Religious Memories

As I review my life, certain memories have to do with religion or with my faith journey. Possibly the first of these memories is a children’s Bible picture book. I can still see how God was pictured in the book as an old man with a flowing, white beard, sitting on a golden throne and surrounded by animals and birds. This naïve, anthropomorphic image of the Deity is regularly attacked by atheists like Richard Dawkins. Of course, mature Christian and Quaker theists worship a God that is Spirit, not some cosmic superhuman.

Perhaps my parents gave me the Bible picture book, but they weren’t religiously observant. What little religious education I received came from my grandparents. For example, one summer—about the age of 11 or 12—I stayed with my paternal grandmother, who lived in the Los Angeles area. She enrolled me in the Vacation Bible School of a local Church of the Nazarene. My class had a Bible verse memorization contest, which I won by memorizing a truly prodigious number of biblical verses. I then recited those verses in front of the church congregation and was pleased by people’s obvious delight in my accomplishment. After all, Nazarenes believe that the Bible “inerrantly reveals the will of God.” So, anyone who can recite verses from memory must be—well—doing God’s will.

From 1955 on, we lived near my maternal grandparents in Monahans, Texas (near Odessa-Midland). These grandparents were Southern Baptist, and I attended quite a few church services in their company. I particularly remember the hymn, Just as I Am, which was regularly sung at the close of the church service while the pastor invited people to come to the front of the auditorium and profess Jesus as their personal Savior. In his eagerness to save souls, the pastor would have Just as I Am sung repeatedly—again and again and again—until I wanted to scream, “Stop! Let’s stop church and go home!”  

Well, these early exposures to religion didn’t convert me. By the time I enrolled in U.T. Austin as a college freshman, I was a confirmed atheist, having been corrupted by an early interest in Science and Astronomy. However, I was too “nice” to say, “Buzz off!” when various members of Campus Crusade for Christ began evangelizing me. I still remember the look of anger and disgust on a CCC member when I finally said something like, “I’m sorry. I’m just not a believer.”

I also remember the quandary my atheism caused me when I was considering whether it was possible to avoid the draft by applying for conscientious objector status. According to the law of the time, such status could only be granted to applicants who believed in God and objected to military service on the basis of their religious faith. I was too principled to claim a C.O. exemption by lying about a belief in God, and I well remember various conversations in which friends tried to convince me that it was possible—even for an atheist—to have an “expansive” belief in a Higher Power.

Following graduation from college, I fell into a long dark period; but I have a vivid memory of hope being restored when I read a passage from Paul Tillich’s sermon, You Are Accepted (included in Tillich’s book, The Shaking of the Foundations). Years later I had a similar experience when I randomly pulled from a library shelf a copy of Jessamyn West’s Quaker Reader. When I read West’s brief excerpts from the writings of Isaac Penington, I remember thinking, “This is it. This is the Way. This is the Path.”

During these same dark years, I also had what I believe to be a genuine, mystical experience. On a hike to the South Ridge in Big Bend National Park, I watched cloud shadows drift over the mountains below me and felt a sense of profound oneness and unity with Nature. I sat so still for so long that animals started coming near me—insects, squirrels, birds, and the like. Remarkably (to my mind), I saw a swirling “tornado” of insects that reminded me of the pillar of cloud that guided the Israelites toward the Red Sea and freedom.  

I started coming out of my depression and self-imposed isolation when I began studying Spanish. At first a mere distraction, Spanish soon became an obsession. When you study a foreign language, you are learning more than words and grammar. You are learning a culture, and an important part of the culture of Peninsular Spain and Latin America was Catholicism. I distinctly remember being attracted to Catholic spirituality, with its saints, candles, and ceremonies.

In the 80’s I began seriously traveling along a religious path. I went to a couple of Quaker meetings in Austin while enrolled in graduate school at the University of Texas. I even gave vocal ministry while attending my first meeting. I don’t remember the content of my message, but it must have been an echo of Penington because a Friend near me muttered, “Penington.” Unfortunately, no Friends welcomed me or talked to me. After the rise of meeting, they sought out their customary conversation partners and ignored the newbie in their midst. Nor was I greeted when I attended a second meeting. Perhaps I should have been more aggressive in seeking out these Friends. I was still very shy, almost a recluse.

I also attended masses at the U.T. Catholic Student Center. What a difference! From the first moment, various Catholic students talked to me and invited me to participate in Catholic Center activities. I ended up converting to Catholicism, at least in part because of the warm reception from the Student Center’s priest and his young parishioners.

Father Jim, the Director of the Center, was a character. He went skinny-dipping with the college kids and even smoked pot with them. (I didn’t participate in either activity.) He was young, charismatic, and a gifted homilist. He baptized me with a half-gallon of water despite my doubts about a literal Resurrection. Father Mike, his associate, was gay but refrained from actively engaging in homosexual liaisons. He kept his priestly vows and even resigned from the CSC to protest Father Jim’s unprofessional activities.

As I reflect on this blog article, I realize that there are innumerable “religious memories” that I could include—my church marriage to Zoila or my daughter Gabriela’s baptism, for example. However, blog posts are (mostly) short, and I don’t want to wear out the reader or myself. I DO want to mention the collection of pleasant memories I now have that are centered around Old Chatham Monthly Meeting. I could easily fill a dozen pages with details of the people and events that have made New York seem like a second home. (But I won’t.)

~ Richard Russell