What these kids needed growing up was a good, oldfashioned Baptist Sword Drill to set them straight. “Sword drills,” as my Baptist organist friend puts it, “were something like a spelling bee, but using the Bible—the Sword of the Spirit.” The moderator called out something from the Scripture, and the first one to locate it in the Bible stepped forward and read it aloud.” It was considered fatal to invite an Episcopalian to church on Sword Drill night because they’d lose for your team. One of my friends was there the night Hebrews was tossed out. She frantically scoured the Old Testament until her Baptist hostess took pity and said, “Meredith, there are lots of Hebrews in the Old Testament, but the letter to them is in the New Testament.” My sister claims to have cost many a Baptist unwise enough to ask her to church on Sunday nights many a victory in the Sword Drill. But my sister can still recite the Catechism by rote and identify the heraldic shields of all the Apostles, which were prominently displayed in our parish hall. Okay, learning the coats of arms for the Apostles is very Anglican—but you take my larger point: back then we were able to paddle a bit in the stream that is our civilization. We weren’t stuck in the hollows. It is sad that so few children nowadays have the charming experience of memorizing the books of the Bible by singing “Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus” in Sunday school. But then you’d be hard-pressed to find many thriving Sunday schools these days. Like many once civilizing aspects of life, Sunday school is a casualty of divorce. Instead of a morning with Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and the God of Israel, the modern child is more likely to spend the day visiting the “other” parent. White Trash has always been partial to immediate gratification over long-term planning. Sunday school was the ultimate in long-term planning for the next generation.

Cultural illiteracy breeds White Trash behavior. If you don’t know who Adam and Eve were, you probably don’t have reasoned arguments as to whether Adam and Steve should get married. Indeed, I’ll go out on a limb and predict a day when a clergyman divorces his wife, comes out of the closet, takes a male lover, and then becomes the Episcopal bishop of New Hampshire. Nah, that’s crazy. Things will never get that trashy. Sometimes I amuse myself by trying to picture my grandfather, a plain vanilla Episcopalian if ever there was one, “exchanging the peace.” No can do. But you know what I really can’t imagine? I really can’t imagine him—or any of his contemporaries—sitting in a pew at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine engaging in ritual howling. Back in the day, even Episcopalians had a grip on reality.