It was Good Friday. I was 11 or 12 years old, possibly 13. I was with the boy next door, also raised Catholic. He wanted to play. It was around two in the afternoon. Christ had been on the cross for two hours according to the account we had been taught. I recall to this day the cognitive dissonance induced by the collision of the worldliness of my playmate and the Catholicism inculcated in me by my pious Italian mother and the priests and nuns in the days before Vatican II.
An acquaintance of mine, a former altar boy with a similar upbringing, told me he never believed a word of it. I would guess that most of those who attended the Catholic schools for 8-12 years mainly just went long to get along and then dropped it all when the world issued its call. The etymology of 'inculcate' suggests that it is not the right word. The teaching wasn't stamped into me, but planted in me, in soil fertile and receptive unlike the stony and weed-choked psychic soil of most of my classmates. In compensation, they were spared the cognitive dissonance.
Related: Good Friday: At the Mercy of a Little Piece of Iron
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