Dear Editor: Because polls show that Boobus Americanus is one of the world’s most religious species (figures: got the most bombs and enemies, too), this election-year’s passel of pandering politicians have been falling all over themselves to be on the safe side of this issue as well. All this talk of Jesus and being “born again” is beginning to sound like a Jimmy Swaggert Holy Roller tent-revival. I was born again, too, long ago, not in a church or tent while shouting “in tongues”, but all alone one night I had a kind of religious crisis that mystics describe. I was about 12 years old. I had recently been “saved” and baptized, which in my sect, meant that my posthumous future was assured. I was home free. I was among the elect who would go to Heaven and live forever. I was expected to be overjoyed at this prospect, and for a while maybe I was. But there was something wrong and it was troubling me. I couldn’t sleep. Lying there in bed I’d keep repeating in my mind the word “forever”, trying to imagine it, of living forever, forever and ever and ever, etc.–and then came the blessed words: I doubt! At this illumination great waves of relief flooded over me and I wept for joy. It is a faith that has never left me. T. Weed