Community

Since I am a gay man and grew up in the 1950s and 1960s in a working-class city, I did not have the opportunity to take any community for granted. As a young sissy, in the estimation of my peers, I was ostracized and bullied by various cliques from grammar school into high school. In my Catholic parish, I tried to lie low, but one particularly muscular nun threatened me with a bruising if I did not become an altar boy after I was forced to quit the choir by pubescent changes to my angelic singing voice.

After I assisted the priest for the first time on the altar, my one school friend came into the vestry. He was laughing uncontrollably in a way I instinctively knew wasn't good. "Your shoes..." he gasped, "your shoes..." Tears were streaming down his cheeks and he was bent over with laughter. I raised my right foot and looked at my shoe. Then I looked at its sole. There in large block lettering was stamped "REJECT". My parents always shopped in outlet stores, stocked with factory seconds. So, as I knelt sanctimoniously on the altar with my back to the congregation, my true place in my community was revealed for all to see by the stamp on my soles.

Some years later I read The Scarlet Letter for the first time. You can imagine how I immediately identified with Hester Prynne. You can probably also imagine my horror at the choice of Demi Moore to portray her in the movie, but that's another story.

As I became liberated from my childhood, I had already taken the lesson that meaningful community would not be something promised or provided to me by anyone but myself in active pursuit of fellowship with like minds. I also made every attempt as a member of any community, large or small, to actively include those on the margins, who may not have the confidence or trust to join in without loving encouragement. This seemed the least I could do, but it often put me at odds with others in those communities who wished to have an exclusive club.

As a member of a humanist community, I am very aware of these dynamics in myself and in that community. The beauty of humanism, in my opinion, is its lack of an entrance exam. There is no catechism or recitation of Torah. There is no genuflecting or special wardrobe with deep historical meanings. We don't have to eat the same bread or drink the same wine. Everyone by virtue of his/her humanity should be qualified to be a part of our humanist community. 

However, not everyone knows what it is like to have to build a community and maintain it. Those who come to humanism from other religious traditions where they felt equally welcomed for the greater part of who they are might see a humanist community as simply another congregation, set in place for them to join and follow along, with some 'provider' responsible for the details. As in every community, there may be those who need to stamp themselves as a member of this subset or that. Atheist vs. agnostic. Inter-faith vs. ant-faith. Whatever. Maintaining a community which is inclusive includes allowing for individuality, as long as one person's individuality does not become a divisive campaign for control and domination.

I believe I have learned one important lesson about community. Community has its own evolving life. If this is denied, the result can be seen in the state of the current Roman Catholic Church or in the state of Islam or in the state of Judaism. By trying to restrain the natural evolution of community, authorities in the community foster conflict and sectarianism. The community ceases to be inclusive. It becomes fractured and divided up like property by those who would selfishly own and control it. This happens in smaller communities and in families, which cease to exist for the inclusion and valued participation of all their members. It is my hope that humanists in community can avoid these pitfalls and allow the development of an ever-evolving, inclusive movement for the greater good .