Ben Hur (1957), Spartacus (1960), YMCA logo, Boy’s Camp
We weren’t “Nones,” to use the modern term for people who claim no religious affiliation. We were “Not Reallys.” For my parents’ generation, having a religion meant you were a law-abiding citizen who paid your bills and cried at weddings (or at least had the decency to wipe your eyes). So Mom was a Catholic-but-Not-Really, and Dad was an Episcopalian-but-Not-Really. For me, Christmas was about getting presents and tasty treats. Easter was about hunting for Easter eggs and eating tasty treats. And Sundays were about sleeping in and eating tasty treats. (Have I mentioned I liked to eat?)
True, some people went to a place called “Church” on Sundays. Ladies wore pillbox hats, and dressed their daughters like dolls. Men wore ties, and dressed their sons like little businessmen. But I got to stay in my jammies and eat pancakes.
Until one weekend, I slept over at my cousins’ house, and Aunt Tavia woke us up early Sunday morning. She fed us burnt pancakes and gave each of us a dime, then drove us to Church and dropped us off. I had no idea what was going on, but my cousins did. They made me put my dime on a passing plate. Not fair! I thought it was my payment for going to Church! Then we stood up, sat down, and knelt a lot, while some guy in a long robe talked in a foreign language. Finally, everyone got a dry little cracker as a party favor. What kind of tasty treat was that?
Later that year, Ben Hur came out. I liked the chariot race, but wasn’t sure why the Romans crucified a good guy named Jesus. Was it because he didn’t attend the chariot race? And the following year, I saw a movie called Spartacus. I loved it, but was confused when they crucified Spartacus instead of Jesus. Was Jesus a gladiator? Were they the same person?
Confused, I asked Dad what he believed. He handed me his Time-Life illustrated edition of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species and said, “This.”
When school let out that year, I attended a YMCA summer camp for little kids right there in a nearby suburb. It was a “pretend-you’re-in-the-mountains” experience with hikes and crafts. And there was a big campfire the final night, after which we got to sleep under the stars! We sang “John Jingleheimer Schmidt” and “Do Your Ears Hang Low,” and did silly skits.
My favorite skit featured a man (boy) being dunked in the water over and over again, and each time being asked, “Do you believe?” The last time he’s asked, “What do you believe?” and he replies, “I believe you’re trying to drown me!” I laughed, even though I had no idea what a baptism was.
Still, our camp leaders’ allusions to faith got me wondering who God was and what he wanted. So, the next day I asked Mom what she believed. She gave me her childhood Catholic Sunday missal (which disappointingly had nothing to do with rocket ships) and said, “I don’t exactly know, honey, but here.” It made no sense to me, but featured a kids’ prayer with the words “If I should die before I wake…” Hmm. As a safeguard, I tried saying it at bedtime for two weeks. But there was no theme music or special effects, so I quit. True, I never once died before I waked.
Nevertheless, I wasn’t done being a Not-Really.
Photo by Ashwini Chaudhary
