I was raised Catholic. As I reflect back on my church life, I realize my parents checked all the boxes, baptism, mass on Sunday (most of the time) and grace before meals. Period. The church was not part of the fabric of my upbringing.
Looking back on my parent’s relationship with the church, I think I understand their hesitancy. My mother was not catholic and a divorcee. She kept her divorce a secret from her children for almost 40 years. Since my parent’s were unable to be married in the Catholic Church, my paternal grandmother considered them “unmarried” and living in sin.
My father on the other hand had a strict catholic upbringing, but never professed a love for the church. At seventy-three, he had a devastating stoke, was intubated and was unable to speak. He became agitated whenever I offered to get a priest. That is when my aunt, a nun for almost seventy years, shared her thoughts on my father’s relationship with the church. Although she had no proof, she suspected a priest had abused him. As a young boy, he was the bishop’s “favorite” and was often the bishop’s travel companion. The bishop told my grandparents that he loved to hear him sing. Sadly, the only time I ever heard my father sing was on the rare occasions he put me to bed and he lovingly sang Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra (see video). I wonder if the church stole his voice.
I stopped attending mass once I left home. I was so disconnected from the church that one day I wondered why so many people had the same black smudge on their forehead. It was Ash Wednesday. I returned to the church after the birth of my first child. Unlike my parents, I found comfort in the ritual. When I joined the church choir, I found a home, a form of prayer that filled my heart with joy. The physical building is where I celebrated and found solace.
That being said, I’ve always held a healthy skepticism about the institutional church. When in third grade, Sister Elizabeth coldly told me that my puppy was not going to heaven; I knew I wasn’t buying the party line. But for a time the joy outweighed the dissonance. In 2011, my husband was fighting a rare form of cancer that would eventually take his life. Searching for solace and a community, I signed us up for our church retreat called, Beloved. It was there that I started to truly believe that I was a beloved child of God. My church bills itself as a community where all are graciously welcome. It is all of those things; but in my opinion the catholic doctrine is none of those things. It’s ironic that a retreat in the Catholic Church would one day contribute to my leaving.
Let me say it once again, I loved my church. They were my community. Singing in the choir fed my soul, and was my sacred form of prayer. Singing at midnight mass on Christmas Eve and almost living at the church during holy week was my choir Super Bowl. But I started to realize I didn’t belong there. How could I, when I didn’t believe? I don’t believe that Jesus is THE savior. I don’t believe in original sin or Jesus sitting at the right hand of God waiting for judgment day. I don’t believe in the ultimate authority of the paternalistic institution, which the church deems an intermediary to God. I believe God is present on earth and in every one of us. God is LOVE.
