A little rant about religion vs. spirituality

I was at a meeting last week where the conversation turned to how to attract younger adults to a church event. And someone said young adults were "not religious, but spiritual." Now, I think I have some idea of what she meant, but somehow the comment really bothered me.

Part of it's the buzzword factor. These days "religious" too often equals some combination of "fanatical, boring, straitlaced, excessively pious,and/or narrow-minded," while "spiritual" means one or more of "deep, personally meaningful, good, cool, new age and/or affirming of one's own beliefs.

Another thing that bothered me is the sense that being religious entails following, or at least acknowledging, a lot of boring, restrictive rules: the "thou shalt not's" of Old Testament fame, plus maybe a few more. And then there are the "thou shalt's." Thou shalt share with others through charitable contributions to the church and other organizations; thou shalt treat other people with the kindness and respect you would like to receive, whether or not you actually do receive it. Thou shalt give of thy time to benefit the community. All that religious stuff -- what a pain!

Whereas, if one is spiritual, one may enjoy profound personal experiences without any obligation to anyone. There are no rules governing what you have to do in order to be spiritual, no requirement to care for others or contribute to something larger than yourself.

I don't really think the religious and the spiritual are so opposed: I think in their best expressions the two go together. The experience of Mystery and the ineffable grows out of serving others and, in its turn, supports our efforts to live an ethical life. Religion and spirituality are two sides of the same coin, and it is only when we try to separate them, or hold them opposed to one another, that we reduce them to caricatures. In the process, we reduce our own experience as well.

What is home?

Two weeks ago, I bought a house. That is, I actually purchased a house. I mean to say, I presented an absolutely enormous bank check to an attorney and signed a lot of papers and now I (and Bank of America) own a house. In a town about 20 miles west of Worcester, Mass.

So here I am, at 57, learning how to be a homeowner. I hope I do OK at it.

I still have not really gotten my emotional mind (as opposed to my intellectual mind) around this colossal fact. It's a nice house, faintly reminiscent of the one my parents owned when I was in high school, college and for many years after that. It has a yard with trees in the front and flowers in back, and a deck and two stories. Well, probably more stories than that, but only two you can see.

The house is starting to feel a little bit like home. It has my stuff in it, and I've slept here for two weeks now, and the dog already takes it for granted that this is his place. But still it's strange. I've never owned a house before, and it feels like a huge change in my life, and rather a daunting one. I don't know much about taking care of a car, either, but I know where to take it to find someone who does. With a house, there is no one "house mechanic," you've got to find a whole retinue of persons to do this, that and this other, and first you have to know that those things need to be done. Daunting.

But it's a much better place for my sweetie to visit, and so far it's been a pleasant place to be. But there is one obvious major lack -- my sweetie. She visits, but she doesn't live here. I am impatient for her to move in, but our other house must either be sold or rented, and that hasn't happened yet. So we have to just visit.

I have met a friendly neighbor who actually left me a plant on the front stoop the day I moved in. She has also promised to bring over extra veggies from her garden and warned me of coyotes in the neighborhood. A good reason to continue my practice of keeping the pup on his leash and not letting him out by himself.

We walk in the morning, when I get home from work, and after dinner, usually going a little less than half a mile each time. It's quiet here, and pretty. It will be a good home for us when my sweetie's house sells.

Right now, "home" is a bit elusive for me. The other house is still comfortable and familiar, but it's not home any longer. And the new house doesn't really completely feel like home yet, either. I don't think it will really feel like home until we're living together again. I have found that "home" isn't always a place. Sometimes it's a person, or people, or even words. I have experienced a sense of home in the words of the Episcopal prayer book, and in other books that are special to me.

I guess it's a sense of safety and belonging -- of being in your own place. Maybe of knowing that others' caring is with you even when they are absent.