1972: I turned fifteen years old. I was in tenth grade at Hempfield High
School. Daddy was 43, and he worked as a research chemist at Armstrong
Cork Company in Lancaster, Penna. Mom worked as a nurse at a local
clinic. We lived on Dale Avenue in West Hempfield Township. The #1 most
popular song on my fifteenth birthday was “I Can See Clearly Now” by Johnny
Nash. Mom snapped this photograph.
My parents and I attended church on most Sundays at the Holy
Spirit Lutheran Church on Columbia Avenue in Lancaster. It was a relatively new church. My parents weren’t charter members, but they
joined the congregation soon after it was established, in the late 1950s or
early 1960s. Before the actual church was
built, the group met at the Hambright Elementary School, a few miles east on
Millersville Road.
Both of my parents were born and raised as Lutherans. Mom had been a member of Christ Lutheran
Church in Allentown. Daddy was part of
the small family parish at St. Matthew’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in
Macungie, where nearly everyone in the congregation was related to one another. Neither one of my parents questioned their
roots. We were a Lutheran household.
Each Sunday we’d drive the two miles to get to the
church. The ride took all of five
minutes. But it was long enough for my pain to begin. On a regular basis, I’d lie on the back seat and
moan that my stomach hurt. As I recall,
I was really only halfway making this up.
I simply did not want to go to Sunday school. I didn’t see the point. I didn’t care about or see any relevance in
the stories that we were told. The
little arts and crafts activities that we did when we were younger were mildly
entertaining but hardly educational. I
didn’t like the place or the experience.
And the repetitive and meaningless church service was even worse.
My revulsion renewed itself each time Sunday came around,
and it grew exponentially with every passing second in the car. At times I even felt myself getting
physically sick. I suppose I had the
whole mind-body connection going. I
complained. Loudly. But my protests were ignored, and we continued
on to Holy Spirit anyway.
We were moderately involved in the organization. Daddy played the flute for occasional
services. Mom sang in the choir, and
when I was deemed old enough, I joined her there. Once I even had to portray Mary for the
Christmas program -- promoted from my original part as a walk-on second angel
-- when a sudden snowstorm prevented the girl with the leading role from
getting to the church in time. Ick. This was the penalty for living too close to
the place.
To myself, I’d been questioning the whole operation for a
number of years. I realized that I was
going through the motions of the weekly liturgy without understanding or
accepting any of its basic tenets. When
I finally took the time to think about the symbols and their underlying
meanings, I decided that I didn’t believe in any of them. It then seemed ridiculous to recite or sing
words that I rejected. So I
stopped. I didn’t bow my head, I didn’t
mumble the responses or the creeds or the prayers. When the hymns came up, I moved my lips but
just hummed the alto parts. I made sure
that the actual words didn’t come out of my mouth. With these coping mechanisms in place, I
could be true to my own feelings, and still acquiesce to my mother’s wishes. I hoped that no one would notice.
Somewhere along the line, an adult who led our Sunday school
classes asked if we had any questions. I
decided to speak up and to go for the big one.
I asked for proof that God existed.
As I recall, he didn’t hesitate a second. He opened his arms wide and said, “Just look
at our wonderful world! Who but God could have created it?”
Well, that was no answer for me. I think I mustered up an “Oh, right,” and
turned away to shake my head. I was
disappointed, but not surprised. He was
just someone else who was going through the motions without thinking too deeply
about what he was doing.
By the Spring of 1972, I had turned the magic age to get confirmed
in the church. I went along with the
scheme. My parents, especially my
mother, expected it of me. We had no
discussions on the subject. My
participation was just assumed. We were
steeped in a German and Pennsylvania Dutch heritage. We didn’t talk about these kinds of things. Well, first of all, we didn’t talk about
these kinds of things. And second of
all, I knew I would be opening a gargantuan Pandora’s box if I voiced my
concerns and objections. So I kept quiet
and went along.
There were four of us in the confirmation class: two boys
and two girls. We attended a few
sessions in combination with some fellow confirmees at another local Lutheran
church. I remember that we were assigned
to read the beginning of Genesis and had to understand all of its
“begats.” Why? I don’t remember why.
At the end of the process, we each had a one-on-one office meeting
with the minister who would confirm us. Once
again, I was asked if I had any questions.
Once again, I decided to speak up and to this time go for number
two. I asked for proof that the stories
in the Bible were true. As I recall, the
minister pointed to the overflowing bookshelves on the opposite wall. He began to ramble about all of the volumes
that had been written about the individual books in the Bible. Would I like to borrow any of them?
I scanned some of the titles on the spines. I sure didn’t see anything that looked as if
it would give me the explanation I wanted.
I shook my head and said No. Once
again, I was disappointed by getting a non-answer. If two of the top administrators of this
outfit couldn’t sufficiently summarize the basics of Christian faith to my
satisfaction, why should I go along with it? Was everyone just going through
the motions? What kind of gig was this,
anyway?
Alas, I had misjudged the confidentiality of the minister’s
office. Soon after this meeting, my
mother casually mentioned to me that the minister had spoken to her. He told her that one of the four confirmees
had doubts about joining the church. With
a plummeting stomach, I tried to look innocent as I replied, “Really? Who?”
I expected her to say me.
Instead, she named the other girl in the class, Vicki. “Oh,” I said, with inner glee. And I thought to myself, How cool is
this? It turns out that I’m not the only
one with questions. And I went on my
merry way. Mom never continued the
conversation.
It’s only been in recent years that the truth has dawned on
me. The minister would only have shared with
my mother any concerns he had about me.
He wouldn’t have told her anything about his meetings with Vicki or the
others. Mom knew all along what question
I had asked him. And yet she never
confronted me about it. Germans!
On March 26, 1972, the four of us were confirmed at Holy
Spirit Lutheran Church. We each got a
copy of the then-current Lutheran hymnal (The Red Book!) with our names
embossed on each cover. Yes, I still
have it. It’s difficult to donate a book
anonymously to any library sale or used-book venue when it’s got your name
printed right on it.
 | |||
| "The Red Book," complete with my name on the cover |
I continued to suspend my disbelief in organized religion for
the benefit of my mother. Then, wouldn’t
you know it, a higher power intervened. A
handful of years later, in the late 1970s, my father and I both got kicked out
of the Lutheran church. I could not
believe my good fortune!
Here’s what happened.
Holy Spirit was between ministers at the time, and a lay committee
gained control of the parish. Its
members decided that anyone who had not taken communion in a while would get a
letter saying that they would be removed from the church register unless they
came forward and acquiesced or repented.
Today my father and I can’t remember the particulars: whether it was three months or six months
that the committee used as its cut-off point.
I was at a college five hours away, and I rarely went home during the course
of a semester. I got one of the letters,
because I hadn’t taken communion within the expected time period.
My father got a letter, too.
But Mom didn’t. Why? Because a week earlier, both of my parents
had attended what was then the once-a-month communion service. Mom had taken communion. But my father was playing the flute that
Sunday, and he and the organist kept a steady stream of music going while
everyone else filed up front. The two
musicians never took communion that day.
So my father didn’t fill out one of the little slips of paper you were
supposed to hand to the usher after the wafer and wine bit. And that’s why Daddy got a letter, too.
Mom was outraged. She
was livid. She vowed to never set foot
in that church again. How could she ever
go back to a place that treated her husband and her daughter so callously? I was at college, so I didn’t witness the
ensuing commotion firsthand. But I know
there was a lot of it. The committee was
deemed to have had no power to issue such declarations. When Holy Spirit eventually got another
minister, he spent some time back-pedaling, apologizing, and trying to win my
mother back. I’m not sure he ever did.
I saw the situation as My Way Out. Finally!
“Well, I got kicked out of the Lutheran church,” is all I would need to
say to anyone who would ask me about any religious affiliations. I wouldn’t even have to supply details.
And that was my last formal affiliation with a church. Oh, there have been a few digressions in the
intervening years, but only a few. The
biggest one was being married for eight years to a musician who happened to
also be a choir director. I was rather forced to sing in a Presbyterian church
on most Sundays because of him.
Eventually I came to my senses, exerted my authority, and said I couldn’t
and wouldn’t sing there anymore. A mutually
agreed-upon divorce followed not too long afterward. (To be fair:
Singing in church was only a minor issue involved in the break.)
In 1993, we held my mother’s memorial service at Holy Spirit
Lutheran Church. I’m not sure she would
have wanted it that way, but my father and I had few other choices to
consider. Technically, she was probably
still a member. Or were all three of us
still members? I don’t know. I’d been kicked out, remember?
I’ve probably sat in on fewer than two dozen church services
in the last 20 years. There have been a few
weddings, a few funerals. I still refuse
to aimlessly recite any words I don’t believe in. So don’t be surprised at my non-compliance,
if you find yourself sitting next to me in such situations in the future.
If I wasn’t a Lutheran, or even a Christian, what was
I? An atheist? Agnostic?
I knew what I didn’t
believe. What did I believe instead? Of this, I was not sure. I was still thinking.
1972 marked a variety of confirmations for me, and the most
public one was a sham. But don’t cry for
me, Argentina. Other mentors with brimming bandwagons would
soon come my way, and I would be a willing jumper.
