ABSTRACT
My mother raised us Presbyterian; my father is a very reformed Jew. We attended a picturesque 200-year-old church in Princeton Junction, New Jersey, until I was seventeen. After that she gave up. Our Sunday morning conversations went like this:
“Are you coming to church?” My mother stuck her head in the door. This was a trick. It was not a question. It was an invitation to commence a battle of wills. I usually moaned and pulled the covers over my head.
