Every spring when our church confirms members of our confirmation class, I reflect on my own experience of joining the church. I don’t think we called it confirmation back then—that was something the Catholics, Episcopalians and Lutherans did. We Presbyterians simply joined the church when we arrived at seventh grade. The point was to be able to take communion. I recall communion Sundays as boring; there was that long silence during which the elements were distributed up and down the pews, with nothing for a child to do but watch the plates of bread squares and tiny glasses of grape juice pass by me. The best part was when my mother allowed me to finish off the grape juice in her cup.