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| Trees or Flowers? Jardins Botaniques, Montreal; Charley Freiberg photo |
I just got back from the younger Grandniece’s baptism.
Baptisms have changed a lot since I was a youngstah: back in the dark ages,
there would be the baby in a hand-made or heirloom fancy dress, in the arms of
the godparents, who might be relative strangers to the babe (or strangers who
were relatives – either way, almost guaranteed to initiate baby-squalling!).
The parents and grandparents would sit nervously nearby hoping no one would
drop their new child and that the child wouldn’t squirm or shriek all through
the service or spoil the fancy dress - at a baptism, the parents provided the
original sin, but didn’t play much of a role during the removal of same. The
priest or minister would have been arrayed in flowing robes, the fancy
baptismal font would have been dusted off and opened, and there was a fair
amount of regalia, pomp, and circumstance involved. The Rite or Sacrament of Baptism
was intoned solemnly from the impressively big book of prayers. Back in those ancient days, other babies and
young children were left home so they didn’t distract from the solemnity of the
occasion.
There would be proper ritual: questions asked and answered
by the godparents; promises made in the baby’s name; instructions given as to
the responsibilities of the godparents. A sprinkling or pouring of water on the
baby’s forehead and the respondent squalling as the forces of evil were
banished and scurried off out the door would mark the dramatic peak of the
ritual. Godparents would be lectured on their moral responsibilities to the
newly-cleansed soul. Then, the Forces of Hell effectively banished at least
until the baby was old enough to make moral decisions for itself, a communal
relieved sigh was heaved, the babe removed from the fancy dress before an
accident could happen and returned to the nervous mother’s arms, photos would
be taken all around, and all would retire to Baby’s or Grandparent’s home so
Baby could have a well-earned nap away from all the bustle and strangers, and
adults could have a well-earned celebratory breakfast or lunch. The teenage
cousin or spinster aunt who had been left behind to mind the other babies and
toddlers and younger children would join the celebrations with a different kind
of relief - no longer being in charge of young charges is a great relief.
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| White Iris; Deb Marshall photo |
My limited experience with modern baptisms (two grandnieces/
two baptisms) indicates a different approach and perhaps even a different
purpose. All the available little children and babies attend today’s baptisms,
and the baby’s elder sibling can be center stage to help with the ritual. At
least in these two modern baptisms, roses of various colors played important roles
in the proceedings, and gave the older sister something to do: she was in
charge of handing them out at the right time to mother and father and group.
There were no godparents, or if there were, they weren’t part of the
proceedings. The heirloom fancy dress was on the babe and whipped off
immediately after so no baby spit-up or other accidents could spoil it, so that
part was traditional; and the parents, though holding their baby, were affected
by ritual nervousness lest shrieking or squirming or other baby stuff should
interrupt or disrupt the proceedings.
This modern baptism didn’t slam the door shut upon, or even
mention, the Forces of Darkness or a pre-soiled soul; and it left open and even
suggested the possibility that the babe, once reaching the age of reason, might
choose any number of ways to express her spiritual bent. It pulled in some New
Age speculation about Baby’s purpose on earth, some instruction to the parents
to support the child’s psychic and spiritual well-being and choices, and
Great Grandma, with the minister at her elbow, got to put the water on the
forehead and intone the traditional ritual words of blessing – on the baby, and
then on the older sister, now “born again,” in a way. Kisses were given to both
children. The baby in question didn’t squall, though one in the pews did until
it was passed down the row until it reached mama’s teat. Hungry babies have no
problem expressing definite, loud opinions. Then, after some discussion about
whether it was going to rain or not, the group exited for the beach, there to
have the modern version of the traditional celebratory meal.
This babe, and her older sister, have the blessing of being
raised in a steady, sturdy community: grandparents nearby or visiting regularly,
along with other relatives and a beloved Aunty and Great Grandma; and long-time
friends of parents and grandparents nearby with their near-age offspring. There are many people with open hearts
and arms who will be there to guide this little one and help her take her first
steps, physical and spiritual, and watch in awe as she and her equally-beloved
older sister grow into amazing, real people.
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| Day Lilies; Deb Marshall photo |
I was raised Roman Catholic back in the dark ages, when
everyone observed, no matter what their religious bent or sect, fairly
stringent rules and held fairly rigid beliefs about such stuff. Current ease
with variety and interpretation in religious matters is certainly more
welcoming and kind; but I have to admit that, looking back on the dark ages,
there were things about the strictness and formality of rites and rituals that
I think were good for children; and modern children, as a group, would in
many ways be better off for experiencing them. Not the nasty stuff – the
horrible days of hellfire and condemnation, rigid unacceptance of individuals in their
varied, god-given glory, and suspicion and intolerance, are well gone.
But children crave rules and ritual and drama. They often
thrive on it, and it gives them something concrete and accessible to rebel
against when they get to the rebellious teenage and young adult years, which is
less dangerous than the often scary places modern youthful rebellion takes
them. I know a number of adults who weren’t raised in any kind of an organized
(read that ritualized and traditional)
religion, who are fairly miserable – they continually seek a spiritual impetus
in their lives that they never learned to think about with clarity as children,
and that they can’t seem to respond to sensibly as adults.
Roman Catholicism in the dark ages was almost perfect fodder
for children. It was full of rules, ritual, incense and drama, all things
children love. It filled a deep human longing for mystery that modern life just
doesn’t provide. And it taught useful social skills!
First of all, there was that whole idea of Original Sin – we
were born with it. It added a frisson of danger to the state of being human: we
were bad. And then our godparents and
the man in the fancy dress made us good again – and we were put into a moral state
where whether to be bad or not was a choice we would actively make, from then
on. How can that not be a good couple of lessons?
I’ve long said that being raised Catholic taught me three
important lessons:
- To wear bizarre clothing in public without feeling self-conscious. One Christmas season many, many years ago, on a visit to look at the Christmas lights at La Salette, my oldest niece came to a dead stop in front of the life-size statues of the Three Wise Men. “Aunty Deb!” she called. “Look! These guys dress just like you!” Hey, a little flamboyance should be in everyone’s life (especially if you harbor part French Canadian blood), and learning not to be self-conscious in public enables us to have more fun, ask for help more easily when we need it, and deal with many situations with grace and without panic. I’m a naturally shy person, but when it’s needed, that unselfconscious training – a bit of play-acting, really – kicks in and makes life a lot easier.
- To believe in something that can’t possibly be true. Let’s be honest, now: to believe that an invisible man with infinite knowledge and powers lives somewhere, we don’t know where it is, who can not only see everything we do but knows everything we think and feel, and that he once took on human form, could do really cool things like walk on water, turn water into wine, turn a few chunks of bread and a couple of fishes into an endless supply (here’s a question I’ve always wondered about: did the crowd eat those fishes raw, or what?), died, and then rose from the dead not as a zombie, and then slowly rose up through the air until he could no longer be seen any more –c’mon. How believable is that? And that’s only one set of beliefs about the infinite being - it’s equally wild if you look into other religions. Intellectual honesty time, here: if you were presented with any of these characters or reported events and hadn’t been raised to believe them, you wouldn’t believe them at all – they’re too fantastic. Comic book or movie subjects, maybe even a compelling fantasy novel, but real? Ha!
It’s a truism, though, that the
human mind wants, even requires, something mysterious and compelling and
vibrant to believe in: the good conquers evil story, with human heroes; the
hope rising out of the ashes of destruction story; the magical rites or words
or objects that can save, not only the individual who finds or guards them, but
the society that will otherwise be swallowed up by the forces of evil; the
dangerous quests that the heroine must undergo, the deprivations endured, in
order to conquer and restore health and humaneness to a world on the brink of
destruction – our world teems with these stories, and they’re especially
popular with children, and teens in their age of ardor who are longing for a
cause to give meaning to their existence, and adults who have undergone a
crisis of faith, or who are searching for something to believe in.
And this is a good thing – it’s a
good impulse, it can lead to heroic deeds that benefit the society, the
community, and the individual. But when it’s not addressed properly, beginning
as children, or not renewed in a way that feels vibrant and alive when we’re
adults, it can go sadly awry. We end up with societal terrorism and hate,
hateful and evil politics and nationalism, religious extremists and violent
secularism, and – in our own backyard – Trump supporters, who somehow believe
anything he and his minions say, no matter how fantastical, no matter how
patently and demonstrably ridiculous.
You may sneer at that last, but think about it a moment and you’ll see
it’s true. He’s believed by some to be the savior of our nation, and even he
has said it: it’s a mess, and only I can fix it.
Back to the dark ages – we RCs also
believed in transubstantiation, the belief that the bread and wine used during
the Mass, actually, factually, truly, turn into Christ’s body and blood – and
then we ate and drank it. Whoo-ee! Bad boys again – kind of a cross between
zombies, cannibals and vampires! What
was not to love? Teen heaven.
- To lie without actually saying a falsehood. Catholics, at least, have the sacrament (sort of means something one should do often to accrue kind of heavenly brownie points. That’s a gross simplification. Look it up if you really want to know.) of confession – wherein one examines one’s conscience once one has reached the age of reason (about 7 years old, and we could say that’s pretty fantastical thinking itself) to search out any sins committed, become sorrowful for having committed them, then tell them to a priest who can deliver God’s forgiveness to the culprit. So this is a ritual that develops the habit of examining our motivations, the effect of our actions and words on ourselves and the people and community and world outside us, fosters introspection, encourages self-responsibility, and teaches the concept of consequences; it also teaches honesty, and because the sins are mostly offenses against society/community, reinforces the means and rules of living with kindness and in harmony with other people. There are a lot of people, especially politicians, who could use a review of those basic lessons.
However, how many sins can the average
9-year-old commit? And how quickly? Pretty much a kid will do the same stuff
over and over: disrespect or disobedience towards parents/teachers, fighting
with siblings, forgetting to walk the dog, taking sibling’s stuff without
asking first, and lying. We always added that last, just in case we’d forgotten
something, or had to make up something because we actually hadn’t done anything
to report from one day to the next.
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| Flowers on the Wart, Summer 2017; Deb Marshall photo |
So it also got us thinking, at a very early
age, about what a lie actually is. Are there good lies and bad lies? If a lie
can prevent a bigger evil, does that make it good? Do our noses actually grow
whenever we tell a lie? Are adults with big noses liars? If you told someone
something you thought was true, but it turned out to be a lie, does that mean
you lied? In what circumstances do we have a responsibility to ascertain that
something we were told is actually true before we pass it on? Can you lie by not saying anything about something you
know (sin of omission)? Can you tell the
absolute truth and still cause people to believe you said something else?
This last takes language skills and
development. It also takes a developed sense of social mores, political
consequences, remembered history, the ability to project consequences into the
future, a developed sense of self-preservation, and a host of other mental
skills, including being able to read your listener’s reactions. And we got
really good at it:
Great
Aunty (who knits horrible sweaters): Here you are, kiddo, I made this just for
you!
Kiddo:
Oh, it’s so nice of you to think of me! And you put such work into it!
Great
Aunty: I picked colors I knew you’d like!
Kiddo:
They’re truly vibrant, Aunty! My friends will be amazed!
Great
Aunty: You can wear it to the first day of school this fall.
Kiddo:
Yes, I could!
Great
Aunty: Or save it for later! You can wear it to the prom!
Kiddo:
That’s an amazing idea!
Great
Aunty: I love making sweaters for you, Kiddo, you are always so appreciative.
Kiddo:
And I love you, Great Aunty! Your creative mind always impresses me!
You get the idea. We all use those skills,
more or less skillfully:
Skillful One: Oh, it’s so nice of you to
invite me to your New Name Ceremony, Owl Woman. I won’t be able to come, but
I’ll be thinking of you.
Owl
Woman: Oh, can’t you change your plans? I so much want you at my ceremony!
Skillful
One: I’m sure it will be amazing and beautiful, and you’ll tell me all about it
so I’ll know what I missed! Be sure to take pictures!
Owl
Woman: I will, I will!
That’s a skillful use. What our
politicians-in-charge are doing today isn’t skillful prevarication, it’s
blatant lying or purposefully obfuscating omission, for evil ends, which in politics is a mortal sin. Those
people weren’t raised well, and clearly never learned the difference between a
white lie, which would be forgiveable if told to protect national security, and
a bald-faced lie, which is told to accrue ill-gotten gains for the teller and
to subvert the responsibility the teller has to fairly represent the best
interests of the listener.
Politics aside, you can see how beneficial
such things can be for children. The rites and rituals and sacraments and
strictures can provide a richness and encouragement to the imagination, a sense
of security in a world with complex rules not yet understood by the child,
practice in ordering one’s thoughts and emotional responses, and an
understanding that none of us is, by ourselves, the end-all and be-all in the
universe. They can teach useful social
and personal skills, as well as demonstrate that ideas can inspire passion, and
hope, and a sense of mystery and drama. These are important lessons, not so
easily acquired in the modern world. These are the things that a child gets
from the best experiences of religion in childhood. We also know that the same
principles, misapplied or taught by people who are themselves not mentally or
emotionally well-regulated or who are driven strictly by fear or hopelessness,
or who have lost their passion and wonder and have substituted complacency or
meanness instead, can result in damaged children, lost adults, misapplied
passions.
And that, I was pleased to discover, was
probably the main point elucidated by the minister at GrandNiece’s modern
baptism: Cherish this child, help her to grow in wisdom and
self-knowledge, support and guide her as
she discovers her path.
I would add: some incense and ritual and
rites and reasonable deprivations would not be out of order. I want my
GrandNieces to have something sensible to rebel against when they get to the
age; I want them to have an inherent understanding of mystery trained up in
them from an early age. And I want them to become skillful listeners, so that
no one – no one – can lie to them without them recognizing it for what it is.
Summer Critter Notes – Timberdoodle Sighting!
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| Roofus Gooptus Barkbender, all a-barkie; Deb Marshall photo |
Roo, our tipsy barkie boy, stumbled into the
high grass and woodbine vines carpeting the narrow space between driveway stone
wall and old house foundation wall this morning when the barkie boys and the
furry people and I went after the newspaper. I thought he was looking for a
place to pee, but his nose was down and a tug didn’t budge him, and in a moment
I knew why. He flushed a woodcock, and I caught a close-up glance at it and its
long beak as it took off.
Once
flushed, Roo lost interest, but I have to believe there’s a nest. Woodcocks are
ground nesters, the female raising their offspring in relatively dangerous
places not far from water, but well-camouflaged. I’ve wondered where the early
spring peeter’s mate was nesting, and now I have a good idea.
I didn’t look more closely while the barkie
boys were with me, because I didn’t want the moose accidentally trampling a
nest and eggs, nor did I want to call the furry people’s attention to the spot;
but I’ll try to creep back on my own, later, and have a careful look-see. Ticks
be damned.
Timberdoodle,
flight’s so sweet
Calls with
a peet,
Not with a
tweet.
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| Timberdoodle, Deb Marshall artwork |
