My mother says that my first break with organized religion came when I was around six years old when my Sunday School teacher, Ms. Hawkins, told me that dogs and cats were not allowed in heaven.

As the story goes, I stood up, stared at Ms. Hawkins, blinked my eyes which were welling up with tears and said: "Well, then, I don't want to go either."

There was a gasp fro the assembled Sunday School teachers listening to the conversation..

"Oh why, honey, don't be silly." Mrs. Hawkins tried to smooth over the sin. " Of course you want tp go to heaven.

'I don't," I said, stamping my white socked patent leathered little foot. "I won't go anywhere where there aren't any animals.":

My mother said that it took months to get me to go back to Sunday School. I went, but after that, I regarded all things Baptist as suspect. I never trusted them again. I felt as if I'd been hoodwinked.

My second break was over Lyda Hoskins.

Whenever the Lanier Baptist Church got a new preacher, it was the custom for all the parishioners to gussy themselves up and go over and welcome the new pastor and his family. At he age of 16, I dreaded three hours of idiotic conversation, and my father dreaded a Sunday afternoon without a football game and a beer. But, as always, mamma got her way and we went.

In the line, we worked out way through the kitchen, the dining room, and then the living room. There were the Hawkins.

It was possible to see, even from a distance, that Chalmers Hawkins thought he was something else indeed. God's gift to the worked. Ms. Hawkins, a little c hubby and overweight was standing with her hands clasped in front of her, graciously and demurely greeting the parishioners, one at the time.

Lyda was standing between her parents. Her left elbow was resting on the mantle and her head was cupped in her hand. Her right hand was extended with total noncommitment and disinterest. It was a hand that said: If you'd like to shake it, be my guest, but I couldn't care less. Every once in a while she would cast an acid smile at one of the parishioners.

It was the most contemptuous thing I'd ever seen anybody do. I knew instantly I was going to like her.

It didn't take me long to learn that Lyda's contempt extended not only to the parishioners, her family, and the Baptist church. It also covered the school, the teachers, the football team, the cheerleaders and the country in general, if not the universe.

But it was not as if she thought she was better. In fact a large part of her very funny repetior was her self-deprecating humor.

During the two years she was in high school with us,. She must have had a go at every male between the ages of 10 and 50, in the backseat of some car and she didn't give a hoot who knew about it or what they said.

In short, Lyda Hoskins was amazing to us, in a town obsessed with what other people thought.

After we graduated high school, I saw her once before she died. She came by the hotel where I worked with a Puerto Rican hippie boyfriend in tow, weighing eighty pounds, wearing three skirts and asking for money.

I didn't ask her what the money was for, although I could guess. And, I didn't ask her to pay it back.

I just gave her the money.

Nine months later she was dead, al la Silva Plath, with her head in a gas oven in a cheap apartment.

But, not before producing a child, a little girl, who she named Milagro de Esparanza. Or Miracle of Hope.

Chalmers Hoskins, in all this grand magnificence, purveyor of organized relition, love, kindness and forgiveness turned his back on the lbitle girl and had her put up for adoption.

I don't know much about God, but I can't imagine a god who would create a heaven without any animals in it. And I am absolutely sure that there are some things that God will not forgive.

Turning your back on an abandoned child and taking the pulpit every Sunday to listen to your voice proclaim in grand tones about the love and forgivesness of God is not something God could find room in his heart to smile upon.