Back when faith was a private matter

I didn’t have a very strong religious upbringing, though it didn’t

start out that way. My mother was a regular churchgoer and took me

with her every Sunday. My father was an agnostic who never set foot

near a church, but he didn’t interfere with my mother’s wishes, so I

went to Sunday school and learned the stories in the Bible.

Then one day, it was announced that we were to have a revival. We

were all going to be saved. That conjured up images of angels, and I

was very excited at the thought that I would have wings and be able

to fly, but when I said I wanted to go, my mother said I was too

young. I was 6 or 7 at the time.

The chance to get a pair of wings was too tempting, however, so I

disobeyed. Slipping out of the house, I ran -- probably for the last

time, since I would be flying in the future -- to the site of the

revival and sneaked into the tent.

The preacher was preaching, people were shouting “Amen!” and I was

getting more excited by the minute. And then, the grown woman next to

me fell on the ground and began writhing. Someone else began shouting

out gibberish. Within seconds, I was the only one in my seat, but not

for long. Terrified, I dashed out of the tent, and even though I

didn’t have my angel wings, I flew home, where I stammered a

description of what I’d seen.

My father’s jaw tightened. “Kate, there’ll be no more of that

nonsense,” he said, and that was pretty much the end of my

church-going.

Cut to World War II. As a new Naval officer, I was standing in

line with a bunch of other new Navy officers to get our nametags, the

little metal tags on which are punched the vital statistics the Navy

may need someday when you aren’t in a position to provide this

information personally. In other words, when you’re dead.

A crusty old chief petty officer was manning the little machine

that punched out the tags. He obviously took a dim view of this bunch

of guys, who were clearly going to screw up the Navy as he knew it.

Each tag had your name, serial number, blood type and religion. As

we came to the head of the line, the man ahead of me, when asked his

religion, said, “atheist.”

The chief didn’t even look up as he growled, “You gotta be a P for

Protestant, a C for Catholic, or a J for Jewish. We ain’t got no

A’s.”

The officer, a man disappointingly lacking in principle, shrugged

and said he would settle for P for Protestant.

My turn came. When the chief got to religion I said, “N.”

The chief scowled at me. “Whaddya mean, N?”

“N for none of the Navy’s business,” I answered.

His answer was predictable. “We ain’t got no N’s,” he said.

Trying to be agreeable, I suggested leaving it blank. “If the ship

goes down,” I pointed out, “there aren’t going to be any burial

ceremonies, anyway.”

The chief shook his head.

I had another idea. “How about -- “

But the chief had a long line of officers waiting, and he was

tired of this one. Slam went the machine and “P” appeared on my

nametag.

“I didn’t say I was a Protestant,” I complained.

“Hell,” said the chief. “That P don’t stand for Protestant. That

stands for Private. That means your religion is your own private

affair. The Navy won’t never know the difference.”

If only all religious discussions could be handled so

pragmatically.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.