My son made his announcement during a Catholic education class designed for kids who attend public grammar school, and while I’d like to say his stated desire was based on the example of our many Jewish friends—his godfather is Jewish—it actually had more to do with his discovery that his Jewish buddies would one day reap big bucks at their bar mitzvahs while the most he could expect from the equivalent Catholic confirmation was an evening at Buca di Beppo and some tricked out rosary beads.

So, I understood and wasn’t upset. Not until I found out that my son’s religion teacher was upset—she may have actually used the word “blasphemy”—and got me to thinking that someone with so little sense of humor wasn’t who I wanted teaching my kid about the big picture, especially when that picture included the basic comic underpinnings of Christ’s story: God comes to earth, can’t get anyone to follow Him except some illiterate blue collar-types who misinterpret and betray him; hilarity ensues.

So, I offered to teach my son’s class, giving as references 12 years of Catholic school education, and was accepted. I remember that first day of class feeling as I had when we brought our first baby home and put her in the crib—“Now what?”

The class had a textbook, but there were many jumping off points and many questions posed by the kids that the book couldn’t answer. So when they would ask me if Adam and Eve really existed or why God liked killing people so much, it was up to me. I’d like to say there are clear Catholic answers to all of this, but Catholicism is a big tent religion, capable of housing Pat Buchanan and Dorothy Day, so there is, um, a little wiggle room.

And, for seven years I wiggled. When we had class just days after the 9/11 attacks, I had to answer questions about people killing for God and when I said that God would never ask anyone to kill for Him they kids asked about all those Old Testament stories to the contrary. We talked literal interpretation versus contextual. We talked about there being any real proof of God. When I told them I believed the only proof was that when we did the right thing we somehow felt whole—human—they grasp the concept immediately; they knew the feeling.

There were times after class when I wondered how my words would be translated at home. When I told them not to trivialize Jesus’ teachings, that they should resist the temptation into making Him into Mickey Mouse, I could just imagine (“Teacher said Mickey Mouse is God.”) As I could imagine how saying that God’s mercy and love was unbounded, that He could forgive and love anyone, yes, even Hitler would be reinterpreted (“Teacher said Mickey Mouse loves Hitler.”)

But I never received an angry call or email. Maybe that meant they agreed or didn’t care, I don’t know. I do know that the class ended up being one of the great decisions of my life, a point of connection with my son that I would have never had in any other context.

But it also provided me with an opportunity to more deeply explore my own faith and for that, I thanked them on our last class together. They were eighth graders now, getting ready for high school, but during that last class I reminded them of the many discussions and disagreements and major world events we had shared. I then asked my longtime students which of these they would remember the most. They were unanimous: It would be the time little Matthew barfed up his Happy Meal all over the classroom.

God bless us everyone.

Tags: religion, sunday school