DAZED AND DEVOUT

Being Raised Godless, I Envy Religion

Is that a sin?

I know there are a lot of religious people and my intention is not to offend them. If anything, I’ve always been jealous of the pious ones. They’ve got a manual on how to live, what to do, what not to do, clear punishments, heaven, hell, history, and a great cast of characters.

What have I got? Confusion. Angst. Guilt. False idols. Warm potato salad. Mulled wine. Self-flagellation. I would settle for a Non-Believers Bible for Dummies over this secular purgatory.

I have to figure out everything for myself. If you ever saw my dad put together a table without instructions, you’d see I don’t have the genes for problem-solving. There’s always one errant screw, six extra washers, and a table that looks like a three-legged dog.

People who are introduced to religion early are lucky. If you meet God too late, he seems pretend. He? She? They? It? See what I mean? There's this sweet spot where they can still get you and I missed it.

It’s as if I went to the bathroom during a shitty cover band concert and Jimi Hendrix came onto the stage while I was taking a piss. While fans cheered and fainted, Jimi asked the crowd where I was. They all communally shrugged, crossed themselves, and fought about whose toast was in his image.

Then, I came back and everyone said, Where were you? Jimi Hendrix was asking about you. He said if you weren’t back in five minutes, you were dead to him. Timing.

Jimi Hendrix is Jesus and I’m a disciple in this story and I was reading Sharpie limericks on a bathroom wall while he was going to holy roll me. Now I don’t know who God is.

I tried to talk myself into religion. I went to churches and temples. I prayed sometimes, even when life was good. I tried to conjure up a convincing image of God to pitch to my neuropathways, but he seemed pretend — which pissed me off because I am very gullible.

I never ventured into any religion outside of Judaism (my dad’s side) and Christianity (my mom’s) because I never wanted to look like some hypocritical bored white lady who was trying to find myself.

I’m not always bored but I’m always white — even when I get very tan. Got that white people? Being tan does not mean you’re a person of color who can teach Black studies at University. I’m getting preachy. I apologize. Three Hail Marys. Or ten. I don’t know. That’s the point.

I do get really tan. That’s not important. I do think my golden hue got me into the Vatican though. There’s a special room there that they only let locals in. When I’m JLO glowy in the summer, I look very Italian.

That’s what the Vatican guard said. He didn’t say that word for word, but he did shuttle me in with the locals and Vaticanblock my family. They’ve never been able to pass as JLO.

I thought for sure I would gain religion in that Vatican room but I was distracted, thus harder to sanctify. Everyone was praying in Italian and I felt like the Vatiguards were going to check my ID. In Italy, whenever someone finds out I’m from Chicago, they say bang bang. I didn't want that happening in the Pope’s house.

In Israel, someone offered my papa 800 camels for me, but I can’t say they thought I was Israeli or Jewish so that’s irrelevant to this story. I felt compelled to tell you I’m worth 800 camels. Or I was when I was thirteen.

Maybe I’m worth seven now, with a facial. I don’t know. Maybe the guys at the market like cougars so I’m worth 20,000 camels now.

I wonder if my papa agreed to the sale, he’d have taken 800 camels back to Chicago. Or would he have had to buy a camel farm in Israel? Are there camel farms in Israel? Where do they house those lumpy horses? I bet where camels live is in the Bible.

I know papa was very proud. 800 camels he kept repeating, finally able to monetize my worth. Or would the wording be to cameltize my value?

I didn’t get a bat mitzvah in Israel. My cousin did, but she knew Hebrew and I grew up with a Scandinavian and a Christmas tree — and I’m very afraid of getting struck down by lighting.

I don’t know how much lightning they get in Israel, but I think weather and Gods are separate. If a God wants to strike you down, he doesn’t need to wait for a cloudy day with inclement weather patterns.

I tell people I’m spiritual, which is like telling people you’re a vegan in Chicago. People look at me like okay picky potato, can’t you just sacrifice a cow like the rest of us?

If I lived in California, I wouldn't need to tell people I was spiritual. It would be implied. In Middle America being spiritual means my parents were heathens and I can’t fake believing in the big man in the sky because the proselytizers got to me too late.

I’ve always wanted one book with all the answers — like religious people have, but non-fiction.

Thanks to Betsy Denson for her Inspirational Editing and Holly J See and BOF for swooping in. And Kent Jones for saving my heretic rock‘n’roll ass.

Inspired by BOF and James Morris, D. Min — click on their names to read their great stories