I have barely ever set foot in church, except for the two years I went to preschool at a non-denominational Presbyterian church in San Carlos and our once a year pilgrimage to Hope Lutheran church at Christmas, primarily for the ceremony of it all, not the religion. We never talked about religion in my house, not because we didn’t believe in God. No one objected to religion nor spoke ill of it; it just never came up. I never thought twice about why our family didn’t go to church. In part, I was thankful. I watched my friends spend half a day holed up in Bible study every Sunday and ironically thanked God that I didn’t have to give up my tree climbing and roller skating practice to attend. That’s until I met Andrew, my husband. By then, I was done building fortresses and shimmying up our willow tree every weekend. But I still didn’t think church sounded fun. I thought of it as an obligation, like taking out the trash or going to the DMV. Like most 16-year-olds, my spirituality consisted of thanking God when something went right and scorning him when it went wrong.
This changed the first time I went to Midnight Mass with Andrew on Christmas Eve. Andrew’s mom is next in line to fill Mother Theresa’s shoes. The woman would give her body and every penny to the Catholic church if she didn’t need them to exist. A picture of the Pope used to hang over the washing machine in their house. She’s never missed a church service and used to minister to those bedridden souls too sick to make it to mass. Her devotion has translated to three children with deep respect for the church and a divine knowledge of religion. I didn’t understand the importance of religion until that Christmas Eve. I sat in church wide-eyed, with the heavy scent of incense swirling around me as the priest cloaked in sashes spoke about Jesus’ birth. I’d heard the story before in Lutheran services, but somehow it seemed new to me in the dead of night. I had always thought of Jesus as this fairytale character, who was untouchable, unrealistic. The Bible seemed to be a fabulously written tale as believable, yet engaging, as the “Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe”. But that night the priest described Jesus in a way that made him sound as real and human as me.
Afterward, I spent an hour asking Andrew 101 questions about religion. This lasted for days and months after. “Who was Peter?” “Why was Jesus put on a cross?” “What’s the difference between Lutherans and Catholics?” I started to feel ashamed by my lack of knowledge and jealous of Andrew’s religious devotion. It wasn’t like Andrew prayed every day or even attended church regularly, much to his mother’s chagrin. But he had faith and knowledge. Over the years, Andrew’s become my religious teacher, schooling me on who’s who in the Bible. I’ve often thought of being baptized, not only because I SHOULD understand the Bible, but because I don’t want to be a lonely soul with no place to go when I die. Although there’s a part of me that thinks heaven and hell are as real as Elvis being alive, I don’t want to chance it. I’m superstitious about it, like I am about stepping on a crack or breaking a mirror.
So, I’ve considered Catholicism, which seems an obvious choice, since I’m married to a Catholic. But it seems arbitrary to make such an important spiritual decision based on your spouse’s beliefs. In all, it’s a vexing decision that will probably take me a lifetime to muddle through. On Saturday, I watched Monsignor drip water over the peach fuzz atop Addie’s head. She looked up with indifference. I looked down with admiration. Andrew touched the dew on her head and later tapped my head. He said, “I’ve baptized you now.” I smiled, only wishing it were that easy. Later that weekend, I walked past a Baptist Church with a sign proclaiming: “Got bad credit? Jesus just cleared your debt.” Adeline’s a lucky lady, I thought. Someday her father will teach her all that he knows and, yes, she will learn from the Bible. She may decide that she doesn’t believe in the religion we’ve chosen for her, but at th
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