I have to doubt that many of those who are clamoring for "school prayer" have ever known the experience of being in a religious minority.
Years ago, when I was a Roman Catholic in a public school in a town in Western Maryland, every Monday afternoon there was a school assembly. The students, led by an American-flag bearer, entered the auditorium singing "Onward Christian Soldiers." then in a program presided over by the school principal there was a scripture reading and a recitation of the "Lord's Prayer."
There was no outright commandment to say the prayer, but everybody was aware that this was a requisite of attendance. Since the townspeople were predominantly Protestant, that version of the prayer was used, with the final phrase, "For thine is the kingdom," which was at that time not appended to the Catholic version. Furthermore, all stood with bowed heads during the prayer, another, practice not then followed by Catholics.
As a member of the school orchestra seated in the front of the auditorium, I was able to watch with some amusement the other students. During the scripture reading you merely had to assume an expression of listening, who would know that you were not, whether Catholic or Protestant?
Then for the "Lord's Prayer" I stood with all the rest and saw the comical sight here and there of the unbowed heads of the few Catholics, raised over the group like ducks in a still pond, their lips moving in spoken unison until reaching that phrase, "For thine is the kingdom," when while all the others were droning away dominantly, their lips suddenly stopped moving.
Well, you could say, what harm was there in this? (I won't pursue the question of what good was there in having a crowd of restless teen-agers dumbly engaging in an exercise that was simply an order of routine.)
No perceptible harm, perhaps. My school friends, most of whom were non-Catholic, remained steadfast, certainly unthreatening. Exclusionary religious attitudes were tolerated and ignored whenever possible because there wasn't much you could do about them anyway.
There was harm, nevertheless, in an enduring sense of unacceptability. The services gave evidence that you were different, even odd, in that small population, and perhaps not entirely welcome. You had to wonder sometimes whether you have been deemed inferior by signaling that you did not endorse the entire sentiment of the "Lord's Prayer," and so ought to undergo subtle punishment for your apostasy.
I used to wonder, too, during those prayerful moments about the thoughts of a Jewish girl, also a member of the orchestra, who sat nearby. So far as I knew, there were only two Jews in that high school, the other being her brother.
She, I noticed, did not bow her head nor did she recite the "Lord's Prayer." I wondered then, was there a secret Jewish Pater Noster being said in her mind, a "silent prayer" belonging exclusively to her faith and recited in a foreign tongue. Or was there, also unsaid, raging protestation of her disinclusion in this society? There she was, violin beside her, lips unmoving, her head unbowed. I came to admire her for that, even to envy her solemn difference, unapologetically, quietly achieved.
The predominantly Protestant practices back then were carried over into other school events. By custom each year's graduating class was obliged to attend a pre-commencement Sunday afternoon ceremony in the school auditorium, a distinctly religious affair, and, of course, arranged in a style reflecting the general religiosity of the population.
The year I was to graduate, the local parish priest decided to invoke that element of church doctrine in effect then that Roman Catholics were prohibited from attending or participating in a non-Catholic religious rite and so declared that Catholic students were forbidden to attend that school-sponsored ceremony.
Well, there weren't many of us affected by that decision, and maybe the school authorities presumed that the priest's declaration would be ignored (as indeed it was by some). I can't claim now whether or not it was out of piety or simply adolescent rebellion that I decided that in spite of the condemnation I expected, I would not attend the Sunday afternoon service.
Hell and damnation was a credible tenet of all faiths in those
days, and surely it was raised in that school. The principal, a man of furious temper and seldom known to be favorable to Catholics, was enraged by this challenge to his authority and decided to force the issue. At a meeting of the graduating class he stated his knowledge of and absolute antipathy toward the Catholic position and said that there would be an accounting for those in defiance.
When he demanded that those who would not attend should stand, I did, and there may have been one or two others who did the same. His anger, however, was hurled directly at me. In explosive fury he violently exclaimed, "Meyers, you are not going to graduate!"
He dismissed the meeting abruptly and went immediately to his office where he changed my grades in English and journalism to failures, which meant that I would be required to repeat that senior year and not graduate until the next year, or perhaps not at all.
A few days later I did graduate with my class. After some negotiations and compromises not altogether remembered, my failing grades were raised to "D's," just enough to get me out of there. The compromise was that I was not permitted to play in the school orchestra commencement night.
Years afterward when I applied to major in journalism in college, I was faced with devising an explanation of why my permanent high school transcript demonstrated that I was hardly qualified to pursue that profession.
You might say that this incident was an isolated matter, insignificant even. After all, there was no burning at the stake, no branding of the forehead. Besides, it all happened years ago, couldn't possibly happen again and, anyway, who remembers?
I do. Nowadays when I hear it stated with moral certainty that this country will be much better off if only there is prayer in public schools, I remember the furious bigotry of that man who could have altered the course of my life, and I hear again, across all the years, that angry curse, "Meyers, you are not going to graduate!"
0 F. de Sales Meyers writes from Reisterstown.