The holidays come and my secret shame floats like spent tinsel. I was excommunicated from the Catholic Church when I was two days old. I know you must be asking, "What did little Brad dribble to be kicked out of the kingdom at such a tender age?" It's easy. There was Jewish blood in my father. My mother was Catholic and they eloped to Arizona to a justice of the peace. When the baby came--yours truly--they baptized me in a Catholic Church. Two days later, a priest showed up and insinuated that my mother should leave my father and that I was illegitimate.

This topic is still a sore one with my Mom, who says, "Well, legally, you're not a bastard--just in the eyes of God."

As a result, I've gone through life knowing I was kicked out of the Church like a football when I was the size of a football. Religion was relieved of our young family. No Church. No Synagogue. No Christmas Mass. At Easter, we would hide eggs and feel guilty looking for them.

We were on our own with no religious compass. We forged through life looking for meaning. There was lots of laughter and parties. But I was drawn to that forbidden dance in the pulpits and pews. Sometimes I would find myself standing in front of churches wanting to go in, panicky that my baby picture had been placed on an urn, warning the sentry guards not to let this bastard son into his rightful Father's house.

(Is there a Church equivalent to the FBI's Most Wanted List?)

I went through the end-of-the-year fandango with both my Christian and Jewish cousins and doted on each particular form of light. The mystical language of Hebrew prayers soothed me. The splendor of a decorated Christmas tree illuminated me. Alvin and the Chipmunks relaxed me.

But it was the meaning of Christmas that escaped me. I never knew the Bible. There was no tour of the Holy Land. The idea of the devil was never explained, until a Jehovah's Witness knocked on my door and told me the devil was coming for me. (I thought it was a trick-or-treater, but this was only last week.) Till then I thought Lucifer was an urban myth, like the Candy Man or rats being found in cans of Pepsi.

The same question arises each Yule time. Am I still the same excommunicated, unwanted baby in swaddling clothes? And if so, how invested am I expected to be in all of this?

I've been to Temple and to Baptist Church and connected the dots that all led back this: I am skeptical of vows and baptisms and fancy rites, and I have yet to see a table long enough to fit ALL religions. So until we get that Table into the house, I will let somebody else have my seat and I'll forge on...

Each of life's consecutive dismissals never comes close to my secret one: I was a baby sinner whose inner baby Jesus was kicked to the curb. But thankfully, with the help of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and Charlie Brown, lemon bar cookies and children smiling with glee, I have been able to survive each holiday season.

I consider myself lucky, having been raised with no organized religion. I have lived a life without guilt; I never attached guilt to not going into a store or a mall between November and February. Some years I buy no presents. My parents like to tell this story:

When I was five years old, upon seeing a Nativity manger set up at a friend's house, I took the Baby Jesus toy out of the manger and placed it in the mailbox. If they could do it to me, why couldn't I excommunicate Jesus himself? He was Jewish too, just like me.

I remember it all. The betrayals only a toddler can understand.

Don't be too tough on me and go make rushed novenas. It is a lot to digest, I know--imagine how it was for me. I was so young I could barely digest rum eggnog.

As for my current Christmas/Hanukkah tradition, it's simple: I buy eight trees and light one very night. And I eat bacon, lots of bacon. And, of course, Christmas Day can be celebrated anytime between December 14th and January 7th. It's just easier that way. Everyone should try it. Very calming on the nerves.

Oh, we do have one family tradition. My father's annual telling of his Jesus Joke.

Why did Popeye punch Jesus?
Because he went to Mount Olive.