Jesus on the Dashboard

Growing up Catholic in the 50s and 60s was, in my opinion, a unique and truly never-to-be-repeated experience — especially for those of us who attended Catholic schools and were otherwise steeped in Catholic culture.

Both my mother's and father's families were large and very Catholic. Most of my parents' siblings lived in the same small town in Oregon, attended the same church and sent their kids to the same parochial school — at one point there were 13 Sherlocks at St. Frederic's grade school.

These factors coalesced into what can only be described as The Full Catholic Immersion Experience. Let me explain.

The sheer quantity of Catholicism we grew up with was formidable.

Take the rituals. The Catholic Church was particularly ritual-laden in those pre-Vatican II days. (Vatican II aimed to "modernize" the church. Those changes were announced in 1964-65; many didn't filter down until years later.)

My formative years dovetailed perfectly with those waning, iconic Catholic days. Here's a (partial) list of those practices:

The Mass (in Latin, of course). Women and girls covered their heads; men could not wear hats in church. We all genuflected when entering a pew and thumped our chests while proclaiming, "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!" We fasted for three hours before receiving the Eucharist while kneeling at the communion rail. (LOTS of kneeling.)

Others: No meat on Fridays. The confessional. Crucifixes and statues in most every home — along with a barely-opened Bible and a dog-eared copy of "Lives of the Saints." Praying the rosary. Praying the fourteen Stations of the Cross that dotted the periphery of the church. Novenas — a series of nine (that's the "nov" part) prayers said over nine days (my dad was a big novena fan). Grace before and after meals. Acts (prayers) of contrition, faith, hope and charity. (LOTS of praying.)

And there was, indeed, a plastic Jesus on the dashboard of our Chevy station wagon.

Vatican II jettisoned some of these practices. While others survived, they were much more dominant in the 50s and 60s.

And these are just the tip of the 1960s Catholic Ritual Iceberg. Many more were provided thanks to our parochial educations. It was really this aspect of Growing Up Catholic that cemented our identity — that imprinted us with a nearly ethnic Catholicism.

It was very common during those decades for families to augment their children's Catholic tutelage by sending them to a Catholic school. Indeed, the 1960s were the heyday of parochial school enrollment. Half of all Catholic kids were taught at parish schools in 1960; today only about 16% are.

With Catholic school came more rituals, more Catholic. Here's another partial list from my experience:

Every morning we were marched off to the church for daily Mass. In the 60s the girls wore "chapel hats" (or, in the later 60s, mantillas). If we forgot to bring them, the nuns would have us bobby pin a Kleenex on our heads.

Girls wore "jumper dress" uniforms of drab gray/black plaid with dark blue cardigans. The boys wore white shirts, dark blue V-neck sweaters and "salt and pepper" corduroy pants.

St. Frederic's was staffed by Sisters of the Holy Names — in head-to-toe habits. The nuns were strict, no doubt. But most were also quite kind (Sister Cecilia Ann) and some were a hoot (Sister Dorothy Marie).

All of our school paperwork had to begin with a "JMJ" written at the top — Jesus, Mary and Joseph. When we weren't working we sat, hands clasped as if in prayer, at our desks. Kids who were rule followers were often rewarded with Holy Cards, about credit card size, with a picture of a saint on one side, a prayer on the other. (My sister earned many. Me? Not so much.)

There were communal Living Rosaries. School children carrying small candles, each of us representing a rosary bead, ringed the perimeter of the church. (I remember the boy behind Alice Waine accidentally — or on purpose? — set fire to her long blond locks!)

Back in the 50s and 60s, first-graders were required to participate in the Sacrament of Confession before their First Holy Communion. I'm not sure that 6-year-olds have many sins to confess, but better safe than sorry.

Penitents performed an examination of conscience before Confession, contemplating their transgressions. Eventually I came up with three go-to infractions: Disobeying my parents; fighting with my siblings; saying bad words (probably like "gee whiz"). I soon concluded that it didn't matter much which sins I highlighted in the confessional because after admitting to those, the next line in the script was, "I'm sorry for these sins and all the sins of my past life." A loophole! Any offense I left out was included in that catchall phrase. (I went on to become a lawyer — a Professional Loophole Finder. My Catholic upbringing served me well.)

The priest dished out penance in the form of recitation of prayers — e.g. "For your penance, say two Our Fathers and five Hail Marys." I don't know if he had some kind of algorithm to calculate the appropriate punishment. But he had to mete out those sentences rapidly. The confessional lines were long.

At a young age I began to think of my soul as a huge white communion host that existed somewhere in my torso (?) It started out white and then, when I sinned, a black spot would appear (small for minor "venial" sins; large for egregious "mortal" transgressions). Confession erased those black spots. (Sheesh. I was really into this stuff.)

Confession is now called the Sacrament of Reconciliation and is typically performed en masse. It's one of those Catholic rituals that I actually miss. I think all of us could use a good "examination of conscience" occasionally. Maybe not focusing so much on shame, but rather on "let's see how you can do better."

Our First Holy Communion was a big deal. Back then it was a communal event with the girls decked out as little brides. The boys wore their school uniforms. The 60s were definitely a decade of double standards.

Around the age of 12 or 13, we were confirmed. Everyone loved Confirmation because you were allowed to choose another name as long as it was a saint's name. (I chose Christine.)

Irreverent Catholic kids devised additional Growing Up Catholic practices. We "played Mass"—using Necco wafers for hosts and grape juice for wine. This was apparently a nearly universal experience for Catholic kids in the 60s.

By the time we were adolescents, we started rebelling a bit since it was the 60s after all. We asked difficult questions to which the nuns responded, "It's a mystery." We dubbed attractive priests Father McGorgeous or Father What-a-Waste. We smoked in the bathrooms.

Our heresy was complete.

Being raised Catholic in a small town cut both ways: Everybody knew everybody else. And the Catholic kids were conspicuous. Our uniforms gave us away, particularly for those who rode the bus. Ash Wednesdays were especially difficult because you weren't allowed to wash the ashes off your forehead. I wished so badly that we observed Ash Sunday, not Ash Wednesday.

The flip side of this "otherness" was that, paradoxically, we also belonged. We were part of a tribe, a community. I didn't realize it then but I think that was huge for a sensitive kid like me.

The rituals cut both ways too. Guilt was often the overriding theme. But rituals can provide security and predictability for kids. They can help pass on values. They foster a sense of identity and belonging. I think they did that for me.

Plenty of kids have miserable memories of being "persecuted" by the nuns. I was not one of them. Our nuns were mostly good-natured and encouraging. And I was blessed with kind and accepting parents and fun-loving Catholic cousins. There were rituals that I embraced: Fish Stick Friday. Giving up candy for Lent. Incense!

And perhaps above all there was that sense that I belonged. That was not nothing.

Today I'm a lapsed-agnostic-Catholic. But the Census Bureau counts me as Catholic. When I had my kids (decades ago) I indicated "Catholic" on those hospital admission forms.

And when I go to church (admittedly very rarely), it's a Catholic parish.

It always feels like coming home.

Marie Sherlock practiced law for a decade before turning to writing and editing in her 30s — and never looked back. She's worked as the editor of several publications and is the author of a parenting book (Living Simply with Children; Three Rivers Press). She spends her empty-nest days writing about travel trends and destinations, simplicity, spirituality and social justice issues. Read More