ESSAYS, THEORIES, PREDICTIONS, QUESTIONS, CONFESSIONS, AND OTHER PONDERINGS

How Long Have I Been a Heathen?

Kit Rodgers

          It seems like a person might remember when they first realized there was no God.  I thought I did.  I have regaled tens of people with the story of my discovered atheism at the age of sixteen.  I say only tens because in the southern states and in particular Louisiana, Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee (the Bible belt states in which I have lived or have family), a person might find it helpful to keep their nonbelief to themselves.  Now I can’t speak for my neighbors, but in my family, Jesus was a really big deal. 

          I was raised Roman Catholic in Shreveport, Louisiana.  I come from a large Sicilian family on my mom’s side.  I survived thirteen years of Catholic education, was an altar boy, and went to mass every Sunday until I could drive and come up with a good excuse to go to evening mass by myself or with my girlfriend.  Obviously, I never actually went to evening mass.  We would just pick up a pound of tortilla chips and a pint of salsa from El Chico and sit in the park near St. Joseph’s until it was time to go home.  But . . . before the age of sixteen, I went on every Holy Day of Obligation and once a week at school as well.  Sometimes I would go to daily mass held in the early mornings during the week with my Meemaw, especially during the summer if I spent the night.  I always enjoyed it because it was a short mass and it was just me, my Meemaw, and maybe ten elderly folks in the side chapel with the priest.  It made me feel special somehow. 

          To further exacerbate the daily, fully immersive, Christ conditioning -- my dad’s family was rural evangelical Southern Baptist.  My grandpa and my uncle were both preachers.  My great-grandfather was the founding pastor of a little Baptist church in Cullman County, Alabama where my grandpa and uncle would eventually pastor as well.  Full tilt Christianity y’all.

          So anyway, like I was saying, I thought I remembered the exact moment when I realized there was no God, or at least when I stopped believing in him.  Have I been mistaken all these years?  I question myself because I just recently remembered an incident that seems to suggest that maybe I had atheistic or at the very least heathenistic tendencies even as a preteen.

          Picture it . . . Holy Rosary School . . . Shreveport, Louisiana . . . 1984.  On Fridays every week we had mass.  The sixth grade, seventh grade, and eight grade alternated supplying altar boys for the mass each week.  One particular Friday in early October, the altar boys, including myself, stayed behind after mass to clean up and make sure everything was put away, the candles were put out, etc.  In the area where we changed in and out of our robes and prepared the different containers with the wine and water for mass, there was a closet that contained a big box.  Inside that big box was a whole host of hosts.  Unleavened bread aplenty.  I’m talking crammed with savior bites.  Now for altar boys who were taking their sweet time to return to class, those little unblessed, unleavened, cross-bearing wafers were perfect for stuffing into pockets as a snack for later.  The great thing was that they were thin and white and pretty much melted in your mouth, which made it a much easier transition from pocket to communion hole, especially in the middle of theology class.  That nun would have murdered us if she caught us.  My mom would have thrown the first shovel of dirt on the grave. 

Funny, I seem to remember having a conversation about whether or not it was sinful before we loaded our pockets.  The other altar boys were worried about the sin, but it wasn’t the sin of stealing, it was the sin of stealing Jesus!  Like I said then, and I’ll say it again today, if they ain’t blessed by the priest, they ain’t Jesus.  Now I won’t name the other altar boys out of respect for their anonymity and fear for their safety (especially if their mothers are still alive). 

          When I remembered this incident, which by the way happened more than once, I couldn’t help but ponder my thought process and how I pushed through the sacrilege gag reflex.  I have to tell you.  Even at that early age, I just don’t think I believed in any of the hocus pocus.  I was only twelve years old, but I’m pretty sure I questioned the magic and the ‘just trust me’ demands of blind faith that had been hammered into my head all those years. 

          So how long have I been a heathen?  I thought my atheism was an epiphany at the age of sixteen while awaiting my turn to confess my sins to a priest in St. John’s Cathedral.  It turns out maybe I lost my religion when I was twelve.  All it took was a little extra time away from class and those tasty little unblessed cruci-crackers intelligently designed as perfect pocket snacks.  Mmmmm . . . Mmmmm . . . Mmmmm . . . who knew apostacy and sacrilege could be so filling?