People say that most Americans are intolerant about religion these days, and I tend to agree. But I assert that Americans have quarreled about religion since this nation’s birth. If my history teachers served me well, religious diversity played a role in that birth, and from its uneasy gestation through bloody birth pangs into surly adolescence, the only constant has been the endless quarreling.

My family is a perfect example of American religious diversity. Two parents had five daughters and, as of this writing, none share a common religion. We have a Catholic, a goddess-worshipping Wiccan, one three-quarters of the way to Buddhist nunhood (complete with shaved head!), one Mormon, and one Unitarian. The final member attends a Baptist church, but once they formed gay unions, other Baptists quarreled about the church’s designation. So far we have no Muslims or Jews, but the week is young—who knows what the future holds?

The $64,000 question of course is: who is headed for heaven? If you assume humans tend toward survival, we each made a decision in our own best interest. Clearly tradition is not the operating force here!

Personally, I blame little girl sleepovers. You know, when girls in grammar school become “best friends” and visit overnight, complete with sleeping bags, giggle fests, and a trip the next morning to the hostess’ house of worship? My Mom took us to church (Southern Baptist), but before being baptized at age 10, I’d already sampled Episcopalian, Methodist, Presbyterian, and Catholic services. I’d have cheerfully gone to a temple, synagogue or a mosque, too, but little girls in these religions were thin on the ground in the sixties, south of the Mason-Dixon line. With all of this sampling, I thought I’d reexamine my choice (and my family’s choices), and try to figure out why we made them.

To my young mind, Catholics (this was pre-Vatican II) beat the others hands down for pomp and circumstance. Smells and bells, men in dresses, the up and down on the kneelers—my old Baptist church couldn’t begin to compete. Methodists sang the loudest, which worked for me, being less inclined to long sermons. Episcopalians dressed nicer, smelled better, and the pastor’s Irish accent made the longer sermon bearable. But I will always have a special place in my heart for Presbyterians. They outdid themselves with free hands in the cookie and kool-aid department.

Mormons work the food angle and then some, but may have a tough time in certain places in the world. My Mormon sister sent her 17-year-old boy to Brazil, to save its residents from damnation. The poor kid lived a mile from Ipanema Beach and was forbidden to go, lest temptation occur. Now that’s cruel and unusual punishment! What’s more, they held church on Sunday nights, soccer time in that great nation. As best I can tell, the pope aside, soccer is Brazil’s national religion and anyone promoting a religion that forbids coffee has their work cut out for them down there.

The Catholic (my dad) converted to get married. He has always been a stickler for order, though, so I can see the appeal. Catholics have heaven and hell zoned out better than seating arrangements at a diplomatic dinner: “Unbaptized babies to the right, please, for Limbo, medium bad souls to the left for Purgatory; the rest of you hang loose; bottom circle tickets unload last!”

Wiccans seem to have a much better deal for women, according to the sister who chose that faith. Goddess worshipping has its strong points. Nature lovers get more than the average church delivers, rebels revel in the pagan mystique, feminists flock to the lack of patriarchy and you gotta love the hours: Sunday sleep-ins are de rigueur after a busy night at the bonfire. (Note to urban Wiccans: neighbors may assume said bonfire is accidental, call the fire department, and leave your mother gasping for an explanation that satisfies the neighbors!)

My sister’s choice of Buddhism had me more puzzled. Poverty is revered. If tests of physical strength appeal to you, then yoga and endless bouts of meditation deliver. Sitting on your rear for the best part of three days in a lotus position with very little sleep makes the old Catholic up-and-down look like a cheerleader warmup! And the shaved head after ordination definitely gave me pause. But it makes her happy and doesn’t hurt anyone else, so who am I to complain?

I’m pretty sure I had something to do with my Unitarian sister’s choice. I think control means more to her than redemption, so I suggested it when her kid got old enough: “They teach right from wrong.” I said. “She needs to hear murder and stealing are wrong from someone besides family. She’s young now and thinks you’re smart, but later you and her Dad will be the stupidest people on earth and you’ll be sorry. Someone from across the street always knows best!” What denomination? I didn’t ask. Any religion going has some version of the 10 commandments mixed in. Besides, my niece needed somewhere to take her sleepover pals.

So, who is going to heaven? We don’t ponder that much in our family. Only the Mormon ever tried recruitment, and we don’t hold it against her. The Buddhist, Wiccan, and my ousted Baptist self all attended mass with the Catholic a while back. We didn’t all take communion, but everyone enjoyed the service and felt richer for attending.

I guess it comes down to why I chose my church. I’d heard they let everyone take communion “regardless of their faith or their path on that faith’s journey.” Because I work with natural resources in my job, this analogy works for me.

All religions are like rivers and all rivers lead to the sea. God is that sea, and God is love. I like to think that we each are captain of our own religious vessels: Cruisers, yachts, sampans, and dhows, all sliding inexorably toward a good and common goal.

From this perspective, the quarrels seem pointless. Whether sailing, steaming, rowing, or simply going with the flow, there’s a common destination with room for all.

Would someone please hand me an oar?