I'm a lapsed high-church Episcopalian of Russian Polish German Jewish heritage, on my mother's side, back when that land changed hands, and on my father's side, Scots-Irish, raised on the moors to eat porridge, related to the "Sinners in the Hands of An Angry God" Puritan Jonathan Edwards.
As a child in Costa Rica, my husband was born Catholic, but this mother thought that through, found it lacking, and became Jehovah's Witness. His religion now is soccer. With a side of French bread. The man really loves his baguette. The staff of life, I say. But he finds that too Biblical; he is rather crunchy.
What on earth to raise the kids? I say Earth worshipping, foragers, with a streak of literacy, and a love of kindness like the Dali Lama, and like the Sufi mystics, an urge to whirl.
I'll light some incense for that, get a pet sacred cow, put a fire on the hearth, like Hestia, Greek goddess of the hearth for whom I have a special fondness. She sat apart from her brothers and sister Olympians, and focused on the rotating spit, and made mean S'mores.