Secular Methodism
January 9, 1998
My big brother Bruce liked to say “I don’t believe all that religious stuff.” Religion in my family is as much a matter of gender as anything - my brothers tend to be skeptics and my sisters tend to be practicing Methodists. But of course, this division is an oversimplification. I cannot really speak for either my brothers or sisters because I do not really know all degrees of their beliefs and philosophies. Even among my sisters, some take their religion more seriously than others. Conversely, some of my brothers may accept some religious tenets. Dad was somewhat religious - he said the same blessing for every meal: “We thank the Heavenly Father for this food, bless the use of our bodies, for Christ’s sake, Amen.” Otherwise, we saw little evidence that he was ever in very close contact with “his maker.” Of course, when he felt sudden stress, like when his large horse, “Pinto” was unable to move fast enough to cut off a cow from the herd, his “Gawdam” would cause the heavy planks in the corral to tremble. His shadow darkened the church threshold only during weddings and funerals. Mom, on the other hand, professed to be a “good” Methodist. She attended church as regularly as her health permitted, was a member of a church circle, and tried to keep us kids from going to hell. Of course, as Methodists, the threat of hell was not really used to keep us from using four-letter words and other forms of “evil.” As a boy, I could have conversations with Mom, but conversations with Dad were very limited. Dad told stories and I listened! We fundamentally maintained the same relationship until he died.
I remember asking Mom about God when I was about 10. She gave evidence for the truth of His existence. We were sitting on her king-sized bed, overlooking the yard and pasture that we could see, through the double doors which opened onto the screened-in back porch. I do not remember her exact words, but it was something like: “When you look out into nature and see all the marvels of creation, you can understand that it could not all happen by chance. There is the hand of God in making this marvelous world. The fact that there are beautiful birds, grass and trees is evidence of the existence of a loving God. How could anyone doubt that?” Then came the “bottom line” of her message, “If you would attend Sunday School a little more, you would understand this more clearly.” I probably blushed, hung my head, and felt terribly guilty that I had let my mother down. She expected so much more of me. I vowed to try to improve my attendance in Sunday School and church.
Sunday School was usually a terrible source of embarrassment. We were asked to do a lot of stuff that I found objectionable, such as the memorization of Biblical passages, prayer, and endless Biblical stories. I fundamentally refused to do all the memory stuff, so when called upon to recite a passage I was forced to admit - in front of God and everyone - that I had not committed it to memory. How embarrassing! I remember lots of pictures of squirrels and acorns cut out of the Saturday Evening Post, Life Magazine or something and stuck up on the wall. Church was not so bad - children were not expected to really participate except in the repetition of the creed and in singing hymns. Otherwise, we were expected to be quiet during the sermons.
I had some of my best daydreams in the balcony of the Methodist Church while the preacher droned on and on for about an hour. God and my mother would surely reward me for investing so much time in either a state of embarrassment or boredom. I could pretend to be out hunting doves with my dogs Thunderhead, Lady, and Little Lady. I could dream of swimming with my friends in the “big canal” or riding my horse, “Chilepeqine” to the Atwood citrus orchard to “borrow” a few of his tangerines. In his 40-acre orchard there was only one tangerine tree hidden out in the middle of the orchard. I could find it in the dark. Then great relief, the benediction -- my favorite part of the service -- and we were free again to leave the confines of the church.
Through high school and college, my church attendance was sporadic. But I found consolation in the fact that my attendance was much better than that of my dad or big brother, Bruce. Yes, I was a much more virtuous person than they were. After three years in the Marines -- that I found even more distasteful than church -- my old teacher, “Mrs. Gross” cornered me and obtained a promise to sing in the church choir. So for a few years I sang baratone in the choir next to my cousin, Dwayne Bair. The choir loft was located behind the preacher and elevated in stair-step fashion. I enjoyed singing and the view of the whole church and congregation from the choir loft was excellent. I could appear very pious in my choir robe and it was a great place to check out the chicks as they came down the isle for communion. One Sunday I was particularly taken with a particularly lithesome babe who sidled down the isle for communion. She had long blond hair and a tight-fitting dress that accentuated the rhythmic, athletic movements of her body as she walked or glided down the isle. Only as she approached the altar did I see that her pretty face was familiar. This was a grown-up version of the little sister of two guys that lived about a mile from our old home on 10 acres, Jim and John Turner. After services, I found Pat on the front steps of the church, we chatted, were smitten, made a date, got married, had kids and have been buddies ever since.
With little Jimmy in his crib, we moved to College Station, and joined the Methodist Church. We attended church fairly “religiously” -- Brian, then Ellen was born. Our kids can remember some of their current friends from the time they met in church kindergarten. Pat and I attended Sunday School and church and the kids went along because we insisted that they do so. But then something happened! I found that in Sunday School discussion, I was more and more unable to contribute to subject matter, because any view that I might express might be viewed as contrary to accepted doctrine. I began to question my belief and finally concluded that the evidence in support of God and the truth of the Bible was too flimsy for me to accept any more. I was a little tormented at the thought of explaining my skepticism to Pat and the kids. But then, without discussing it with my kids, son Brian refused membership in the church. Here was a kid, only about 12 years old, who had more courage of his convictions that I did. Brian and I slowly stopped going to church. Now Pat was placed in a moral dilemma - should she force our kids to go to church against their will? After all, it would be for their own good! Eventually, our kids left home and less often regularly attend religious services. Poor Pat turned into one of those church “widows” who must sit alone with no family at her side during services. I remembered, as a kid, I would see single women in church and wonder why their shiftless husbands did not accompany them to church. Now I was one of those “shiftless husbands.”
Against her better judgement, Pat reluctantly accepted our choices. I began to consume large dosages of atheistic and secular literature. According to the principles of scientific analysis, I can not prove that there is no God, but I do not find enough objective evidence to accept the “God” hypothesis. “But almost everyone else believes in God; do you think that you are smarter than they?” I was asked. Knowing my own severe mental limitations, I was forced to answer no! I am not smarter than everyone else -- maybe average or so! In reflection, there are several reasons for my skepticism. I was not firmly indoctrinated to religion as a kid. My father provided an example that it was not necessary to be a Christian to be a reasonably “good person.” I was fundamentally a rebellious kid, taken to iconoclastic behavior. Then I learned that our prisons are full of deeply religious folks and finally, learned that I must suspend the rules for judging truth in order to believe in any religious precepts. That religion must be accepted on faith, not hard evidence. “But if you have no religion, what keeps you from committing crimes and other antisocial acts?” I am asked. Guess I have figured out that it is in my best interest to try to get along with my neighbors - to respect their rights to their property and their lives. That any idea must be open to question and I must be able to relinquish my hold on any cherished beliefs when the evidence is clearly antagonistic to that belief. Otherwise, you will have to judge for yourself as to whether I qualify for a secular sainthood, prison, or "hell" -- or something in between. Historically, an admission such a mine would have been accepted as sufficient evidence of criminal behavior that a sentenced of death or prison would have been mandatary. But then, evidence that one was a Christian in a Muslim world or a skeptic in a Catholic world was sufficient evidence of “crime” to hang, behead, torture or burn the person with such “evil” beliefs.
Yes, I know, discussion of religion or politics is considered bad form in family gatherings. When we hold onto our beliefs so tightly that we “know” the truth of our beliefs, then it appears that anyone who does not share our beliefs must be wrong. Then it is our duty to convince these skeptics of the truth of our beliefs — for their own good, of course. It seems to be human nature to judge others and their actions by our own standards. Therefore, family agreements to listen to other notions of truth go against human nature.
But where am I heading with this admission? Well, recently I have enjoyed conversations with my Methodist minister cousins. No, we have had no deep philosophical or religious discussions. But it got me to wondering if -- other than being relatives -- do we have anything in common philosophically. It made me wonder if there were not some secular issues that I might have in common with Methodists. Is it possible that philosophically, I am something of a secular Methodist?
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