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Fragments From the Memory Log, Entry Eight

God. I’ve had some trouble with him… her… over the years. As a kid, I wouldn’t say our relationship was especially strained, but we had our moments. I was brought up to be an adequately obedient Catholic, primarily by my mother, since Dad would have none of it. That I’m now a rather shabby Zen Buddhist tells how successful my upbringing went in this area, and how proud Mom is. Want to know where it all went down? Here’s a hint: what’s left of Cole Porter can be found there, though he doesn’t get around much anymore.

Sprouting up in the Mid-west of the USA, stuck as we were on the buckle of the Bible Belt, my family was surrounded by anti-Papists: Baptists, Brethren, Lutheran, Methodist, Pentecostal, Presbyterian — the Church of God and the Church of Christ and the Church of Latter Day Saints. Collection plates were found for nearly every persuasion. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing for me. We were a religiously liberal family, or at least liberal enough that my brothers and I would often attend services for one of the competing franchises. Though there was a Catholic parish in town, two in fact, they sat huddled close to each other (for protection no doubt) in the center of town, while we were a very long mile off. It was not a difficult walk to and from, but you could call it a troublesome one with three rambunctious boys in tow, all who’d rather be headed somewhere other than church on an early Sunday afternoon.

Having full access to the Lord’s house for these other faiths was occasionally enlightening, if not a little guilt-inspiring, and left me to make shallow but objective comparisons. Baptist services: showy and easily kept my attention. Methodist’s: flat but bearable. Mass with my own Catholics: boring, and then somehow even more boring. I recall a (for me) strange basement party at a Baptist church where you received prizes for cards (representing — something religious — and which you won — somehow — during that day’s service). I was desparate for the slingshot they had on display, so I could be like David as he slew the giant Goliath, or perhaps just fling bottle caps at bats; but I hadn’t collected enough cards that day, and ended up with a piggy bank. Guess I didn’t believe enough in that sling.

This is not to say my brothers and I had no Catholic teaching infused in us. Just as I hit my teens, most of my family moved to the East coast (my mother came from the Northeast, and we were heading back to her roots and family), to a city where if you threw one hundred rocks in the air, you couldn’t avoid hitting ninety-nine Catholics. The last would probably smack a Greek Orthodox. We began sojourning to the parish my mother had spent much of her life in, and I found myself in an indoctrination camp otherwise known as catechism class or CCD (Confraternity of Catholic Doctrine). The teaching process was one of read and repeat, and hopefully what was found on the page made it past any natural barriers. Mine are apparently insurmountable, but I got through Rome’s version of a graduation by “confirming” my faith. I did it for Mom, who’s really the religious one in our little clan. Whatever I learned during those classes is gone in near totality, and I doubt I ever took much of it to heart. Don’t blame anyone specifically for that. I’m just not built on a spiritual foundation of Judeo-Christian concrete.

I do remember that each week after CCD class I’d rush home to watch Carl Sagan’s Cosmos on PBS. So I can say with some certainty I was learning a few things about the heavens during that time.