Columns
|
Hellward
Bound
When recently faced with a traumatic life decision,
I embarked on a quest for a religion that would accept me and my faults
without judgment. For years, personal decisions were what ultimately determined
my religious migratory patterns. If it starts to grow cold in the Lutheran
church, do I pack it in and head south for warmer, more gospel climes?
I began this life as many before me- Catholic. My mother and her mother
before her were strict, rhythm method Catholics. It was preordained before
my arrival that I attend Catholic school. At first, I enjoyed it immensely.
The nuns were kind and knowledgeable. The simple, collarless smocks were
fashionable in a Mary Quant sort of way. My friends and I would take turns
knocking on the door of the haunted monastery and running before the ghost
inside could eat us. Life was great, but it wouldn?t last forever. It
all began with a painting.
One afternoon, we'd gone to visit the convent. The rooms were small and
modestly furnished, but homely and inviting just the same. I was entertaining
the thought of becoming a nun when wind from an open window blew the door
shut. I looked up and on the back of the door was a painting of the crucified
Christ. His face was twisted in agony as his thin body slumped on the
ragged cross. The crimson blood dripping from his gnarled feet was so
real, I expected a pool on the floor beneath the painting itself. My heart
ached and tears filled my eyes. He's dying for me, I thought. Enter Catholic
guilt.
Listen, the sword of Damocles has nothing on old fashioned papal guilt.
Throughout my childhood, high school and college years, guilt stuck with
me like herpes, surfacing only at the most inopportune times. Difficult
as it was, I tried my hardest to comply with the rules. But when my hormones
and adult ADD kicked in, the rules became harder and harder to remember.
What would happen again if I took communion and hadn?t confessed beforehand?
Never mind that the Priests kept banker?s hours. It seemed I could never
get in when I needed it the most. Oh, but I craved confession! It became
my spiritual heroin. Sitting behind that velvet curtain, telling all my
most foul secrets to a man I would never see. What I thought was so unforgivable
only amounted to six Hail Marys and an Our Father by the church's standards.
But then, were the short beads or the strings the Hail Marys? Was the
medallion the Act of Contrition or purely ornamental? Before I knew it,
the evil plant of frustration had taken root. Too much to remember, not
enough time or, frankly, interest. I hung my rosary from the rearview
mirror and set off for greener pastures.
I landed in the Pentecostal church in my mid-twenties. Caught up in the
vibrations of the tambourines, the spontaneous dancing and fabulous hats,
I embraced the experience with open arms. The church embraced me in return.
Over time, I inquired about the qualifications for joining. Confession?
None. Communion? Absolutely no eating in the sanctuary. The only weird
thing was I had to tithe ten percent of my income to the church. Other
than that, I could definitely dig it. I joined the choir, participated
in Bible Studies and attended service faithfully. I'd noticed that all
the women wore skirts, so I adopted the habit out of respect for the elders.
Again, life was great, but it did't last. This time, my dry cleaning was
the culprit.
The morning started out like any other. I awoke, wrestled with the spirit
of comfort and the demons of sleep and showered. Standing in front of
my wardrobe, I realized all of my modest church dresses were at the dry
cleaners. I picked a pastel purple pantsuit and marched onward to glory.
From the moment I stepped over the threshold, it was stares, glares and
frowns. I barely noticed. I was there to serve God and he's seen me in
E.J. Gitano. After the service, I was cornered by the meanest looking
women on the planet. "Are you wearing pants in the house of the Lord?"
one asked. I nodded and tried to move on, but it wasn't happening. "Women
of God do not wear pants in the house of the Lord," the same woman spat.
The words stung my heart. Here I thought I was doing right by my God.
Shocked and hurt, I hurried away. I sat in my Jetta and didn't cry one
tear until I was at home. The next Sunday, me, my pants and 10% of my
income stayed home and watched Sesame Street.
I remember my mom forbidding a certain rock group, period. Suicidal Tendencies
and Gwar were fine as they weren't this particular rock group. In a family
bubbling over with Catholics, I never understood why any of it was tolerated.
Then, I found out the G-d awful truth. One half of the group was- gasp
-Jewish. Being a Jew in my family was the biggest sin there was. If she
hated it, maybe there was something to this Judaism thing. Ten minutes
of intense Google-ing later, I located a wonderful website for Jewish
people and their friends. To my joy, there was a window called "Ask-a-Rabbi".
Was this mazl or what? I anxiously typed in my question and dangerously
held my breath. Just before I was about to pass out, my answer arrived.
As it turns out, conversion to Judaism isn't as simple as I'd thought.
I'd have to immerse in the Mikveh (a ritual bath linked to a reservoir
of rain water) and observe the mitzvoth. Sound simple, right? Not so much.
There are 613 mitzvot (or commandments) in the Torah. One of them is the
washing of the hands before each bread meal. Could I be exempt from this
one if I'm on the Atkins Diet? If not, do I get alternate mitzvoth? The
specter of memorized prayers wavered before my eyes. Aha! There was a
loophole. According to the Rabbi, I didn't have to convert to Judaism
at all. In fact, all I have to do is observe the 7 Laws of Moses and I
should be good to go. I immediately began shopping for the perfect diamond
encrusted Star of David.
As of this moment, I'm not Jewish, Catholic or Pentecostal. I'm more of
a Pentacathajew. I still enjoy the show of the Pentecostal church. But
if I'm in a pants kind of mood, I may sit in on Mass. I still go to confession
to clear my conscience. And as for the 7 Laws of Moses, well, I'm a shoo-in.
Then again, I still haven't explored Hinduism. Vishnu had at least four
arms, depending on the artist. Just how many bracelets could one get away
with? Not to mention that Hindu Gods rock some of the fiercest gold I've
ever seen on man, woman or deity. Come to think of it, they may be on
to something. After all, if there's anything I love as much as salvation,
it's accessories.
by
Keisha Poiro
19th January 2003
Discuss
This Article
|
Topics
|