Heathen

Every year on Holy week I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs: I WANT TO BELIEVE.

Sometimes I do, I really do want to believe. I wish I had the comfort of religious faith. I wish I had been brought up in an environment where magical thinking came naturally, where I could accept mythology as truth and believe the random horror of this world responds to a higher being's plan, one that I should not dare question because I am after all, a lesser being. But I wasn't brought up that way. I was brought up to believe this life is all we have, and that it is up to me to be the best person I can be, to make the most of my life and to try to live with integrity. I don't always succeed, but I try hard. And for the most part I am grateful that I grew up without spiritual crutches, except on days when I wish someone could lighten the weight of the world on my shoulders.

Holy

When I was little, growing up in Puerto Rico, there was no way of avoiding or ignoring Holy Week. Even if I did not go to church, even if I was being raised by an atheist, I knew what Easter was all about. You could not help it. Puerto Rico's culture is very much drenched in religious tradition. Holy Week is a big deal. Everybody goes to the church via crucis on Good Friday. Absolutely nothing else happened that day. There was no school, no work, no stores open, and the only thing playing endlessly on the 4 TV channels we had was old movies about Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection. My favorite was El Martir del Calvario, which I watched over and over (and rolled my eyes at) throughout my formative years. I don't recall much of it now, other than the fact that it was incredibly cheesy and over the top melodramatic.

I do not go to church by choice. I do not consider myself a Christian, although I was baptized Catholic and attended both Baptist and Catholic schools. I do not believe in Heaven and Hell. Sure, there is good and evil in this world, but not due to the influence of angels and demons. I don't believe we need a book to tells us what is wrong and what is right. I am grateful I am in this world, and I intend to make the best of this life I have, because once it is over, that's it for me. My role in life is to live the best way I can, without hurting others or taking advantage of them. I guess you could say I believe in secular spirituality.

Consistent with this is the way I am raising my children. I am trying to teach them to treat others with respect and compassion, to not be greedy, to look inside them for the light and to appreciate the wonders of life. They do not need to have the fear of a Christian God in them to be good people.

My daughter, Paula, does not know much about Easter, or about the story of Jesus. She vaguely knows that Jesus is the son of God, but she does not know the details of his story. I found out about this last night, as Gabe and I were watching some History Channel documentary on the life of Jesus, and Paula started asking questions about how he died and what had been done to him. I realized my daughter was blissfully ignorant about his plight, and that has been on my mind since. Is it my duty to teach her about this? Should she be aware of the basic tenets of Christianity, as a strong element of the culture we are immersed in? Should I teach her so that she has the right framework to understand the cultural waters we are navigating?

FSM

I may have finally found my faith, y'all!

Church signs we probably won't be seeing out there

I made these signs using the Church Sign Generator, which I discovered while visiting Rod's blog. No offense meant to Megan, Laura, Amanda or my other Christian friends. I just could not resist.

Even in Texas I get "La Atalaya"

Let me start by saying that I absolutely do not want to offend anybody. I am fully aware that religion plays an important part in many people's lives. But I just don't like to be "saved". Or asked to believe in downright illogical stuff. I am neither lost nor doomed. I have a functional moral compass, thank you. And I have seen many hypocritical and dishonest religious people in my lifetime to know that belonging to a religion is by no means a guarantee of being in touch with one's spirituality.

When I was growing up in Puerto Rico we were constantly visited by the "Testigos de Jehová" (Jehova's Witnesses). It did not matter that my mom was downright hostile to them every time they showed their faces. Throughout the years she welcomed them with phrases such as these:

THEM: (cheerful) ¡Buenos días! (Good morning!)
MOM: (scowling) ¿QUE TIENEN DE BUENOS? (WHAT'S SO GOOD ABOUT IT?)

THEM: (cheerful) Buenos días. ¡Que Dios la bendiga! (Good morning. God bless you!)
MOM: (annoyed) Váyase. No me interesa. Dios no existe. (Go away. I'm not interested. God doesn't exist.)

THEM: ¡Hola! ¿Podemos hablar con usted? (Hi! May we speak with you?)
MOM: (impatient) No. ¿No ve que estoy ocupada? (No. Can't you see I'm busy?)

Rather than scare them away, her comebacks made them more determined to come back another day to try and save us heathens from the fiery pits of hell. It must have been incredibly alluring, the challenge of making these non-believers see the light, bigger than if we practiced another religion. You have to understand that at the time I was growing up, there were not that many people openly displaying their atheism on the island. And I may be totally wrong, but I believe that even nowadays there aren't that many avowed atheists back home. So to "bag the atheists" must have been the equivalent of being drafted to play in the big leagues of religious proselytism. They always kept on trying. Over the years they left their magazine "La Atalaya" (the English version is "The Watchtower") every time they came. Sometimes they left little comic books, obviously targeted at us little kids, full of stories of the horrible fate in store for the people who did not heed the word of the Lord. Some of these were drawn in what can only be described as sadistic glee, and scared the crap out of me.

As a grown up, when they started courting me back on the island (I was living next door to the house I grew up in), I usually resorted to the standard "No thank you, we're Catholic", even though my ex definitely wasn't and the only thing Catholic about me was the fact that I had been baptized. Usually that line got them to lay off me, although for some of them saying you're Catholic is like saying I'm ripe for the taking. Or maybe they still remembered me as one of the Heathen Bunch.

Nowadays I live 4,000 miles away from where I grew up. But they found me. Lately they have been sending the Hispanic contingent to pay me visits in the hopes of breaking down my resistance, and of course leave "La Atalaya" behind when I complain about now not being a good time. Arg! How did they find me? How the hell did they know I spoke Spanish? I guess it's not that hard to figure out. We're in Texas after all, throw a rock and hit a Spanish speaker. Plus, the phone is listed in my name, so all they need is a phone book and a dream.

So as I write this, every now and then I glance at the "Atalaya" sitting on my desk, a memento from this morning's failed attempt at saving me. It's opened to a page where they answer questions submitted by readers. I can't help but chuckle. The question submitted is:

¿Tenía patas la serpiente que habló a Eva? (Did the snake who talked to Eve have legs?)

Unbelievable. Who the f$#@&^ cares! And why is that important?