Losing my religion...and gaining perspective.

My parents did a pretty respectable job of keeping their vow to raise me in the Catholic faith. I was baptized, received my First Holy Communion, was confirmed, etc. Forgoing my teenage angst, I went to Mass every Sunday with my very Catholic grandmother. In college, I regularly went to Mass with a very good friend of mine. Each week, we would try a different cathedral on for size - there are plenty to choose from in Ohio. We fancied ourselves, “The Traveling Catholics.”

I took pride in being Catholic. My dad was raised in a stereotypical post-WWII Catholic home. There were nine children in his family, and all of them went to Catholic school, despite the fact that my grandparents could not afford it. I was honored to come from such tradition. I enjoyed the beauty of the cathedrals, the lighting of the candles, the pomp and circumstance of Mass and the sacred ritualism.

But, eventually, going to church became more of an obligation. I dreaded going, and not in the “this is my only day to sleep in and I don’t feel like getting dressed up” kind of way. I dreaded going because I knew that I would feel exactly the same as I did before I went. I knew that, when I was in church, I would just go through the motions and not really have any clue as to why I was doing and saying the things I was doing and saying. When I walked out of that church, I felt empty. I felt spiritually malnourished. I had questions (LOTS of them) and nobody had answers. Well, they had answers, but none of them were good enough for me. So I knew that it was time for me to leave.

At first, I was angry. I was angry at myself for lacking the ability to just “be Catholic.” I felt like I had let my family down. They were sure to let me know how disappointed they were that I was leaving the Church, but they were “certain I’d be back.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them I was certain that I wouldn’t.

So there I was: alone, confused, unable to talk to family and certainly unable to talk to friends about religion. The other twenty-two year-olds I knew at the time would not talk about church, unless “The Church” was the name of a new bar in town.

Then, I began to get angry at Catholicism as a whole. I resented everyone from the Pope down to the non-practicing Catholic in the office where I worked. I began to do “research” on Catholicism, studying its origins, history, practices, etc. I particularly searched for any negative information I could find on the institution. I subscribed to all of the anti-Catholic rhetoric - and there was a lot of it. (Hooray, Internet!) I felt so incredibly relieved and validated, reading about others’ disdain for the Church. “YES! That’s exactly how I feel! YES! I’ve never understood that either! I KNOW! - why do they do that??? Silly Catholics.”

But I didn’t stop there. I took it upon myself to single-handedly induce the Reformation of the 20th century. You see, I was going to convert every single Catholic I knew. I was going to point out to them the countless errors of their ways. And how would I do this, you ask? Easy. I would just inform them of every terrible thing that Catholics have done since the 12th century and HOLD THEM ALL PERSONALLY ACCOUNTABLE FOR IT. I would preach to anyone who would listen, and even to those who wouldn’t. I would know no professional boundaries. In the law office in which I was employed, my preaching would stop just short of sending an intra-office email containing my version of The Ninety-Five Theses. When the sex abuse scandal became increasingly more public, well, it was like I had HIT THE EFFING JACKPOT. If that didn’t shame those people, nothing would. You see, if the Catholic Church was spiritually unfulfilling and failed to work for me, then why would anyone else want to be a part of it? I was doing these people a favor!

And then I planned to deliver my spiel to my dad. I finally had the nerve to tell him exactly why I was relieved to no longer be a part of the Catholic Church. I’d recite every piece of dirt I had on that Church, no holds barred. He would be so proud of me, for taking the time to research these things and enlighten him. Not only would he understand why I left the Church, but he would be inspired to do the same, and then I’d have his support, and know that I (we) had made the right decision.

So I told him everything: “Father” Stephen doesn’t have any children, you’re confessing to the middle man, you’re oppressing the nuns, the Rosary is just repetitive nonsense, you shouldn’t worship Mary, etc. He sat there patiently and listened to everything I had to say. And then, his face transformed into The Look. The Look that punished me as a child. I was never upset when I got grounded, but I was devastated when I disappointed my father, and that was the real punishment.

At that moment, he looked ashamed, alright. Not ashamed of his Catholic beliefs, but ashamed of the daughter he had raised. He didn’t have to say anything, I could see it in his eyes. He didn’t care that he had raised someone that was no longer Catholic, he cared that he had raised someone so intolerant and unforgiving. Here, I thought my stance against all that was wrong with the Church was so thoughtful and important, and parts of it were, but it was also so ignorant. Needless to say, I had insulted him. At that moment, I realized a concept so simple: I questioned the direction my spiritual path was heading, and that inquiry led me away from Catholicism. And that’s okay. My dad ,and approximately 1.115 billion other people in the world, have at one time or another questioned the direction of their spiritual path, only to be led right back to Catholicism. And that’s okay, too. Because it works for them. (Did I really think I was a trailblazer in my dissent? That my middle-aged father -or anyone else- had never had a crisis of faith or examined these things on their own? That all Catholics were blissfully unaware?)

The stuff that I considered nonsensical was of great value to my dad as a Catholic and as a descendant of Catholics. I was overcome with so many emotions as I began to piece this realization together: The stories my grandfather told of praying the Rosary on the beach with other Catholics during World War II. The endless praying my grandmother did, awaiting his safe arrival home. The nuns, who chose freely (or were called) to go to the convent to devote their lives to helping others, clothing and feeding the poor - including my father as a child. The priest that drove my bleeding dad to the hospital when he fell out of a tree and cracked open his ten year-old skull. (My grandma could not have possibly taken him and the eight other children while my grandpa was at work.) The priests that consoled each member of our sizable family when my cousin was killed in a car accident. The parishioners that brought my aunt and uncle food and prayers, everyday, while they were grieving the loss of that son.

These were and are good people. I might not understand their faith and its practices, but they do. Why do I have to understand it? I don’t. Does the sex abuse scandal disgust me? Yes. Does awareness need to be brought to the situation and other atrocities like it? Absolutely, and it would be irresponsible to turn a blind eye to the matter. However, matters of faith are personal and very sensitive, and I am ashamed that I once exploited the priests’ scandal and the pain and suffering of the victims for the purpose of my own validation. I’m not excusing any of the heinous crimes that have been committed by the Catholic Church since its origins, nor do I excuse the Church’s own issues with intolerance. But what purpose is served in spewing hatred and attacking those who choose to nourish their souls within the walls of a Catholic church? (Or within a temple or a park or a library, for that matter?)

To define an entity by its weakest moments in history would be to make America nothing more than slavery. To hold a society collectively responsible for the actions of its leadership would be to make Americans nothing more than George W. Bush. Thankfully, my father taught me better than that.