There was a time when I liked church, liked dressing up, liked Sunday School, the special programs, Vacation Bible school, the singing. When I was in high school there was a time when I valued the idea of being Saved, believed that when I died I would go to Heaven. I used to like the religious television shows, a shaky old woman named Katherine Kuhlman starting her talk show with the same phrase every week: "I believe in miracles." She didn't perform miracles, she just believed in them. I think people called in and told her what miracles had happened to them, causing her to exclaim at the end of each program: "I believe in miracles." I don't really remember what happened on "The Katherine Kuhlman Show," I just remember her famous catch phrase.There was a preacher who preached in what was called The Crystal Cathedral. I think it was in California. It was a mostly glass structure and it seemed like every Sunday the sun shined brightly on The Crystal Cathedral. I think his name was Robert Schuller. He was Scottish or Irish. He had a lilt. He was gentle, sweet even. I liked the way he sounded. I liked what he had to say. I don't remember any of it now, but I know I liked him.
But then I started getting confused. I wanted to know if cigarette-smoking, alcohol-drinking Jerry Lewis was going to Hell, even though he did that wonderful thing for all of those people with Muscular Dystrophy. I collected money for Jerry's Kids one time, went door-to-door with a mayonnaise jar and asked people for money, and I got it, too. I was cute with my long hair and my best friend Trixie with me, running around my feet, barking happily, nipping at my shoestrings. She made a too big circle around me and ran in front of a car, died instantly. The man who ran over her put her in a garbage bag and took us home, told my mother he accidentally ran over her daughter's dog. I had a jar of coins, more than half full, mostly not pennies. It sat in my bedroom for weeks, untouched. I didn't turn it in. My tragedy was much worse.
Would Jerry Lewis go to Hell? If he hadn't accepted Jesus as his personal savior by the time he died, he would. Would Trixie go to Hell? No, dogs don't go to Heaven or Hell, they just die. Where does it say that? "Why?" I asked. Don't question God, I was told. But I couldn't help myself. I did question God. I wondered about a lot of things; I asked God all kinds of deep, personal important questions, but God never once responded to my questions, didn't answer my prayers. I found myself wondering if this or that was a sign from God. Why did he have to be so clever? Why couldn't I just hear the answer in my ear. It didn't have to be loud; a whisper would do, I was listening. But no. He could even have sent a letter, signed God. But he didn't.
That's why I never believed those black billboards with the white lettering that were supposed to have been from God. "We need to talk. --God" and "What part of 'Thou Shalt Not' do you not understand? --God" What a bitch! Church turned on me. Or maybe not church, but religion, the idea of church.
When I grew up, I felt like I needed a church to make me whole. I found a UU church in Nashville. That was good for a while. But it wasn't because of God. It was because of the minister, Mary Katherine Morn. I loved her. She was the first great spiritual leader in my life. I also loved the community I found at that church. And then I moved away. When I went back, she was gone and I felt lost. The community wasn't the same. I spent several years looking for a community. In some ways I think I've found one, but in other ways I think I never will find what I'm looking for.
