About Us

First Sunday Speakers

by Barbara Stewart

In China, 2005 was the Year of the Rooster. In Epsom, where I live, it was – for me – the Year of the Sacred Cow.

It didn't start out that way. Instead, it began with my decision to read the Bible and go to church. Those who know me found this either amusing, baffling, or cause for premature rejoicing, depending on their religious orientation. Years of Sunday school left little impression on me, and I've spent most of my adulthood avoiding church interiors, except to admire the architecture, scout for men, or get married. Nevertheless, something propelled me, in January of 2005, to investigate the faith I had been raised to accept. I chose a small Congregational church in Epsom and persuaded my sincerely agnostic daughter Madeleine to accompany me.

I met with the minister and the Sunday school director soon afterward and confessed my lack of "true faith." It was important to me not to feel false – or be later exposed as some kind of a subversive mole. The shock on their kindly faces soon gave way to a look of purpose, and Madeleine and I became the new church project. The tiny congregation welcomed us like old family, despite our peculiarities, and pretty soon we started looking forward to seeing the same, good people every week. I enjoyed the minister's scholarly, thought-provoking sermons, and Madeleine loved the little children's chorus. There was even a Church Lady who weekly admonished me to let God into my heart. Everything seemed just like it was supposed to be.

The only problem was that I couldn't get myself to believe any of it – at least, not literally. Week after week, I would sit and enjoy the minister's words, but only on a metaphorical level. It took the most strenuous mental gymnastics to translate the messages into something I could swallow. For months, I went on this way, wondering when the faith of the people sitting all around me would seep in, but it never did. Meanwhile, I slogged my way through half of the Old Testament and found it the biggest spiritual turn-off I had ever encountered. Literalism was most definitely not my path.

As the weeks rolled by, it became plain to me that I needed to leave that lovely little church. Still, it was terribly hard to act on this conclusion. Fortunately, Church Lady came to my rescue. One Sunday, she asked the congregation for church school teaching help. When I volunteered, she turned me down flat, on doctrinal grounds. I shouldn't have been surprised. I had always been open with her about my shortcomings in the faith department, and she made the reasonable decision that I was incapable of indoctrinating the church's children with its dogma. I couldn't argue with her. So, I had a long heart-to-heart with Madeleine. She revealed her own discomfort with church doctrine and agreed we didn't belong. She also agreed we should try another place. One thing our months of churchgoing had taught us was that we really liked going to church. We liked the community spirit and we liked the weekly reminders and opportunities to do our best to be good people.

Choosing our next church wasn't difficult. This church here is the church of my early scouting and marriage days. I had always known it would accept me doctrinally, but I had discounted it as too far and too removed from my beloved Epsom neighborhood. Moreover, if we made the commitment to come here every week, I would be obliged to drive to Concord SEVEN days each week! Sunday had been my only day off from kid-related commutes into Concord. I had thought church should be a little easier. But, after months of convenience and spiritual frustration, I finally understood that real commitments don't work that way.

One visit here last September was all it took. There was a wonderful openness and a sense of purpose to seek social justice in the world, and there was good evidence it wasn't all talk. And what a relief to find no dogma to "translate"! I could see this church didn't offer any easy answers, but that appealed to me. Maybe there IS something missing in my spiritual life, I thought, but I could keep searching within this community. I checked with Madeleine, and found that her experience had been just as appealing. We were hooked.In the midst of all this church-going angst and decision-making, a kind of agricultural soul-searching was taking place at home in Epsom. All summer long, my husband and I had mulled over the possibility of getting a couple of Jersey cows. Dave's grandparents were dairy farmers, so I guess it's in his blood. I didn't relish the commitment involved, but having a steady supply of raw milk was very appealing. In retrospect, I can see that our decision to get the cows paralleled my resolution to come here every Sunday. Yes, the undertaking is difficult, but burdens are easier to bear when the rewards are meaningful.

So, I ended up dumping two things I just couldn't stomach any longer – the Nicene Creed and store-bought milk. I happily traded them in for a new church and a pair of cows. The Jerseys are splendid creatures – and quite beautiful, in their own, bovine ways. Their gift of milk is nothing short of inspiring. On its own, the milk is amazingly rich and delicious, and its list of uses is long and delectable. We now make ice cream, yogurt, heese, truffles, and BUTTER.

I don't believe it's a coincidence that I discovered the joy of making butter at the same time I recognized this place as my spirit's true classroom. I wish I could convey to you all the magic of this butter – the sunny yellow color, the perfect consistency, and the TASTE. But just as spirit talk tends to devolve into mute grasps at the ineffable, so too do my attempts to describe my feelings about butter. Suffice it to say that with my first taste of it one morning last fall, my eyes instantly flew upward. I reached for the phone. "Dave," I whispered. "I think I found God!"

As comical as this may be, I will unashamedly profess finding a link between cows and spiritual growth. Making butter makes me see that our connection to the natural world is inescapable and complex, with possibilities for both transcendent beauty and tragic catastrophes. My respect for the cows and my sense of responsibility for their care is heightened by the tension inherent in the imbalance that characterizes the steward-ward relationship. It's an issue that implicates all sorts of relationships in the world, and one I feel I can comfortably explore right here. I thank you for that opportunity, and I thank you for listening.