The Thing Itself

You couldn’t drag my parents into a church with logging chains.  They held religion responsible for countless centuries of genocide and misery,  and had no doubt the world would have been far better off without it.  That was as far as either one of them was willing to discuss the subject which of course made me all the more curious. 

Once in a while as a kid I would tag along with friends when invited to visit their church.  At one time or another, I sat through services that were Catholic, Presbyterian and Seventh Day Adventist; none of which appealed to me.  I also went to a baptism with a neighbor’s kid whose hair had been turned bright green by roller derby tryouts, but I don’t recall what kind of church it was.  I knew a girl named Cheryl in high school who attended a Pentecostal Church with her family where according to her, members of the congregation frequently spoke in tongues.  They didn't allow in curious observers so I regretfully never was able to see this first hand.  In hindsight, judging from the description Cheryl gave of the unholy shenanigans that regularly took place it surely would have been well worth converting to Pentecostal just to get a gander.  

I found there was something worthwhile in each religion such as the golden rule but I was put off by the overwhelming mumbo jumbo that came with it.  Which reminds me of comedian Bill Burr's bit about the time his father offered the following explanation for why they wouldn't be going to church on Sunday:

“God is everywhere but I gotta go down there to see him?  When I do 
 get there, I find out he’s pissed off at me and I owe him money!”

My mother started out as a librarian and later ran a book store which resulted in my growing up in a house where I was surrounded by books of all kinds.  Even before I could read I found several books with photographs that were mesmerizing,

Photo from abovetopsecret.com

not the least of which was a book with pictures of Sufis walking on water and levitating in a lotus position that really piqued my interest. 

Photo from nithyananda.org

Later on when I learned to read, I took an interest in eastern religions such as Buddhism and Taoism.  I found a lot to like, not the least of which was the absence of all that Christian vitriol.

After the summers I spent in the Sierras, Taoism’s reliance on nature as the source of truth was easy to relate to.  Taoism holds that life is good and to just follow Tao (Tao meaning “the way”).   I particularly appreciated the notion that discussing “the way”, or trying to define it was a pointless departure into the ego or the intellect.  I could never get enough of the hilarious wise-ass responses handed out when a novice asked for specifics.

Novice:   “Master, what is the most essential aspect of Tao?”

Master:    “Tao is Tao; to tell other of Tao is to stare at the finger 
                 that points to the moon.”

Given that my most serious endeavors growing up in Los Angeles were watching Crusader Rabbit cartoons and hating the Dodgers, I eventually figured it was a bit of a stretch to think I was ever going to be able to embrace an eastern religion.

When I was around fourteen I came across one of several movements labeled at that time as “new thought.”  A fellow living in Los Angeles had lifted some things from Emerson and others, gave it all a bit of a massage, came out with a book and began lecturing at the Ebell Club on Wilshire Blvd beginning in the late 1920s.  This faction of the new thought era was initially billed as a philosophy but as it grew in size over time it sought non-profit status as a religion.  Perhaps the founder was a good speaker, I never heard him, but his writing was atrocious.  The first sentence of his magnum opus began ominously with:  “The thing itself………” and was followed by four hundred pages of incomprehensible babble.  Fortunately some of his later followers boiled it down to half a page.

When I was in high school I discovered a church in Glendale that had evolved from this movement.  I liked that there were no candles, robes, rituals, catechisms, sins, heaven, hell, angels nor a bearded geezer who answered your prayers.  The gist of this new thought was brutally straightforward – “It’s all in your head.”  A typical talk (sermon) would present a message that was precisely like something my parents would say and went as follows:

You are responsible for your own experience; if you don’t like where
you’re at, quit bitching and whining, get off your ass and change it.

The church didn’t sweat the details, it was no great concern to anyone if you had a different take on things as long as you didn't turn into a complete asshole.  It was quite natural for a devout atheist to be a member in good standing and many were.just that.

No one badgered you to go to Sunday services.  Most of my visits to the church were to pick out things to read from their bookstore.  It was one of those rare times when I did show up on a Sunday that I first met Bill, an apprentice minister.  We got along really well right from the start.  Bill was a transplanted north easterner who talked loud and fast, laughed a lot and had absolutely no patience with feet dragging of any kind.  Everything he did, be it an announcement, a sermon or counseling, came with a wise crack and was polished off in a boisterous New York minute.  He came at you like a shot of triple espresso Taoism.      

I got busy with other things and a stretch of twenty plus years passed before I ran into Bill again in the late 1990s.  He told me that he was now a full-fledged minister at a small church and insisted that I check it out.  The following Sunday I was provided with a real treat as I once again watched Bill bulldoze his way through a complete program.  I even enjoyed the way he managed to bamboozle me.  During announcements, a CPA who served as treasurer gave notice that she had to step down due to personal reasons.  Bill was completely unfazed by this and addressed the membership saying “No problem, my old pal Phil would be perfect for this.  He’s new to everyone here but Phil and I go way back.  Phil, what do you know about accounting?”

I answered for all to hear, “Absolutely nothing.”

Bill said, “What did I tell you people, exactly what the job requires, unabashed honesty.”

The CPA gave me a crash course and thus began my three-year stint handling deposits, bookkeeping, payables, investments and financial statements.  Toward the end of my term, Bill, who was only in his late 50s, dropped dead from a heart attack.  A year before Bill died he had married for a second time ending twenty years as a bachelor.  After his untimely death his wife told me she was struggling with the logistics of clearing things out of his private business office and a self storage unit.  I was glad to help out and spent the next four weekends with her sifting through decades of accumulated stuff.  

There was a world-class awkward moment that took place while the two of us were sorting through things in the storage unit Bill had rented for many years.  One Saturday morning we opened a large cardboard box and discovered it was filled to the brim with a very randy collection of skin magazines.  Bill’s wife was a little stunned at first but soon began to simply shake her head from side to side, muttering to herself with a smirk, ”Bill, Bill, Bill……..”  Despite being famous for my inability to think on my feet, I suddenly began channeling Bill.  I found myself blurting out, “Well it's always good to have a hobby,” as I snapped up the 40 pound box, carried it across the parking lot and tossed it into a dumpster.