Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

My first sense of a Higher Power walked in with death:

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

—Child's bedtime prayer, 18th century

Before my mother taught me the prayer, I had had no thoughts about death or God. Afterward, those were all my thoughts.

The prayer, a childhood favorite at the time, established a supernatural realm and the agency to connect it with the material world. It reminded children of the impermanence of life and the certainty of death. Withal, it promoted the curious idea that the sovereignty of the prayer would not only reassure children before bedtime, but also preserve the innocence of childhood slumber following its recitation.

This can’t be right, can it? How could I go to sleep if I might not wake up? Terrifying. As we prayed together each night, she taught me to pray for others. Would they die, too? This sad bedtime poem generated more questions than answers. What is a soul? Where would the Lord take it? Why couldn’t He leave it alone so I could live forever?

As I grew older, I sought more data on this soul-taking God. Neither my mother nor father were regular churchgoers, so it was up to me—I even brought my younger sister Suzie with me to Sunday school.

When I was eight, we moved from the city to the suburbs. Not long after, my mother and I became charter members of House of Prayer, a new church in the neighborhood, in the Augustana Synod. I asked an older kid and he said, “Synod? I don’t think we’re Jewish or slaves in the Catholic Church.”

As soon as confirmation classes opened, I enrolled. The class met in the basement of the pastor's house. I studied the Bible, a tract played up as the inerrant word of God which I first found fascinating before my own thoughts began to intrude. Three versions of Jesus' last words. Two versions of creation. Did seven or two clean animals of each type go into the ark? You can’t do it here, but you can do it there. One morality for men, another for women. Brutal pragmatisms everywhere—polygamy for men, rape for female captives, death to the other.

Fears of dying multiplied after I learned that Hell was not just for atheists, and that I was subject to eternal damnation if I didn't die in a state of grace. Add the risk that on any given day Jesus might return to earth and end the world, and you have a very nervous teen.

If you start asking difficult questions, well, that’s when the real trouble began. I asked Pastor Bingea, who kept God as well as anyone I knew, how exactly do you die in a state of grace? Must I have faith in the Gospels? The Apostles' Creed? The virgin birth? The miracles? Any room for doubt? Was Jesus really a word? Was belief in Him good enough or do you need something else? What if God’s eye was not just? Worse yet, what if it was? Some were answered, some not and some, “We’ll get into that later.”

Despite my misgivings and unanswered questions, I did the homework, aced the tests and became president of my confirmation class. When the day approached, each classmate had a final hurdle—a private visit to Pastor Bingea's study on a Saturday morning. He greeted me warmly, as always, and then turned to something on the agenda that I was unprepared for—a sort of vision quest that the Great Lakes Indian boys my age went on. I was to open a secure communication channel with God. Christ was a god of personal moments and I was to feel Him communicating directly to me.

I dialed the Figure in the Sky long distance, saw nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing, not even a dial tone. Sensing I was coming under increasing strain, Pastor inquired gently of my progress, but all circuits were busy. “No such number. If you want to make a call, please hang up and dial again.”

I rubbed my eyes. It wasn’t working. Nobody was up there. I was talking to myself; things had gone from bad to worse. Seeing that I had lost all confidence, Pastor inquired sharply, “Pray in the name of Jesus.”

I rubbed the bottle again, but saw no genie. I could’ve faked it. I could’ve said God called my name. At last, I was let go with my tail between my legs.

After that, I wasn’t in a good spot with a God that could take my soul like a thief in the night. He was no more accessible to me than He was to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. How do you get a direct experience or knowledge from the supernatural? How could a wordless God provide safety, inspiration or guidance, not sudden indictments and death?

Oh, I know what you’re thinking—Constantine the Great. What would the church be today, if he had not beheld that brilliant cross of light above the sun at Milvian Bridge before the battle that put Christianity on the map?

After my failure to launch, I wasn’t shunned like the Indian boys who failed to see a vision or hear a song in the forest. I was confirmed with Pastor Bingea’s hand-written passage in the flyleaf of my confirmation bible:

Seek ye first the Kingdom of God,

and the righteousness,

and all other things shall be added unto you

—Matthew 6:33

Yet the seal of divinity still eluded me. I joined the youth group and went to church Sunday after Sunday with my mother. My father became the church photographer and a lifelong friend of Pastor Bingea.

In the middle of all this, Dave, my astronomy buddy, invited my friend Gary and I to a Wednesday night service at the Little Flock Pentecostal Church. Dave’s taciturn manner had not prepared me for the joyful mood that his mother and comely sister were in when they picked us up. To this point, I hadn’t the thrill of being in the back seat with such an exciting young lady. Heaven knows what I was getting into.

As we descended the stairs of the low-slung church basement, I felt an unmistakable buzz. Electricity everywhere—tunes, tongues and testimonials, spontaneous outbursts and ominous sermonizing.

Jesus surely lives here!

I thought I had caught the drift of the dialogue until Brother Stefan stopped chastising the Devil, and with arms outstretched to God, declared, “Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord!” He then grasped a hooked stick and made an impassioned altar call. “Sedahfu shah ma ma casa. The time has come to enter into a new day. Akee la bossy. I have ended your captivity. Ala la ruba. In the name of Jesus, come forth to be born again, free from sin!” (At least for the moment, as I understood it.)

Members of the congregation jumped up from all over and burst forth with what I first thought were shouts of rebellion, gestures of defiance and an impending revolt, but were simply heartfelt testaments.

Dave’s mother was opposite from a cold, judgmental Christian woman. She lovingly beseeched us, “You will be made whole by the power of God. Let the Spirit of God touch you. This is the day. This is the time!” The piano was playing Jesus is Calling. Gary began to wobble and broke for the rail.

Dave’s sister was younger than me, but her self-possession and beauty made me feel that God sent her to earth to redeem me and show me perfection. She corralled me with a hasty brush and a “Hey-hey-hey, God Jesus, let me smile from my heart, Lord, and sing about you!” I had no interest to oppose the passion issuing from her wondrous lips, for it set my heart a-pounding, and not for the right reason, if anyone cared to notice. The stars in her eyes beckoned me to follow in Gary’s footsteps, but I demurred. I was not so far gone, for I had heard no God and had no vision—my spiritual aspirations were boosted by worldly desires.

All eyes turned to me while Brother Stefan worked over my wingman, but I held my tongue and stayed my feet until he came back bawling, thoroughly shaken by the Holy Spirit.

Dave and his family were good with God, but the spirit wasn’t in me. The inconclusive evening brought me no closer to God or to the best part (Dave’s sister), even after she confided in me, “I don’t want to be alone at the End Time.”

My struggle with the fear model continued:

He that sacrificeth unto any god,

save unto the LORD only,

he shall be utterly destroyed.

—Exodus 22:20

I couldn't sleep. Was my belief in an unresponsive God standing in the way? Did He have spies? Was He angry with me? Laughing?

Meanwhile, my mother was drawing strength from her daily devotionals when she went to an untimely death from cancer, convinced that she was going to live with God. Where was I? There should have been something in it for me, but the God-silence continued.

Who created God? Who does this hidden God believe in? Who set all this up? Why does anything exist rather than nothing? Superstition, magic, and religion have dominated every known human culture. Is there a god gene? Are we wired for belief or has a propensity to construct grand schemes evolved in our brains over the years?

The God thing seemed too good to be true and I had too many questions. It had a good beginning, Adam and Eve. Jesus is the Son of God and Mary’s side of the family has a lot to recommend, although the story often gets very dark as in “and the bloodshed of the firstborn…” I was almost to the point where I might buy in if they could fix some of the cracks in the story, but I’m afraid the publisher would still send it back. God and I were stalemated in a chess match for eternity until lightning struck in a darkened movie theater.

The widest of all the seas

is the ocean between a Christian and a pagan.

—Princess Morgana to Eric, The Vikings (1958)

Kirk Douglas’ mad, headlong battle-quest for Morgana (Janet Leigh) finally gave me the courage to take on the Great One. I was incapable of divine intercourse, and decided godlessness was a necessity; I let go of despair and stopped examining my own damnation, played my hand and won my peace. I could sleep, talk religion, and attend funerals and church, without fear of the fiery pit.

Death was a light bulb burned out; nearness to God was silence.

Not so fast. I cling to superstition and question coincidence. I keep a crucifix handy against vampires and wonder what would have happened if I had a vision in Pastor Bingea’s study.