The "Religious Wonder Years" Adolesence and Teens

CHAPTER TWO

My own personal wonder years went from wondering and wanting to give it all a chance...to wondering if I would survive any of it..because I knew that I most likely would not 'survive after death' being some sort of a happy heavenly camper.

My wonder years encompass...give or take a few...ages 11 through 17...or so... I wanted so much to actually enjoy religion...but that never happened. I was born very mystically-minded and very much wanted my religious experiences to be beautifully mystical.

Going to church never seemed to do anything 'good' for me. It didn't make me feel better for ever having attended. Sunday after Sunday. Many of the preachers' sermons were, however, extremely disturbing and frightening.

Later on, during the 70's, someone would coin the phrase "God is Love" ... Love!? Are you kidding me!! God was nothing but mean, punishing, wrathful, snoopy, spy in the sky, totally unfair and unjust, --someone who only rewarded those who were what I would call mechanically perfect in everything they thought, said, or did. If you missed the mark in any of those areas even a little bit, you would be punished or suffer the consequences. Now you could

beg for forgiveness.. if you really meant it...if you were 'contrite' enough... you could be forgiven of your sins. Because, after all, God had this deal going ...'he gave his only begotten son to die for your sins'...so he had to hold up his end of the bargain, too. But did he? Really? I never knew. All I knew for sure was that the meanest most horrible presence in my very existence -- was this thing called "God."

My mother gave a whole new meaning to "just wait til your father gets home" .... To me, my father was just the opposite of God... My father was sensitive, kind, loving, helpful to others, and had a good sense of humor... I never could blame him for getting drunk. If only God could have been as nice and loving as my father was...who I KNEW actually did love me.... everything could have been sp different. My mother had a terrible time accepting me for who I was. I don't want to make her the focal point of this entire story, but it was from my mother that I received the whole distorted concept of a mean God. I was continuously threatened with "God will punish you" for disobeying or disappointing her in any way. There was never a time when I was really and truly 'good enough' for her.

She continuously reinforced my already fearful ideas of what a forever burning hell was like and never once alleviated any of my growing fears that I would be 'going there' to burn in pain forever.

The Lutheran church teaches you are "born sinful, dirty, and unclean" and in need of being saved...which requires baptism and taking communion.... (and a few other 'duties' that didn't make that big of an impression of me.) I remember looking at little babies being baptized and thinking ...wow...they are sinful and will burn in hell if they don't get sprinkled with that water. Amazing.

About Jesus. I always liked Jesus. In many ways I had actually felt very sorry for him. We could have commiserated on being the the subjects of bad parenting skills! Later I would learn how churches (nearly ALL) would distort the teachings of Jesus. Whether or not there was a 'real historical Jesus' or not, made little difference to me. I chose to believe there was a 'real Jesus'...but I also believe he could have been a compilation of many teachers who appeared at the beginning of the Piscean Age when people were at a 'readiness point' to expand their consciousness.

I would come to find out that throughout all of recorded history (which we now call 'mythical') ...there was always a 'Holy Family' as well as a 'Trinity' of sorts. The newly formed stories, holidays, and symbols of the Christian religion were primarily based more upon ancient Egyptian and pagan religions...as disturbing or horrifying as that may be to some good Christian folk.

When I was 12 years old, I built a makeshift altar, in my upstairs bedroom, from an old apple crate, a white dishtowel, a picture of Jesus, and two candles. I would kneel and pray to Jesus before this altar. When my mother discovered it she became angry and made me dismantle it and promise to never do such a thing again. She refused to give me a reason why.

Every Lutheran child is obliged to take catechism classes in which you learn the indisputable laws of your church. Then you are Confirmed...and you take your First Communion. This makes you an official 'adult member' of the church. Kinda like a Protestant Bar Mitzvah. Catholics get to go through that business at age 6....and the 'training' isn't real intense, but!-- you get to "drink the blood and eat the flesh" earlier than Lutherans.

Playing the old-but-new-to-us, upright piano (after the old pump organ gave out) for Church services helped me to survive the whole thing since I would concentrate on the music itself. If, during the liturgy, old cranky Rev. Dantaschek didn't think my timing for the musical responses were 'just right' I would suffer his dirty looks. Once, when I must have been daydreaming and totally missed my cue...he actually yelled at me to pay attention. Danteschek and God were an awful lot alike. Both were mean, self-righteous, and exacting ....heavy sigh....

When I was 14 I developed a real curiosity for the Catholic religion. There was this big Catholic church in Tampa, Ks (a village not too far from Lehigh) where nearly everyone was Catholic. When the Lehigh folks would talk about Catholics it was rather similar to the way some non-believers now talk about 'aliens.' That peaked my curiosity. It fascinated me because the Catholic kids seemed so "wild"... they smoked and some drank, they had cool clothes and hair-do's...kinda like on Happy Days. It was, after all, the '50's...but there was nothing in Lehigh that resembled anything like they portrayed on Happy Days!

The kids from Tampa just seemed so much more 'free'...and sometimes to my way of thinking: very naughty and sinful!... It was then I thought there must be something about the Catholic Church that was worth checking out. Sort of like the Fobidden Fruit.

I remember making a necklace with this blue green colored plastic crucifix I got out of a Cracker Jack box. I would always be sure to wear it when I was around the kids from Tampa in hopes of impressing them, and they might think I was Catholic, too. Thus, my first real signs of wanting to 'belong and be accepted as being OK'... started to surface. I can see that now.

Asking my parents about the Catholic church must have been akin to today's Christian child expressing curiosity about El Quada, The Taliban, and Islam!...I was NOT to talk about it...especially to my mother.

One fine and very memorable Sunday afternoon (I loved that day and time of the week!) --which is when my parents always took a long nap -- I either drew, painted, or 'got into things.' ... This one life-changing day, I decided to quietly rummage through the old steamer trunk that was tucked away in the attic. Amongst other old books, I found a small blue book...and took it to the light by the window. It was entitled "A Catholic Catechism." I remember having chills of excitement rush through me. Forbidden knowledge! I never told either of my parents about finding that book. I successfully kept it hidden away.

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I was standing in the kitchen beside the table, flipping through the small pages, not able to take everything in fast enough!...when I came across the teaching question: Will all people who are not Catholic go to hell? ...and the answer was "Yes." I remember going totally dry-mouthed with terror. The only people who would, however, be 'exempt' from hell would be those souls who had never heard of the Catholic church. This turned my already precarious religious world for a total loop.

Naturally...my goal would be to become Catholic. So!! God was even more 'picky' that what I had pictured him to be! The 'one and only true religion,' it claimed. Sheese! It would seem hell was gonna be a really crowded place!

Much of this Catechism was like the Lutheran one....but that one teaching set it totally apart. That was the clincher that would change the already tumultous religious course of my life.

OK. At least now I could formulate a plan. If I would have to become Catholic...I could be 'saved from hell.' Finally. there was some kind of hope for me!

The Very Beginning... in this particular LIFE

CHAPTER ONE

This is as good of a picture as any to start my story telling of my rather wild and woolly tales about my experiences with the many different religions I have had in this particular lifetime. Let's say that caption on this particular picture was to be very 'prophetic.'I'd like to insert as much humor into what will actually be 'the real truth' of my experiences, even though, goodness knows, not all of it was 'funny.' Humor is probably one of the most healing elements we can favor ourselves with. Trying to seek out the lighter side...rather than all of the 'bad moments' is, I believe, very much to any one's advantage.

If I can, in any way at all, help anyone else by sharing my own dramas... that would make me feel good. Hopefully my story will help others to overcome what (being serious here now) could have proved to have been some very, very challenging experiences that were difficult to overcome.

OK. Ready. Set. Go.

My parents, who adopted me when I was but 11 days old, were Lutheran. German Lutheran. Our Synod (the Lutheran church had many synods usually based on ethnic groups) was called the American synod. When I started in actually paying attention to what my folks were talking about, church wise, the mention of the Missouri Synod was always talked about in strange tones. They were stricter. No Masons allowed. No dancing allowed. I never knew why.

My little farm country hometown of Lehigh, Kansas, population of around 250...which likely included cows, pigs, chickens, dogs and cats... was made up of all German people. You were either a Lutheran (in the minority) or you were some form of Mennonite. Regular Mennonite, Mennonite Brethren, or Kansas Mennonite Brethren...all becoming more strictly austere in their appears and "what they didn't do." No lipstick, severe hairdos, plain clothing, etc... In ALL Mennonite Churches, the women sat on one side and the men on the other. Funerals were the exception. Guess God gave them special dispensation for those times.

The first thing I remember learning about the Mennonites was their menfolks didn't have to go and fight in the war. They were CO's...Conscientious Objectors. As a child I absorbed the views of other Lutherans. Lutherans would call them 'cowardly objectors.' CO's were given stateside jobs at military bases...like cleaning bedpans in military hospitals -- was what I always heard talked about. Anything demeaning to make up for their cowardice in refusing to 'serve their country.'

Little, then, did I know how my OWN views would change in regards to wars. Wars, in movies, were always nearly romanticized...The bloody, ugly, savage, insane truth of war remained far removed from the silver screen.

My earliest memories of 'church' was when I was age 4 or 5. My Sunday school class was taught in this little cramped room that held the preacher's vestments. It had one straight little bench that we sat upon, side by side. A very kind lady named Mildred Dies (pronounced Dees) was our teacher. She continued to be our Sunday School teacher for many years. I mainly remember learning about the typical, common Bible stories that I couldn't even begin to relate to: Jonah and the Whale, Daniel in the Lions Den, Joseph and his brothers, ...the atypical ones. It was always streesed that we were supposed to "be good! and not sin." So, right from the get go ... I was to understand that we were 'not good' by nature but 'had to learn to be that way.' Even though the Bible stories did not really make a lot of sense of me... thankfully Mildred was a kind, patient lady and taught us in a kind way. A lot more so than "God" ever was. God was always 'up there in the sky someplace.' He knew every move we made, every word we said, every thought we had... and He kept count!! He kept a record of all the things you did wrong, and when you died you'd have to stand before his throne, he would review 'your book' and either allow you into Heaven (when sounded miserably boring) or send you to Hell where you would burn forever and ever. That theory was doubley, tripley, and quadrupley reinforced in me by my mother. Quite often.

The beginnings of my comprehension of 'God' were pretty awful. God had nothing to do with "love"... but everything to do with fear and demanding obedience or else!...Good old fear and conditioning. Those were my religious roots.

Our little church was one of those old, atypical music-box, old fashioned little wooden churches with a steeple that had a little bell tower. I always liked it. To me it was a magical, mystical place (in spite of this mean God) They rang the bell on Sunday mornings before the service...and they also rang the bell (which could be heard all over town) when someone died... even if they weren't Lutheran. I guess Mennonites didn't believe in bells. Not sure why. Too frivolous, I guess.

My little white church had very uncomfortable wooden pews. I remember well how they looked, how they were stained and varnished. Altogether there were 12 pews. Six on each side....and then two smaller pews in the front, facing the altar and podium. The podium had to be surmounted by 5 steps so the preacher could get a GOOD view of the congregation. On the other side of the altar was where the little pump organ was located... the one I would start playing for the church services when I was only 12 years old.

At the front of the altar hung a crucifix. That was disturbing. We had a big picture of Jesus hanging on the cross in our little Sunday school room, too. It was just something 'that was.' It didn't even mean that much to me. I don't remember thinking, gee, I wonder if that hurt?... or anything like that. It was the way I viewed hunting. If you are raised with the idea that you take a rifle and go and shoot rabbits or pheasants or chop the heads off chickens... it's just the way it is. It isn't right or wrong. It's the way it is. That doesn't mean I LIKED that picture. I didn't like it at all. Flowers would have been better.

After Sunday school was over, all the children were expected to sit with their parents and be very quiet! And you did NOT turn around and look around! Church services lasted about an hour. I played a lot with my little red patent purse, my little white gloves, and my hankerchiefs that I would try to make into little dolls. The singing was just gosh-awful. Lutheran hymnals contain the dullest sounding music ... no different that Catholics or Episcopals. And oh GOD some of the women had these high pitched, droney voices...it would take like minutes to get through one short verse! It's a wonderful the coyotes didn't wander into town on Sunday mornings. Many of the words to the hymns were scarey, too. A lot of stuff about suffering and blood and pleaing and dying to be saved. And of course, much 'praising.' The hymns...except for Onward Christian Soldiers which had a real beat to it!--were not much fun to sing. Of course, who was supposed to have FUN, for heaven's sake!

Now I LOVED Christmas in that little Church. That is one of my best memories. I had a good singing voice almost from the time I could talk. When I was only 3 years old, I sant "Silent Night" on Christmas Eve in that little church. I honestly do truly remember that.

Christmas programs were FUN. We all had little recitations to memorize. We sang songs. Always "Away in A Manger" doing all the hand gestures. The Christmas tree always reached to the ceiling, beautifully decorated. Sheer magic. It was always best when it was snowing outside. I w as always told that Santa Claus would bring gifts to your house while you were in Church on Christmas Eve. It always seemed to happen. The Christmas Eve Service would always end with everyone singing Silent Night. That was one of my most precious and best loved memories. That is indeed a beautiful song. Nothing about hell or sin...just love. I still get tears in my eyes when I hear it sung on Christmas Eve. I believe its one of the most beautifully spiritual songs in the world. I could even sing it in German!

I remember only two ministers. Reverent Bartke... who was bald and had a shiney, big, kind of square head and he was rather obese... He sometimes needed help getting up and down the steps to the podium. Later I was to find out he was often drunk on Sunday mornings. Poor guy, undoubtedly an alcoholic. He would preach unbelievably long sermons, flipping through Bible pages, and Mr. Steinle and Mr. Spremberg would sometimes fall asleep... To me it all 'sounded' like Charlie Brown's teacher in the cartoons...wah wah wah wah...wah wah... I liked it in the winter time because I would snuggle up to my mom, and loved it when she wore her fur coat. That felt so good. That was a good memory.

The other preacher was one of the meanest men that walked the earth. Reverent Danteschek. I don't believe that man EVER smiled!...let alone laugh. He had a perpetual scowl on his long drawn face and he more or less just barked his answers to everyone. He had a sweet, quiet, lovely wife.

Rev. Danteschek's sermons were full of fire, hell, brimstone, punishment...and he would pound on the Bible, slap it down on the podium...and POINT at people. Once my friend Doris Sietiz and I got called down for talking. We were sitting in the back pew and we WERE whispering! Anyway, I can still hear that man loudly say: "Doris! Betty Ann. Be quiet and stop talking!"... I knew I would catch it when I got home.

The members of the congregation would have to take turns inviting the preacher and wife over for Sunday dinner after church. My mother just dreaded her turn...She spent as much time and energy warning me about behaving myself!-- as she did in preparing the meal. How that mean old preacher man even managed to open his MOUTH and never break that scowel...still amazes me. He never had anything nice to say as far as I can remember. He was one miserable old coot!