Husband, Child, or Something In-between

As a thirteen year-old in 1966, I had the unique pleasure and opportunity to travel throughout Europe for nine weeks during the summer.

The first three weeks were spent in England, Germany and Switzerland with my parents. My mother was in her mid-forties and my father 56 when I was born. As a result, I was along for the travel they had saved for and following the middle class American dream then accomplished during retirement. This European trip had been a lifelong dream of my mothers. Everything was top drawer, first class.

The remaining six weeks were a complete reversal. I traveled with my 27 year old sister. We literally saw Europe on “five dollars a day”. We had a Eurarail pass and slept on trains, or in Youth Hostels, and walked if we could not get free transportation.

In some level of logic my mother believed that it would be safe or perhaps safer for my sister to travel with me. Looking back I realize what a burden a thirteen year old must have been. But what were my parents thinking!

During our travels my sister often passed me off as twelve in order to receive a child discount. You might imagine how this went over with me; I was thirteen! Then in the evenings I would need to pass as fourteen to stay in the youth hostels where we usually slept. No one ever checked identification back then. A green USA passport cover was all you needed to move effortlessly. If my ever changing age wasn’t confusing enough, in Italy people mistook me for her child. Often used to our advantage to acquire seats on the very crowded trains. However, in Scandinavia I was mistaken for her husband.

Needless to say, I had identity problems. My identity was shaped primarily by the strong influence of my authority – my sister, and the environment where I found myself: the hostel, a museum, Scandinavia…

It is simple now to see how my adapting benefited myself, during this adventure. First in order to please my sister I went along with what she said. This also relived me of any responsibility. At least to my 13 year old mind it did. She was the authority figure, later in hostel I just wanted to get along, fit in.

In the hostels, my sister and I were separated into male/female sections, often dormitory style. I would find myself among the drifters, twenty-something or so years old who had dropped out of Western cultural expectations and were already the unnamed hippie culture. Alone in this totally foreign culture this white-bread American boy adopted my identity be accepted. Again, I ask what my parents were thinking. Several times my new friends would bring me along on there evening adventures. I am sure that after 40 years the statute of limitations is up.

However, I am realizing that in my career with the institutions of Western American Christianity, I have equally been molded by authority figures to “be” what they needed me to be. Additionally I have given my consented all too freely, for the benefits which it produced.

I believe I have always bristled inside and somewhat passively resisted, even as I did when my sister passed me off as twelve to save a few Lira. My rebellion was bought off then with the rationalization and promise of a little meat with our daily meal of bread, cheese and water. It is not quite so simple to see what price has been my price from the Institutional Church.

Rather than walking in the assurance of my acceptance in Christ before God. Equipped with the Holy Spirit as my comforter and guide, I have juggled balls, spun plates on sticks all the while professing the accepted speech like a child’s doll with a pull-string.