Difference in religion

In the Midwest, especially up until the 1980s or so (and still even a bit today), a powerful demarcation existed between several Christian denominations. Pentecostals were primarily African-Americans. Fundamentalist non-denominational Christians—or “born agains”—were white fanatics. Roman Catholics were the other, as well, with their priests, monks, nuns and popes. Presbyterians, Methodists, Episcopalians and Lutherans were normal. At least that’s how it was in my family. We were Lutheran—German Lutheran—from my father’s German roots. My parents were married in the Methodist Church that my mother and her family loosely attended. Once married, however, she converted to Lutheran, as this was then considered her wifely duty.

When my mom’s oldest friends became Jehovah’s Witnesses, there was a kind of hushed acceptance, except it was weird that they no longer celebrated Christmas or Easter. As a child, I had no idea what that was all about, but they were still our friends. That’s all that mattered to me. My father—a police officer—also worked with a Jewish man, and our families participated in several activities together. However, I recall no specific instances where it came up, living in happy ignorance that the Hesses were simply our friends. (I was very glad of this, as Mrs. Hess owned the local soft-serve ice cream stand.)

Growing up, religious difference was accompanied by some prejudice. I recall being in eighth grade and making a comment in drafting class that went along the lines of, “You know about some Catholics.” Fortunately, for me there was a lesson here. The Roman Catholic teacher heard me. “What about ‘some Catholics’?” he growled. Since I was simply repeating something I’d heard without really knowing anything Roman Catholic doctrine, I was caught. The teacher then made a couple of strong comments that I don’t recall, and concluded with “It’s like saying Protestants are ‘holier than thou.’” (I do think that this interaction transformed the way I thought and felt about other people and their faiths, as well as discrimination in general.)

Oddly, this activity occurred long after Roman Catholicism entered my own immediate family. In 1972, my great-grandmother Leta moved into Sacred Heart Home for the Aged, a Roman Catholic senior residence. In those days, they were called “old folks’ homes.” She was in her late 70s and realized that she would need care and support soon.

However, there were severe separations between Roman Catholics and other Christians during that time, especially in suburban Ohio. While she could watch her beloved Billy Graham and other such preachers on TV, she was prevented from joining her home’s Christian community. In 1975 or so, she informed the family that she was going to convert to Roman Catholicism.

As I was still a child—but one with big ears, I add—I recall more a sense of dread and maybe a little betrayal than acceptance of her decision. She wanted to go to church regularly, participate in a Christian community and take communion. I don’t think she ever noted that she wanted to be a Roman Catholic, and floating between my parents, grandparents and anyone else involved in the conversation was the word “convenient.” And it also seems to me that no one at the Home was actively recruiting here. All of this made it more palatable. Ironically, Leta’s son Dale and his family were Roman Catholic, and no one ever talked about that. So she converted and became a part of her residence’s Christian community. When she passed away in 1984, her priest officiated at the service. No one batted an eye.