April Foolishness...

...but all year round, heretofore and forevermore, or as long as there are people. That's right, I’ve chosen today, April Fool's Day—and the day after Easter, to boot!—to rant about my disdain for religion. So if you're just looking for nostalgia about the Tee-Vee, click on almost any other blog entry. But if you feel you’d like to proceed, here’s my half-assed disclaimer: you religious types won't dig this at all. I'm not looking to offend, just like you're not looking to be educated. And vice-versa. I’m just “speaking my truth,” as the fragile children say.

I’ve heard that if a woman has only ever been with other women, like never even kissed or dated a man, she is called a “gold star lesbian.” If that’s so, then I must be a gold star atheist. Never believed, ever. In my recollection, the closest I came to an expression of belief was the time when, at a very young age, I asked my mother if God was called "God" because he "gods" over us. Of course, I meant "guards." I doubt mom then explained the atrocities of a Long Island accent to me (I had to figure that out for myself), but the short answer was no. I accepted that, and then, for whatever reason, gave little practical thought to the existence of a divine entity for the next decade or so. It just didn't concern me. I was a slightly neurotic child (though I think I covered well) and frankly I had enough imaginary problems to worry about. Sorry, Guard.

I wish I could say I’ve never prayed, but when I started Catholic school--first grade, 1975, in Plainview, on the aforementioned Isle of Length--I figured I should get with the program. My dad was an usher at our church, after all, and, as thanks for his donated money, my family’s name was engraved on a gold plate beneath one of the Stations of the Cross along the walls. (To enlighten the heathens, the Stations are images depicting various points in the crucifixion procession of Jesus Christ. Take it from me, it’s a hoot. Eye-roll-emoji.)

My family sponsored something else too, but I can't think of what it was--a stained glass window, or a pew, or a cuff link for the archbishop of the diocese, or a hush payment to the single mother of an altar boy. (Just kidding--there's no way we could have afforded the last two.)

As I had seen it done on TV shows, in cartoons and comic strips, I knelt beside my bed and planted my elbows on the mattress, palms together. I closed my eyes and thanked God for my parents and brothers and sisters, threw some friends in there, and I asked that He look after them. I made sure to mention each family member by name, really more to lengthen the prayer (like padding out the word count of a dreaded essay assignment) than out of concern that He might get confused and divinely intercede for the benefit of a different family, like the Sauers of Plainedge or something. This went on for most of a week, until the night I hit my knees and immediately thought, well duh, of course I appreciate my family and want the best for them. The whole thing just seemed silly, so I climbed into bed and decided I wasn’t going to do it anymore, and I haven’t since.

Wait, that’s not true. A dozen years or so ago, I was ambushed by a Christian fella who was doing some work for my business, and I found myself trapped into a prayer circle with his legal slaves--three teen-aged sons, mute, dull-eyed and identically dressed. He insisted we petition the Lord on behalf of a local lout who was in the hospital, a guy I didn’t know but had only heard terrible things about. So, since I was being forced to pray, I silently entreated Jehovah for his death to be prolonged and excruciating, with unspeakable afflictions upon every organ and orifice. I guess I was outnumbered: he soon got better (as had always been expected anyway).

I have nothing against being pensive. Introspection is useful, especially when done with empathy and it's not all about you. But praying is thinking, and your thoughts--however earnest and impassioned and really really well-intentioned--do not leave your skull, and definitely not as a spiritual conduit, a cosmic party-line to Jesus.

Do you know who saw a bombing at the World Trade Center coming? Everybody. Shit, it happened a few years before. Know who saw 9/11 coming, an event so devastating that, for a lot of people, it felt like a rehearsal for The Apocalypse? The men who planned it. No stars in the sky, no psychics, no evangelists, no anybody raised the alarm or felt so much as a correlative shiver beforehand. 

My family went to church every Sunday morning, and I went with my classmates weekly as well. The church was directly beside my grade school, so Friday mornings meant sleepy-kid processions there and back. My forced prayers in this setting were even less sincere, as were my confessions.

Every so often, we students were corralled and told to spend a few minutes tallying our sins of the last few months. This was preparation for an impending stint in the confessional, which meant being trapped in what is apparently called a "Reconciliation Room" with one of our parish's priests. (Maybe it’s a new term, but in any case I don’t recall hearing it back then.) It was a break from classes, and yet the respite from the daily routine inspired no joy, only anxiety.

I'd sit in the pew, awaiting my turn, trying to decide if six instances of disrespecting my parents was enough to cop to. It was a tight-wire walk: too few may seem unrealistic; too many might get juvie called on my ass. Same went for petty thievery, cursing, and impure thoughts. Go a little heavy, and the rectory and faculty room would surely be abuzz with gossip about how the Saur kid is a pottymouth klepto looking to rub his raging, sparsely-pubed weiner area against any slick surface.

The confessional was a dark, imposingly small space, smelling of sweat and incense, not to mention a combination of the priest's cologne and breath (that is, once the dividing wall's screen--similar to a speakeasy's grill--was drawn back, sliding open with a clunk, like a tiny pocket door). The priest sat in his adjoining space, also unlighted, sinner and confessor practically face-to-face but for that thin wooden wall. He would sometimes lean his head forward, which was not a bit comforting, instead a distressing intimacy, really (but which, as unwelcome cleric familiarity goes, is about as good as you're gonna get).

When it was my turn to enter--demonstrated by a small light above the jamb flicking off, signalling that it was unoccupied--I'd go in and kneel down. (I’m told the act of kneeling is what activates the light.) Once that little door was slid back, I'd say the standard intro, whatever it’s called, which went something like: "Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been [made-up number] months since my last confession," and then I'd nervously rattle off the carefully invented transgressions. The priest would listen (presumably, although we kids would share stories of sometimes hearing light snoring amid the long pauses), then assign a penance, usually a certain number of prayers (e.g., ten Hail Marys, ten Our Fathers, and the Act of Contrition in pig Latin while standing on your head).

As the fun drew to a close, I'd ask him, mentally, if he knew how priests are like Christmas trees (the balls are just decoration), but in reality I'd just say thank you and exit the confessional. Not only would I neglect to tack on another Hail Mary for my unspoken, blasphemous joke, I'd immediately forget the penance, without giving another thought to atonement until my next obligatory appointment.

Another act of disregard for my non-secular studies was my refusal to participate in the Mass. Of course, certain kids performed regular duties as altar boys, esoteric stuff like ringing bells for some woo-woo reason, carrying sacred stash boxes filled with myrrh or something, maybe wiping drool from the flaccid, palsied lip of an elderly priest. But the rest of us pupils, boys and girls alike, were expected to carry out other tasks, such as reading a homily while standing at a lectern on the altar, or solemnly carrying sacramental oils and shit up the aisle. 

As with most cults, participation was stringently encouraged, which is to say mandatory. In my sixth (maybe seventh) grade classroom, the names of every student were written on one of the blackboards, unobtrusively off to the side, just beyond the homework assignments. After a kid had been selected and done their ritualistic thing, their name would be erased. I was a master of unprepossession, almost never called upon in class due to my nearly supernatural ability to disappear in plain sight. In my mind, I wasn't there anyway. But I knew that skill wouldn’t help me here.

One day, for a Social Studies chapter that involved Chinese culture, the teacher decided a great way to delve into the topic would be for everyone to kick in some money so Chinese food could be ordered for lunch. I was still too much the fussy eater, and it would be years before I discovered that I loved Chinese food (and even longer before discovering that American Chinese food is exactly that, bearing little resemblance to the real thing eaten by a billion people on the opposite side of the globe every day, thus making this dubious lesson an even greater farce than our usual teachings). My folks, already paying through the nose for my parochial education, coughed up a few more bucks and I unhappily placed my order for spare ribs, the only dish I would touch when my family occasionally enjoyed some Golden Dragon take-out. (Okay, maybe a shrimp roll, I liked those too.)

The tables and chairs in the school’s upper-wing library had been reconfigured for a miniature banquet, and the class filed in and noisily convened. I nibbled at my sticky, unnaturally bright red ribs, then asked to be excused to go to the bathroom. There was no actual learning happening anyway, so permission was readily given.

I meandered casually down the dimly lit, empty corridor, quiet but for the murmuring of teachers in other classrooms. The lavatories, as they were labeled, were at the far end, but I stopped at my classroom along the way. I approached the door, gave a furtive glance in each direction to ensure privacy, slipped into the deserted room like a draft, grabbed an eraser and swipe my name was gone. I drifted out again and headed to the bathroom, took a leisurely squirt, a cursory hand-wash and then back to the library. If my infraction was noticed, I was never confronted with it.

How was I able to resist the indoctrination, to reject the dogma I was being steadily force-fed? I have no idea. The reluctance to conform? Sheer apathy? The DEVIL? All I know is that, as I got older, my non-belief became worrisome to me. Did I not believe as an adult simply because I didn't believe as a child? But a child has no perspective, thus my non-adherence to the belief system in which I was raised should have no real effect on my adult convictions. After spending years looking into other religions and alternative doctrines, I decided my childhood heresy was simply a fortuitous fluke, and a weight was lifted. I now understood that there were two things that worked in mysterious ways: the human brain, imperfect and unfathomably miraculous; and God. The former clearly created the latter.

I call myself an atheist these days, but I don't say I don't believe in God. I know there's no God, just as a believer knows there is. Except I have simple, pragmatic reality on my side. There is no intentional creator who made us, who takes an interest in our everyday doings. That kind of nonsense springs predictably from the human mind, and embarrassingly so. I feel like an unerringly assured prosecutor: the DNA evidence is overwhelming.

The absurd dichotomy of self-aggrandizement and self-loathing is our truest birthright. The Lord sacrificed his only son for me! But I'm born with original sin! But I can reach the Lord and influence Him--and all reality--by thinking really really hard! And hey, if you think about the same thing really really hard, we have an even better chance to change reality! But don't forget to atone, sinner, and you must tithe! We are made in His image, and our bodies are temples, and did you see my scripture tattoo? Between the AR-15 and the Harley?

God, Jesus, the Devil, Mohammed, Heaven, Hell, churches, temples, mosques, the Bible/Torah/Koran, prayer, angels, demons, karma, reincarnation, the supernatural, superstition, and everything that goes with it: utter foolishness and delusion, a colossal waste of time, and the greatest opportunity known for wielding power over and taking advantage of the true believers, especially when they have little else but an invisible friend in their corner.

I do have faith, and I am a true believer: I know that the beauty, love, and strength we all seek are right here, in this world, in other people, in ourselves. I try not to let my human-ness interfere with my humanity. To quote Shakespeare, or Yau-Man from season 14 of Survivor (I can never remember which), “Love many; trust few; harm none.” These ideas and the Golden Rule will get you further than blind reliance on the words of men placed in the mouth of a god.

I recently saw a church's bulletin board (nowadays used so often as a repository for punny quips, or adages admonishing the unrepentant) which read, in a downward acronym, PUSH, standing for "Pray Until Something Happens." A neater expression of confirmation bias would be tough to conjure. I guess there wasn't room for "And then interpret whatever does happen, good, bad, or indifferent, as a sign affirming your belief and faith and the Lord's approval."

“Well, everything happens for a reason.”

No. I’m more of a nothing-happens-for-a-reason kinda guy. I mean, except, like, photosynthesis. Photosynthesis happens for a reason. A rash happens for a reason, but it has nothing to do with divine punishment for how it was acquired, however grotesque and unwholesome the act was (according to someone’s—that is, someone else’s—morals).

When the swerving Suburban finally crosses the median and hits the minibus head on, killing the nine vacation bible school students strapped into it, that happened for these reasons, and these reasons alone: bad judgment, bad timing, the effect of alcohol on the human system, and velocity. Neither driver’s rash played a role (unless it further impeded the Suburban operator’s driving abilities).

This may be an edifying tool for self-discovery: the next time you finger through your news aggregator of choice, read every horrific headline out loud and then say, “Well, everything happens for a reason.” The longer it takes you to realize how idiotic that sounds, the bigger the idiot you are.

As for an afterlife, sure, I’d love to see my parents again someday. That’s why the concept of Heaven exists. The thought of never seeing loved ones again is brutal. And the thought of our own unique consciousness being utterly snuffed from existence upon death is nearly incomprehensible to most. But it’s not something that can be wished into reality. Better to find a guardian angel with a pulse, if you’re that lucky.

I once heard, on a long road trip with entertainment provided by the transience of local AM radio, a discussion among three men about the nature of Heaven. The central theme was "Is There Coffee in Heaven?" They didn't exactly argue, but interesting points were made, pro and con, with the strongest being that coffee is merely a stimulant. People that go on about their love of and need for coffee, one speaker reasoned, what they're really talking about is their body's reaction to caffeine, but in Heaven you have shed your corporeal self, thus you’d have no need of coffee, however desirous of it you had been in your earthly state. This makes perfect sense... so of course they all puzzlingly agreed to the conclusion that yes, there is coffee in Heaven. *Sigh*, as that mopey asshole Charlie Brown would say.

Pondering the ridiculous notion of Heaven prompted me to write this next bit. So add "inspiring poetry" to the list of religious detriments.



[Instructions For Reading, Whether Aloud or to Self: These Are Not Questions and Mustn’t Be Posited as Such]

All the minds that have ever existed, ever thought.
Never mind human minds, never mind animal minds, or even mammals'. Let’s just say birds.

Birds’ minds. All the bird minds that have ever existed, ever thought.
The actions of birds, like ours, are owed to more than just instinct. Decisions are made. Evaluations.
Consequences are considered—sometimes too lightly—and many times misjudged.

All the birds’ minds around us now. Near,
or in the vicinity. How many are sleeping. How many are content. How many are worried.
Concerned. About a noise, near, in the vicinity, in the dark.

Imagine, all those minds, minds that had once existed, still existing.
In, let’s say, Heaven.
What are the birds thinking in Bird Heaven. Is there a Bird Heaven. Or are they intermingled with humans in Human Heaven, just as they are on Human Earth.

Some might argue that a Heaven with birds is not a Heaven, because birds are dirty, startlesome beasts that typically make an ungodly racket.
(Clearly, by “some” I mean “I.”)

Will there be no birds in my heaven, or will I become accepting. Is it a fault of mine that birds sometimes annoy me. Will that change about me. Will Heaven “improve” me.

What else will change. How many things will need to change about me in Heaven before I’m no longer me in Heaven.

Is everyone different from themselves in Heaven. Do birds ever need to change in order to enter Heaven:
Impatient birds. Jealous birds. Judgmental birds. Too-often-dissatisfied birds. Murderous birds. Dirty, ungodly birds.

If it’s accurate to say that Heaven perfects its denizens, then that would make an infinite population of people that never existed.

Or that was the point of Heaven all along.

Some might argue that,
the presence of birds notwithstanding,
I needn’t concern myself with the particulars of any Heaven.

One Last Thing!
I have a few tattered notebooks from my St. Pius X days, plus a plain brown Mead 3-ring binder (I wasn't cool enough to have the colorful Trapper Keeper), and they are all noticeably lacking in schoolwork. I'd say they're about 95% filled with homemade comics and random drawings, with some other writings and notes (after my family got cable, for example, I would employ my notebooks to diligently record the premiere dates of HBO movies and specials, as reported in the monthly "Sneak Preview" show, hosted by Stiller and Meara).

One notebook has a section with the first page labelled "Religion." The Act of Contrition is then scrawled out in my appalling cursive (a practice, like Catholicism, wisely abandoned after grade school), as well as the "3 gifts" I supposedly received from the Holy Spirit upon my baptism. The verso bears a list of "The Sacrements" [sic].

A-a-a-a-and that's about it for my note-taking. The remainder of the section contains comics spoofing superheroes, The Exorcist, and gangster movies (very bloody, that one), or depicting the fantastical adventures my friends and I conjured when playing a Dungeons & Dragons-type game; doodles of monsters, sharks, aliens and other hideous faces; and libelous, very un-P.C. epithets about classmates (with unflattering illustrations, of course). I'll spare you those, but in closing, here's a scribbly doodle of mine, probably influenced by Missile Command, undoubtedly rendered during a school day when I wished to be anywhere but...