Jesus, Mary and Joseph

I took the Boy to his first CCD class tonight.  For those non-Catholics not in the know, CCD is the Confraternity of Christine Doctrine.  No they don't have rush week, no one gets hazed and the kegs are strictly for the priests.  It's a different kind of "fraternity" - initiation into the rites of passage for all children raised in the "one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church."  That would be the Roman Catholic Church for all you heathen Protestants out there.

This is a first for my son.  This is a first for me.  You see, I wasn't raised Catholic.  Hardly anyone reared in the Deep South is.  I was born and raised Protestant.  Not just Protestant.... Southern Baptist.  As in hell-and-brimstone-let's-go-to-a-tent-revival-and-get-baptized-in-the-creek Southern Baptist.  Not quite speaking-in-tongues-pass-the-snake Baptist, but not far off.  I spent most of my childhood scared of spending all eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.  I was born again and washed clean of my sins by the ripe old age of 8.  Don't get me wrong.  There's a lot to be said for growing up Souther Baptist.  Dinner on the grounds.  Soulful hymns sung with enthusiasm and hands raised high to heaven.  Passion.  Community.  Conviction.

But something just wasn't right.  By the time I went off to college, I was searching for something more.  I sought the solemnity and history of a more universal faith.  I read books about other religions.  I questioned others about the faiths they in which they were raised.  I dated a Jewish boy.  I even invited the local Mormon missionaries in for a chat when they knocked at my door.  Nothing felt quite right.  Then, one summer, as part of my graduate fellowship, I went to Washington D.C.  It was there, one Sunday, that one of my fellow "fellows" invited me to attend mass at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception.  Thus, began my conversion.

I won't bore you with anymore details.  Suffice it to say, by Easter of the next year, I was a fully-fledged initiate of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.  My father chose not to tell my Methodist grandmother. He didn't want it to be the cause of her untimely demise.  Besides, it was a phase.  Or so he thought.

Fast forward one decade later.  I met my future husband.... on a blind date.  Another story altogether.  So, imagine my delight when I discovered he was from New Jersey.  Finally, a suitable suitor.  Catholic, of course.  Right?  Wrong.  I managed to find the only Protestant man in the whole of New Jersey.  And Southern Baptist at that!  Still, he was suitable in every other way, so I agreed to marry him.  As long as he agreed that the children would be raised Catholics.  And he did.  In our shortened, non-communion marital mass, it was a 50-50 congregation.  50% Catholic including myself, all of the groomsmen (go figure), and my fellow teachers at the private Catholic school where I was working.  The other 50% consisted of the groom and the families of the bride and groom.  

A couple of years later, along came the Boy.  And true to my word, at 3 months old, he was dressed in a beautiful white gown - oiled, blessed and christened.  And so, too,  for my daughter who followed 2 1/2 years later.

Which brings us to tonight.  Yes, he has been raised in the Catholic Church.  Yes, he has gone up to the altar every week to receive his blessing.  Yes, he kneels beside me during Mass.  But the questions have begun.  "Why do I have to kneel?  Daddy doesn't."  "Why can't I stay with Daddy instead of having to go see the Priest and be blessed?"  "Why can't I have some bread?"  "Why do you keep putting that water on my forehead when we leave church?"  I should warn his teacher.  He's big on questions.  Lots and lots and lots of questions.  

Sounds familiar.