In A Comedy of Errors, William Shakes­peare portrays the frustration of parents deceived by their twin children’s deliberate identity switching. As a pastor’s wife, I can instantly relate. My young theologians (children and heirs) constantly keep me guessing who they are and who I am, and they wait for any misinterpretations with glee. My blog “A Comedy of Heirs,” provides a glimpse into the drama of life at our manse.

If I had known my comedic heirs were going to routinely drag the family dog from one denominational camp to another, I would have bought him a “This Too Shall” pass, fully redeemable at all KOA (Kids On Anthropomorphics) campsites. Living life in the pastoral lane means our dog plays host to frequent rapid-fire debates on religious leaders, doctrinal differences and creed credibility checks, exponentially multiplying the risk factors. At least, I’m assuming that other hapless hairy hounds don’t get riddled like this based solely on how they sprawl, scratch, and sniff.

Allow me to cite a few prime examples. One beautiful summer’s day our mutt escaped the premises to happily frolic in a neighbor’s creek. I’m convinced it was a desperate attempt to escape scrutiny, and it was short-lived. When we found him and he made it clear he preferred immersion to dry land, he was instantly dubbed a Baptist, “Because they put people all the way under when they baptize them instead of just sprinkling water on their heads.” Presbyterianism aside, I’m partial to this camp. They only charge a one-time entry fee, no matter how often you visit. “Once paid, always paid.”

Children in tow, I struggled to bring back a wet canine who manifested his wish to be unleashed by incessant, unearthly yapping, sticking his nose everywhere it didn’t belong and rolling his dripping, furriest of coats in the driest of dirt. I braced myself. Where were we headed next? Assemblies of God? Forced into sacred dance? Toronto for a Vineyard blessing?

But all that followed me was silence. Blessed silence. Then, I saw why. The troop leaders/accusers had been distracted by the same body of water and were now blissfully headed straight into their respective Baptistic subdivisions.

One was beautifying her appearance with the liberal application of a mud mask. She’d definitely gone Southern, y’all.

The decade-old cowgirl, lassoing an unsuspecting turtle with a highly imaginary rope and several loud, decidedly authentic “yeehaws,” had definitely signed on with the Americans. My Independent seven-year-old was loudly protecting “his” stump that “he” discovered and subsequently fell on his Fundamentals.

I could have planted a second garden with all the dirt I eventually removed.

Roman Catholicism also gets regular visits from our pseudo-terrier, usually via the sporadic, informal coronation. Burger King diadems serve as the preferred choice for crowning our “Dog of Perpetual Awesomeness.” Or so he’s been knighted.

On the flip side, a strictly Byzantine attitude emerges from those required to take him on his daily constitutional walk: “Mom, walking Snickers is worse than if Purgatory was real.” End of quote. I couldn’t make this stuff up.

I have no idea what visits outside the Protestant camp will cost me.

Oh, and thanks to my fourteen-year-old’s insightful rationale, el perro is now bunking with the Quakers, “Because he just sits there and doesn’t move and then gets up like the spirit moved him. For no apparent reason.”

While I’m fully aware that George Fox’s cognitive abilities are far superior, a closer look at this British founder of the Society of Friends shows some interesting commonalities with our muttley crew of one.

Born into a decidedly English household. Check.

Humble beginnings. Affirmative.

George believed he was compelled by the Spirit to quit his job at the age 19 and wander abroad. Our pet, the age equivalent of a young adult, has no means of income and is regularly compelled outdoors for the moving of the spirit. So to speak. And that makes three.

They part ways on Mr. Fox’s belief that holding to sermon sacraments, creeds, ministers, or a particular order of worship all hinder the freedom of God’s Spirit to work and should therefore be discarded. Our dog holds tenaciously to his preference for particular structure in eating, sleeping, and otherwise functioning. Probably some Presbyterian influence there.

In actuality, my husband’s family lineage is deeply steeped in the Quaker tradition, dating back almost to the 17th Century. His ancestors settled in South Jersey, adjacent to William Penn’s “city of fraternal love,” Philadelphia.

Much like Mr. Penn, who was raised a Puritan but later renounced those beliefs to become one of Fox’s followers, his family has also traveled from their theological roots. Which would explain, in part, why The Dad of My Young Theologians is now putting down stakes among the Calvinists.

Here we pause for a note of true historical significance. When Mr. Single Presbyterian met me, Miss Equally Unattached Mennonite, he was moved by the Spirit to speak a more permanent blessing into my life.

So it would seem that our current denominational dilemma tracks us back to one simple question:

What do you get when a Reformed Presbyterian marries a Conservative Mennonite? Two highly debatable parents (Guess which one thinks he chose her? Guess which one assures him she’s staying true as long as he keeps his end of the bargain?), five very diverse, decidedly Happy Campers, and one exceedingly tired dog. Who is currently napping, feet in the air, lightly twitching, almost like…Oh, good grief. I’m becoming one of them.

Rest up, pup. Rest up. Something tells me this ecumenical season doesn’t carry an expiration date.

Maria lives in Lisbon, N.Y., with her husband, Steve, pastor of Lisbon RPC, and five children. Her blog, “A Comedy of Heirs,” is a whimsical look at life in a pastoral household. Her first book, Peace by Piece, is slated for release this summer and will be published through Westbow Press.