Last week, I traveled to the Washington, DC area for a Parents’ College Weekend at Foxcroft, the boarding school my daughter attends, and which I also attended.  I arrived on Thursday, the final day of Pope Benedict XVI’s historic visit to the Nation’s Capital.  I’d arranged to stay at the home of my friend, Martha, an elegant late-40s corporate administrator from Hawaii.  During the thirty-minute drive in the rental car from Dulles International Airport to Middleburg, Virginia, where both the school and Martha’s home are located, I listened to reports on a local news radio station about The Holy Father’s activities while he was “inside the Beltway.”

Journalist after journalist excitedly recounted the Pope’s stated commitment to facilitating the healing of the church’s sexual abuse victims.  I couldn’t help but notice how especially impressed the media seemed with the private meeting and prayer session The Holy Father had with several of these so-called victims inside the chapel of the U.S. Embassy to the Holy See.  I was not as impressed.

“Too little too late,” I said aloud.  “That should’ve been done years ago.  So typical of  the Catholic Church.”

“It is important,” the pontiff was quoted as having said, “that those who have suffered be given loving, pastoral attention.”

“Ha!,” I sneered.  “Yeah, that’s exactly what they need, more ‘loving, pastoral attention.’  Let’s hope this time it’s from priests who aren’t perverts and pedophiles.”  My anger and cynicism were palpable.  And once I’d gotten started, I couldn’t stop. 

“And why exactly does the Catholic Church have its own embassy?” I asked the empty passenger seat.

“Because it’s not just a church, that’s why,” I responded, my voice rich with accusation.  “It’s a huge, money-making multinational corporation.”  And the solo conversation continued until I’d reached my destination.

That evening, Martha and I stayed up yacking with Ruth, another friend who was spending the weekend.  Ruth, another Foxcroft alum, is a stylish, feisty woman, also in her mid-40s, who lives in a tiny, predominantly Mormon town in Idaho.

At some point early in the conversation, one of them asked me that question which every writer dreads:  What are you working on these days?  I told them about my quest for a spiritual home, about how it’s all being documented in this column. 

In an attempt to explain what has been a lifelong frustration and fascination with religion and spirituality, I shared with them a story, which I’d all but forgotten, a story about one of my first freelance writing assignments. Much to my surprise while telling this story, I also unearthed the root of my strained relationship with organized religion, my very real fear of hell, as well as my occasionally vitriolic reactions to all things Catholic.

First, the story:

When I was in my early twenties, an editor at a local weekly with whom I was casually acquainted told me that he was considering running a series of articles on the Occult; he said he was trying to find a writer to attend and report on an upcoming Satan-worship meeting.  Desperate for a byline in that publication, I volunteered. (I know, I know; what on earth was I thinking?!?)

At first I was scared about going to such an event, but when I called to RSVP, the fear vanished.  I got an answering machine with what sounded like the voice of a pimply-faced male teenager. The message began, “Hail Satan!”  The voice went on to list the location and other details of the meeting—6 pm at room 366 of a popular hotel.  All this made me suspicious, made me wonder if I was going to encounter a group of rebellious young people, the sort who wear black clothing and corpse makeup a la the Addams Family, sitting around a cauldron holding plastic pitchforks.  “Yeah, right; Satan-worship,” I laughed.  “As if!”

Still, to be safe, I asked my friend Frank to come with me.  In addition to being the most vocal atheist I’d ever met, Frank was physically intimidating, a big biscuit-eating German man.  He readily agreed, no questions asked.  Then three days before the meeting, Frank called to cancel.  “You know I don’t believe in God,” he said.  “But the devil, that’s another thing altogether.  I don’t know if I wanna mess with all that.”  I couldn’t believe it; he was actually scared.  I mean really and truly frightened.  Even over the phone, I could hear it; I could feel the fear, traveling through the wires, reaching through the façade of strength and open-mindedness I’d constructed to quell my own apprehensions.