I was in confirmation class in Sunday school at the Dutch Reformed Church and the day was approaching when we would be confirmed and I realized I had no idea what it was I supposed to believe. Just what does being Dutch Reformed mean? What makes them different from Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists, Baptists, and everyone else? I really didn't know and didn't even know who Calvin was or what Calvinism meant. My grandfather refused to recite the Nicean Creed as the Reformed Church says that Jesus suffered, died, and descended into Hell before being resurrected. As my grandfather saw it, Jesus told one of the criminals with him that he would be with him today in heaven and if Jesus said that then no profession of faith written by men could contradict it.
My parents were Unitarians but there is no Unitarian church anywhere near us so we went to the Dutch Reformed church because that's where the family has gone since they were Puritans. I now can't believe that as Unitarians they actually had the nerve to send me to a Catholic school for five years. My first year there was in third grade and the first week we had Mass so I asked my mom. What do I do during Mass? She said just do what they do and you'll be fine.
Well no, I wasn't.
Mass was bewildering. There was sitting, standing, kneeling, cross yourself, standing, kneeling, cross yourself, sit, kneel, stand, cross yourself, kneel, kneel, cross yourself, stand, sit, shake hands, and get in line for communion! So operating under the premise that I should do what they do, I got in line for communion. I kept trying to see what was going on and realized that the priest was mumbling something before he popped the wafer into your mouth. Immediately I thought it must be some secret Catholic password and I just couldn't see or hear anyone give the password. Finally it was my turn and Father Burke mumbled something I later learned was, "Body of Christ," and I looked up at him and said way too loudly, "WHAAT?" Seeing as we were in the school gym, my voice echoed everywhere and caused everything, including the music, to come to a screeching halt. Students stared at me as if I was a heretic, nuns sneered at me as if I was Judas, and Father Burke turned red, scowled, and jammed the wafer into my mouth whereupon my crunching teeth accompanied by my facial reaction to the bitterness caused everyone to start whispering.
Immediately this happened Sister Mary Patrick in her full penguin, came flying down the aisle and scooped me up exclaiming in her best County Claire accent, "Ho Lordy boy! Had no idea 'twernt Cath-a-lic!" She escorted me to my seat looking very serious but being the kind woman she was, she smiled at me and told me to come see her before recess.
Nobody talked to me after Mass because they were all sure I was going to Hell. Oddly enough, however, they were wrong. When recess started I was dreading the punishment to come. Sister Mary Patrick dismissed the class and had me stay behind whereupon she pulled out a book and some sheets of paper and somehow, as only someone filled with misguided but genuine compassion can, said, "You know lad, you'll be a goin' te Pergatree for twenty thuree hundret years but as it were an honest mistake I shall pray for yer aternal soul te rest of me days." I had no idea what Pergatree or Purgatory was and so wasn't unduly alarmed. When I learned later, I wasn't terribly phased as it seemed a ridiculous thing to my mind. I am quite certain, however, that Sister Mary Patrick really did include me in her prayers for the rest of her life which ended only two years ago in her late 80s. All of this was followed by some pretty severe arguments with teachers about Catholic catechism and even a real roaring argument with Father Midori (who was syndicated on WABC radio on Sunday mornings) about the evils of masturbation during an all-boys "talk" when the girls were all rounded-up and sent to another classroom to see their secret movie. I was sent to the principal's office for that one. One thing I did appreciate more than anything else was the sense of serenity a few of the nuns had. Some were truly beautiful, lovely, kind people. Others were bitter harridans, later known to me to be repressed lesbians.
I attended confirmation classes though basically did so in a half-assed manner. I had to do the work because they graded me. Perhaps as a flash of my future sexuality, when asked to choose a saint for my confirmation name, I chose St. Veronica.
St. Veronica, legendary or not, always appealed to me for deep sense of compassion. It was easy for me to imagine a lonely woman, risking her life and perhaps the wrath of authorities and family, performing a humble act of compassion despite what must have been intense mob pressure to not do anything. She offered what she could, her own veil, to soothe the suffering Jesus. I found that far more noble than any of the philisophical saints or even St. Francis (who I was urged to select instead). I would not budge on St. Veronica despite phone calls to my parents and getting an F for the exercise (vindcitive hypocritical cunts).
Being an art history major with a specialty in medieval art, I'm naturally drawn to medieval churches and cathedrals where I can spend hours admiring the sexpartite vaulting, clerestory windows, and reading the intricate sculptures carved into niches, archetraves, and doorways as they told the story of the horrible Hell that awaited anyone who didn't give money at the end of the tour. To this day I seek out a chapel dedicated to Veronica or, at least, her station of the cross to honor someone I believe truly did a saint-worthy deed and to remind myself that compassion is a virtue I should always cultivate.
Between my experiences in parochial school and the Reformed Church, I pretty much grew-up distrusting any religion and cafeteria shopping among the faiths for tenets I thought made sensible rules for living. I really liked reading just the words of Jesus himself because they so often seemed to contradict what everyone was saying including other apostles. In that sense, I'm pretty damn Unitarian even though the only time I've been to a Unitarian service is when I was baptized.