That old time religion

ancestral evidence of doubting dogma

A couple events come together this time of year. First is the invocation of “Grandma Wicker’s orange gelatin” — our go-to Thanksgiving specialty. Just for the record, it is delicious, made from fresh squeezed orange juice, with sliced grapes and blanched almonds floated on top. Recipe here.

The second is the beginning of Advent, a time when even the most tepid of faithful hark to the mystery and joy of the season. You will find me among the ambivalent flock. So much of organized religion — the dogma, patriarchy, original sin — does not comport with what I think ought to be straightforward messages of love, forgiveness, seeking our best selves, and discovering the personal connection to the divine.

I identify with the anguish Charlie Brown feels when, confused by the commercialization of the season, he cries out to the empty school auditorium, “Can anyone tell me what Christmas is all about??” I get misty-eyed when Linus finishes his recitation of Luke 2:8-14, turns to his pal and says, “That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

Helen Adelaide McMillen (the future Grandma Wicker) married Charles Sumner Wicker in 1887. They had five children: Ed and George ran the Wicker Lumber Company in Niagara Falls, NY. The three girls were Gertrude, Florence and Edith. Florence was my grandmother on mom’s side.

Charles S. and Helen Adelaide Wicker outside their home 124 Jefferson St., Oshkosh WI. George, their first child, seated between them. Circa 1901. Photo from archive Oshkosh Public Museum

Most of what I know about any of them comes from a few letters and some anecdotes that got passed down. “Uncle Ed” (as we knew him) wrote a memorable Christmas letter to his adult son on December 21, 1959 which demonstrates an ancestral proclivity for challenging rules and poking at the illogical aspects of religious doctrine. Here Ed Wicker is 69 and his son is 41. He is talking about attending the First Presbyterian Church of Lewiston, NY:

The part that interested me most was that there were a number of Methodists, some Baptists and some Congregationalists. Feel sure God approved of that. I have always felt He never intended that human beings should give the Bible so many varied interpretations based on unimportant details which created so many different denominations, which in turn detracted from cooperation, which after all get the best results of any subject… I can’t believe God cares whether we get a few drops of water on our head when baptized or whether we get dunked all over. I feel baptism is too important a thing in anyone’s life to quibble over how much water is required.

I have no context for this pondering about faith, let alone sharing this with his son. Uncle Ed was not known as a reader or “big thinker” in any regard. His brother George, on the other hand, was referred to by my mom as a “Shakespeare scholar.” George is the one responsible for the lettering over the hearth at the Lake George summer house, from Shakespeare’s As You Like It, Act 2, sc 1:

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

Uncle Ed lived simply, a “salt of the earth” type, worked six days a week at the mill, and accompanied his wife to church every Sunday. Later in the letter, he muses on his own religious upbringing, and the difference between his mom and dad as regards activities on Sunday:

He liked his day of rest to include the relaxation of hitching up his beautiful pair of bays (Dick and Don) and going out for a drive. That was restful for him, but he could never get mother to go. No sir, that wasn’t her interpretation of rest.

Some of it I just couldn’t understand. For example — “Mother, why can’t we take a Sunday paper?” “Because Sunday is the Sabbath and no one should work on Sundays.” When I pointed out that Sunday papers were printed on Saturday night, and Monday morning papers (which she always enjoyed) were printed Sunday night — what happened? Mother continued to enjoy the Monday morning paper and I continued on Sundays to sneak over to a kid’s house and read the funnies, and I never felt wicked doing it.

Another example — I was never allowed to ride my bike on Sundays. When I inquired as to why I couldn’t, the answer was — “Sunday is the Sabbath day, it is God’s day of rest. No one should work or play on the Sabbath day.” Then I asked, “Well, Mother, if no one should work on Sundays why do you have Rebecca (our cook) prepare our meals — that’s a work day for Rebecca. Boy, the answer I received - I’ll never forget it: “Edward, we will discuss the matter no further!” And we never did. Mother thoroughly believed in Sunday being a day of rest (for her) but she always got hungry along with the rest of us.

Children even today want reasonable explanations for the stuff grownups just accept. I admire Uncle Ed’s argumentative spirit. Grandma Wicker was easy to spend time with, in gentle accord with her grandchildren, but one did not want to be crosswise with her.

Excerpt from the letter, bottom of page 2. Cut-off sentence continues on page 3: “…or whether Jonah swallowed the whale. I think both would have been mighty uncomfortable whichever way it was.”

By the time Uncle Ed is writing this letter to his son, Grandma Wicker was long gone. Maybe as he was looking back on his upbringing, he felt a kind of momentum of clarity at the typewriter on this winter solstice.

If we could live by the ten commandments or boil it down further to — “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” - and really do it - I think God would be pleased - might even be surprised of the good job we have made on earth trying to live up to the teachings of the Bible.

In his closing paragraph he searches to convey his love for his son. In doing so he argues against the notion of hell as a place of eternal torment for those who fall short in God’s estimation (a popular notion at the time):

Can’t help but write this one before I go to bed. Somewhere in the Bible it says in substance that God loves us more than we love our own. I’ll take that on faith but it’s hard for me to believe He loves you more than I love you and your family. However, if He does, I just can’t believe there is a hell of fire and brimstone, for I don’t care what you might do I couldn’t condemn you to that for all eternity. That would be much worse than murder and I know the Bible doesn’t approve of that.

Right there is the kind of theological questioning I am proud to see running through my ancestry.