The four year old feeling a previous service. Photo credit Sean Elliot

I was on a panel the other day and these words found their way out of my mouth:
“When I teach Sunday school – ”
I was quickly interrupted.

“Wait, what!? YOU teach Sunday school?”

At first I was confused. Is that weird? Am I unqualified? Must I believe in a literal God first?
And then I realized, their shock had nothing to do with any of that. They were shocked because I swear like a truck driving gangster sailor, question everything that doesn’t make sense to me, and because “traditional family values” mean nothing to me simply because they are traditional.

They were shocked because of their very narrow view of who goes to church. Church-going folk are brainwashed, non-questioning, non-progressive simpletons who would not know what to do or think without someone at the pulpit telling them.

I am not sure why church received such a bum-rap among intellectuals. Perhaps it can be linked to some of the loudest religious voices preaching intolerance and hate. Perhaps it has to do with the “believe without questioning” attitude in some churches, such as the one I grew up in. Perhaps it has to do with people dismissing it as “the opiate of the masses”. Oh wait. Maybe that is YouTube.

But here is the thing: why is an opiate for the masses a bad thing? Couldn’t this world, with all of its suffering and tragedy, use a pain reliever at least once a week?

Maybe we should rethink this opiate concept.

This past Sunday morning was rough. After a Saturday night roller derby bout, a sleepover with three 12-year-old girls, and an early morning dog grooming appointment, I was trying my best to wrangle the troops for a 10 o’clock church service.

It didn’t go well.

I had to leave more than half my soldiers on the battlefield of the breakfast table and ended up dragging only two kids with me. The littlest one was particularly cranky and wanted no part of walking into the church building. He was whiney; he was squirmy; he was trying to run back to the car at every opportunity. I held him, I wrestled him, and I whispered in his ear “Just come in with me and we will cuddle.” I won that battle. Sort of.

As I sat in the service, my sweet four-year-old boy resisted my cuddle, stiffened his body so I couldn’t hold him, and managed to wriggle to the floor twice. I scooped him up again and hoped for the best.

Then it happened, a song about light from a beautiful trio of singers began and his little body softened. He turned to watch and I saw his face go from grumpy to calm. By the time the choir sang, he was smiling. Something had washed over him. And in that moment, that same peaceful something had washed over me.

I get it. That is why I go to church.

For me, there is community, there is mindfulness, and there are social justice projects. But above all, there is that feeling of the deepest inhale I can imagine taking, followed by an exhale that is nothing short of magic. That exhale lets go of the tension, releases the petty irritations, and puts into perspective my role in this very large and infinite universe. That exhale tells me everything will be ok. Or it won’t. Either way, the world will keep turning and I will do my best to turn with it.

It doesn’t always happen, to be honest. Not every Sunday is a home run. Some Sundays don’t feel like opium at all.

But some do.

And for me and my four-year-old, this Sunday was just the deep breath we needed.

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