighorn--they are very shy and hide in the up-country.

Signs of Spring, new birth, and hope

Here in Southern California, it is definitely well into spring. My pea plants are flowering and we are already starting to harvest radishes, and it is sunny and warm. (It stops raining here in March.)

A few years ago, the phoebes built a mud nest under the eaves of our house and now every year they come back to raise a couple of broods of babies in it. Phoebes are black and white flycatchers, very common in the suburbs here. They are devoted parents and during the day there is a regular cycle of each parent bringing large and delectable bugs to the peeping babies. The first brood of 2009 is being fed right now. I can occasionally see a bill or a tail of a baby over the edge of the nest. At night, one of the parents wedges itself on the top of the nest to keep them warm. There are at least 2 or 3 fledglings in the nest.

Last year, we were astonished when the nest (about the size of a regular sized teacup) erupted forth with 4 babies! We had the privilege of watching first flight from the nest down to our table where they stayed while the parents continued to feed them. That's what the picture is; notice the baby has its mouth open to be fed! At night, mom and dad herded the babies back up to the nest where they oozed over the edges, being far too big to fit. Each day they flew a little further around the garden, but on the 4th day, they finally flew away.

With all the baby phoebes we have hatched over the years, we have to wonder if we have populated this entire neighborhood with these industrious, unassuming birds. It's sadder to think that some of our babies may not have survived the winter, gentle as it is in southern California. So I'm not thinking about that, but instead wondering how many new birds are behind the peeps that I can hear, and how they manage to eat those enormous bugs that mom and dad bring them, and whether BP and I will be lucky enough see that first hopeful, clumsy flight when they finally emerge from the nest.

Desert blooms

The deserts of California may look bleak and dead to the casual visitor. But to afficionados, the subtlety of color and texture and aroma hint at the life under the khaki.

Depending on how wet the year has been (and it generally isn't very), there is a brief spring bloom of wild flowers in the desert. First, tiny ground-hugging flowers carpet the desert floor, in succession of white and pink and yellow. A little later, the brilliant cactus flowers appear, like garish neon lights from all-night diners, luring in traveling birds and insects for a meal. None of it lasts very long, so the desert parks have "wildflower hotlines" not unlike the leaf-peepers of a New England Autumn. This picture from 2008 shows the long, spindly ocotillo, the fuzzy looking cholla, and the beavertail cactus with its vivid pink flowers. That silvery branch in the front right looks like a piece of smoke tree.

Usually BP and I try to get out to the desert during wildflower season, to admire how the brief period of color illuminates the normally stark landscape. But this has been a brutally busy year for us and we have had no chance to get away. Now, the season is over, and we missed it, and are worn out to boot. Oh well. Maybe next year.