More than Faith

I've been thinking a lot about religion lately. As a lot of you know, my feelings on the issue are terribly conflicted.

The reason for that is, that although I had a lot of really awful experiences growing up, and continue to have them, living, as I do, in the Bible Belt, and having, as I do, in-laws who are deeply mired in generations of religious zealotry...I also have a lot of truly wonderful memories.

And really, if I'm being honest, going to church gave me a sense of being part of something bigger than myself. That was reassuring somehow.

I'm not sure I was ever convinced of the veracity of the things I was taught. I'm not sure I've ever been convinced of the reality of God in his most traditional representations. But it didn't matter. I'm sure my parents thought that as long as I was exposed to Godly people, engaged in Godly activities, and had strong guidance, the faith would come.

It never did, but that doesn't mean I didn't take something away from those years. And those are the things that I worry my children are missing. Not the Faith. Not the conviction; but a sense of belonging. A sense of community. And experiences that they will remember forever with fondness.

Chuch Camp. God. How much fun was that? The bus ride to and from, listening to our Walkmans and singing hymns. Shut up. I like hymns. The fun skits. The cute counselors. The evening campfire where I held hands with a shy young man from Michigan who had twinkling eyes and curly brown hair. The being away from home all by myself.

We weren't Catholic, but I grew up in an area where Catholicism was the more predominant religion. So on Fridays, every restaurant served fish. Our church periodically had summer Fish Boils to express our tolerance of other beliefs. I can remember the smell of fish and butter and spices in the air. People laughing, kids playing tag, the Pastor looking weird in jeans and a polo shirt. I remember burning my tongue on the steaming fish but not caring because it was so tender and delicious. I remember drinking rich cream soda, one right after another, with no one bothering to tell me that I'd had enough.

I remember walking solemnly down the crimson aisle with a huge palm frond on Palm Sunday. I could never compete with the beautiful clothing worn by the more affluent kids, but I liked that my hair always looked the best. My mother would wash it and roll it and comb in until it shone. And we did usually have a new dress. I knew it wasn't as good as some, but I always felt excited and pretty anyway.

And I have always been affected by Easter, even as a small child. The thought of someone, anyone, being treated as Jesus was, is a very heartbreaking thing. Even a child can grasp the depth of his suffering, Mary's sadness, the despair of his followers. But after tears were shed and prayers were said, there was fun and frivolity in the form of an egg hunt. I will always remember racing accross the churchyard with my basket bumping my legs; grass tickling my knees and my sisters' laughter in my ears.

And through all of these memories runs a thread of constancy; my parents, the churchmembers, the pastor, the church. I can still recall the name of every kid I ever went to Sunday School with. I can see them in my mind, as clearly as I see the faces of my own children.

This is what I fear my children are missing in their lives.

But is it worth exposing them to the more unsavory things I have experienced? Those things that caused such a profound aversion in me; a turning away, a contempt?

Maybe, it's better to let them make the choices about what to believe on their own, and let their discovery be pure. If believing is something they feel led to, then I want it to be untainted by the evils of hypocrisy, intolerance, bigotry and greed.

Saturday night, a spate of bad weather had Pre-Pubescent One cowering in my bed. And, as often happens when he ends up in bed with me, we have some very satisfying talks. I don't even remember how the conversation meandered around to religion. I think we might have been talking about Easter at the in laws. He's getting old enough to understand that their beliefs are somewhat...intense.

He asked me, timidly, what I believe.

"Babe, I don't know. If I knew what to believe in, I'd be teaching you to believe in it to, and spare you from all the uncertainty that I've felt for so long."

"Well....maybe it's better if I figure it out for myself. Maybe, it will feel more like my own decision then, instead of just another thing you tell me to do."

Damn. Why didn't I think of that.

He was quiet for a moment considering. Then he said, shyly,

"Maybe we can figure it out together."

"That would be cool, dude. Cause I could really dig figuring some stuff out."

He was quiet again, and then said,

"Mom? I kind of like it when you don't have all the answers."

Surprised, I said,

"You do? Why?"

He shrugged.

"I dunno. It just makes me think that you're not perfect. It kind of makes me know that...you're just like me, in some ways."

"Hmmph." I said.

"That's a compliment Mom."

I rolled my eyes dramatically and said "What. EV-er."

He grimaced and said,

"You are so bad at that."

"Well I try."

And then he rolled over and went to sleep. Satisfied.

And I laid awake thinking about palm fronds and church camp and shy young men with curly brown hair.