May 1997

I really miss the music. Church music was mother's milk to me. Since my father was the (excellent) pipe organist in the Lutheran church of my youth, I was doubly lucky. I also got to hear that glorious music at home while Dad practiced for services. And often I'd tag along on Saturday afternoons as Dad "worked up," on the church organ, his selections for Sunday. It was just my father, me, some magnificent Bach, and beautifully back-lit stain glass windows. Oh, yes—and God.

These are powerful memories for me. My sense of awe and reverence was palpable as those marvelous strains filled the church, with me being the only audience. I would gaze up at the multicolored, leaded-glass image of Jesus on the cross, which graced the wall above the altar, and contemplate the wonder of it all. Just imagine. Jesus died for me.

I had memorized every piece of stain glass in every other window also, and I knew which Bible story each window depicted. But not a one of them could hold a candle to the huge, brilliantly-colored image of Jesus, thorny crown in place, hanging on that cross at the front of the church. It was a dominating, intimidating sight.

But church or no church, I was still just a kid, your basic rug rat, and on those Saturdays, along with enjoying the music, I reconnoitered the entire building. Top to bottom, I knew every square inch—except for the altar. My father made it very clear that the altar was strictly off limits. All else, though, was fair game. I can still recall my tickled delight when I brazenly explored the men's room in the basement. It was like discovering an alien life form. I had never seen a urinal before, and, having only a vague notion of male anatomy, could not figure out how it worked. Ah, the things you can learn from going to church!

Then of course we were back again Sunday mornings, me in my Mary-Janes and best dress, only now surrounded by scores of other people. But nothing ever touched me as deeply, or reinforced my unquestioning faith so strongly, as those special, sparkling Saturdays.

When I was old enough to graduate from Junior Choir to Senior Choir, the music was even more fun. To sing a high soprano descant to "I Know That My Redeemer Lives," on Easter Sunday, was a thrilling experience. The church was always packed, and there were lovely, fragrant bouquets of flowers filling every nook and cranny. Booming male voices, lilting female voices and the powerful voices of the organ pipes, all blended into a magnificent, moving expression of joyful celebration. It always gave me goosebumps.

And at Christmas, in addition to the regular church music, there was the added fun of caroling. We'd all meet at various neighborhoods, on many different evenings, and walk, arm-in-arm, merrily singing "Joy to the World" or maybe "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." Cheeks pink from the cold night air, and sometimes carrying candles, we were welcomed with smiling faces wherever we went. Afterwards, we'd meet back at the church for warm cider and Christmas cookies. These were fun times.

Then there were those long, lazy summer afternoons spent at the church picnics. They were at various parks throughout the area. These were without a doubt some of our most family-fun days. Relaxed and informal, some of the men would get a softball game going. Others would be playing volleyball, and many were just lounging on blankets spread on the grass. The kids played kickball and tag and jumped rope, but mostly we stuffed ourselves with the free ice cream. If our parents had known how much ice cream actually found its way into our stomachs, they would have gone into shock. But we all survived.

I remember at one of these picnics my father actually pitched in a softball game. He had a pretty good wind up and delivery. He was no Sandy Koufax, but then what do you expect from a pipe organist?

I've often suspected that it is these kinds of activities, more than religion itself, that attracts many churchgoers. I know such activities are certainly part of my fond memory collection.

So now I'm a godless atheist. Whatever happened? Like many of us, I just asked too many questions. But in addition to losing an irrational belief in the eternal significance of a bloody, sacrificial death, I lost a lot more. I lost my sense of belonging.

It is difficult to overestimate that warm, secure feeling of fellowship. It was often smug and condescending, to be sure, but it was also comforting almost beyond description. To know, with infallible certainty, that you are part of a community of Christians who will spend eternity with your personal Savior, is no small thing. It could ease the sting of most, if not all, of life's slings and arrows. My faith was my dearest friend.

I still mourn that friend. Its loss left a scar that will always be with me. But I think the reason it was so traumatic for me went far deeper than the faith itself. It was losing that warm, enveloping sense of belonging that was so devastating. Talk about a security blanket!

The loss of that security left a void in me that has yet to be filled. At least so far, I have seen no camaraderie nor any bonding sense of community, in the world of freethought, that even comes close to Christian fellowship. Quite the contrary, I have seen mostly contentious rivalries and heated, knock-down arguments over the precise definition of, for example, humanism. Not only is this a sad state of affairs, but it sure as hell does not give you that warm, fuzzy feeling!

Intellectually, of course, I grew by leaps and bounds when the restrictive blinders of religious faith were finally removed. But emotionally, I was a little girl again, reaching out for a new security blanket that was nowhere to be found. I think I understand why Unitarians go to "church" meetings. A great many Unitarians are really just atheists. But so what? Good Christians will scoff and tell you that Unitarians don't believe in much of anything. Good atheists will scoff and tell you that Unitarians are just cowardly atheists, afraid to come all the way out of the closet. I can agree with both opinions without scoffing at either.

There should be no shame attached to the very real human need for human companionship. As I have said elsewhere, you just can't beat a pot luck supper in a church basement. Picketing Town Hall to have the Ten Commandments removed from public property doesn't even come close.

I do enjoy the freethought discussion groups on the Internet, as well as my correspondence with freethinkers all over the country. I believe ardently in separation of church and state. I take pleasure in my writing and the feedback from it. I feel a true sense of intellectual freedom now that I have thrown off the shackles of religious superstition. I am still The Happy Heretic.

Yet every now and again there is a small voice in me that asks plaintively, "But where is the music?"

© 1997 by Judith Hayes

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