Sometime between 1:30 a.m. and 11 a.m. Saturday on Clark Street, someone stole the Jesusmobile.

The Jesusmobile is – was – the second family car I lost this year. A wheel actually rolled off the first car, the White Stallion, while it was in motion. But that’s a whole different story.

I felt pretty safe with the Jesusmobile, though. My brother, a strong Christian, drove the car for several years and affixed one of those Jesus fish to the back bumper. I’m not one for bumper stickers or for wearing religion on my sleeve, but I didn’t mind much.

After all, no one messes with Jesus.

So, at first, I did not believe it was stolen. I actually walked past the spot where I had left my car twice, mouth agape.

Then I gave my old buddies at North Shore Towing a call, but they didn’t have it. They did try to give me a tan Ford Tempo with Illinois plates, but I assured them that my car had been white and Hoosier all its life.

When Evanston police reported no record of ticketing or towing my car, I simply could not deny that it was stolen any longer. Still, I had a hard time grasping the truth. Most of my friends and family had similar reactions when I dropped the bomb.

“Are you sure?” they would ask. “Maybe you just forgot where you parked it.” Some people, including my dad, laughed. Then he asked if I had looked through all my dresser drawers before I reported the car stolen.

We were not aghast at the ugly fact of crime in society or the declining morals of our fellow citizens.

Rather, our upper-middle class minds were bemused that someone actually would want my piece-of-crap car in the first place. Evanston has a gorgeous Passat, Benz or Audi in nearly every driveway. Why would someone swipe my rusty, old Jesusmobile?

We’re talking about a four-cylinder, white Ford Tempo with rusty patches, spotty ignition and ineffective windshield wipers. We’re talking about a no-pick-up, busted-front-seatbelt, manual-windows-and-locks, tape-deck-but-no-CD-player, stained-upholstery car with nearly 100,000 miles on it. It doesn’t even have cup holders.

But it’s a car. It’s a car that runs. And apparently that was enough for whoever stole it.

I feared that my initially dismissive attitude toward the whole incident had officially earned my membership in the S.R.F.A. – the Spoiled Rich F**** of America.

A friend from home invented the club to describe the attitude of most of the kids in my suburban hometown. Membership is not a good thing. The archetypal member is the kid whose parents buy her a brand-new car when she turns 16 and then have to replace it in two months when she carelessly runs into a parked car in the high school lot.

Was this what I had become?

I searched my soul, feeling guiltier and guiltier about my classist attitude.

Then I realized something that made me feel better. What upset me more than my car being stolen was that a kick-ass tape my friend Claire made for my solo trip to Europe last summer was in the car’s tape deck.

That music has major meaning for me. I’ll be happy if the police find my car. But I’ll be ecstatic if the tape is still in the player.

Maybe my priorities aren’t as screwed up as I thought.