Still busy. This article was first posted here on December 8, 2013. Pay special attention to the part where I explain that I had a pretty good childhood…
As you know well by now, my mother was Catholic and my father was Jewish. When they first spoke of getting hitched, they received so much condemnation from both families that they separated…and the woman who would be my mother went so far as to marry someone else within her own faith. That didn't work out and they ended up getting an annulment, which is just a divorce for people who got one but want to be able to say, "I was never divorced." My mother decided to go with the Jew, they married…and they had an ideal marriage. I've never seen a couple that got along that well.
At first, to avoid ticking off either side of the family, they pretty much raised me to be nothing. Then, in one of the few mistakes they ever made in parenting, they sent me to Hebrew School. I told you in the last of these pieces what a disaster that was.
It prompted a few comments from folks who said, "Gee, what a terrible childhood you had." No, no, no. I had a great childhood…the best one I witnessed among all my friends. In these articles, I am literally telling you every unpleasant memory I have from being a kid. It's about six or seven in my first eighteen years. My parents never fought. There was very little yelling. There was no hitting. There was no heavy drinking. I never got in trouble. And though we weren't wealthy, I pretty much got everything I wanted.
Hebrew School, as bad as it was, was only once a week for a few months. Once it was over, they decided to give me at least a brief exposure to the religion of my mother's side.
On the (bad) advice of a family friend, a visit was arranged between me and a high official of a local church. Then as now, I am unsure of his title and as I think back upon him, I have a mental image of Dean Wormer in Animal House but dressed as priests dress when they want to remind you that they're priests and you're not. I have always had a natural suspicion of people who try to "one-up" you with how they dress. It's like when you go to someone's office and they make sure they're sitting in a higher chair than you are.
He welcomed me, greeted me cordially and condescendingly, parked me in a chair, then sat in one that made him much, much taller than anyone else who'd ever visit him. He then proceeded to lecture me for a good half hour on how there was one true religion in the world (his) and the rest were frauds, shams and, of course, The Work of The Devil.
All who followed them — indeed, all who didn't surrender wholly to his version of his faith — were condemned to spend all eternity writhing in exquisite agony amidst the fire pits. These lost souls included, of course, my father, my mother (especially her for her act of treason, even though it had resulted in me), all the aunts and uncles I liked, all my friends…and billions of foolish non-Catholics around the planet.
I believe I actually said, "Sure gonna be crowded down there" but he didn't hear me. He didn't hear much of anything I said. It was kind of like "accept Jesus as your personal savior and get the hell out, kid." Or maybe it was "get out of hell." I don't remember. I do remember a pretty horrendous description of God. It made Him sound like a wrathful super-villain with the power to flood the world or wipe out a continent if he felt disrespected and there was talk only of Fear of God, not Love of God, which was even more off-putting. Mostly though, I recall the utter contempt for other religions and those who followed them.
Oh — and there was a lot about him (with a small "h") and his operation. It was not enough to just accept the teachings. God wouldn't be pleased with you if all you did was lead a moral life. You had to show up at church (preferably Father Wormer's) every single Sunday, participate in its affairs and rituals and — especially! — fill the old collection plate.
I got out of there without accepting Jesus or even Father Wormer as my personal savior. When I quoted to my parents some of the lecture/scolding I'd received, they realized they'd chosen poorly and urged me to pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
A few weeks later, I spent a much more pleasant half-hour with an elder or a senior or a monsignor — I'm bad on these titles — at St. Timothy's down on Pico. He was the right guy but little of what he said meant much to me. The main thing I got from him was more respect for Catholics — they weren't all like the other guy — and the message that one could be of any faith if one respected others'. Either of those two things alone would have been worth the visit.
I came away from the latter meeting with the feeling that I didn't have to commit myself body and soul to any established church or teaching; that I didn't need to swear allegiance to any of them to understand that you shouldn't kill, you shouldn't steal, you shouldn't harm another human being except, when necessary, in self defense and perhaps the defense of others.
Having a last name like "Evanier" causes people to not know instantly what you are so when they asked, I'd often say, "As Jewish as I wanna be." I meant by that I'd take the parts of the faith and culture that made sense to me and respectfully decline the others. It's worked flawlessly except when I encounter someone who thinks you have to pick a team, swear total allegiance to it and work to destroy all others.
If you'd asked my father, he would have told you he was a devout Jew, though he might also own up to all the ways in which he didn't fit some folks' lists of what a devout Jew oughta do. Among other things, he didn't recruit. He never told anyone there was anything wrong with them not being a Jew. He barely told that to me, his own son. He was a kind and honest man who made things better for his friends and family, gave to charity and never knowingly harmed another human being. If that's not enough for your God, I want no part of Him.