'Cause I've gotta have Faith? Or according to Glee, a gruyere on whole wheat.

*Spoilers ahead. If you watch Glee and haven't seen this week's episode yet, you may want to save this post for a later date.*

My husband and I don't go to church. My children have only been in a church for Christmas service and the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit are not usually invited into our home. Jesus is a name we invoke only in fits of pique and other than the occasional blaspheme my children have little knowledge of the presence of Jesus Christ or God (dammit).

Mr. C was raised Congregationalist, went on retreats, sang in the choir, and participated in youth programs led by his parents who were youth leaders. I was raised Catholic, we were Saturday afternoon Catholics to be specific, and while I also spent many, many hours in the church, even attending a Catholic elementary school and singing in the chorus myself, I have my own reasons why I don't support or follow the teachings of the Catholic church any longer. Good reasons, I might add, but that's between me and God for the time being.

Yes, I believe in God or I try to anyway. To this day, I still want to believe in the existence of a higher power. But I struggle with His (or lower case, his) existence.

The fact that we haven't thrown our hat into the church-going ring, that we haven't adopted a local church of our own, that we haven't exposed our children to the teachings of the apostles and the New Testament, is a thorn in my Mother in Law's side and if my mother and grandmother were still alive, I have no doubt it would bother them too. Mr. C's mom is a spiritual woman who thinks that families are stronger for having a church to grow up in and around and my mother and Gram, God rest their sainted souls, held steadfast in their belief that the Catholic church, though hypocritical it may be, was the way to go.

I cannot, in good faith, hang my hat on either of those beliefs.

Last night I sat down to watch my favorite show, Glee, and Glee did something it rarely does - it disappointed me. I spent the entire hour watching the show horror movie-style: With my hands over my eyes, splayed fingers allowing only glimpses of the train wreck to get through, such was my fear that the writers of the show would "go there". They did. Well, almost.

Glee Tackles Religion is not something I thought I would ever see. Glee tackles Prince, yes. Glee tackles the musical stylings of Burt Bacharach, most definitely. Glee takes on the existence of God and the importance of allowing Him into your heart? *sigh*

The gist of the show was this: Finn gets hungry and makes himself a snack and upon inspecting the toasted cheese sandwich he cooked on the George Foreman, he sees the face of Jesus. The Grilled Cheesus. Praise gouda.

Finn decides that it's a sign and begins to pray to it for typical teen things - Please let him get his position as quarterback back, Please let him feel up his girlfriend. Spiritual things like that. Then Kurt's dad has a heart attack and ends up in a coma. This is when the host really hits the fan.

You see, almost everyone in the Glee club believes that God is good, God is great, God gives us chocolate cake. Not only that, but everyone needs a little God in their heart to get through life's trials. Everyone, that is, except Sue (more on her later) and Kurt who, bless his atheistic heart, believes in the Flying Spaghetti Monster and deems a morning at Mercedes' church is worthy only because he can wear a fabulous hat. "Very Christ chic," he says when appraising the congregation.

For her part, Sue has her own reasons for not believing in God and I'll give the writers props for making this a real issue and not a punchline. She worshiped her disabled sister and other kids made fun of her. Why would a God let something like that happen?

I don't have a problem with finding comfort in faith. In her darkest days, my mother found much comfort in God and the church and I respected her for that. What I have a problem with is how the show portrayed the only two non-believers as flawed, sad people who might eventually be swayed with the right miracle. To that I say, shame on you, Glee. And shame on you for that over the top "Papa, Can You Hear Me" number.

Does faith = God? God = faith? Are they two great tastes that taste great together? Personally, I believe you can enjoy your chocolate without your peanut butter and your faith without a God.

I need to ask, do we really need religion, or even the belief in God, to be sympathetic, well-rounded citizens of the earth? Can an agnostic, an atheist, a secular humanist, be seen as a person who can be trusted to find their own way and comfort without the presence of a higher power?

I've already asserted that I am not an atheist because I want to believe there is a God, though I have dabbled in Atheism in my younger days. I do not consider myself a Catholic, though I was baptized in that religion, or even a Christian, though I believe in and practice certain Christian principles. Do I need to be converted and will my children miss the benefit of a religious upbringing or even thanking His Almightyness for the mac and cheese at dinnertime? I don't have an answer for that and though I think some might have a strong opinion on this, we both know there are no hard and fast rules concerning faith.

The thing I think the producers and writers of Glee missed last night (emphasis on "I think", maybe I saw it differently than you did) is the presence of faith without the belief in God or religion. I believe in the beauty of nature, the soulfulness in my dog's eyes, the beauty in my daughters' laughter. Is that God's work? I'm not sure but it gets me through the day. I'm sure Kurt believes that music can move you and the right outfit can make your whole week. Sue believes in the power of discipline and... well I'm not sure what else Sue believes in but she loves her sister with a fierceness that displays a tiny bit of the good person hiding somewhere under that track suit.

The only points redeeming last night's show was the fact that Kurt did not "find" God when his father moved his fingers. He did not go to Jesus and neither did Sue, though she allowed her sister to pray for her. And that musical number with young Kurt? Tear. Jerker. But I don't feel like the point was driven home - Kurt didn't believe in something he couldn't see but he could reach out his hand and hold his father's. He believed in that. They missed the mark asserting that there are many people who don't need the presence of God or religion to be good people and whether some like it or not, their reasons and methods are sound.

There's no clean way to wrap this up. I have no desire to go into Thomas Henry Huxley's views or to debate whether God is dead or running for office in the Republic party. If going to Sunday mass grounds you and helps you be a better person, please continue. If a walk in the woods is enough to keep you from going postal on your neighbor and his barking dog, I'm all for it. If you feel the need to ram your idea of faith down my throat, don't let the door hit you where Buddah split you. Keep your dogma on a leash but let's talk about it like rational, thinking adults.

In the strangely coherent words of Puck, "It seems to me true spirituality or whatever you call it is about enjoying the life you've been given."

My name is Tania and I don't believe religion is for me right now and I'm not sure I believe in a single God, but I do believe I would enjoy a tasty grilled Cheesus right now.

And instead of casino chips you get The Father, Son and Holy Ghost

Chicky: "Mommy, is that a castle?!"

Me: "No, Hon. That's a church."

Chicky: "A church? What's a church?"

Me: "Uh..."

Mr. C: "Uh..."

Me: "That's where people go to... Uh..."

Mr. C: "Yeah, that's where they go to... Um..."

Me to Mr. C: "Oh God, how do I explain praying to her?"

Chicky: "Do they go there to play games?" Praying/Playing. Whatever.

Mr. C: "Yes! They go there to play games. Lots of fun mind games. And if you play the game correctly you get to go to heaven."

Chicky: "Oh. I don't think I like those kinds of games."

Me: "I won't argue with you there, kid."

Santa Claus and other lies we tell our kids

(No, no baby yet. I'm about to start doing jumping jacks to get this baby moving. And if one more person says to me "Oh, no baby yet, huh? What are you waiting for?" I'm going to bump them with my incredibly firm belly. Until then, I need something to take my mind off of my discomfort and pain so I'll write about other stuff. I do this for you, to save you from having to read my bitching. You can thank me later.)

There are plenty of things I have no problem telling Chicky.

Eat your vegetables. Brush your teeth. Don't hit the cat. I'll always love you. Things like that.

But there are other, more abstract concepts that I have an amazingly hard time talking with my child about.

Your grammy, my mom, is in heaven. Your grandma and grandpa go to church on Sundays to pray to God. God? He's up in heaven too. Uh, yeah. That's what we're supposed to believe, I guess.

Religion, in general, is difficult for a woman like myself who made a conscious break from it years ago to talk about with an impressionable three year old. But I believe that children need something to believe in, whether it be religion or fairy tales. Or religion based on fairy tales.

Immaculate conception? Really?

Children need something to hold on to in times of stress or turmoil. They need something to be happy about and to look forward to. That's childhood, for chrissake. So in the past year we've started using the concept of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I'm not sure if my husband has a position on this because we've never really discussed it, at least not without much eye rolling on his part, but I made a conscious effort to incorporate these made up characters into Chicky's vernacular. It's not like I bring it up all the time. You know, it wasn't some random Thursday in February when I said, Have I told you the story of the big rabbit who leaves chocolate eggs for us to find? I think I waited until two days before Easter this past year to even bring it up. I could almost see the wheels turning in Chicky's head. Especially since the only thing she's ever seen a rabbit leave is little pellets of poop. And I've made it perfectly clear those are NOT edible.

But in much the way I have difficulties discussing a higher power with Chicky I find myself tripping over the words "Easter Bunny" and choking on the stories of the fat man in red coming down the chimney to bring good little boys and girls presents. It feels like I'm lying - hell, I am lying, let's be honest - but I will continue to keep up the charade even if it doesn't come naturally to me because my children deserve the wonderment that accompanies these deceptions. And I need an excuse to lord power over my children with a simple threat of "Santa won't come if you don't clean up your toys".

The way I see it, my kids will have less than a decade in their lives to believe that benevolent bearded men bring gifts just for eating a few more peas from their plate. That's pretty cool. I wish someone could make me believe that there was a spa fairy or that, maybe, there was a giant fuzzy beast who magically left bottles of wine at my doorstep.

I say less than a decade because most kids don't really grasp the idea of Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy until they're over the age of three. After that there are few precious years before television or some bratty kid on the playground (or an older sister, maybe. Not that I'm pointing any fingers) teaches my kids their mother and father were responsible for taking baby teeth and leaving a buck under the pillow. And honestly when that happens, it was probably time anyway. At some point they need to know that life is kinda sucky and disappointment is something they need to learn to deal with.

Which leads me to the reason for this post. Finally.

Mr. C works with two people who have daughters who are well into puberty and, as far as their parents are concerned, the kids STILL BELIEVE IN SANTA. These people see no reason to start telling their eleven, twelve, fourteen year old kids (uh huh, fourteen years old) the truth about who was leaving presents under the tree. Call me cynical, but if you're old enough to have a menstrual cycle I think you're old enough to deal with this cold hard fact.

It makes me wonder who is worried about who would suffer more? Kids are resilient and they roll with changes, for the most part. But parents can live for the rest of their lives with the guilt of disappointing their kids just once. It makes me want to shake these people. Deal with it! I want to yell at them. It's just like ripping off a band-aid, we don't want to cause our kids pain but it needs to happen and sometimes the faster or sooner the better.

Is it just me? Is it my hang-ups stopping me from being happy for these kids who still get to live a bit of the fairy tale? Or is there a cut off point, an arbitrary age depending on the child, where they need to grow up a little? When do we as parents stop perpetrating the myth that magical beings exist and teach our kids that it's okay to start believing in what's real, even if what's real is kind of crummy sometimes?

And don't even get me started on the Holy Spirit. To me it's like ROUS's. I don't believe it exists.

Spring has sprung and guess what it brought to my door

Ah, the first day of spring. It brings with it the promise of warmer days, tiny buds on the trees (in some parts of the country anyway, in mine not so much) and pastel flowers. And spring also brings other, less desirable, things with it.

There I was, going about my day when I heard a knock on the door. Couldn't be one of my neighbors, I thought, they know that this is Chicky's nap time and they wouldn't dare knock on the door for fear of making my dogs bark and therefore forcing me to leave large steaming piles of poop on their lawns. Quite possibly from the dogs.

(Yes, they bark. And they steal Girl Scout cookies. I've got those suckers so well trained it's spooky.)

Couldn't be the UPS guy because I haven't ordered anything lately. But that reminds me, I really need to make that Amazon.com order.

Couldn't be Girl Scouts selling cookies. But a woman can dream.

Couldn't be school children selling popcorn or magazine subscriptions because they're still in school. Besides, those punks who live behind me never gave me my two dollars in change from the last ridiculously priced tub of caramel corn I bought from their sorry asses. So they wouldn't dare to try to sell me anything else.

(Feel free to insert your own "Better Off Dead" joke here.)

Who could it be?

I peaked out the window. Hmm, that's funny. No car in the driveway or in front of the house. Then an icy cold hand grabbed my heart. No, it couldn't be. Not now. It is close to Easter, but it couldn't be... God damn it!

Close. At least in their minds.



The Jehova's Witnesses. Shit. I really want to spend the little free time I have listening to someone tell me I'm going to hell. Don't they know I went to Catholic school? I support gay marriage and the right to chose, I'm already going to hell.

Now, I'm a live and let live kind of woman. I don't care what your religion is or who you care to worship: Jesus, God, Allah, Snuggle the fabric softener bear. You do what makes you happy and I'll be a God-less heathen and never the two shall meet. 'Kay? You keep your religion out my home and I'll keep my cussing out of yours. But when someone knocks on my door and tries to sell me on their way of thinking and then gives me that look that says, "Oh, you simple, simple woman. You just don't realize that your immortal soul is damned for all time and if you just gave up booze, celebrating birthdays, and roughly 60% of your pay you could go straight to heaven when the end of time comes. Which should be somewhere between 3pm today and 5,361 years from now."... You're just asking for me to be snarky.

Don't make me snarky. You wouldn't like me when I'm snarky.

So there's a man at my door - and yes I knew who he was and what his agenda was immediately, even before he thrust his pamphlet at me - and my dogs are barking and I'm thinking to myself If you caused my baby to wake up early from her nap YOU'LL HAVE MORE THAN GOD'S VENGEANCE TO WORRY ABOUT.

I gave him my best bored but smart-enough-to-know-you're-trying-to-sell-me-a-load-of-horse-shit-look and the man had the audacity to look towards where the sound of 160 pounds of dog waiting to rip his throat out was coming from and said,

"You'll have to go tell them if they don't stop barking we'll have to call ("He who speaks softly and carries a large PR firm" and no I will not mention his name here) to have them straightened out."

Oh no he didn't.

Oh yes he did.

As anyone who has been reading this blog long enough knows the quickest way to get onto my shit list is to mention "He who really needs to speak in a normal voice and stop screwing with an entire generation of dog owner's minds" without irony to me.

So I slammed the door in his face.

Okay, no I didn't, because my mama raised me better than that. But I wanted to. I just can't be that awful to someone who is trying to save my eternal soul.

But stay away from my hounds of hell. I like them that way. They're excellent judges of character. And their breath smells like Thin Mints.

God is in the details

The season of Lent, for me, will always symbolize a season of sacrifice. During Lent Christians are asked to fast and abstain from certain wordly pleasures, such as meat or alcohol. As young children attending Catholic elementary school we were encouraged to give up something that we loved for the forty (some odd) days between Ash Wednesday and Easter. It would make us stronger Catholics, we were told, we would be closer to Jesus who made the ultimate sacrifice for us. It was not uncommon for adults to model this behavior for their children to make the concession easier, or because they too grew up with the same custom. Personally, I always thought it was a waste of my time.

Every year during Lent my mother, the good Catholic she was, would give up her very favorite thing in the world - Chocolate. She would pack up her boxes of hand made chocolates - gifts left over from Christmas, oftentimes - and boxes of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies and no taste of the sweet would pass her lips. On Easter day my grandmother would put out a large plate of chocolates and only then would my mother indulge. She had proven she could let go of such earthly trappings and now she could celebrate. And celebrate she did in a great orgy of milk chocolates.

My mother led a fairly clean existence - she did not drink, had given up smoking in the 70s, and did not particularly care for gourmet food - so giving up chocolate was a huge sacrifice for her. One year, in 1995, I asked my mother why she continued to give up her chocolate for Lent. What was the purpose? Instead of answering me she instead challenged me to give up something. She questioned if I could be so dedicated. I had long since denounced my place in the Catholic church and it had been years since I had given up anything for Lent (and if we're being honest, even when I tried to I usually failed and gave in about a week before Easter), but I love a challenge. So I gave up that which I had held, still hold, so dear.

I gave up coffee.

It may not seem like a lot and, really, it shouldn't have been too hard. I was only 22 years old and the monkey on my back was still in its infancy. I had worked for years in a coffee shop but it was only since my senior year in college that I had become a slave for the java.

However...

The year before I had taken a job at a local radio station and in the few months before Lent of that year I had been given a position as part of the morning drive-time team. That meant I had to be at work, awake and perky, to be on the air for 5:45am. I usually set my alarm to wake me up by 4:30am.

Half past four in the morning. With no coffee. I'm feeling queasy just thinking about it.

It became a topic of conversation every day during the show. My two on-air co-hosts started laying bets as to when I would finally cave in. I would show up to work and there, at my seat next to my microphone, would be a large, steaming, fragrant cup of coffee. I was low man on the totem pole so during long breaks in the show they would send me across the street to get coffee for them. It became our shtick. When would she finally crack?

But I didn't.

The first week was hell - I was an addict giving up her fix, after all - the headaches were horrible and my personality changed. I was irritable and nasty, which were things I had to hide while on air. And can you imagine not wanting to kill someone who was trying to tempt you with coffee at 6 o'clock in the morning? It was a nightmare. But as the weeks went on it got easier and I started to feel better. When Easter finally - finally! - came I was able to get up and go without my legal drug of choice. I had beaten that monkey into submission. I had proven that I could sacrifice something. My coworkers were in awe of me. Our ten listeners (we were a really small station) congratulated me. My mother was impressed.

That was enough for me.

Like my mother I went back to my vice after Easter of that year, but I seriously cut back my overall caffeine consumption. To this day I only allow myself one, maybe two, cups of coffee a day. And every year during Lent, I think of the time that I proved to my mom - if not to a God that I wasn't sure I believed in - that I could make a sacrifice. It had nothing to do with Christ or Christianity and everything to do with impressing my mother. This time of year that morning cup of joe tastes better, more earned and less needed, and I consider doing it again. Maybe I'll give up coffee again, maybe chocolate, or maybe something else entirely. But with no one I believe in laying down a challenge I doubt that I will.