Until Recently, I'd have said that religious freedom was about tolerance. About tolerating others' right to practice their faith. But that was before I enrolled my child in a school that is the most Christian community I've ever belonged to—Christian, that is, in a universal, nondenominational sense of the word. It's not a religious school. About half of the kids are Jewish, some by birth, some through adoption. Along with a variety of Christians, there are also Muslims, New Agers, the unaffiliated, and non-believers in the group. The reason I describe it as a Christian community nonetheless is that the spirit of love that animated Jesus—which I think of as the Christ-spirit—is palpable in every nook and cranny of the school.
Patience, pure joy, humor, an appreciation of individuality, fairness, treating others the way you want to be treated, and love characterize the decisions, interactions, goals, and methods of the place. The older kids help the younger ones, the teachers genuinely enjoy the students, and the children are valued for all that they bring to the community, not only for their academic ability. Last year, for instance, my daughter was repeatedly praised for being resourceful, never mind that she couldn't spell her way out of a paper bag.
When my daughter joined the school, I spoke with her teacher and the director about a few accommodations I hoped they'd afford us as Christian Scientists. Neither of them was familiar with our faith, so I explained some of its fundamental principles, including spiritual healing. (I also gave each of them a copy of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy, which thoroughly explains Christian Science.) The teacher and director not only agreed to the accommodations I requested but helped me figure out how to implement them.
