My father, Carl Kennedy, was a Presbyterian minister. His church was in Circleville, Ohio (renamed from Roundtown), but I never saw it. He died months after I was born, and my mother moved in with his parents in Cincinnati. She remained a widow for six years, marrying the only man I knew as a father, Gustavus William Buchholz, in 1952. GWB was an Episcopal minister, looking over his flock at All Saints Church in Pleasant Ridge, just down the street from the only house I’d ever known, Elsie and John’s home on the appropriately named street, Grand Vista Avenue.
So, from that moment on I was raised as an Episcopalian. Baptized as a Presbyterian, (my mother’s church), then later confirmed as an Episcopalian. I had no understanding then of the differences between the two. I have no idea now, either. I remember going to the 11:00 service every Sunday morning, then leaving right before the sermon for Sunday school, taught by a volunteer member of the parish. Some years later I became an acolyte, the boy (always a boy), who led the choir into the church, carrying a staff topped with a cross. After the service I led them out.. We gathered together by the organist, who committed suicide at some point, then parted a curtain and walked down one side, crossed to the center, then up the steps to the sanctuary.
The church held memorable moments, like the time my baseball heroes, Ted Kluszewski, Johnny Temple, and Roy McMillan met our cub scout troupe in the auditorium. I remember the ancient Coke machine in the basement which yielded a 6.5 oz bottle for. $.05. I remember standing, kneeling, praying, singing, and listening. I also remember uninvited pornographic thoughts sneaking into my consciousness, often when Dad was preaching.
A black and white photograph shows me, Dad, and Bishop Blanchard smiling at my confirmation. The confirmation rite supposes that candidates "express a mature commitment to Christ, and receive strength from the Holy Spirit through prayer and the laying on of hands by a bishop.” Stop at “mature.” I was perhaps twelve? A mature commitment to Christ? No, just another stop along the Highway of Guilt, reinforced throughout my youth when my father caught me with a Playboy, when he sternly approached a friend and me when were looking at a book with a photograph of a little girl’s vagina.
I attended church regularly, dropped bills in the collection plate, asked for forgiveness and lamented my sins. It never took. I enjoyed the stories, especially the parables. In college I took courses on the New and Old Testament.
The stories, the history were intriguing. I didn’t go to church in college, but I hadn’t given it up completely. When Jadyne and I were married, a Catholic priest joined my father for the nuptials. Jay and I both assumed that we would find a church that met our needs. We attended one, then another, then a third, then skipped the next week, the week after, and then never.
Dad was disappointed that we didn’t take our children to church. They were baptized, but that’s where the train paused, just another stop on the Highway of Guilt. When we visited Mom and Dad in Oxford we all attended church, but when we returned to California, we didn’t.
I felt guilty about this for years. I still do, I suppose. My friend John Holden, a devout Christian, once said, “David, I feel bad that I won’t see you in the afterlife.” He knew exactly where the train was headed, and he expected to get off at a different stop. And how thoughtful he was to wish that I could join him in heaven, not burn in Hell.
I’ve tried to justify my religiosity in different ways. If believing in Christ is the only way to attain everlasting life, what happens to Jews, Muslims, Hindus,? There are about four thousand religions, all of which proclaim the truth. Someone’s got to be mistaken.
Your church life is mostly dependent on where you were born. Not many Christians in Iran. Not many Hindus in Nebraska. I’ve severed my spiritual life from my church life. The former is active; the latter, in remission. On Christmas morning Jadyne and I helped prepare 125 breakfasts at Dorothy Day Center. I wrote about it earlier in my blog…
I felt closer to God while I was packing styrofoam boxes with bacon than I ever did kneeling, with reels of pornographic images running through the theater of my mind. I have pages of sunsets and clearing storms from a favorite lookout in Kensington. I feel closer to God there in my t-shirt and blue jeans than I ever did in my suit and tie. And best of all, the Guilt Train doesn’t run there at all.