#where the majority of the congregation sees the children of religious leaders as ‘special’ or ‘holier’ or ‘more blessed’ in some way

[likeaustralianotcrosby]

No Nuance November

(nuance/additional thoughts located in the tags):

People who decide to become pastors/reverends/preachers/etc. probably shouldn’t have kids.

[benevolentbirdgal]

A guide to 13 Jewish holidays / Jewish Writing Advice

Depending on how you want to count, there are theoretically 47 Jewish holidays, assuming you count all minor, major, and modern celebrations, both minor and major fasts, special shabbats, and each Rosh Chodesh (new month) individually. Since that post would be A) neverending, B) probably not useful in its entirety here, and C) really not applicable to most Jews you meet or write, I’m going to tell you about 13 celebrations (12 holidays plus the category of Rosh Chodesh and the category of special Shabbats), which will be plenty long enough. Maybe I’ll write a super-niche passionate post about the minor fasts or modern holidays later, but today is not that day. 

Usual disclaimers: I’m one me. The Jewish community is 14 million and super diverse. These are broad strokes and local tradition may vary. I operate from an American context and communal gathering/food sharing practices come from the Before Times (in some cases, the long before now times). 

I’m going to go in the order of the Jewish calendar, instead of likelihood of celebration, and note the most popular ones as I go. Three general notes as well: I will be using the most common transliteration/translation of the Hebrew names, Jewish holidays (and days in general) start at sunset and operate on a separate calendar that fluctuates relative to the secular Gregorian calendar. The Hebrew dates are listed with the months they generally fall in on the Gregorian calendar. Holidays marked with an * will likely merit their own list at some point. 

Additionally, how long many holidays last also varies depending on location. For some holidays (NOT fasts), diaspora (outside Israel) Jews celebrate an extra day for Jewish-diaspora-is-complicated-story-for-another-time reasons. I will note these holidays. 

*Rosh HaShanah (Tishrei 1, September-October): Jewish new year (well, one of four, but for the purposes of our discussion today, the Jewish new year). 1a. Typically celebrated by synagogue attendance, consumption of foods that are sweet and/or round (or have heads, like fish heads). Longer services than normal Saturday morning services but not by much, even when combined with regular Shabbat services. Big time to gather with families for a large meal. 1b. Lots of blowing of shofars at specific times, shofars, which are cleaned and sometimes painted ceremonial ram’s horns (we’re operating on 1200 B.C.E. tech here). Some of us are very good at blowing the shofar. Some of us are assuredly not.  1c. One of the most common holidays to celebrate, part of the “High Holidays.” If your character is remotely observant or has a very Jewish family, they celebrate this holiday.  1d. One day in Israel, two in the diaspora. 

Yom Kippur (Tishrei 10, September-October): The second holiday in the “High Holidays.” Yom Kippur is ten days after Rosh HaShanah, known as the “Days of Awe” (or the “Days of Repentance”). The Days of Awe, outside of orthodoxy and people who do prayers every day, aren’t really celebrated outside of asking people for forgiveness and tashlich (throwing away sins by yeeting small pieces of bread or other small foodstuffs into a pond). 2a. Yom Kippur is a 25 hour fast. Fasting on Yom Kippur means the following: No food. No water. Medication is typically okay (and most denominations are 100% okay with food/water necessary to accompany medication). No sex. This is usually extended to no sexual contact in general. No wearing of leather. You’ll see a lot of sneakers on Yom Kippur. No perfumes or lotions. Bathing/washing. This one is the one most people ditch. 2b. Jewish “adults” who are not health-impaired are expected to fast. Pregnant women, sick people, and the elderly explicitly get a choice and most of the former two do not fast. Lots of old folks do and have very strong opinions about it (I fast, but have gotten second-hand awkward watching a healthy 23-year-old explain why they aren’t doing so to an 89 year old survivor who is). There are young/healthy/not pregnant people who choose not to fast, but this is generally frowned upon. 2c. One day holiday regardless of location. Starts at beginning of sunset one day and ends at complete darkness (ideally with three stars in the sky) the next. Fasts are typically broken as a group over a large meal.  2d. It’s very likely that your Jewish character “celebrates” Yom Kippur and whether they fast or not is likely a point of contention with their family. 2e. There are a bunch of different services and they are usually heinously long.  2f. Shofars are also super important here.  2g. Wearing white is traditional in many communities.  2h. Napping is a popular way to pass the time, especially among less traditionally observant Jews.

*Sukkot (Tishrei 15-22, September-October): The Festival of Booths, basically the Jewish Harvest Festival.  3a. Fairly common to celebrate but not as much as the High Holidays, Passover, or Hannukah.  3b. Celebrated by building a Sukkah, which is an at-least-three-sided TEMPORARY structure with a natural roof (corn, leaves, bamboo) that you can see the stars through. People will eat and sleep in the Sukkah, and go “Sukkah hopping” to visit other families’ Sukkahs.  3c. In addition to regular guests, there is kabbalah and traditional mysticism that the a different guest from Jewish history will join you in the Sukkah each night, known as the Ushpizin. The Ushpizin  Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph and David) are all male, and in the 20th century some Jews began the custom of honoring Ushpizot (female guests as well, adding Sarah, Miriam, Deborah, Hannah, Abigail, Hulda, and Esther (although some obscure lists of Ushpizot date back to the 15th century). 3d. Your Jewish character may not have a Sukkah. Their temple will have a communal one.  3e. It is customary to shake a lulav and etrog, also known as the four species. Three leaves and a citrus from specific plants are held together and shook in all six directions after the recitation of a prayer. I like to call this shake-the-plant, but it actually has a ton of different spiritual meanings traditionally ascribed to it. There is also a processional in synagogue with the lulav and etrog. 

Shmeni Atzeret (Tishrei 22, September-October): In Israel, the one day after Sukkot and in the diaspora the last day of Sukkot and the day after. There are some extra prayers and it marks a seasonal shift in prayers pertaining to rain. Unless your character is particularly religious/observant, they aren’t going to do anything extra. This holiday’s functions were mostly relevant during the Temple Periods in ancient Israel. 

*Simchat Torah (Tishrei 23, September-October): Simchat Torah celebrates the restarting of the Torah-reading cycle and overlaps with the second day of Shmeni Atzeret where there is a second day. Unlike in some other faiths where the congregation or leader generally chooses the text of the day, Jewish congregations are bound by the Parsha (portion) of the week for formal services/readings (as opposed to other forms of study). The 54 parshas are read over the course of the Jewish year, and the resetting of that cycle is Simchat Torah. In synagogues during services readings from from Torahs, which are large, heavy, physical scrolls. This is relevant during Simchat Torah particularly.  5a. Two days in the diaspora, one day in Israel. Intermediate level popularity.  5b. Seven hakafot (professionals) are performed by dancing around the synagogue while members alternate carrying the Torah. This is considered an honor. Simchat Torah is usually the only day all the Torahs are brought out (or at least the ones that are in good enough shape to be carried). Dancing is mixed outside of orthodoxy and separated within orthodoxy. Only Jewish adults are permitted to carry the Torah. Outside of orthodoxy this includes both men and women. Within some orthodox congregations, women-only circles will also include Torahs in their dancing.  5c. There are also smaller not-Torah-but-still-Holy scrolls and Torah-shaped-stuffies that children will sometimes carry and dance with.  5d. After the dancing, the final parsha is read aloud. This is the only time we read Torah at night (from the physical object Torah - we read books of the Torah in other forms at any hour). The scroll is then rolled back all the way to the first reading. Reading the first or last reading is a great honor. 

*Hanukkah (Kislev 25 - Tevet 2, November-December): Hannukah celebrates the victory of the Maccabees over the political and cultural oppression of the ancient Greeks in the 160s B.C.E. After the victory of the priestly-class-turned-warrior-bros over their oppressors, the Maccabees found the Temple seriously wrecked, both on a physical and spiritual level. They wanted to rededicate the temple, but only found one itty-bitty little jar of oil for the Menorah (seven-branched candelabra in the Temple), enough for one day. They figured it was better than nothing, and immediately sent out for more oil, which took eight days. That was the miracle of the lights, and where the Hanukiyah (eight-branched variant of the Menorah) comes from since the oil for one day lasted eight.  6a. Hanukkah is an immensely popular eight day festival. 6b. Religiously, Hanukkah actually isn’t super important. Religiously-significant practices for the holiday are lighting a Hannukiyah, telling the story of Hanukkah, and eating greasy foods.  6c. There are approximately a shabillion ways to spell Hanukkah, it’s not just  you. There are actually only two acceptable (really only one 100%) Hebrew spellings but transliteration is a bitch sometimes.  6d. Although not “Jewish Christmas” gifts on Hanukkah are a thing because of the proximity to Christmas. Hanukkah gifts as they now are are really a 1950s-forward thing because Jewish kids were starting to have Christian friends en-masse who were getting Christmas gifts at the same time a lot of the U.S. was experiencing an economic boom. Purim is actually the traditional gifting holiday.  6e. Related: Hanukkah parties are very popular, but much more cultural than religious.  6f. Dreidels have a weird AF history and their dubious origins (and half-dozen possible theories) truly merit their own post. In the U.S. they are played with chocolate coins or other not-money, elsewhere children frequently use their local equivalent of pennies instead. 

Tu Bishvat (Shevat 15, February-March): The Jewish new year/birthday of the trees. Functions like a Jewish Earth day - planting trees is popular. Fresh fruits are consumed in celebration of what trees give us. Some more religious families also do a ceremonial meal, a Tu Bishvat seder, but most Jews don’t. 

*Purim (Adar 14, February-March): Purim, an immensely popular holiday celebrates the survival of the Jews during the first exile period in the ancient kingdom of Persia. The text celebrates the strength of our community and the chutzpah of a Jewish woman, and is usually celebrated in practice like Jewish Halloween.  8a. The story really merits its own post, but the short of it is because shenanigans, antisemites, and booze-hound kings a Jewish lady named Hadassah became queen (hiding her Jewish identity and taking the Esther to do so), the king’s head advisor Haman wanted to kill-the-Jews-tm, Esther was able to prevent it by convincing the king that the Jews should be able to fight back, the Jews did so and won, Haman was executed, and Esther’s cousin/bestie Mordechai became the new advisor. [really, the full story is Hollywood-level drama, another post to come.] 8b.  Communities gather together to do communal readings of the book of Esther (in Hebrew or the lingua franca), it’s only about 10 chapters and takes an hour or two. The megillah is read once in the night and once in the day. Technically there are several megillahs for different books/holidays, but Jews are usually referring to Megalilat Esther (the book of Esther) when they say the megillah, definitely so on Purim. 8c. Costumes are donned by adults and children alike, both inspired by the story and otherwise. This is in honor of the hiddenness in the story (with both Esther and some other stuff we don’t have time for today). Synagogues often hold costume contests as a small break between chapters.  8d. Readings get ROWDY. It’s customary to boo and make noise using little noisemakers when Haman’s name is said aloud, as with the names of his also Jew-hating sons (which are traditionally said in one breath). There are also certain lines of the megillah read out loud together.  8e. It is a mizvah to give gifts (typically of food) to friends as well as to charity on Purim (two separate mitzvahs).  8f. It’s also a mitzvah to have a big special meal.  8g. It’s a common misconception that it’s a mitzvah to get so lit on Purim you can’t tell the difference between Haman the wicked and Mordechai the blessed. It’s not a Mitzvah, but there is some commentary in the Talmud saying that, so while not a commandment, “get lit to honor the party king goy who vouched for us and also because Jewish history requires drinking sometimes” is a historically-rooted take. Consequently, it’s very popular to drink a lot on Purim.  8h. Purim is, for all of the above, immensely popular with both children and adults despite being dark AF.  8i. Purim is the last holiday in the Torah itself (Hannukah is after).  8j. Purim is a one-day holiday unless you’re in a walled city (long story). 

*Passover (Nissan 15-22, March-April): Arguably the most important holiday, theologically. Passover celebrates the Exodus from Egypt.  9a. Families gather for Seders on the first night (Israel) and second night (Diaspora). The holiday is 7/8 days long and one of the most common to celebrate. In normal years it’s common for families to travel to have large gatherings together.  9b. In addition to regular kosher laws, “chametz” (basically leavened bread and bread-like things and most foods that bring joy). There are five grains that can make chametz, wheat, rye, barley, oats, and spelt.  Some communities historically forbade other foods that could be mistaken for chametz, like the Ashkenazi forbiddance of kitanyot (legumes, rice, corn, certain seeds), although that was revoked/voted on to be not an official custom by nonorthodox denominations in the late 20th and early 21st centuries.  9c. Seders are ceremonial meals with 15 steps, including the actual meal itself. The quickest Seders run maybe an hour plus the meal. The longest can run upwards of 6-8, depending on the denomination, family, and customs. It almost goes without saying that there’s a lot of food and wine involved.  9d. In addition to be prohibited for consumption, Chametz cannot be possessed or consumed on Passover, so Jews clean out their houses of Chametz, and temporarily sell it to a gentile friend or family member for the duration of the holiday.  9e. Passover-specific hanger is very real, especially after the post-Seder food-coma wears off. Especially if you already have dietary restrictions and can’t just do a meat-fast.  9f. During the Seder, the story of Passover is gradually told from Moses to the plagues to the Exodus itself. It is a fairly interactive telling/ceremony and the specific rituals to different parts of the Seder merit their own post.  9g. Synagogues also hold Seders, but at-home ones are very common. Whose home to go to for the Seder is often a very political choice. 

Lag BaOmer (Iyyar 18 for Ashkenazi, Iyyar 19 for Sephardi, May): The counting of the Omer is from the second day of Passover to Shavout. Passover is the leave from Egypt, Shavout is the getting of the Torah, the Omer is the in-between time. There are a bunch of restrictions during the Omer for long-story reasons, but  haircuts, shaving, listening to instrumental music, weddings, parties, and dinners with dancing are forbidden during the Omer. Lag BaOmer, the 33rd day of this count, is the exception. 10a. Consequently, for Jews who are abstaining from the aforementioned things, Lag BaOmer is popular to do those things.  10b. Many Jewish schools and synagogues will have counting activities for kids and prizes if they can count all the way to Shavuot on their sticker chart or equivalent.  10c. One day regardless of location.   10d. Bonfires are a super popular activity, usually accompanied by feasts. 10e. Not as popular as some others. 

Shavout (Sivan 6, May-June): Shavout celebrates the day Moses came down with the Torah and when the ancient Israelites in the desert formally chose to enter their covenant with God at Mount Sinai. It was also celebrated as an additional harvest festival in ancient times.  11a. Two days in the diaspora, one day in Israel. 11b. The “dairy holiday” because the Jews didn’t have any kosher meat and had just received the laws, including kosher.  12c. The book of Ruth is read on Shavout. There are several possible explanations, but the most popular is that she choose to be Jewish, just as the Jews did at Sinai.  12d. Torah studying all-nighters are traditional.  12e. Not as popular as some other holidays. 

Rosh Chodesh (varies, 1st of every Hebrew month): There are 12 Hebrew months, except for leap years which have a second Adar. The first day of each month is known as Rosh Chodesh. It is unlikely your Jewish character does anything for it, unless they’re very religious, work at a synagogue, happen to be at shul anyways for another reason, or go to a Jewish school. If any of those are true, their prayers will have extra prayers (especially on Shabbat or another holiday).  12a. Rosh Chodeshes are traditionally women’s time/a moment set aside to honor women. 

Special Shabbats (varies): There are eight special Shabbats scattered around the year right before or after a big holiday. Services are longer and special prayers are added, but unless your character goes to shul or is in another circumstance where they pray consistently, they likely won’t know/care/notice. 

Some of these topics are also totally their own posts, but this is a general overview of the most important/common holidays and already super long!

[bloodofrobertsmith]

The Virgin Mary

   I was first inspired to write this biography by an issue of LIFE magazine that was completely about Mary. As I was reading I realized that despite being raised in a Christian household, as well as being surrounded by Serbian Orthodox and Catholic families for most of my young life-- the only thing I truly knew of Mary was that she was the virgin mother of Jesus. It’s important for me to note that although my family was full of devout Christians, I had spent all of my life rejecting it as a non-believer. I still stick to this thought process today. 

  I had learned later in my first semester of college of the symbolism and religious rites that surround her, but I still did not know anything of the Historical life around her. Was she real? What kind of life did she live? And who really was she? I wanted to know the truth vs myth of who Mary was. 

“The young Jewish girl goes to the stone synagogue in Nazareth. She offers devotions in the small women’s section adjacent to the main prayer hall. In chorus with the other congregants, the girl recites Psalms and absorbs their lessons: ‘Abandon yourself to God.’

 One extraordinary day she is visited by an angel who asks if she’ll play a part in the birth of God’s son. She answers yes. Perhaps a little more than 2,000 years ago, she makes her way with her husband Joseph, a carpenter, to a village called Bethlehem. Perhaps Bethlehem; some scholars posit Nazareth as more likely. In a stable, for the inn was filled, Mary and Joseph celebrate the birth of a son. They lay the infant in a feeding stall and name him Yeshua -- in Greek: Jesus. she raises Jesus to be a strong, brave young man. A leader of other men. That is the story of Miriam of Nazareth. And that is all we really know,”

But how did we get to this story? If as stated by Jarslov Peikan, we could copy on an eight by eleven sheet everything there is about Mary in the New Testament. Then why is Mary so popular through the ages? I think Mary is the perfect and most original examples of what happens when an idea evolves and grows from its original source.

Miriam of Nazareth: Miriam was born in a small village in Galilee. Known as Mary to the masses, her real name would have been Miriam or Maryamme-- one of the most common names of the day. As a young Jewish woman living in Palestine, she was a second class citizen. Not knowing how to read or write, she worked alongside her mother since she could walk. Basically, she was a poor woman and modern depictions of her are usually able to recognize that, But, the catholic church had a huge role in presenting us with images of a fair-skinned woman robed in blue silk. When she was a Mediterranean woman of low class who would have most definitely worn a simple wool or linen tunics and a shawl over her head.  

The political environment of Mary’s life was a complicated one with constant Jewish oppression in the form of Roman legions. The end of the dictatorship of Herod the Great had made way for the Romans to storm into Galilee and squash Jewish revolts. Which I think is a perfect breeding ground for Jewish prophecy of a savior to form in. Josephus, a Jewish writer records that many cities were burned and people murdered by the Romans 

Mary and Joseph: So, where does Joseph come into the life of Mary? The popular image of Mary we have come to know is that of a young woman in her early twenties birthing the savior. But, if we think realistically of the time period, she was probably only 12 or 13 years of age when betrothed to Joseph. Who would have been much older than she. However, Mary became pregnant before her marriage to Joseph. Let’s see how the Bible addresses this: 

(NCV) Luke 1:26-38: 

“God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin. She was engaged to marry a man named Joseph from the family of David. Her name was Mary. the angel came to her and said, ‘Greetings The Lord has blessed you and is with you.’ But Mary was very startled by what the angel said and wondered what this greeting might mean. The angel said to her ‘Don’t be afraid Mary; God has shown you his grace. Listen! You will become pregnant and give birth to a son, and you name him Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of King David, his ancestor. He will rule over the people of Jacob forever, and his kingdom will never end.’ Mary said to the angel, ‘how will this happen since I am a virgin?’ The angel said to Mary, ‘The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will cover you. For this reason the baby will be Holy and will be the Son of God.’ Mary said, ‘ I am the servant of the Lord. Let this happen to me as you say.’ And the angel went away.”

For the millions of Christians, Catholics, and sub-sets of these practices, the Immaculate Conception is proven fact based on the actual fact the Bible records it as such. The apparently divine conceptions of Jesus Christ, is a miracle -- a simple and unquestionable matter of Faith. But the gospels tell us very little about Mary and the pregnancy itself. Nor does it cover the societal reaction of Mary exposing to her village, let alone her husband. When Joseph had found put, he would have most definitely thought of her as unfaithful. We do know that when Joseph found out, he had the idea to divorce her quietly, as not to expose her to shame and death from the village elders. But the Bible does state that an angel appeared to Joseph and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, Because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to name his Jesus, because he will save people from their sins. 

Since most scholars today consider most of the Bible to be legend and mythology, it could be theorized that Mary, a young girl of no younger than 12 but no older than 16 had been raped by a stranger or Joseph himself. I believe it could be Joseph because I don’t know why he would have motivation to cover up another man’s rape child as the birth of the savior. I theorize essentially, that Mary and Joseph had premarital sex and Mary was impregnated. I will not determine that Joseph actually raped her as there was no such thing as statutory rape back then and they were already betrothed. I know that does not exclude it. But, given the context of the time, That is my estimate. No one will ever know what actually happened probably besides Mary herself. 

But was the immaculate conception truly just a couples cover up? Maybe. We probably won't ever really know. I cannot prove or deny what is fundamentally the foundation of 2 major religions and its sub-branches. But, I as someone who believes in nothing, have a hard time thinking that this was simply a Hebrew God formulating the redemption of Man. However, the New Testament, and I suppose history; say that Joseph was a kind man, and did not give away Mary to the Elders or have her stoned for “adultery.” As far as how and exactly when the conception happened, that will continue to remain between Mary and Joseph... Or maybe Mary and herself. Even then, practically impossibly, it could be true that Mary gave birth to the Jewish Messiah. 

Mary the Idea: It’s important to address the immaculate conception and life of Mary as the ultimate catalyst for what she would become. So how did Mary become the exalted Saint and Mother of All ideal to the populace? 

When taking a look at Mary’s fame, it is not terribly difficult to see her evolution as the Virgin Mother of the Messiah to the Virgin Mother of all the Christian World. Though it is important to know that she is more popularly worshiped by catholic sects, Christianity also celebrated her above any other biblical figure, Save God/Jesus himself. 

“Not everyone needs a brother or sister or savior, or accepts that a savior has arrived historically, or will do so one day. But everyone once had a mother.” Basically, even with all the majesty of the universe going on and changing around you, we all need a mother. Even though she is not the only saint to patron mothers, children, motherhood, and orphans-- she is regarded as the Mother of Mothers and Jesus/God is the King of Kings, Having a mother (with special circumstances aside) is the one most universal experiences of life. We all have one and we all want to love them and be loved in return. And Mary is clearly the finest and most ideal example of a mother in all of history. She is the mother of Jesus, How could she herself not be equally perfect?

But as we know, Mary as a mother is not really explored in the Bible. Basically through the centuries, as Christianity spread through European missionaries and expanded as an idea/religion, Mary expanded as well. If Christianity were not so against “false idols” I think she would be a Christian god in her own right. She was also a huge inspiration to poor people as an impoverished second class citizen becoming the “Queen of Heaven.” 

Millions of people today and throughout history have turned to Mary for help, fortune, and love. She is the most named after woman in history and the most prayed to saint in all of Catholicism. Mary was a girl whose choices and circumstances made her into the most famous woman ever. Not all to her own credit as I hardly assume she could have predicted this, The spread of Christianity through colonialism was probably the biggest amplification of her life and story. Allowing her to become Mary, Mother of All. 

[winonalakefossils]

An Unwanted Guest

“Typhoid?” The woman gasped and turned in horror to her husband standing beside her in a state of shock.

“I am so sorry to give you the news,” the doctor offered apologetically, looking from one parent to the other. “Your son’s symptoms were at first consistent with appendicitis, but I am certain now—” he halted. “It’s very serious."

The once buoyant, gregarious teenager lay on his bed in the classic typhoid state. His eyes half-opened, his body motionless, his color gone.

Mr. and Mrs. Pugh were spending the summer at their cottage in Winona Lake with their three sons. Mr. Pugh, a humorist, entertained sold-out crowds on the Chautauqua circuit, performing in Winona and other resorts in Indiana. The grim prognosis turned the joyous family tradition of vacations at the lake suddenly tragic.

The doctor gently explained to the parents that their son presented all of the symptoms of an advanced case of typhoid and that he suspected a perforated bowel.

“The contents of the bowel have escaped through a tear and spilled into his abdomen. He is raging with infection. We need to get him to the hospital for surgery if there is to be any hope of saving him.”

The grave tone rendered the stricken parents mute. They nodded their assent.

The anxious family—mother, father and brothers—stood to meet the doctor as he approached. His expression prepared them for more bad news. Richard was critical.

“I did what I could, but he is hemorrhaging.”

“What’s next?” The father’s frantic voice begged for a cure.

“Our only option is a blood transfusion,” the doctor said with some reluctance before adding, “I can’t promise anything.”

Mr. Pugh gave a pint of blood and then sank into despair when his son did not respond. Out of desperation, another transfusion was performed, this time drawing from one of the brothers.  The Pugh’s hometown paper reported a slight improvement, but two days later, 17-year-old Richard succumbed to the dreaded typhoid fever.

 When Richard Pugh fell ill in Winona Lake in July 1920, fear of an epidemic gripped the leaders at the Winona Assembly, for it had been a mere eighteen months since the Spanish flu had ravaged the newly established military training camp there.

Sol Dickey, Secretary of the Winona Assembly, spent much of 1918 negotiating a contract with the United States War Department to host a training camp in Winona Lake. The availability of dormitories and a vocational school made it an appealing location for the specialized training of draftees. Dickey traveled to Washington, and people from Washington traveled to Winona. They struck a deal, and on October 15, 1918, a thousand young men from every county in Indiana began arriving.

Trainload after trainload of enthusiastic Hoosier sons, eager to participate in the war in Europe, pulled into the station, each one greeted with the local version of pomp and circumstance: a thirty-two piece band and free cigars. A veteran of the Spanish-American War carried the American flag while ceremoniously leading groups to special interurban cars for transportation from the depot in Warsaw to the new camp two miles away on Winona Lake.

By the following morning, the camp had several cases of Spanish Influenza. The number swelled to one hundred and fifty within two weeks. At this time, schools and businesses throughout the state were already closed to prevent the spread of the pandemic. But World War I had not yet ended, and the United States government continued preparing its fighting force.

Over the next several weeks, infections surged. Nineteen men died. On November 23rd, just forty days after their celebrated arrival, the soldiers climbed back onto the interurban and journeyed south to Indianapolis. The camp at Winona Lake was officially abolished.

Although an investigation concluded that the Spanish flu arrived with the soldiers and that no fault lay with the Winona Assembly, the memory of that blighted experiment still haunted Mr. Dickey. When he first received word that the Pugh’s son was sick with typhoid, he worried that if the contagion spread, the Winona Assembly could be in for another disaster like that of 1918. To his relief, no one else contracted the disease.

The Pughs sued the Winona Assembly, pointing a finger at the beloved Studebaker Spring where their son had taken a drink a few days before the onset of his symptoms. Mr. Pugh alleged that spring water had been contaminated by a busted sewer main and accused the Winona Assembly of bearing responsibility. The Assembly could not prove that the water was not contaminated on the day that Richard Pugh drank from it. And even though no broken mains were detected, city officials decided to close all of the springs on the Assembly grounds after an inspection by Dr. Hurty of the Indiana Department of Health.

Thus it was that the tragic death of young Richard Pugh brought the passing of an era. The beloved springs whose water had once been bottled and sold, the source of cherished fountains preserved on so many postcards, the inspiration for the town’s original name, Spring Fountain Park, were now identified as a health hazard.

In a tragic twist, two months after the closing of the fountains, a typhoid epidemic swept through Winona Lake. Papers reported the death of three-year-old Sarah Taylor visiting Winona Lake with her father, a widower. The Indiana Department of Health sent Dr. Hurty to investigate after learning of several more cases. Hurty looked first at the water supply. Having established that it was not contaminated, he turned his attention to the local dairies.

Dr. Hurty was a veteran crusader against unsanitary dairy practices. He came down hard on dairies because the victims of bacteria-ridden milk were overwhelmingly children. He sought to expose those who increased their profits by diluting milk with water that, if contaminated, spawned disease. He was on a mission to put an end to milk tainted with worms, blood, pus, manure, and insects. Hurty preached pasteurization as a matter of public health, but in 1920, the vast majority of America’s children still consumed raw, unpasteurized milk.  

Armed with these facts, Dr. Hurty launched a meticulous inspection of area dairies. When the results from the milk supply came back negative for typhoid bacteria, he tested employees and found the culprit. An asymptomatic deliveryman had unwittingly contaminated the milk on his wagon and set off an historic epidemic. Winona Lake saw forty cases of typhoid and the deaths of two children, Sarah and Billy. Neighboring Warsaw recorded similar numbers. One of the worst typhoid outbreaks in Indiana put an end to the sale of raw milk in Winona Lake when the city council passed an ordinance requiring the pasteurization of all milk delivered there. Warsaw did the same.

The Winona Assembly got to work advertising clean water and pasteurized milk to reassure the thousands of summertime visitors that they would be safe from the threat of typhoid fever. That promise proved true for the next two summers, the proverbial calm before the storm.

Thousands descended upon Winona Lake for ten days in June of 1925. On one of those days, Sunday the 7th, a dense crowd of thirty thousand swarmed the grounds. Eight thousand poured into the Billy Sunday Tabernacle filling it up to the doors. The overflow streamed onto the lawn and gathered around the amplifiers. Those that could took up positions at the windows to watch the service going on inside. Parked cars blocked the streets leaving drivers to fight their way through the stationary traffic jam. This was the annual Church of the Brethren Conference, and it drew an enormous response. Nothing but humanity as far as the eye could see!

June in Indiana is a fickle month. No one can be sure whether it will be cold or hot, wet or dry. Conference-goers rejoiced at an abundance of sunshine and warm temperatures. Sprinklers overcame the dry conditions, keeping the dust down and the lawns lush. Newly installed water fountains quenched the thirst of the multitudes rushing off to their meetings or savoring a leisurely stroll.

“We had a wonderful conference!” People exclaimed unanimously when the time came to say goodbye and head back to their home towns. They had come from all over the United States for several glorious days of meetings, reunions and religious services. The warm glow of good memories left little room to complain about a few inconveniences, like long lines at the restaurants, congested roads, water fountains that occasionally belched up dirty water, and a presumed bug that had caused painful stomach aches among dozens.

In the weeks that followed, several residents and Assembly employees contracted typhoid. The number reached thirty by the end of June. At the same time, Huntington County, forty miles southeast of Winona Lake, saw its own outbreak. A doctor attending those patients discovered that all had attended the big conference. He contacted the Indiana State Board of Health. Officials immediately dispatched an inspector to Winona Lake to investigate a possible epidemic.

News of more typhoid cases continued trickling in from among the Church of the Brethren congregations around the country.

As the number of typhoid cases climbed, so did the fatalities. Alma Williams, a widow and mother of three, passed away in Elgin, Illinois. Two sisters, Rose and Carrie, who attended the conference together, died three days apart. Fifteen-year-old Galen Neher had moved to Winona for a summer job. Upon his death, his grief-stricken mother hired a lawyer and threatened to sue the Assembly.

Certain now of an epidemic, the investigator turned his attention to finding the source. Several factors had to be ruled out. Had some among the conference attendees brought the disease with them? Was milk once again to blame? Were flies transmitting disease? Were any of the food workers asymptomatic carriers?

Upon debunking these theories, the investigator concentrated on stories of foul smelling water at the drinking fountains, the barber shop and in a few of the cottages. He visited an old cistern, condemned it and cited it as the source of the outbreak. He flushed and chlorinated the mains, after which he declared the water supply in Winona Lake as safe.

In response to the flurry of newspaper articles slamming the Assembly for the use of an old cistern, the company that supplied water to Winona adamantly defended its practices and demanded a second investigation.

A new inspector arrived to reevaluate the evidence. As a precaution, he ordered the vaccination of residents and visitors to protect against further spread.

The complaints of fetid water restricted the episodes to an isolated area and rendered the cistern theory highly improbable. Furthermore, the wells supplying the water did not test positive for enough bacteria to explain the virulent spread.

Then, an employee from the water company that was seeking to clear itself of responsibility happened to notice an inconsistency in the meter readings for three consecutive days in June when the numbers had gone lower instead of higher. This could mean only one thing. Water had flowed backward through the mains.  

While the drinking water came from local wells, the sprinkler system and the public toilets drew water from the nearby canal into which residential sewers drained. By some act of very bad planning or sheer ineptitude, the public water and the canal water systems had been joined under the public toilets, separated only by a valve. When the pump at the canal broke down one fateful day in June, someone, whose identity was never learned, opened the valve to keep the toilets flushing properly. The pressure variance sent polluted canal water into the mains and straight to the water fountains, the barbershop and nearby cottages.

The health department ordered the sprinkler system to be shut down immediately and permanently since it was potentially spreading the contagion throughout the park. Health officials also mandated that Winona Lake install a modern sewage plant before its next summer season.

It’s unclear exactly how many people contracted typhoid in Winona Lake in June 1925. The town’s deadliest and last typhoid epidemic may have infected as many as one thousand, claiming at least thirty lives.

 By the turn of the twentieth century, thousands of people visited Winona Lake every summer. They strolled along the water’s edge, weaved through shady paths, drank liberally from cool springs, and flocked to the hillside to watch the sunset. They swam, fished, picnicked and worshiped together year after year. The Winona Assembly prided itself in offering comfortable lodgings amidst peaceful surroundings. Its leaders sought the best talent and most articulate speakers to educate and inspire thronging visitors. However, typhoid, an unwanted guest, sneaked in and triggered six epidemics during the first thirty years of the Winona Assembly. When one considers the introduction of pasteurized milk, the closing of the iconic springs, emergency vaccinations, and the laying of a modern sewage system, it may not be an exaggeration to say that disease achieved as great an impact on Winona Lake as any convention held there.

[redditnosleep]

H is for Hegemonic

by Human_Gravy

Through the darkness of the waste system, the stench of stagnant water, and rotting trash, Minister Meisberger, my family’s spiritual leader and savior, led us to God’s Chamber.

Barb had vomited twice to the disdain and disgust of the Minister. My parents reprimanded her for lacking respect or control over her faculties. I’d vomited too but swallowed it to avoid punishment. Each time Barb vomited, Mom slapped her across the face and told her to get herself together. She had taken too much time away from our tight schedule.

God was returning to Earth. Only the most devout servants could enter God’s Chamber and being late would have surely penalized our chances at being allowed inside. Making the Minister late to such an earth-shattering event would earn us the ire of the Congregation. We could have been expulsed. I couldn’t begin to imagine what would have happened differently if Mom and Dad were kicked out of the Congregation. I feared for our safety. More for Barb’s than my own.

Our family was not originally from the city. We were forced to move when Dad’s job transferred him from a Midwestern town to their main headquarters. My parents had not wanted to come to the city. Mom and Dad were devout followers of Christ, their whole lives. Their social circles and spiritual well-being revolved around their church. Being pulled from this and thrust into a whole new environment was a death sentence to them.

Faced with no other choice, they rented a small apartment in the city and barely made an effort to decorate or make the place feel like a home. Dad swore it was temporary. After a year in his current position, he would request a transfer elsewhere. Far away from the city. Closer to like-minded folks.

To them, cities were havens for the godless secular and liberal thinking heathens. Those who supported rampant fornication of the youth by providing birth control and condoms. Those people who tolerated and accepted the abomination of men fornicating with men. Women with women. Those who would accept their diabolical lifestyles of debauchery. Illegal immigrants dealing drugs and seeking to rape and pillage. Prostitution. The makers of pornography. Modern-day Sodom. Gomorrah. You name it, the cities supplied these sins in spades. My parents were closed-minded bigots and I hated them for thinking like this.

Most importantly, they didn’t want Barb and I to fall into the temptation these places provided. They made it their mission to find the most traditional, hard-lined, and conservative place of worship the city could provide. Jumping from church to church, they could not find this place until Minister Meisberger approached them outside the steps of a church they’d attended. The Minister invited them to a special meeting at the community center promising to bring them the closest to God anyone on Earth could ever get them.

They attended several meetings with the Minister and joined Meisberger’s church with a renewed religious enthusiasm. Meisberger’s word became the law in our home and our lives.

Major changes were made in our household. All colored clothing was to be removed from the home. Only black clothes were allowed. Colored clothing was the uniform of the Unwashed. To stand out was sinful. Black was a reflection of the darkness in man’s soul.

Our televisions, computers, and electronic devices were sold off. These were used to spread misinformation, propaganda, and entice deadly sins by providing easy access to online shopping, gambling, and pornography.

Barb and I were pulled from school. These were the breeding grounds to spread the agenda of the Unwashed. Other children living in sin would influence us to sin with them. Our teachers would instruct on blasphemies and profanities spread under the name of science. Our education was now in the hands of our parents who taught us from a curriculum approved and created by Meisberger based upon his religious teachings.

As you can imagine, Barb and I were not thrilled with the major changes in our lives. I refused to give up my television and Xbox. My tablet and computer. Everything I owed providing me with happiness, entertainment, or social interaction was taken. The only form of entertainment we were allowed was a copy of Meisberger’s Bible. Otherwise, my parents were to lecture us on it. My protest over the loss of my stuff was met with a firm slap across the face from my father, a man who had never raised his hand to me before in his life.

It didn’t hurt so much as surprised, shocked, and embarrassed me. It stung not only on the physical level. It hurt my soul. The man who I respected and loved become a man I feared and loathed overnight.

Barb had the much rougher time getting accustomed to our new life-style. She missed her friends and often snuck out of the house to visit with them. She would return with contraband books and an iPod Nano she could hide easily. Mom and Dad would be asleep when she left and when she returned. Her nightly excursions went without issue for a while until she pushed her luck too much and was caught.

Barb came home to find herself face to face with my mother who’d been having a glass of water. Mom woke Dad and the first of many explosive arguments began. It awoke me from my sleep and I crawled out of bed to see what was happening. Barb roared at them, calling them religious zealots, and told them Meisberger was ruining our lives.

At the mention of Meisberger’s name, Dad reeled his hand back and smacked Barb across the mouth harder than he had hit me. Barb fell backwards across the kitchen and hit the tiles with a thud. She held the side of her face. Her eyes were wide, and jaw dropped in shock. I could relate to the feeling. Without another word, Barb charged into her bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her.

Her blasphemous items were discovered when Mom went through her room during a time she had snuck out of the house. She hadn’t come home for days and my parents were furious with her. The day she returned, Barb was obviously under the influence of alcohol and raged against my parent’s mistreatment once more. This time Mom dealt the punishment. She rained down blows upon her head with opened hands and closed fists alike. Barb curled up into a ball as the hits came. Barb threatened to go to the police. This is where my father truly lost his mind.

To invite a contrarian authority to the Congregation into a man’s home and business was a major sin. The Man was the leader of the home and the only one allowed to interact with the outside world. God created Man to rule the home and lead the family. Man was strong, resilient, and the disciplinarian. Woman was to bare as many children to Man as possible, raise those children, and maintain the household.

Mom reacted to Barb’s threat by really hurting her. Mom kicked at her. Barb instinctively reached out and pushed our mother into the wall. She then made an attempt to escape. Dad caught her before she could reach the stairway. Barb howled and screamed for help. Some neighbors came out of their apartments to see what was happening. They were Hispanic or some other type of non-English speakers. Dad told them she was trying to run away, and it was good enough an excuse for them to let it go. It was a family spat. This was nothing new in a big city. A person screaming, yelling, and carrying on like a crazy person was par the course.

Dad dragged Barb by the hair back into the apartment. He tossed her through her bedroom door and closed it behind him. He called out for me to get his toolbox and I complied not wanting to incur my parent’s wrath. Dad installed a lock on the outside of her door and trapped her inside.

Barb was a prisoner in her bedroom. Mom gave her a bucket to pass her excrement and urine. She was fed twice a day and given a bottle of water to sustain herself. When she began screaming, Dad put his foot down. He grabbed my arm, shuffled me to Barb’s bedroom, and told her if she didn’t calm down, her punishments would now be inflicted upon me.

To prove his point, Dad twisted my arm until I was begging him to release me. Barb’s reply was nothing short of a disaster.

FUCK YOU!, she seethed through her teeth and flung a plate of food at my father’s face. She hit him in the mouth. The plate crashed to the floor shattering and sending food everywhere. I only caught a glimpse of Dad’s face and ran for cover.

He burst into the bedroom door and slammed it behind him shaking the apartment. It didn’t drown out the sound of his slaps and punches hitting flesh. The louder Barb cried out, the harder the beatings got until she went silent. Mom entered the room and escorted Dad out. There was blood on his knuckles and on his face. Barb was laid out across her bed. Her nose was bleeding. Her face was red and welted. Her lips were puffed, cracked, and bloodied. She wept, sobbing silently.

Everything settled after. Barb, fearing her punishments would be dealt upon the both of us, went along with her chores, Mom’s spiritual lectures, and prayers. She shambled expressionless through it, dead inside, and resigned to her fate.

She confined herself in her room preferring the isolation. I did the same. Our house was quiet all the time now. While Dad was at work, Mom focused on her religious studies and teaching us our lessons. It was the most miserable experience in my life and I was too afraid to stand up for Barb and I. Dad’s anger and fury was not something I wanted to experience.

Two weeks after the blow up, my parents told us we would be moving to join the rest of the Congregation. Barb tried to hide her reaction to the announcement. Tears and the defeated look on her face couldn’t hide her feelings. Within the week, Meisberger came to our home and my parents handed him over a check for their life savings.

My parents donated all their money to the Congregation. He shook Dad’s hand and nodded his approval to my mother. There was no male/female touching allowed. He thanked them for their tithe and promised their donations would reserve a place for our family at their Congregation’s living quarters and a seat at the right side of God’s dinner table in the Grand Kingdom of Heaven for the Feast of One Thousand Souls. Bidding them farewell, he told us to await his phone call while preparations were made.

One more week passed before the call came. God had blessed Meisberger with a vision of the Congregation entering God’s Chamber. We were told to dress in our best clothes and meet with him at an address one hour before midnight. My parents were giddy with excitement and expected us to join in their celebration. Barb plastered a fake smile across her face and excused herself to the bathroom. All her “joy” overwhelmed her.

We had a traditional meal of white rice, baked potatoes, and grilled chicken. Bland food to not entice us into gluttony. Before the meal had finished, Dad handed Barb a pill and demanded she swallow it. He said the Minister ordered it.

She couldn’t hide the quivering lips and shaking hands. Thick, watery tears slipped down the sides of her cheeks. She shook her head and begged our father for mercy. He gave her a look. It simultaneously terrified her and subdued her into obedience. Barb swallowed the pill. Mom forced her to open her mouth and show her she’d swallowed it.

An hour later, Barb was out of it. She slurred her words and had issues with knowing what was happening. Mom told her it was normal and not to worry. Barb fell asleep in her chair and Dad said it was time to leave. He hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried her out of the apartment. Her limbs dangled over his shoulder limply. She looked dead except for the uncomfortable twitching of her face. We got on the elevator and went down to the parking garage.

Following the Minister’s direction, we drove out of town to the meeting location in the suburbs. Barb was muttering in the backseat half conscious. Police, cult, and scared were the only words I could make out. Fearing for her safety (and mine) I asked my parents to explain the passages of the Oscuro Perpetua. Dad told me about the Second Coming of Christ and the events of the Book of Revelations. The wicked would be punished with the Second Death and continued onward explaining. I wasn’t paying attention. I was consumed with thoughts of escape attempts. Flagging down strangers for help. An hour before midnight, there weren’t many cars where we were heading. In the city, there had been escape chances earlier at stop lights with people right outside the car doors. I couldn’t bring myself to abandon Barb. She still wasn’t in her right mind.

Upon arriving at our destination, Dad parked the car in the lot of what used to be a supermarket. Across the street stood a dilapidated, crumbling building. All the windows were broken, and glass littered the pavement. It looked like it hadn’t been used in years.

I asked my parents if this is where we were going to be living now. They confirmed my suspicion as we stepped out of the car. Walking Barb with an arm around my shoulder, she was able to stand on her feet with some support. I wanted to protest going into the building. It seemed unsafe and scared me to go inside. I feared it would collapse on us.

Mom said the Minister purchased the abandoned building from the city. It was to be renovated and made into the headquarters and living area for the Congregation. We were to be officially welcomed into the Congregation. Most importantly, to witness God’s return to Earth. We walked into the dark courtyard and the features of the building became clearer. The square windows were broken and boarded up with plywood. The remains of two metallic chimneys leaned against the wall where they hung by a few pegs. Overall the place was the horrid dump unfit for human habitation. And this was to become my new home.

At the front door, my father knocked twice and then another six times. The screeching locks filled the empty silence of the night like a screaming baby. We were the only souls around for miles. No buzzing of the city life. No cars. No people. Nothing. My senses were going into overdrive as each little sound was danger coming for us.

Meisberger greeted us. He wore a priest’s black clergy shirt with a black collar instead of the traditional white along with the black jacket. He apologized for taking long to open the doors. It was old and needed lubrication. I felt relieved when I saw people standing in the room behind Meisberger in all black. The men stood at one side of the room. The women on the other. Among them were children and teenagers. Their faces were lost to me with so many staring back.

“Before we begin our journey to God’s Chamber, I would like to propose a toast,” Meisberger said. If it seemed like a request from the Minister, it was a direct order. A young woman carried a tray of wine to us.

“I thought alcohol was bad?” Barb slurred recovering from the pill.

“Blessed with my hand, this is not alcohol to consume for pleasure. This is communion. The blood of our God,” Meisberger responded agitated with Barb’s questioning. Dad hissed at Barb and raised his hand to hit her. Meisberger placed a hand on Dad’s shoulder and it subdued his anger.

“Tonight is not the night for violence. Young lady, please don’t take advantage of my kindness,” Meisberger said. “Now if you’ll follow me, the uninitiated must travel a different path. I must guide you through to the other side as your spiritual leader and the Emissary of God Upon the Earth,” the Minister said guiding us away from the building. We followed Meisberger across the courtyard and to the side of the building. We reached a line of trees and walked into the woods until we got to our destination, the opening of a large sewer pipe.

This is how we ended up in the sewers and on our way to God’s Chamber.

After Barb vomited twice, we quickened our pace until we reached an intersection of tunnels. Meisberger turned to the left. Thirteen lit candles on each side of the tunnel marked the doorway.

God’s Chamber, Meisberger said aloud and crossed himself. His voice resonated against the walls. “The Twenty-Six Flames represent the tenets of our faith. These are the guiding lights in this savage world of darkness and depravity. So long as the warmth of their light touches you, your soul shall remain pure and worthy of God’s attention and love.”

“Praise God!” my parents cried out in unison. Barb squeezed my hand hard.

“God’s light is touching you,” Meisberger stated. Barb giggled and let out a bellyful of laugher. Hearing it was startling. It felt foreign. She hadn’t laughed or smiled in a long time. It didn’t make sense, especially not then.

“God isn’t real. You are a liar!” Barb shouted

“Trust in me for I am the Prophet, the voice of God on this Earth, savior of the Wise Unwashed. Faith in I is faith in God. Rectification 4:8 – Argento the Pontificator,” The Minister quoted.

Barb released my hand and ran. She disappeared in the darkness of the tunnel. Dad gave chase. The sound of her footsteps splashing in the water sounded further and further away. The second set of splashing followed in a hurry, much faster than Barb’s.

Dad dragged Barb back to us. He forced her to her knees in front of the Minister. Dad held her while Meisberger shook his head in disappointment.

“I’m so sorry, my Prophet,” Mom apologized to the Minister. Dad frowned at my mother. Being the one in charge of the children and their spiritual evolution, Barb’s behavior reflected badly upon her and therefore my father’s house was out of order. The last thing they wanted was for Meisberger to see Barb rebelling against their authority and his. Dad tried to stand her up. Barb remained prone in the watery sewer muck and cried. Mom and Dad shouted at Barb to stand. She defiantly told them to go to Hell and spit at the Minister.

Meisberger raised a finger to them for silence. Mom and Dad immediately quieted.

“Your faith is weak, Barbra. Trust in God. Trust in me. Or the Darkness will claim you for its whore! I will not allow this!” Meisberger said.

His hand wound back and whacked her across the face. The sound reverberated through the tunnel and echoed far away. Barb let out a cry. Dad and Meisberger raised her to her knees.

“That’s right! I’m a fucking whore! I want all the darkness in the world inside me like a huge cock! I’m a harlot! A dirty fucking cunt!” Barb shrieked. I stood there aghast. I’d never heard her speak this way. It sounded like a wholly different person using my sister’s lips and tongue to speak such foul language.

“I’m so ashamed,” Mom said covering her embarrassment with her hands.

“Do not worry, Linda. We shall save your daughter’s soul whether she likes it or not,” Meisberger said. He went to the door and knocked on it. Two times and then another six. The door opened and light filled the tunnel. It hurt my eyes. Meisberger called out, “I need four men.”

Four men came into the sewer and saw Barb in the muck. Without a word, they went to her and picked her up from the ground despite her protests. She kicked, swung her arms, and squirmed. She called out for help and I couldn’t do anything. What could I do against four men, my parents, and the Minister? Their eyes bore into me. Daring me to attempt to help my sister. Like the coward I was, I averted my eyes from what was happening and let it continue.

The four men dragged my sister into God’s Chamber. The Minister and my parents followed. They left me alone in the tunnel. The sole person left whose loyalty and faith was left in question. It was a test. It had to be. They wanted to see if I would run away. They knew I wouldn’t. I loved my sister too much to leave her to suffer their insults and punishments alone.

Entering into God’s Chamber, the smell of disgusting sewer trash was replaced with the smell of burning wood and incense. Warmth enveloped me sending chills all over my body. It felt heavenly. Fire pits burned across the chamber. Worshipers stood at the sides of the fires with their Bibles in hand praying.

“Welcome to God’s Chamber,” Meisberger announced at the front of the room. “And a very special welcome to our latest arrivals, the Dayton family.”

The Congregation responded with murmurs of welcome.

“We are gathered here in the presence of God, the Prophet, and the Wise Unwashed to baptize the Dayton family into our church,” Meisberger said.

“Let me go!” Barb pleaded. The Minister turned to one of the men who had dragged Barb into the chamber and nodded to him. The man backhanded her across the mouth. She yelped and went silent once more. Mom and Dad stood front and center at Meisberger’s podium. Complying with the request, I joined my parents. Mom took my hand into hers and squeezed. I didn’t want to hold her hand. I wanted nothing to do with them.

In front of the podium, there was a large coffin resembling an Egyptian sarcophagus. Or at least what I imagined one would look like. The side of it was ornately carved with two angels holding the world on their shoulders. The top was carved into the shape of a man with his arms crossed. An aura emanated around his features.

“Drew Dayton, Linda Dayton, Barbra Dayton, and Raymond Dayton, step forward and accept the glory, the power, and the enlightenment of God”, Meisberger commanded.

Dad stepped foward and dropped to his knees. Mom followed and pulled me down with her. Barb was dragged next to me and forced down. My heart broke for her. Meisberger stepped down from his podium and went to my father first.

“Drew Dayton, do you give yourself and your family to the Prophet and God until the day of your death and beyond?”

“I, Drew Dayton, give myself and my family to the Prophet and God until the day of my death and beyond,” Dad answered.

One of the worshipers handed The Minister a bottle of wine. He uncorked it and poured the wine over my father’s head.

“Will you accept the Blood bond between Man and God?” Meisberger asked.

“I am one with God,” Dad replied.

The Minister tipped the bottle into my father’s mouth and he drank. Meiseberger moved to my mother next and performed the same ritual then came to me next.

“Raymond Dayton, do you give yourself to the Prophet and God until the day of your death?” Meisberger asked.

With no other choice available to me, I replied, “I, Raymond Dayton, give myself over to the Prophet and God until the day of my death,” following in line with my father and mother. Meisberger poured the wine over my head. It gave me chills despite its warmth. He lifted my head and poured wine into my mouth. It tasted sour and spoiled along with something else with a muted metallic aftertaste. Meisberger then reached out and grabbed my hand. He lifted me to my feet and held my hand in his.

“The blood of the Prophet and God run through your veins now!” Meisberger yelled throwing both our hands into the air. The Congregation clapped and cheered furiously. Mom and Dad looked pleased with themselves. I hated everyone around me.

Barb looked like she was going to be sick to her stomach again. Meisberger noticed her and his expression changed. His eyes went cold against the warmth he’d shown only a moment before. He raised his fist into the air and the chamber went silent. All eyes returned to him once more.

“Barbra,” the Minister called filling the chamber with the boom of his voice. “It is time to choose. Would you like to join our family? Do you want to walk in God’s warming light? For the sake of your eternal soul, I do hope you reconsider your position,” Meisberger asked.

It was at that moment, Barb looked away from the Minister and turned to me. She didn’t ask aloud. She didn’t need to. Her eyes said it all. They begged for an answer. All eyes turned to me then and I realized I had no other choice. I went to my sister, placed a hand upon her shoulder, and told her to join our family. She burst into tears and mumbled something among the sobs which I couldn’t understand.

Meisberger came forward and placed his finger under her chin lifting her eyes to meet his gaze.

“Barbra Dayton, before entering this holy chamber, you confessed your desire to fornicate with the darkness and the Unwashed. By your own admission, you wished to be a whore to the Unwashed and those who walk in the darkness. Do you deny those claims now? Do you choose to walk in the warmth of God’s light?”

“Yes…,” Barb whimpered.

“Barbra Dayton, do you give yourself over to the Prophet and God until the day of your death and beyond?”

“Yes…,” she whimpered again. He poured the remaining wine from the bottle over her head and then placed the lip of the bottle against hers. Barb took the wine into her mouth and spit it out. It sprayed across the Minister’s face and clothing.

The Congregation gasped collectively.

“You sick fuck! This is blood!” Barbra shouted at Meisberger. A chill went through me. Meisberger did not react to being spit on. He continued like nothing happened.

“Dayton family, God has blessed you with his blood as he has blessed the rest of our Congregation. God gives his blessings and demands faith, prayer, and sacrifice in return. Kneel before God and reciprocate his merciful gesture,” Meisberger said.

Mom and Dad went to the sarcophagus. I followed their lead and kneeled next to them. Barb stayed in place. Meisberger nodded once more to the group of men who came forward to force her to join us.

“Get the fuck off me!” Barb shouted while pushed forward. The Minister stood patiently in front of the sarcophagus. Once Barb was in her rightful place, two men held her. Meisberger gave them a head nod thanking them. In his hand, the Minister held an elaborate jewel encrusted dagger stained with blood. My heart pounded in my chest.

“Drew Dayton, God demands tribute. Serve him as you have sworn,” Meisberger said. He dragged the dagger across his own hand and grimaced. He placed his hand over the mouth of the figure carved on the sarcophagus and dripped blood into it.

Following the Minister’s actions, Dad swiped the dagger across his palm and fed the sarcophagus. Mom followed next. She let out a cry as she cut her hand open and gave her blood to God. When Mom passed the dagger to me, I felt as if I would lose my nerve. I didn’t know if I could play along with the façade of those religious zealots. My hands trembled at the sight of the blood on the dagger. The handle was slippery with it.

“Raymond, pay God his respect,” Meisberger urged. His serious, lizard-like face watched my hand intently. With a weapon, I realized I had an opportunity to end this charade and show the Congregation this was no Prophet or Emissary of God. I’d be killed afterward or worse. I wondered if it would be worth it or not and came to the conclusion it would not. Meisberger may survive the stabbing and it would all be for nothing. Barb would suffer still. It would all be meaningless.

I swallowed hard, clenched my jaw, and sliced my palm. I approached the burial tomb and placed my hand over the mouth like Mom and Dad had done. Blood spilled inside. Meisberger came and pressed my hand to cover the mouth portion.

Something inside the sarcophagus touched me. I cried out trying to pull my hand away. Meisberger held it in place. Whatever laid inside, lapped up the blood from the wound with a slippery cold tongue. It swept over the length of my palm sucking at the blood with a grotesque slurp. These were the longest seconds of my life. Meisberger released my hand and pointed for me to return to my family.

“God works in mysterious ways. Ways the Unwashed shall never understand. We, the Faithful, worship a powerful God. A true God. A God of action and love who does not allow for suffering of his flock. Place your faith in God for all things are possible through him and him alone,” Meisberger said.

He lifted his hand to the Congregation and showed his palm. The wound had vanished. I looked at my own and saw the unbelievable. My wound was gone too. The Congregation gasped once more this time in delight. I looked to Barb to see her astonishment matched my own.

“Barbra Dayton,” Meisberger called out. “God has chosen you for Salvation. You reject his selection. Reject your father’s authority. Your mother’s guidance. Commit blasphemy in the presence of God and the Prophet, and resist our efforts to bring you to the light and warmth of God’s eternal glory.”

The astonishment on Barb’s face vanished. In its place fear took hold. She trembled and tried to stand. The men continued to hold her down. She squirmed and received another backhand to the chin for her troubles. It dazed her. I could tell she was seeing stars.

“Perhaps this is why God favors you among us the most. You need God’s love most of all. God has commanded me to bring you closer to his being,” Meisberger announced. He waved a hand to the sarcophagus and the men dragged Barbra forward. She screamed and kicked with the last of her remaining might and spirit. My sister fought and fought. Something I was too cowardly to do myself. I wished I could have fought them too.

“Honey, don’t resist. God chose you!” Mom encouraged. Dad held Mom in his arms. Tears of happiness streamed down both their faces.

A set of older women approached the men who held Barb. They yanked and pulled at her clothes. I closed my eyes and covered my ears. It didn’t help drown out the screams and the tearing fabric of her clothing. The crowd surrounding her finished their task easily. She stood before the Congregation naked and pale. I couldn’t stand to look at her.

Four of the men had peeled off from the group. They went to the sarcophagus and together moved the heavy stone lid to the side. The smell of ancient rot wafted out of the opened tomb. It was like a dead animal left out in the heat. It overpowered the smell of the burning wood and incense. My eyes watered. I gagged.

Those holding Barb guided her to the sarcophagus. Barb fought them. Where she found the energy, I’ll never know. Amidst her screams, cries, and sobs, she pleaded for me to help her. When she finally reached the sarcophagus and looked inside, the panic in Barb’s eyes burned into my memories. Something broke inside her. The panicked frenzy of her struggle ceased. A far-gone look filled her eyes. Whatever she had seen had forced her to surrender to her fate.

Meisberger dismissed the men from Barb with a wave of his hand. They released my sister. She stood stupefied at the mouth of the sarcophagus staring down into it.

“And we commit Barbra Dayton’s body and soul to God for peace everlasting,” Meisberger said. He scooped my sister into his arms like a groom carrying his bride across the threshold. A set of withered old hands reached out from inside the sarcophagus to meet the descending Barb. The Minister set her down into those ancient arms and followed them until they were inside the sarcophagus together. With another wave of his hand, the four men returned to slide the lid back into its rightful place. God’s Chamber fell into silence once more. The Congregation bowed their heads in prayer.

I expected Barb to scream. To cry out. To give one last shout or sign of distress. There was nothing but the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

It was the last time I ever saw my sister.

Five weeks passed after our inauguration into the Congregation. Every morning started prayer. After breakfast, Meisberger presented us with a lecture on his Bible and then everyone went to the front of the room and slit their palm with a blade. The blood was collected into wine bottles as their sacrifice to God. These wounds did not heal. These were painful and prone to infections. This was common among the Congregation. The wounds would only heal when we went into God’s Chamber to directly deposit our blood into God’s mouth.

Dad quit his job in the city, broke the lease on our old apartment, and moved the few precious belongings Meisberger allowed us to have into the old distillery. Mom was pregnant. I had a new brother or sister on the way. We wouldn’t know anything until the baby was born. Even for emergencies, women were not allowed to see doctors. I hoped the baby would be born healthy, but I didn’t care if Mom lived or died afterward. Same with Dad. I hadn’t spoken to them since the night they abandoned their daughter to be sacrificed to whatever was inside the sarcophagus.

Living among the Congregation, worship in God’s Chamber was rare. In five weeks, we had only gone there three times to directly give blood. The Congregation was able to access the chamber through a door in the basement. This also provided access to the door leading to the sewer tunnels and the outside world. It was only a matter of gathering the courage and waiting for my chance to escape.

Five weeks after losing Barb, I gathered the courage to leave and made my move when I was sure it was the right time. Waiting until it was early in the morning, I got out of bed and crept through the men’s living quarters in the dark. I couldn’t risk lighting my candle yet. Once outside the room, at a snail’s pace to ensure no one could hear my footsteps, I went through the distillery until I reached the basement door. Once in the basement, I lit the candle. A knot twisted in my stomach with the memories of Meisberger’s words coming back to me.

”So long as the warmth of their light touches you, your soul shall remain pure and worthy of God’s attention and love.”

It was only a matter of getting into God’s Chamber again and sewer tunnel door. With no one around and the expectation of being alone, I rushed through the basement and opened the door to the chamber.

With the firepits extinguished and no incense burning, the smell in God’s Chamber was more potent than ever. The sarcophagus sat in the shadow of Meisberger’s podium. In the days leading up to my escape, I resolved to not bother with it. Escaping the Congregation was the goal. All else was unnecessary. Yet, I still found myself standing in front of it. There was no one to stop me from doing what I had dismissed as unnecessary and only dreamed of for the sake of revenge. I didn’t think the opportunity would present itself. I thought I’d be sprinting at full speed out of the chamber and into the sewers with chasing close behind.

The mouth of the figure on the sarcophagus was wide enough to fit the candle. The choice now was to either navigate the tunnels with no light source and get my revenge or focus on my best chance at escaping. My mind was racing, weighing the pros and cons, time was slipping by with more and more chances of getting discovered out of bed. What kept popping into my head was thinking about how much of a coward I had been during the time Barb needed me the most.

Leaving without destroying it was nothing short of cowardice once again on my part. I vowed since my sister’s death not to be cowed or intimidated. I wouldn’t let this opportunity go to waste.

Searching the extinguished fire pits, I saw exactly what I needed among the charred remains. A long, thin strip of wood sat at the side of one of the pits which hadn’t been used. It would serve me well for a torch.

Using the candle on the piece of wood, it took a few seconds of direct application for it to catch. From there it was only a matter of doing what needed to be done. I went to the sarcophagus and placed the burning candle over the mouth where unimaginable amounts of blood had fed whatever lived inside. As I was about to release it, a voice called out from inside. It was Barb’s.

Please, Ray, don’t do this! I’m still alive!

I couldn’t believe my ears at the sound of Barb’s voice. Hope filled my heart for only an instant before I realized I truly couldn’t believe my ears. Whatever rested inside the sarcophagus did yield power. It demonstrated it to me when it took Barb. Whether or not it was a God, the God, or something else entirely, I didn’t care. It took my sister from me. It had tried to use my memory of her to ward off its impending doom.

“Goodbye, Barb,” I said and dropped the candle into the mouth hole.

The sarcophagus burst into flames. The creature inside howled in agony. I can still hear it in my mind and its suffering brings me delight. I couldn’t stick around to enjoy it. I ran to the tunnel door and into the sewers. Navigating them was confusing. Each twist and turn led to another dead end. The torch was nearly at its end. Its heat was uncomfortable and burning my fingers. It ran out just as I found my way to the exit.

I ran out into the morning light. Not knowing where I was or where to go, I ran further into the woods with the hopes of the trees covering my escape. I hadn’t heard anyone coming in the tunnels and I hadn’t seen anyone outside either. I was alone.

The woods weren’t as dense or large as I had imagined. Running through them for a few minutes, I came out to a busy road. Cars were passing by. Shops were open. People were leaving their apartments. They wore colors other than black. It felt surreal. I thought I was dreaming.

With a renewed vigor, I sprinted down the street to a Dunkin Donuts. The strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee sent my eyes rolling into the back of my head. I charged past the people waiting in line at the register and asked them if I could use their phone to call the police.

The police came to the Dunkin’ Donuts and took me down to the station. I told them everything about Minister Meisberger, my parents, and the Congregation’s living area a few blocks away.

Hours later, police cars swarmed the distillery and discovered the Congregation fled. The officers at the scene said the building smelled like smoke and charred flesh. No one was inside. It appeared as if everyone had dropped what they had been doing and ran.

A BOLO was put out on a group of people dressed in all black traveling with small children. It became unnecessary once the police discovered the sewer system beneath the distillery connected and branched off to a bunch of different places. It would take time to send officers to check each location. It was already too late. The Congregation had escaped capture.

The remnants of the burned sarcophagus puzzled everyone. When asked to explain it, I told them the Congregation believed God had been inside of it. I was forced to worship it and give it blood. With the search for Meisberger and the Congregation underway, I went into witness protection. It was fine with me. I had no where to go. No parents. No sister. Nothing of a life to put back together. The Congregation had taken everything from me except the chance to start over.

It’s been almost eight years since those events and I’ve relocated to California. Thousands of miles away from anyone I’ve ever known. I started a new life here. I finished high school, graduated from college, and I’m working on a master’s in psychology. I currently volunteer to help children and adults who’ve survived ritualistic abuse, mind control, and endured torture at the hands of the people they trusted the most. This type of trauma stays with you the rest of your life. It helps to connect with others who understand and can lend an ear.

The police still haven’t found the Congregation. Every place they checked was empty. No one had ever seen them again. Good riddance.

My dream would be to see Meisberger and everyone in the Congregation caught, tried in court, and sent to prison. The knowledge of their activities being exposed to the world would suffice for me. To know they couldn’t hurt anyone else would bring peace to my soul and a sense of closure would help me move on from the terrifying ordeal.

[ibilenews]

'Kill the men, free the girls': A family abducted in Burkina Faso

Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso - Just weeks after Dina's father celebrated two decades of being a pastor, he was murdered by men who did not think he should preach.

Staring longingly at her phone, the 23-year-old runs her fingers over a photo of him smiling with friends and relatives at his party in January.

"I wish he was still alive so things could be like before," she said. "The sadness is unbearable."

It was a Monday evening in early February when Dina, who was living in Burkina Faso's capital, Ouagadougou, heard that armed fighters had kidnapped seven people from her family's home in the country's Sahel region - an arid expanse below the Sahara Desert. Her father, a pastor at the village church, her 20-year-old brother, 15-year-old sister Jane, and 17-year-old cousin Mary, were among those abducted.

Three days later, everyone besides Jane and Mary had been killed.

Violence has ravaged the once peaceful nation as attacks linked to armed fighters and local defence groups have displaced nearly 840,000 people, according to the United Nations, creating one of the fastest-growing displacement crises in the world. The country is also one of the hardest hit on the continent in terms of the coronavirus, with 581 cases and 38 deaths as of Monday.

Extremist groups and home-grown militias are exploiting local grievances over land and a lack of social services, and intensifying attacks across the country, including targeting churches and local leaders who do not embody their religious beliefs.

In February, days after Dina's family was abducted, gunmen killed 24 civilians including a church pastor in the town of Pansi in Yagha province. At least 14 people were killed when gunmen opened fire in a church in the east of the country in December.

Taken in the dead of night

While violence has spread to the centre north, east and western regions, the Sahel remains the epicentre of the crisis, with many towns void of a government presence. The commune where Dina's family lived was one of the last villages in the area with a functioning government. Now the schools are closed, as is her father's church where for 20 years the beloved pastor led a small, devoted congregation.

Sitting in a cafe in Ouagadougou, Dina barely makes eye contact as she recounts the harrowing story told to her by her younger sister, Jane, and cousin Mary, the sole survivors of the abduction. Neither of the girls would speak directly but Jane made an audio recording of her experience, which corroborates Dina's account.

At 11pm one night, Dina's mother was asleep and Jane was texting friends in the bedroom next door, when approximately 30 men burst into the house shooting guns and demanding money, said Dina.

Her father was across the compound and out of sight when the men arrived, but instead of escaping, he ran to confront them, she said. In an immediate show of solidarity, the pastor's son, two nephews and a friend emerged from around the compound to stand by his side.

"They didn't want to leave him alone," said Dina.

The gunmen - half of whom were dressed in what appeared to be military fatigues, the other half in brown trousers - cuffed and blindfolded seven of them: Dina's father, her brother and his teenage friend, two of Dina's 15-year-old male cousins, and Mary and Jane.

They forced everyone into a 4X4 and drove into the bush.

Kidnappings as currency

Kidnappings and forced disappearances by armed groups in Burkina Faso have increased almost seven-fold between 2017 and 2019 - from eight recorded incidents to 54 - according to the Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project (ACLED).

"Kidnappings have always been part of the modus operandi of terrorism. They are particularly used to provide terrorist groups with currency in their fights against the states or populations they want to subjugate to violence," said Siaka Coulibaly, an analyst with the Center for Public Policy Monitoring by Citizens.

Recently some countries, like neighbouring Mali, have expressed willingness to negotiate with these armed groups, and the increase in kidnappings could allow extremists to acquire leverage during negotiations, potentially creating a new "terrorist phenomenon" in West Africa, he added.

According to analysts, most of those who are abducted remain unaccounted for - their fate and whereabouts unknown.

In the 4X4 in the bush that night, scared of the torture they might endure, Dina's father prayed they would get into a car accident and die instantly, Jane recounted in her audio recording.

"I told my dad to stay strong because God said in the Bible: 'The lord will fight for you and you shall hold your peace'," she said.

They drove through the night without incident, arriving the next morning at a non-descript campsite where they were fed a small portion of fried rice. But Dina's father barely ate, saving the little food he was given for his children. Later that day a man came and started preaching the laws of Islam, forcing the hostages to recite lines from the Quran, said Dina.

"They told my father if he became a Muslim, they'd take him to Mali and he'd be a chief of a terrorist group and my cousins and brother could become terrorists in Mali as well," she said.

Burkina Faso's violence is rooted in neighbouring Mali, which plunged into crisis in 2012, before a French-led military intervention regained control from armed fighters in some major towns.

The initial spillover has evolved into a full-fledged insurgency, putting Burkina Faso at the epicentre of the crisis, Héni Nsaibia, a researcher at ACLED said. Yet cross-border dynamics persist as groups use uncontrolled expanses between and within countries as bases to regroup and recruit, he said.

He knew he would be killed

After a day of being forced to learn the Quran, the hostages were blindfolded and questioned by their captors about whether they would renounce their God, Jane said in her audio recording.

The pastor - who had converted to Catholicism from Islam more than 30 years ago, but kept his Muslim name - tried to explain to the men that he embraced both religions, but said he would rather die than become a terrorist.

After refusing to acquiesce, her father knew he was going to be killed, said Dina.

THE PASTOR'S LAST WORDS TO HIS DAUGHTER, DINA

Believing that the men might spare the lives of the two girls, the pastor and his son imparted messages for the rest of the family: To take care of their mother, be courageous, continue studying and not to worry about anything, because even in death he would always be by their side, said Dina of her father's words.

Regarded as the stubborn one in the family, yet also the pastor's favourite, Dina's father sent a special note to her: "Be humble, don't be arrogant and learn to better control your anger," she said.

Cracking a smile, she joked that when she was younger her family nicknamed her "Djinia-Djon" - a phrase in her local language meaning the "leader of everything bad", she said.

Her brother's parting words to his younger sister were inspired by the late Nelson Mandela, the South African anti-apartheid freedom fighter who overcame nearly three decades in prison to become a president.

"I learned that courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it," he said to Jane the night before he died.

The seven hostages spent three days in captivity, while their kidnappers squabbled over their fate. Some of the men wanted to release them, others thought they should all be murdered, while some wanted to kill the men and free the women, said Dina.

By the third day they finally decided.

Five shots

It was a Wednesday afternoon and the kidnappers forced everyone into the car. After driving a short distance, they let the men out, placing them in a circle with Dina's father and brother at the centre.

The two girls were slowly driven away, while the sound of five gunshots - one for each of the people they had left behind - reverberated behind them.

DINA

"We were sure that our relatives had left this world," Jane said in the recording.

Together with Mary, she was dropped off along the road and the two girls were shown the way home. They walked for 12 hours before arriving - broken and defeated.

Back in Ouagadougou, Dina was anxiously waiting by her phone. "I thought 95 percent they'd be released," she said.

But when she heard the news, she was inconsolable.  

Days later, the men's bodies were retrieved and the family held a funeral in their village. But because of the ongoing insecurity, Dina was unable to attend the burial.

She has found some solace in knowing that at least one day she will be able to visit the site to pay her respects.

"At least we can see their graves and know where they are, otherwise we'd be living in limbo, constantly terrified," she said.

Since the incident there have been preliminary investigations into who was behind the attacks. Some family members said they knew a few of the men involved and that they were Fulani members of the community - a tribe that has been largely accused of joining the armed groups.

Due to the real or perceived support for these groups by some Fulanis, their community has been increasingly targeted by the Burkinabe army and local defence groups, who are accused of committing human rights abuses against them. This has sparked concern that the violence has taken a "disturbingly ethnic tone which threatens to worsen and blight ever more lives", said Corinne Dufka, the West Africa director for Human Rights Watch.

During the abduction, Dina's cousin had recognised one of attacker's voices and wanted to confront him, but her father would not let him. He did not want to further community divisions or prompt retaliation against his family after he died, she said.

To date, only one person accused of being connected with the abductions and murders has been arrested, but other suspects have fled, said Dina.

In the weeks following her father's death, the family moved from the Sahel to settle in Ouagadougou. But life has become harder, and they are struggling to cope financially and emotionally.

"This has turned our life upside down," Dina said.

"We think about him all the time, and we miss him."

[catholicliving]

An Essay on “Practical Catholicism”

So a few weeks ago, two of my coworkers were talking about different religions and how people practice their respective faiths. I didn’t really take part in the conversation, but simply listened in as it was near my desk, and I couldn’t help but hear. One of them made a remark to this effect: “I don’t see why people need to go to a special building to worship God. I can worship him in my house, or out in nature, or anywhere. I don’t need a special building for that.”

And, to a certain degree, she’s right. We can worship God anywhere. In fact, Jesus tells us that we should go to our inner rooms and pray to our Father in secret, and our Father who sees what is secret will repay us.

There is certainly merit to private prayer, do not get me wrong. We should all be comfortable with private meditation whether at home or on the go, and we don’t need a “worship space” – a church, a chapel, a grotto, or whatever – to pray.

All that being said, that doesn’t take away from the fact that we DO need to be comfortable with communal worship as well. As one of my favorite Christian musical artists Ron Kenoly says, “Learn how to worship with the person standing next to you / Because when we get to Heaven, that’s what we’re gonna do.”

We need to have and do both.

But, let’s not overlook why so many people do go to church, and have gone to a central place of worship for hundreds of generations: the practical one – it’s a community center.

Think back to the 1800s, and those rural communities out in Farmland, USA (or any country, really). Your neighbors were sometimes several miles away, and, without cars, that was easily a half-day’s journey just to go to your friend’s house for a chat, grab a thing of sugar and then head back home. It was much easier for everyone to gather at the church, a central location, on Sunday and hear the latest news — that couple just had their first baby; so-and-so is on their deathbed; Mr. Smith fell and broke his leg and is on bedrest for several weeks. But, because these were also people of Faith, that meant that they could take action on anything that they felt needed to be done. Bring the new parents some food; help Mr. Smith’s family with their chores and other tasks; offer so-and-so’s family words of consolation, etc.

Even today, politicians realize that if you want to get the African-American communities involved, you go to their churches. You talk to the pastor, or the youth minister or whomever, because if they can get their congregation involved, your collective goals will be accomplished very quickly. This can be said for other communities, too, don’t get me wrong; but the African-American community is well-known for seeing the church as a gathering place for everyone to come together and plan how to get things done. (See: the Civil Rights movement.)

And as I thought of all these things later, after my coworkers’ conversation was long over, I began to realize how many aspects of our Faith hold not only a spiritual reason, but a practical one as well.

For instance: stained glass windows. Yes, they’re pretty. Yes, they should raise our thoughts to God and His work throughout salvation history. But, really, the reason they were first used in churches was when the majority of church-goers were illiterate, and the church leaders (priests, religious, etc.) needed a way to instruct both children and adults about the stories of the Faith. Thus, stained glass windows as a visual aid for whatever important Biblical figure or story you needed to teach people about.

Candles seem so archaic and ritualistic now, but up until electricity was invented, that was the only way to see. Yes, they also serve a liturgical and spiritual purpose; but, honestly, they were there to help the priest read the Missal and everyone else to see what was going on. If your church had a lot of windows and natural light, great! But, on those days when it was dark, or cloudy, or the church couldn’t afford windows… candles were the only way to see things.

(EDIT: When first writing this essay, I forgot to add the very important example below, on confession. I will also mark where the new content ends and the old content begins, just for clarification.)

I’ve been thinking about this subject for a while, and I remember mulling it over again after I saw this reblog on my “When you have to confess a really embarrassing sin to your favorite priest” post 

This is one thing I envy Catholics for. I know I can lay my sins directly before God in private confession and prayer, but I feel like I would get more closure from confessing my transgressions in person to someone like a priest. It might feel more real, more permanent, than whispering a prayer by myself, and wondering if I was sincere enough. I mean, it is so much scarier to go to a real person and confess my shame out loud! But I would be able to trust them, and they would remind me of God’s forgiveness, and I would feel that my extra effort proved my repentance to be sincere. And I know God’s forgiveness depends fully on Jesus’s sacrifice and not on the sincerity of my plea for it, but the mental shame game is still a toughie.

This is something I’ve always appreciated about confession. Several times I’ve wanted to just confess my sins to God and just hope in His Mercy and not have to bring them to confession, because I just felt so embarrassed about them. Why can’t I just tell God I’m sorry? Why do I have to go to a priest? Can’t I just ~assume~ that He’s forgiven me and move on?

But, I cannot tell you the relief I feel every time I do take those sins to confession and hear the words, “I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Go in peace.” I know, with 100 percent certainty, that I am forgiven.

And, even more practically speaking, in hindsight, it’s so helpful to bring those sins to the priest who can give you counsel and advice on how to avoid giving into those temptations in the future. If you’re Catholic, I’m sure you understand how many little tidbits from confession you end up remembering. Whether you carry them out or not is another matter, but they stick with you. If you’re not Catholic, I sincerely ask you to investigate what I mean – ask Catholics you know about confession and how it helps them; talk to a priest; etc. Granted, the priest doesn’t always give you advice or counsel, but when he does, it’s almost always something you needed to hear, whether you knew it already or not. He can tell you not to beat yourself up over your weaknesses, more practical steps on avoiding certain sins, or ways you can beef up your prayer life. It’s like spiritual direction with a bit of therapy thrown in there.

(EDIT: Old content begins here.)

One of my favorite parts of the liturgy that falls into this category is when the priest washes his hands after receiving the gifts (bread, wine, monetary donations) from the congregation. He says a prayer, “Lord, wash me of my iniquities and cleanse me of my sin,” and has the server pour a bit of water on his hands. The gesture is more for a spiritual purpose now than a practical one… But it didn’t start out that way. In the days of the Early Church, the priest did this to wash off all the gunk he got from touching the livestock, produce and other things that people donated during the Offertory. Now, of course, its practical purpose is gone, but that history is still there.

Many of the things that we do, if traced back enough, can also be seen from a practical perspective, and not just a spiritual one. For instance, the relics of the saints that every church has in its altar is a reminder that many in the Early Church celebrated Mass in the crypts beneath Rome, because that was — practically speaking — the safest place to do it. It was secret, out of the public way, and you could only really find it if you knew about it. Similarly, the ichthus, or the “Jesus fish symbol” as we always called it when we were kids, was a way for Christians to identify each other when their religion was forbidden. One person would trace the symbol with their foot or their stick in the sand or the dirt, to see if the other person would recognize it. If so, they were a fellow Christian. If not, you could just smudge it out or claim you had restless leg syndrome or something and it wasn’t anything.

Practically speaking, we have a Pope, because we need a “lead guy” whenever something goes wrong or we need to make a decision. Yes, he makes those decisions in union with a council of bishops, so it’s not just him acting by himself. But, at the end of the day, the Pope can always be regarded as The Official Spokesman® for the Catholic Church. If some Catholics do something that’s bad, the Pope can be the one to say, “Yeah, no, that’s seriously not what we believe. Don’t listen to them if they tell you that we do.”

Our society is starting to see this a lot right now among the Muslim community. We have some Muslims in the Middle East who are killing Christians and other non-Muslims, and claiming jihad, and doing all sorts of violent things — all in the name of Islam; all claiming that their beliefs are justified in the Qu'ran. Yet, there are Muslims in America who believe Islam is a peaceful religion, that attacking people of other faiths is never justified, and that the other Muslims have taken the Qu'ran out of context. Who are we non-Muslims to believe? Is Islam peaceful or not?

Granted, even if there were The Official Spokesman® for the Islamic Faith, I doubt those conflicts and quarrels would go away. However, it would give us non-Muslims someone to look to and say, “S/he speaks for all the true Muslims and those who disagree are a splinter group.”

Even within the Catholic Church, there are plenty of “Catholic” politicians who are pro-choice, even though the Church has spoken out against abortion several times, and asked people not to approve of it in any way, especially politicians. Yet, there are groups within the Church who don’t listen to or follow these teachings, and do their own thing, yet still claim to be Catholic. Who are we to believe? Is Catholicism pro- or anti-abortion?

I don’t want to get too bogged down in the political dealings. The ultimate point was that we Catholics have someone to look to as a sort of final authority (on earth), a spokesman, and a guy who gets the deciding vote (if there were ever some kind of disagreement within the church about something) before proclaiming doctrine on Faith and Morals.

Now, don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things that we do in the liturgy that are wholly spiritual in nature. Kneeling, for instance — there’s really no practical reason to kneel. We do it to show reverence for the King of Kings, who is present in the Blessed Sacrament.

I simply mean to say that so much of our faith, our prayers, our rituals, our liturgy, our structure of the Church involves what I would like to call “Practical Catholicism.”

We are hylomorphic beings after all. That means that we are both body and soul. Some Christian denominations say that humans are merely souls temporarily trapped inside meat bags. That our bodies are unimportant. Merely prisons from which we must free ourselves. And while our souls are certainly more important, that doesn’t mean that are our bodies are nothing. Our souls affect our bodies, and our bodies affect our souls.

There’s a reason that my spiritual director always encouraged people to drink coffee before trying to pray in the morning. There’s a reason why you’ll start feeling depressed if you’re inactive for too long. There’s a reason why if there are certain hormones in your system, you’ll probably have to fight harder against lustful thoughts and actions. We are both. Yes, our souls will go to Heaven (or Hell) when our bodies die, but at the End of Days, we are going to get our bodies back — New and Improved® bodies.

So, the next time you wonder why Catholics’ rosaries have five sets of 10 beads (it’s because we used to count on our fingers); or why the choir loft is usually above the congregation and at the back of the church (it’s so our voices and instruments can carry better); or why Hispanic Catholics only ever seem to use guitar / mariachi-type music at church (because guitars and trumpets are hand-held, portable instruments, making them perfect for processions, or minstreling through the town, and are generally cheaper than a piano or organ); or why we use only precious metals to contain the Eucharist (not only is it spiritually respectful, but precious metals typically last longer); or anything else about the Catholic Faith, I merely ask that you try to see not only the spiritually relevant reasons, but the practical ones as well.

Because, ultimately, whether you believe in God, whether you practice a faith, whether your Catholic or another Christian denomination… learning to cooperate and work with others to achieve a common goal is central to not only our society, but society in general.

Thus, if ever anyone asks you or complains about not needing a special building to worship God in… just say, “You know, we don’t just go to church for only spiritual reasons.”