Religious Institutional Interference

For whatever reason, my articles concerning religion appear to draw a high readership with much less emotional upheaval than some of my political scribbling. Could it be that people are actually more rational about religion than politics? I’m beginning to think this may be the case.

As I bounce from one religious venue to another in the quest for a spiritual home, I am struck by the commonalities of the problems which caused me to relocate my principle spiritual dwelling place from Roman Catholic to Mormon, with a big hiatus between the first two, and onward after that. Specifically, I could call it the institutional syndrome, or lack of humanity within religious organizations.

What strikes me are the similarities, more than the differences. Before I begin, I must give a good deal of credit to Father Tom Bonacci, a Roman Catholic priest, who has had a big influence on my perspective, not because I have chosen to adopt his views, but because the views he has expressed resonate heavily with me. Father Tom is a San Francisco Bay Area icon within the interfaith movement. As such he has described his position as riding a pendulum on which he is alternately characterized by the power figures within his own religious tradition as being everything from a favorite son to a loathsome pariah.

Having listened to his paradigm, I am finding that it seems to apply in a universal array of circumstances and denominational settings. As Father Tom puts it, we start out with a gospel of love, forgiveness and understanding. To remove the religious overtones from the last sentence, he also refers to this as simple humanity of one human being or set of human beings toward others.

The problem we get into is when institutions come into the picture and bring with them either the dark side of human nature, including the quest for wealth, power and influence , or just plain insensitivity and/or incompetence. These are the things that grate against the humanity, contained within the gospels of all conventional, well meaning religions, or perceptions of God’s will that I am familiar with, whether Muslim, Christian, or Jewish. I am less familiar with the tenets of Buddhism and Hinduism, but have had exposure to both, as well as their priests, monks and priestesses. From what I can tell and have been told by their scholars and leaders, this applies to their teachings, as well.

As I move on, wounded by the Mormon experience, I have looked for refuge hither and yon. It’s remarkable to me what a short period of time it took within one denomination to see the quest for and protection of power to surface in contravention of my understanding of a pastor’s own message only a few weeks before. I will be specific as to many of the details, but vague as to the situs of this experience.

My passion in life is writing fiction. As nearly as I am able to determine, my motivation for this, which has now extended in earnest over the course of 15+ years is to “make a difference,” by dramatizing spiritual and moral conflicts that people encounter in life and how they process, or cope with, them. In doing so, I make a concerted effort not to let my view on any of these issues be apparent to any readers. I am not so arrogant as to think I have “all the answers.” At best, I am able to present and dramatize conflicting considerations and points of view concerning what I perceive to be some of the burning social justice issues of our time.

Philips Park by Dan O’Connor is an example of this. In it, I illustrate some knotty issues, through my characters. When I asked readers of the novel, through surveys, what the author’s personal point of view on various moral and societal aspects was, most of them missed by a wide margin, or simply said they didn’t know. That is what I am after—to get people thinking--not necessarily to persuade them of anything. I figure whatever mechanism, attitude, or predispositions they might have had prior to reading that particular book must have been reassessed by the time they finish.

An exception to this would be a tiny point one might take away, hopefully, as a given. A novel, as has best been explained to me, is nothing more than a very long poem. In poetry, the idea is to take a telescope and turn it around, so that the big end is what you look into and at the small end is what you see. There was a tiny point I set out to make in Philips Park, not a grand sweeping one, but one that readers who got it would view as insightful and unassailable. Again, the feedback I got by surveying readers confirmed my fondest hopes in this regard.

My goal has never been fame or fortune. Lord knows, I’ve given up fortune for writing and what fleeting fame I’ve had I’ve shunned. I write to help people gain insights, inspiration and convictions that will improve their lives.

So, I was shocked after I’d attended a few meetings of a couple of novel reading groups at this particular location to learn that I had been called out by one of the pre-ordained discussion leaders. I was accused of having my own agenda (as if everyone on earth doesn’t have his or her own agenda), usurping the conversation and not showing the proper deference to the discussion leader. Presumably I was expected to sit back and listen, instead of sharing my views and trying to gain an understanding of the views of others—beyond whatever was offered by the discussion leader. Specifically, the novel, Moloka’i, was being discussed. I had thought it was bone dry and inaccurately portrayed the fabric of Hawaiian life with which I am familiar from having lived and practiced law in the islands for years. I wanted to understand why so many people liked it.

During the course of the meeting, I was asked whether or not I was a writer and, if so, what I had written. I always carry a few of my novels with me (never further away than my car), gave a few away, and answered questions. Had the group not asked, I had no plans for the discussion to move in this direction, although, whether I’m on BART, or at a legal convention, I am always prepared when the subject of my own writing comes up and prepared to discuss it, when it does.

At the conclusion of the meeting, I was told by the leader that I was welcome to come back and that there was one hard and fast rule, to wit, “What happens here and is said here, stays here.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said with both joy and conviction.

A week to ten days later, I got an urgent call from the leader of this faith based community. I was told that it had been reported to him or her that I had usurped their meeting time for my own private agenda and that the discussion leader couldn’t get in a word edgewise. For one thing, it was never explained to me that there was a discussion leader. For another, I had been to meetings of an auxiliary novel reading group, same community, where there was virtual anarchy, when it came to organizing and offering insights and comments. I became conditioned to “jump in,” when I had something to offer or ask. Admittedly, I was exuberant at the opportunity to discuss the novel, keenly interested and well prepared for the discussions. I also said on several occasions that if anyone thought I was too outspoken to let me know and I would do my best to adapt to their particular standard for decorum.

I have later put two plus two together to determine that this latter group was a rogue group, formed outside the auspices of the faith based community and has either been forced to disband or at least quit advertising its existence in the community’s calendar and weekly bulletin.

These developments tell me something about the official group and its capacity to meet the needs and/or interests of those in the rogue group.

But, the main message I get after assessing this experience, once the hurt feelings and disappointment have begun to fade is this, “There’s a distinct hierarchy here with each individual zealously guarding his or her degree of power. If you want to be docile and submissive, you are welcome. But, outspoken individuals need not apply.”

I can’t change who I am, or my training. I don’t view this as either a character flaw, or something that places me outside the scope of humanity. In the last religious tradition I was involved in, which is a lay church, if no one showed initiative, nothing got done. Yet, the quest for power among those in attendance was always lurking, just around the corner.

The beautiful sermon I had heard from this new (to me) community leader a few weeks before reflected the generosity of spirit, inclusiveness, scope and nature of Christianity. But the cold, hard realities of trying to find the manifestation of that message reflected there was something quite different. I was not welcomed. I was stabbed in the back and then left to bleed.

At the conclusion of a discussion with this leader, I was offered the following words of encouragement, insight and compassion, “Well, I’ll see you on down the road.”

The point of all this is that at my age, I am finally convinced that in most instances what is offered by organized religious denominations is the idea of Christianity, or humanity, not the reality.

If you are looking for a religious institution to tell you what the precepts of Christianity, or humanity, are, you may expect to find a relatively wide selection of those competent and interested in doing so. If, on the other hand, you are looking for them to demonstrate those precepts, then you'd better prepare yourself for a good deal of disapppointment.