Pamela McConnell - The Adventures of a Southern (Baptist) Buddhist

To my lovely son Clint and all his children, my Grands.

To all my mothers of the three times; and especially my present one: Rheta.

To all the boys I've loved before.

To all the places that shaped me; and especially my Pilgrimage places.

To all sentient beings of the three times: May they all be free.

To my Root Guru, Venerable Geshla Kelsang Gyatso Rinpoche; all the Buddhas of the 10 directions; and my Highest Yoga Tantra deity: female Buddha Vajrayogini. May I become just like you!

1. Gimme that Old Time Religion

I am Pam, born from parents from the DEEP South. As many from Appalachia (pronounced Ap puh latch uh, in those parts ) moved north for work after The Great Depression, so did they transplant for a time.

My older brother, lets call him Saint (synonymous with Sanctimonious), was born in a holler before they left. Mom (and dad had something to do with it) got pregnant with him before they were married. That was fascinating to me, especially because they raised us strictly in a Holiness (Fundamentalist or Evangelical) church.

Mom said, We werent saved then.

However; being saved, having religion or coming from a strict Christian family did NOT stop Saint or his younger siblings from having sex before they were married.

Baby brother Nate was born several years after his siblings. I observed him in his little red terrycloth, onesy Santa-suit with a matching cap. It had a white pompom on the end. Mom had just brought him home from the hospital and he was lying on the couch.

Upon examination, I became horrified, and went running into the kitchen to inform mom:

He doesnt have any teeth! I thought he was deformed.

Another time, out of curiosity, I punched him with my little fist to see if I could make him cry. Cry he did. I immediately felt guilty and sorrowful. I grabbed my Mr. Potato Head and bestowed it hurriedly on Nate. I loved Mr. Potato Head, but knew I must sacrifice it for my SIN.

I remembered this when Nate was tramping down the basement stairs and the dog tripped him. He fell, hitting his head, and was knocked unconscious. Saint was sent out to the garage to get dad and we all said a prayer. We were so grateful when Nate woke up.

Our basement was a scary place, especially when you were alone. It was fun roller skating around the big furnace with Saint and our cousins, but we were terrified when the only bathroom was in use and we had to use the spare toilet in the basement, alone.

We would holler up to mom: Mom! Mom?

Shed finally say, What?

We would say, I like you and love you, Mom, OK? OK ??

Shed finally answer, Ok.

We were reassured by her voice, but she was annoyed at being asked the same thing over and over, sweet as it was.

I WAS BORN ON A SUNDAY and attended my first (of many) church services that Wednesday. My first memory was gazing up at a bright globe of light, mesmerized. It was a church light and I was a babe in moms arms.

At the end of many sermons, our beloved pastor would give an altar call. Many would go down to the altar (a bench that one knelt before and prayed). I remember it sounded like a loud beehive: the sounds of many praying out loud; crying, shouting, and whispering all over the church.

I would look around, noting the distress and fervor on the parishioners faces. At that point, no one was paying any attention to us kids. It seemed endless. Toward the end, someone might feel the spirit and start jumping around or even running up and down the aisles, shouting joyfully:

Hallelujah!

Thank you, Jesus!

After that, folks would be called to stand up and testify about what God had done for them. The standard testimony for us kids was:

I love Jesus with all my heart and I want to go all the way with him.

We were saved after confessing our sins and letting Jesus into our hearts as our Savior.

There was another, higher level, called being sanctified. That was when the Holy Spirit entered you. I was saved at about five years old; sanctified at about nine. I felt full of the love of Jesus and began reading The Bible and praying.

I sang the hymns with joy and could feel the loving worship vibe strongly. I usually listened intently to sermons, but Saint and I got a spanking once from dad, when we got home.

We were both trying to place our elbow on the armrest between us. I knocked his arm off, he knocked mine off; we pushed against each other with force, like we were arm wrestling.

Because the church denomination liked the saved to be baptized in moving water, I was baptized at 15 in a river in the South. Later, I would choose NOT to have my only child christened at birth.

By the time I left home, I felt completely saturated with Christian teachings and promptly quit going to church. I was seeing things and feeling a dissonance that didnt make sense to me. I quit religion for well over a decade.

I estimated once that Id heard ~3333 hours of preachin during my childhood. That included: Sunday school, Sunday nights, Wednesday prayer meetings, vacation bible school, and revivals (during which the evangelists preached Hell Far n Brimstone).

My family was very close to that first church family, which included Uncle Bob and his family. The parishioners took the place of family and friends, for the most part.

Uncle Bob and Aunt Betty had a gaggle of kids, the youngest three of whom played almost weekly with me, Saint and Nate. The two brothers were close and the families shared many holidays and their traditional after-Sunday-night-church tuna sandwiches and pop. The Pepsi came in bottles stored in wooden crates in those days.

Our cousins believed in Santy Claus, looking him up in the encyclopedia for proof. Uncle Bob always gave us Santa stockings filled with little goodies. Saint and I had been told the truth, our parents didnt believe in lies:

Thou shalt not bear false witness, was one of the 10 Commandments.

I told mom: I WANT to believe in Santa!

So I decided in my heart to believe in Santa. Much to my parents chagrin, I had a mind of my own. A good mind. I learned to trust it. I gave myself the right to make my own decisions; whether they were based on reason, science or a strong feeling.