Losing My Religion

I attended a Christian school, St John's Lutheran, in Elyria, Ohio through the 8th grade. St John's was the school affiliated with my family's church; my grandmother and two of my aunts had also attended it in their youth, though at a different location across town. My mother enrolled me in pre-school, at the time thinking I’d later transition to the local public elementary school having had a head-start on the other kids whose parents hadn’t embraced that oh-so-70’s-progressive-concept of pre-school. Though I neither thrived nor struggled in pre-school, my mom decided she might as well keep me enrolled at St. John's right on through the eighth grade; the presumptuous logic being that a good Christian education was somehow superior to that offered by Elyria public schools. My mom wasn't particularly religious nor devoted, so her's was hardly a divinely inspired decision. I suspect that as I was her only child at the time (my brother came screaming into the world four years later), she simply wanted me to be in a safe place, and was probably overprotecting me.  

Now before you start judging my Christian school experience, let me tell you something about Lutherans. Unlike the Catholics, Baptists, Pentecostals, Adventists and other myriad strains of rather rigid Christian denominations, being Lutheran is rather easy. Lutheran’s neither ask nor expect much of their congregants. There is little in the way of dogma, comparatively speaking. The observed rituals and traditions in a typical Lutheran church can be boiled down to some assorted candles, colorful banners, and ritualistic prayers spoken in unison like clockwork each Sunday. Few rules exist beyond the Ten Commandments and the teachings of one Jesus Christ, and any sin, large or small, is forgiven simply by requesting so of God, and meaning it. There is no penance or confessional. You don't even have to ask out loud for forgiveness, you can just think “I’m sorry God" and “Poof!”, you are forgiven. If you think about it, it’s the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card. 

Lutherans can drink. The pastors marry and have children. Women wear pants and have equal say (though as in society, they haven’t always). As school kids, we wore blue jeans and t-shirts to school, not uniforms. Unlike so many other people whose childhoods were ruined by their oppressive Christian upbringing, I wasn’t wracked with guilt, punishment, or strict adherence to orthodoxy. My youth wasn’t wrapped up in Jesus and righteousness as to make me an oddball amongst my public-school friends. I watched the same TV shows, listened to the same music, and played the same sports. I was different from my neighborhood pals for attending St. John's, but also unremarkable for doing so. If Christianity were a beverage, Lutherans would be a room temperature Diet Pepsi. Sure, you’ll drink it, but it really doesn’t matter in any material fashion that you did. Some Lutherans will surely disagree with my description but -as I spent 10 full years in daily, slow-drip indoctrination- I claim full-superiority of understanding when it comes to the practical implementation of the Lutheran doctrine, as uninspiring as it may be. 

For my entire life St. John's was located on the west side of Elyria, on a road not far from the old town dump. It was built on less-expensive land -about a dozen acres by my estimate- that allowed the church leaders to construct an impressive, modern sanctuary and school with ample parking and a vast playground for the school children; all of which was surrounded by dense woods that ensured the privacy and serenity valued by the nominally devoted Sunday morning parishioner St John’s tended to serve. Attending St. John's from pre-school through 8th grade meant developing a familiarity with the grounds normally associated with home, or at least a close relative’s home, like that of your grandparent's or a beloved aunt's. Me and my small handful of classmates who attended St. John’s the “whole way through” developed an intimate knowledge of every classroom, closet, storage room, table, and chair. We knew the entire property -inside and out- better than the pastor, the principal, the teachers, or even the custodian. We didn’t own the place, but we had squatter’s rights.  

I left the church after high school. Like many rust-belt kids before and after me, I viewed my hometown as something from which to escape. In the fall after graduating high school, while most of my friends headed off to some regional college like Ohio State, Miami University, or Bowling Green, I packed up my car and moved to Ft. Lauderdale in search of a better life, or at least better weather. A shitty job on a sunny, 80-degree February day in Ft. Lauderdale is infinitely better than a shitty job on an icy, 6-degree day in Rust Belt, Ohio. Despite over a decade of Lutheran indoctrination into Christianity, it took me all of six months on my own in sunny Florida before reason and logic displaced whatever it was I called faith and I became an atheist, a non-spiritual place of residence in which I have resided now for 30 plus years. From that point forward, spare the odd Christmas Eve service my mother invariably roped me into, or the occasional funeral or wedding, I essentially never stepped foot in St. John’s nor any church again, and certainly not for any spiritual upliftment.  

Over time St. John's changed. The school closed in the late 80’s, not but a few years after I graduated the 8th grade and commenced on to public high school, due to lack of enrollment and diminishing enthusiasm from the congregants to support it. Long-standing financial concerns were exacerbated by an aging and increasingly apathetic congregation. When your church expects little of you, it’s just not that difficult to walk away from it. You either quit going altogether or find another church with more to offer. In the late 90’s the church was approached by some commercial real-estate developers with a lucrative offer to buy the bulk of the property, but leaving the church intact, even improved in some regards as the proceeds solved most all ongoing financial woes. Gone would be the privacy and serenity that made St. John’s a refuge from the daily grind. In its place would be a laundry list of big box stores and chain restaurants. The parking lot where I played kickball during recess; it’s now a Home Depot. The open field where we played flag football as junior high boys; it’s a Target. The view outside my first-grade classroom is of an IHOP. My eighth-grade classroom now has an unobstructed view of a Lone Star Steakhouse.  

If you were to ask the fifty thousand plus residents of Elyria for directions to St. John’s church, the vast majority would have no idea which of the many churches in town you were referencing. But ask them if they know the church-that-refused-to-move-when-all-the-big-chain-stores-built-around-it, and you’ll find near unanimous recognition among the residents of my hometown, such an odd sight the church is now resting dead center in a ginormous parking lot surrounded by the best and worst of retail America. On the occasion I make it back to visit my mother, I’ll sometimes drive by and reminisce a bit. I can’t help but wonder though why St. John’s stopped where it did, surrounded by egregious material consumption, when there was presumably so much money left on the table. Why didn't they just go all in and sell naming rights to the church, like they do for local sports stadiums? Imagine, say, attending Starbuck’s Lutheran Church, free coffee for sinners and non-sinners alike. I mean, if you want to get the youth back into the church, free Caramel Frappuccino’s (and Wi-Fi) would be a good start. Or they could sell sponsorships for specific services. I can envision the illuminated sign out front -you know the kind every church has where some church ladies write clever messages in big block letters for drivers passing by- saying something like “No "nogging" off. Christmas Eve brought to you by Red Bull, Services at 7:00. Don't forget to Yelp your review”.