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 nonmaterial 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 feelings of security and preservation under the sovereignty of the supernatural would somehow reassure them before bedtime.  

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 gained the intrepidity to seek 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 dunno. 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, and found out what I could. 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 and death to the other.  

He that sacrificeth unto any god, save unto the LORD only, he shall be utterly destroyed.—Exodus 22:20 

The fear of dying went 24/7 when 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.   

I asked more questions of Pastor Bingea, who kept God as well as anyone I knew; some were answered, some not and “we’ll get into that later.” 

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?  

Since the New Testament was Jesus' take on the Hebrew Scriptures, why couldn’t I interpret it my way? Evangelists were fast and loose with theirs. 

Who created God? Who does 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?  

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 sunny 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 Bingea 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. Nobody was up there. I was talking to myself; things had gone from bad to worse. Plainly seeing that I had lost all confidence, Pastor Bingea 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 that God called my name. At last, he let me go with my tail between my legs.  

The failure to launch was a significant rupture in my efforts to approach a God that would 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?  

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?  

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. I had never been in a car with a young lady—heaven knows what I was getting into.  

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

Jesus surely lives here! 

Towards the end of the service, 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!” Then he picked up 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 and gestures of defiance, but were simply heartfelt testaments, not an impending revolt.  

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 started to wobble, waved both hands in the air 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 to earth to redeem me and show me perfection. She corralled me with a hasty brush, “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 quite so far gone.  

Better the devil I knew, for I had heard no God and had no vision—my spiritual aspirations were boosted by my 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 off the rail 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. I dreamt of courting her and becoming a preacher like my grandfather after she confided in me, “I don’t want to be alone at the End Time,” but no, my struggle with the fear model continued. 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?  

It’s a good beginning, Adam and Eve. Jesus is the Son of God and Mary’s side of the family has a lot to recommend it, too, although the story often gets very dark as in “and the bloodshed of the firstborn.” I was almost at the point where I might buy in if they could fix some of the cracks in the story that I mentioned earlier, but I’m afraid the publisher would still send it back. 

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 thing seemed too good to be true.  

I was incapable of divine intercourse. I had too many questions. 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 finally gave me the courage to take on the Great One. I 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 or sliding into decadence.  

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

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

Charles Jacobson is an army veteran with an abiding interest in philosophy and the arts and a cat who doesn't like him. He is a published writer.