Religious Beliefs

I was born in and raised in Mobridge, a small prairie town in South Dakota. I’ve already extensively examined my memories of that town—the trees, birds, childhood games, carnivals, the Missouri River that flowed a few miles west and south of the town, the sports I was involved in, and the golf course on which I spent so many hours of my youth.

But what about religion. My memories of my religious background are hazy at best. I know my mother (not my father, who was never a church-goer) insisted on my going to the little Mobridge Episcopal Church with her. It was a small brown church just north of our house on Main and 7^th St. Rosalie’s father and grandfather built it around 1910, with a basement where I remember having to go for catechism lessons, or Bible school as we always called it. Oh, how I hated those required lessons in religion. Maybe it was my natural rebellion against such thought, or maybe it was simply my laziness.

I vaguely remember singing in the church choir, something my mother must have suggested, but I doubt that I did that for very long. I remember the sermons Father Clark would give in that pretentious voice he used to demonstrate his holiness, his sanctimoniousness, how boring they were. I also remember the communions when Father Clark would give kneelers a sip of grape juice posing as the blood of Christ and a fish food wafer posing as the flesh of Christ. Then he would sanctimoniously wipe the lip of the flagon and move on to the next kneeler. Back then we didn’t over-worry about passing germs. Or maybe everyone assumed that God wouldn’t allow any such passing of dangerous germs. I knelt when Father Clark indicated it was time for a shared prayer, but I did so only because it would have been too apparent to the other parishioners that I was a dissenter. I never looked down or closed my eyes when he led us in prayer. I never felt that I needed an intermediary between me and some higher being, some universal creator. 

I also remember when I was in my early teens that brief time when I was an altar boy. It had to be something my mother had forced on me. I certainly wouldn’t have done it on my own. Me, an altar boy. God must have looked down in some alarm seeing me there, lighting the candles, snuffing the candles, performing my other little altar boy duties.

The Episcopal congregation was tiny, with as few as only fifteen or twenty people on any given Sunday. I remember some of the regular families: the Travises (minus my father), the Morrises, the Todds, the Leshers, maybe the Nichols and Shermans. There must have been others but I don’t remember who.

I remember the distinct odors of that church, the scent of lilacs from the cupboard in which the choir robes were hung, the holiday aroma of pine needles. Did we ever have a nativity play for Christmas Eve? I simply don’t remember, but if we did I’m sure my mother would have insisted that I be one of the Wise Men.

I also remember when I had to go to Father Clark’s house for my confirmation lessons. I remember arguing loud and long with him about one or all of what he was trying to teach me. Despite my protests and denials, I was confirmed when I was fourteen, and God, again, was probably looking down in amazement.

After I left Mobridge for good (leaving Mobridge was never bad, always good), I never attended any church, never went to any services except for one or two funerals and one or two marriages, but those don’t really count. I never entered any church except for one or two times with Rosalie to the Methodist Church in Lakewood, N.Y. Both times, I was surprised that the walls didn’t come crashing down on me, the interloper. One or two times was more than enough. Why take a chance on crashing walls.

I’m not an atheist, one who denies the existence of God, but I’m certainly an agnostic, one who just doesn’t know. Agnostics are people who hedge their bets, just in case there really is a God. Playing it safe. That’s me.