Mr. Write's Page

In this post, I want to make some observations about religion. Some of it is critical, but not all.

I hope no one is offended unless they deserve it.

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Last month, my son Britt and his family invited me to attend Easter services with them. They belong to a non-denominational mega-church in a toney North Atlanta suburb about 50 miles from my fair city, Jefferson.

Britt and his wife and kids love the mega-church experience, thrive on it. The concept works for them.

Me, I’m not in tune with that vibe at all. I’m a product of small churches where you knew practically everyone — churches with no need for a traffic cop or parking monitor, much less a battalion of them.

When you arrive at Britt’s church, the parking lot operation is like a Disney theme park or a Boeing factory. The church has a congregation of many thousands.

God only knows how many.

Inside the main cathedral, the services feature professional-level theatrics — a Christian rock band (drums, several guitars, several vocalists), smoke machines, a TV camera swooping overhead.

Replaying the live feed for the faithful are dozens of giant video monitors and a vast array of criminally loud speakers.

Not my cup of tea at all. But it was Easter, and it was a chance to see everyone, so of course I accepted the invitation.

The shock-and-awe theatrics were as professional and overwhelming as I remembered from my last visit. The music blasted my eardrums as brutally as before.

To my surprise, however, the sermon was calm and traditional. In fact, the debonair young pastor came across as very genuine.

Clever boy.

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My religious background is fairly untraditional. I was raised Methodist, but I grew up as a military dependent, so I have attended services at on-base and off-base churches around the world.

Sometimes, we Smiths went to the generic Protestant services offered on the military base. Sometimes, we went to a Methodist church in a nearby town. Either way, we attended regularly.

As I perceived it in my youth, the message being taught by those churches was simple enough: Be nice, don’t be evil.

Young Rocky totally agreed with that. And it was the right message — sensible, rational, positive, ethical, compassionate — for keeping the church-goers as happy, peaceable, and secure as reality allows.

And, in the world of religion, reality is a multi-faceted thing. In fact, it is a multi-dimensional coin with numerous sides.

God only knows how many.

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My dad earned a BBA degree from the University of Florida. His major was Banking, and his minor was Religion. Years later, I asked him why he chose Religion.

He told me it was a scholarly matter. The study of religion appealed to him as a combination of many disciplines — history, philosophy, literature, and more. He said he found the courses rousing, entertaining, and thoughtful.

Dad also introduced a concept about religion that had not occurred to me. He pointed out how dramatically your beliefs about religion are influenced by your vantage point.

Your reaction to a hypothetical religious “event” will vary greatly depending on whether you are a cleric or a member of the congregation. Or a Catholic priest from the next town. Or a business traveler from Cairo.

Whatever your experience with religion, whatever your interaction, your vantage point colors your viewpoint. Fascinating.

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By the time I went off to college, I felt I had learned thoroughly the lessons of my years of attending church. I understood the message. I believed I had taken it to heart.

That being true, there seemed no reason to keep relearning the lessons. I was on my own by then, so I stopped attending church.

Actually, another factor made the decision easier: I had steadily developed some displeasure with “organized religion.”

Gandhi reportedly said, “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”

He had a point. Churches are run by mortals, and it often shows.

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As a kid, I was distressed by the fact that most churches I saw had amassed, and merrily continued to amass, unnecessary wealth. Random small churches might be struggling, but the hierarchy above them certainly wasn’t.

Yet, at the same time, I saw pressing needs everywhere that went unmet, even unaddressed. The world was full of the poor, hungry, homeless, sick, desperate, and dying.

At about age 10, I concluded that, in fairness, individual churches should be allowed to keep enough money to do their work and remain solvent, but not a cent more. Surplus income should go to helping the people and the community.

Who would make and enforce the precise rules, I didn’t care.

Under my plan, if the church had excess cash in its coffers while genuine needs went unmet in the area they served, well, the case was exposed as one of ordinary greed, and the axe would fall.

Who would wield the axe, I didn’t care.

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Years ago, when my kids were growing up in the Atlanta suburb of Lawrenceville, the doorbell rang one Saturday afternoon. I answered the door.

It was the “youth pastor” from one of the larger Baptist churches in town. He wanted to speak to Dustin, who was 13 or 14 at the time.

Standing beside the pastor were three leggy, giggly, pretty girls of Dustin’s age.

I told him I was Dustin’s father, and we were Methodists, and Dustin was content at the Methodist church.

Oh, he replied, this is just a social call. We just want to tell him about some of the good things we’re doing.

The contempt I felt at that moment was almost overwhelming. But this adult representative of the Baptist church came to see Dustin, so I went and got him.

Dustin came downstairs. When he saw the four of them at the door, the anger in his eyes was as palpable as my contempt.

My memory of the episode ends there.

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Today, ironically, Dustin is Baptist. He and his wife and kids go to a Baptist church here in Jefferson.

I attend services with them on special occasions. The church is a pleasant, conservative, close-knit, small-town place that runs a crucial local food bank and takes the operation very seriously.

Theatrics-wise, these folks are happy with hymns, piano, and organ. You will hear contemporary Christian music now and then, but only in small doses.

They have a speaker system, but no smoke machine. That would be uncouth.

I spoke to Dustin once about what the church means, now that he has a family. He said the church environment is the best place in town to raise kids. You know personally the families and children with whom you come in contact, and they are good people.

He, Leslie, and the girls all have friends in the congregation. They appreciate the church for its community and social aspects.

But primarily, Dustin and Leslie see the church as a safe haven for their children.

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I remember well the day, just a few years ago, when Dustin was baptized. The ceremony, the dunking, the cheering. It was a joyous event, made unique because Dustin was an adult.

Deanna and I did not baptize the boys when they were children, as our parents had done with us. We decided to let them chose their own time.

Had we baptized Dustin at, say, age 9, it would have meant little to him; this way, the memory matters.

I never doubted the decision not to baptize.

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After the Easter services at Britt’s church, the five of us filed out of the cathedral shoulder-to-shoulder, jostling with the other church-goers. It was a happy crowd.

During the services earlier, I had watched the reactions of the individuals in the aisles in front of me. A few had remained passive, but most were animated to some degree during the singing.

For the record, I saw no displays of actual rhythm in the bones.

A few of the children in the audience looked miserable, but whenever I looked over at Britt and Terri and the girls, they seemed to have the spirit. They appeared happy and exuberant.

For them, the experience was fun. They seem to have found their niche.

We had attended a late afternoon service, and suppertime had arrived. We drove to a nice Italian place where Britt had reservations waiting. The evening was splendid.