"Is the prayer for me working?" wonders the atheist

The holiday season has always been tough for me.   During my childhood it meant that all the kids in the neighborhood would come out on Christmas morning with their gifts, and I had nothing to say.  It's not that we lived in a wealthy neighborhood, not by a long shot.  It was a row of working class apartments built only a year before we moved there in 1941, just adjacent to the Jim Crow demarcation that separated us from the colored people of the Ivy City neighborhood of D.C.

I remember when Henry greeted me with pride brandishing his gift, which was a baseball glove, old and a bit tattered.  He told me that it was a glove that was used by one of the Senators, our local team that was the origin of the ditty, "Washington, first in war, first in peace and last in the American League. "  I suspected that it was just an old glove that his dad was able to afford, but I didn't say a word.  I was amazed that he was proud of his gift, with no sense of disappointment with him or his father. 

We were Jewish, an exception from all those wealthy evil Jewish bankers who control the world, as we weren't even up to those first generation Jews who made that first step towards the American dream by opening a store.  My dad drove a cab to his full time job of being a baker, which was fine for this neighborhood of clerks, and other blue collar positions.  Only later did this become a problem, when we moved to a small house in a better area, and the Diamond Cab became an insignia of shame.

Fast forward to today, from the child who felt especially isolated by the Christmas Carols proclaiming the new born king of Israel we all had to sing at school, to the brightly lit trees and presents of the other kids to now.......(Did you all enjoy the trip?)

Just yesterday, I was invited to lunch at our local senior center, only to see a bevy of kids, maybe about my age when Henry showed off his glove.  They were from the nearby Catholic School to entertain us with seasonal music.  At the table were John D. a dynamic man who lived most of his life in N.Y.C. as I did, as a teacher of the disabled, with a second job as a printer.  He's a devout Catholic, and when the food is served, with deference to me, he says, "I would like to start with a prayer....with he does ending with "and I ask this in the name of Jesus Christ." And I join him in saying "Amen." 

It turned out before I had ever attended one of these lunches, they had recited both the Pledge of Allegiance, and sung "God bless America."  People objected so no more pledge, but the song is sometimes sung, with no sense of it being anything official.  At my table is a women born around 1930 to an upper class family in Tehran who shares her memories of that era, of her family being officially Muslim, but only going to a Mosque when someone was sick to pray and make contributions, as she says since doctors couldn't do much in those days.  She now is a firm atheist, expressing her displeasure of those who equate being a Christian with morality, even to her own daughter who does missionary work in Africa, being retired from or M.D. profession.

As the kids were singing, starting with fun songs like Frosty the Snowman, but including some to those like "Little Town of Bethlehem"  I realized I was enjoying this, that those days of having to sing these songs to a King who my family did not acknowledge was gone, and I had the sensation that knowing these words, singing along, having the kids watch my lips to pick up on some of the words, made feel a part of this occasion, rather than embattled. 

Later that day, my wife was part of small group of musicians in the lobby of an auditorium where her band was giving their annual seasonal concert.  As I was relaxing listening to the music, watching the people arrive, some making a contribution others not, but all greeted warmly, I started to feel a glow, a mellowness that was rare for me. I felt it was directly connected with the words of their music, the feeling of salvation that was there at the end of the long road, that was no longer in the misty distant future -- and that salvation was in the form of an icon, a presence that had reality by the belief of all of those who felt his comforting presence.

In the midst of this feeling, I remembered a year ago at a memorial service for Cheryl  the wife of a friend Tom Cantor, who I have to introduce at this point. Tom was born into a Jewish family whose father was the music critic for Time Magazine.  When he fell in love with Cheryl, his family told him if he marries out to the religion he will be ostracized and the funding for his graduate studies in bio-chemistry will be cut off.  He married her, left school, and out of desperation, used what he had already learn to start a small business in their garage producing medical antibodies.  

His business prospered, so when I met him the little start had expanded to facilities in Mexico, Ethiopia and the being largest employer of Santee California.  What also happened is Cheryl's faith was infectious, and Tom became a believer.  That's a bit of an understatement, as I happened to first meet him when I had attended an open house at the 10,000 square foot Creation Museum he had founded.  He and I are both outgoing Jews, manifestations of some of the same genes and deep cultural roots that allow our tribe to engage easily, to turn tragedy into something else, exemplified by Sid Caesar and maybe Sigmund Freud.     

I felt a human connection, while also realizing that he didn't need any more friends, but certainly wanted to bring another soul to Christ.  When he offered to take me on a personal tour to his facility across the border in Tecate, I accepted.  I did a video story on the trip that you can read, but only after you finish this.  But by the end, when I made it clear it was no sale, he used his trump card, "You probably think that when you die it will just be oblivion, but it's not that way. It  will be eternity in Hell" which he describe rather graphically.  I wondered for a minute whether I would be dumped on the side of the road, but he eventually "seemed" to accept that Al wasn't going to be one of his converts. 

We kept in touch on and off, and I even went to one more museum open house where I was treated sort of like an honored guest, even though he wouldn't go through with allowing me to give the atheist viewpoint to his gathering.  Then a couple years later at the reception after Cheryl's memorial service,  I found out he had not quite given up on me.  I was making small talk to someone, when to my surprise his response to my introducing myself was, "Oh, sure, I know you, we pray for you every week."  Tom confirmed that I am on that short list of those receiving this intervention. 

This came back to me last night, when the connection between the dozens of people praying for my salvation and my feeling the warmth of the moment that allowed me to feel a part of something, just because.  Tom never describes the crisis in his youth that brought this brilliant personable Jewish young man to believe in not only Jesus Christ, but the literal truth of the ancient pre-science explanations of existence.  He gains no extraneous benefits from his endeavors, expending much of his wealth on such proselytizing -- or saving souls as he sees it.

One thing that the praying for me confirms is the sincerity of his beliefs. While I would guess most devout believer develop some doubts along the way, Tom has none.  It's only an accident that I found out about his personal prayers, and far from resenting it, I feel grateful, an appreciation that this man has placed me on his list to attempt to save from eternal damnation.  There was no postcard or email telling me about this,  and I almost didn't come to the memorial and certainly didn't have to introduce myself to one of the prayer group. 

So did the prayer work, and the feeling of belonging to the community of Christ that I was savoring last night confirm his existence?  I could give my answer for this day, but will it be the same as I age another year, another decade?  This more important question I can't possibly answer, because what I can confirm is that everything changes with aging, whether for the better or for the worse.  What I do know is that I am more comfortable with who I am than I have ever been.  It is possible to both reject some of Tom's actions, but also understand him, and enjoy his friendship, not as measured by time spend together but by what he wants to give me according to his lights, not mine.

For me, his real gift is understanding, of him and of myself.  It good to feel that there is someone praying for me, whether I deserve it not.  Must I reject such comfort merely because it is not part of my rational world, which does not provide this, and I don't think ever can.  No, not any more.  I can relax and enjoy it, whether it's the prayer or just a mellowness that I will savor.