Confessions of a Confetti Head – Cheese and Crackers Got All Muddy

When I was a child, I was driven by some invisible hand to attend church. It didn’t matter what church. The one within walking distance to wherever we lived at the time. We moved around a lot so I was always exploring new ways to have Jesus sold to me like a car at an auction, and to be ‘saved.’

My father was an atheist and usually so hung over on Sunday morning it took him an hour to open each eye.  My mother, a metaphysician, told me that I was free to go, but she would not be a hypocrite and go to church. I didn’t know what hypocrite meant, but secretly I was glad to be going alone. So I dressed, shoved as much sugar down my throat in the form of crunchy goodness as possible, put on my patent leather shoes and white anklets, foo foo dress, prissy white gloves,  and hoofed it to the nearest church.

In those days, the 1950’s, kids weren’t watched like a cat crouched at a mouse hole. We had freedom to grow and experience life on our own. But that, as the saying goes, is another show. I usually walked a few blocks, but on occasion I took a city bus. Yes, by myself.

I only remember a few of those churches before we settled down in the East L.A. and I became a member of the St. Paul’s Episcopal Cathedral in downtown Los Angeles. Alas, it’s now a parking lot. Perhaps a blessed one, where cars enter dusty and grimy and come out clean and sparkling? groan. Or, when they tore down the church and dug for the parking lot (wasn’t that a Carley Simon song?) they were on hollowed ground? double groan. But I digress.

One church I remember clearly was in Inglewood. In the 50’s Inglewood was a nice, sort of Leave it to Beaver neighborhood. We lived in a small green stucco house with a little front yard and a clothesline in the equally small backyard. In that church of nondescript Baptist-ish ilk, I sat, for a few Sundays in the little room for patronizing and indoctrinating young minds in “the ways of the Lord”—Sunday School. Did I mention in a previous blog that I’m an agnostic? Well, all this was too kiddy for me, even at  seven years old. So I started going to the grown up Church service (is that an oxymoron?) I liked this better. The songs were nice, the preacher had a kind, if a bit florid face. I would now peg him for a drinker, but then I just took him at ‘face’ value. Okay groan again if you want.

At the end of his fiery sermon, he was lathered up with the ‘blood of the lamb’ and rarin’ to save the sinners. There was, what I now know is termed, an Altar Call. This is where the preacher calls for any sinners in the congregation to come up to the altar and be saved by whatever means the Church believes is sanctioned by God. For this church it was a whack on the forehead and some kind of loud proclamation  prayer that brought tears to the eyes of the saved. I was so tempted. Every bone in my little body said, go, go, be saved. I was gripping the railing to keep my feet from dragging me to that altar. This, in my young mind was HUGE! I couldn’t make this decision lightly. Something in me was fighting this urge to be saved.

When the feeling was about to overwhelm my inner common sense, I looked up and noticed a painting on the wall. It is one that is still commonly seen, Jesus, knocking at a partially open door. The caption read, “Knock and the door will be opened.” At that moment, a very clear voice sounded in my head, “Stay still, you already have what you need.” The feeling subsided. I was so relieved that I almost collapsed. Phew! Saved from being Saved.

Another church experience stands out in my mind. We were living in Bellflower, or was it Maywood. It’s all such a blur. Our house was a nice duplex with a large front yard, and lovely mice in the house to eat the wieners I left out for them—and a source of  continual angst of my mother. She would pick them up by the tail and put them out into the field behind the house. I like that she doesn’t kill things.

The nice elderly lady who lived next door noticed that we were NOT church goin’ folk and decided to save my soul. Maybe she sensed it was already too late for my brother. She took me to her Revival church. At the same time, an equally but considerably more financially well-off lady neighbor decided that I needed saving—by her. This kind woman was of the definite opinion that I should be a Catholic.

Talk about contrasts. The Revival was loud: Amen Brother! Praise the Lord! Amen Sister! Take me Jesus! There was zippy music, and people moaning, groaning, yelling, and falling to the floor, shaking and writhing like they were going to fall apart. Wow, this was scary and fascinating. I still remember how much energy there was. These people didn’t fool around. They KNEW that Jesus was right in that room and they were going to get all the goodies they could, right there in that bursting room. They partied like  rock stars. Grape juice was served.

On the other cross, was the Catholic experience. Staid and formal,  with pomp, incense, and Latin, oh my. Beautiful, with gold and silver, carved ivory, rich, gleaming wood, songs straight out of some ancient past. There was a lot of stand up, sit down, kneel. It was glittering and gleaming, and, in my mind, totally soulless. Still, I was attracted by the subdued, hypnotic beauty of it all. And, for some mysterious reason, I liked the Latin. Even at eight years old, I found that the words flowed out of me and I could understand much of what was being said, even without reading the translation under the red ink.

When I was thirteen, I settled down to the Episcopal Cathedral mentioned earlier. Not because I was still trying to find God, I had by that time settled into a more metaphysical heart, but because my best friend, Louise, went. We took the bus to downtown and walked a few blocks to the church on 7th and Figeuroa, across the street from the Statler Hilton Hotel. After church I would sometimes take the elevator, then stairs to the heliport and sit on the edge of the building, looking out over the city scape. It was the tallest building around then.

St. Paul’s was beautiful, over a hundred years old and full of the Catholic splendor that I liked,but without all the guilt. Oh, I can’t resist—they had guiltless gilt. Slap me, I’m channelling a Reno lounge comedian. Thanks, I needed that. We had Dean Gilmett, an elderly, serious ceric. And his assistant (name forgotten), young, vibrant, ex policeman, who let us play spin the bottle at the parties he hosted at his home. No funny business though.

Anyway, I stayed and joined St. Paul’s, became a member, then president of their youth club – Young Episcopalians for Christ (or something like that). OMG! Why? Because I fell in teen love with a choir boy. I still remember his name, Donald. He came from the kind of family and background I talked about yesterday. Upper middle class, living in a nice neighborhood in Glendale. Dad barbecued steaks on weekends; mom stayed at home. Nice, nice people. Roots.

We were in deep lust, so I stayed. I remember saying to myself during one sermon. If no one ever mentions reincarnation, spirits, or psychic, then it’s okay and God won’t punish me. You know, they never said a word about it, so I kept my real beliefs to myself. I was even baptized there. Episcopalians sprinkle, not dunk. I felt so holy for a few days, then my normal self reemerged.

Well, my love of Donald was short lived and we both moved on. I met another boy from the Glendale Episcopal Church, Tim. Tim remained a long time friend. Years later, when I lived in Van Nuys, went to college and worked as a waitress at Dino’s, we hooked up again. He was an ex-marine paratrooper, studying classical organ at college. His family didn’t approve of me, a divorced woman of questionable breeding. We drifted apart. I still think of him and smile. He was a good person through and through. I hope life was/is good to him.

St. Paul’s was a good experience and I stayed until we moved to the San Fernando Valley when I was fourteen. I gave up Church completely. While I was going to St. Paul’s though, I learned about charity, giving, and compassion, leadership, and teamwork. We were (snooty face) High Church, so we didn’t indulge in Bingo.

We volunteered a lot, I especially liked the Purple Heart meetings, helping out in the kitchen. I learned to make salad for fifty. Then, we were allowed to watch the proud pomp of the meetings. ROTC teenage boys (especially cute in my eyes), marching into the ancient, velvety and dark wood room, proudly carrying the brilliant flags that contrasted with the dim lighting in the long and aged room. Brass buttons, starched uniforms, shiny shoes. War veterans from I, II, mostly aged men, marching in afterward. I don’t remember much else about the meeting, but I do remember the fascinating war museum in the building—Patriotic Hall—with photos from the Civil War, and every other kind of war that the United States has been involved in. Cases of bullets, rifles, guns, uniforms, and such other memorabilia were proudly displayed for those there to “remember.”

So, even though I am a religion non-believer, I am sure that church in small doses is a good thing for some people. It was for me. It can teach us something about the finer things in life— kindness, caring, sharing, tolerance, compassion, and understanding that there is something beyond our belief map and ego that survives. If we take the core of the teaching and leave the other, maybe it is a good thing.

In closing, I’ll share a wonderful story from the mouth of  my then dearest friend’s young, bright-eyed son, Lance (we called him Sam). When he was about seven, he started going to the Southern Baptist Church in Norman, Oklahoma. His mother, like me was an agnostic. He wanted to go because his best friend from school was going. After a few weeks, he came home and said, “Mom. They tell us at church that Jesus died for our sins. Then they tell us that we are all sinners.” A quizzical look at his mother for confirmation, then continued, “Well, it seems to me then, that Jesus died for nothing.” We all laughed in relief. With that small piece of wisdom, Sam stopped going to church. I’ve lost touch with Sam, his brother, and mother over the years, but whenever I recall that scenario, I smile and chuckle to myself. Children are often wiser than wise.

Thanks for reading

Anita

Now I am happily celebrating life and spirit in my own way. I do go to a church, Common Ground, in Corona. I started going for my mother, who doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere without me anymore. I stay because I like the people and the open minded, nonChristian, sentiments. It is a nice meditative break in my day. I think I’ll continue going. Maybe they wouldn’t let me back in if they knew I think there was no Jesus? :+) But that’s another story.