N: 11/06/02

Work Diary, 11/06/02

Yesterday, during my birthday lunch, I found myself defending the
Catholic Church. I enjoy playing devil's advocate but, honestly, the
Catholic Church? The Pope has plenty of spin masters to perk up his
popularity; he didn't need me extolling his virtues.

I was responding to my co-worker's sweeping indictment of all things
Catholic: "They make me sick, taking all those poor people's money and
building something so tacky as the Vatican." Spoken like a true
American Protestant, of course, and it was easier to support her
statement than to argue against it. But to condemn an entire religion
in one puff of cigarette smoke just seemed so?unfair.

Personally, I love Catholic churches. They are ostentatious, and
colorful, and reek of incense. They are also testaments to what humans
can do when they really put their minds - and muscles - to work. I'm
not going to drag out the tired old arguments about the church's
influence on art and literature because - let's face it - the church
has done its fair share of squelching those things, as well. On the
other hand, religions are experiencing an ongoing evolution. Any
liberal arts college student can tell you that. I'm staying optimistic
about that evolution. After all, we made it through the Inquisition,
right?

I was in Rome once, surrounded by hundreds of very excited American
Catholics in some square where the Pope was to bless all of us. People
were fingering their rosaries and more than a few were deep in prayer
as the Pope's voice filled the square. The Italians who were going
about their daily business were respectful of the whole scene, until
another voice came over the loudspeakers. It seems the Pope was ill,
and the entire blessing had been a recording from the previous day.
Some of the Italians couldn't help but laugh. "Do you think it
matters?" the woman next to me asked. Before I could say, "How the hell
should I know?", the woman said, "No, no, of course it doesn't. A
blessing's a blessing." Strange thing, faith.

Except for a stint at a Christian camp, I had exactly two church
experiences as a child, neither of them with Catholics. For the first,
my father dropped my sister and me off with the local Baptists. He had
no intention of coming with us, which may explain why he had to pry our
shrieking bodies from the car. We were ushered into the congregation by
one of those women who always seem to be peacocking it up in front of
churches: big hair, flowery dress, sensible heels. My sister and I made
a beeline for the refreshments table - which featured plenty of Jell-O
and half-burnt cookies - but before we could fill our pockets, a pair
of meaty hands steered us downstairs to a creepy basement that looked
like a school except for the scripture on the walls. For non-religious
children, is there any worse hell than Bible school?

Dutifully, my sister and I sat through the entire lesson, though we did
make faces at one another while quietly giggling. The classroom smelled
of urine and the same half-burnt cookies that were upstairs, out of our
reach. The teacher seemed to sense our paganism and didn't call on us
for any questions; even at my young age, I silently thanked her for
that. When the class ended, we ran upstairs before the other children,
only to find an empty refreshment table and a bunch of adults with
crumbs on their lapels. We screamed and kicked the car seat all the way
home; our father never made us go back.

The second time I went to an actual church was with a friend. She
wasn't a churchgoer, either, but thought it would be "neat." It was an
evening service. My friend looked like a miniature bride in her lacey
white dress, and I looked like a nervous hillbilly in a wrinkled Oxford
and too-short slacks. Some things never change, I guess. We sat with
the adults this time, holding the church Bibles in our laps and
pretending to know the words to the songs. During the service, a
strange man in a very blue suit put his hand on my friend's knee. I
looked up and she was turned towards me, a strange mixture of fright
and surprise and utter hilarity on her face. All I can say is, thank
God for the intermission, during which we found the service exit and
escaped into the night.

As an adult, I've considered the whole spirituality issue for myself,
but try as I might, I can't find the "emptiness" that converts often
describe. And while I feel my lack of spirituality is no loss, it does
beg the question: Why are we here? A good question, really, for any
human being making his or her way in this world. The answer doesn't
even need to involve God.