Religious Ping-Pong

I’ve been debating with myself whether or not I should write this blog. I think it might be too controversial and I’m not great at handling haters. I was raised a strict Catholic. My Mom was as holy as the Virgin Mary herself (honestly, my mother was a saint!) Growing up my siblings and I made all the sacraments, attended church every weekend, and even went to parochial school. When I graduated 8th grade at St. Mary’s in Augusta, Maine, I received the highest award a graduating student could get - the Principal’s award for the student who “exemplifies what it means to be a good Catholic.” I was completely floored. I honestly thought they made a mistake. My mother, on the other hand, was absolutely beaming! 

It’s been at least five years since I’ve gone to church. Lots of reasons, none of them good ones. I’m feeling tremendously guilty. I’m not sure if I’m done with being Catholic, done with physically going to church, or done with traditional religion. It’s been a constant source of contemplation for me. 

When we lived in Boston, I ping-ponged between the three Catholic churches in my town looking to see which was the right fit for my family. The first church we tried was Saint Theresa's. The church appeared to be adequate: the priest was nice, parishioners seemed normal, it was a beautiful building, the church was ‘fine.’ We went to Sunday mass like dutiful Catholics, and put money in the basket. We were good parish members. 

About a year or so later, however,  we switched over to a different church in town, Holy Name. Our eldest daughter was entering kindergarten at Holy Name School at that time, and we wanted to be more involved in her education by joining the parish. 

We were at Holy Name for a number of years and it was okay, but I found it a bit pretentious, a little snobby. The first incident to put a sour taste in my mouth was one Sunday at the Children’s Mass. This particular Sunday, the homily lasted 45 minutes. After a short gospel, the priest stood at the podium and talked about the parish’s financial situation. I sat there with my young children, trying to stifle them from giggling or making noise, handing them juice boxes and crayons, pulling their little hands away from touching everything, telling them to listen to what the priest was saying. But when I stopped to listen myself, I realized he was giving the directive to the congregation to cough up more money.  He lamented about the renovations that were needed to the school, the heating bill for the Rectory, and the overall state of financial affairs of both our congregation and the Catholic Church itself. Now, that may be a homily that needs to be delivered every year, but I remember being so pissed off that my kids had to sit there being quiet for 45 minutes at the “Children’s Mass” listening to the priest telling their parents to give more money to the church and to the Pope. I wanted my kids to hear about the gospel; I didn’t want them concerned that the school roof was going to cave in if Mom and Dad didn’t give enough money. 

The second thing that put me off about this particular church, and ultimately the reason I left the parish occurred at another mass. Again, it was the Children’s Mass. The priest invited all of the children in church to come up to the front and sit around the altar during the homily. He did this often and it was kind of cute; the kids would get excited to go up and sit on the stairs and be with their friends from school. Well, this particular homily was the week before Christmas. After a brief overview of what the real meaning of the holiday was, the priest addressed the kids asking them what was on their list for Santa Claus. He walked around the group and would lower down the microphone for each child to say a present. One little boy proudly said a new baseball bat. Another, an Xbox. One little girl was too nervous to open her mouth so the microphone hung there for a bit before the priest moved on. Finally, the priest approached my daughter. I watched anxiously as she lifted her head up and said, with a very obvious and pronounced stutter, “I want a bi-bi-bi-bicycle.” I froze in my pew. I was mortified for my daughter, and watched her face immediately turn bright red. The priest then put the microphone up to his own face and mimicked my daughter, repeating “a bi-bi-bicycle?” And then he said, “I hope Santa brings you your bi-bi-bicycle.” 

The church went silent. It was extremely awkward. I was in a complete state of shock that this man of God had just made fun of my six year old in front of the entire congregation. Once my daughter returned to her seat, I gathered up my other kids and we left immediately. I never returned to Holy Name. 

We ping-ponged over to another Catholic Church in the area, St. John's. St. John’s seemed more our speed. The parish was composed of more ‘working class’ type of people and the building wasn’t elaborate. It was a small church, beams of wood exposed and a basic altar which didn’t have a lot of glitter and gold like I had been used to at Holy Name. It reminded me of the country church I used to attend during vacations in the Catskill Mountains. 

I was happy with St. John’s. We were members for a number of years. My kids made sacraments and we were involved with the parish. But during this time I started questioning Catholicism in general. 

In college I took an Introduction to World Religions class that left a lasting impression on me. I studied the history of Buddhism, Hinduism, Judaism, and Islam. For the first time, I was exposed to the fact there were millions of people in the world that were just as religious as I was, but weren’t Catholic. I had known other religions existed, but growing up in small-town central Maine, well, I hadn’t realized how many different faiths there were, how many beliefs were similar to Catholicism, and how diverse theology was.

I loved my religion class, and continued to take electives in Philosophy and World Culture which shaped my view of society even more. I read books like Hermann Hesse’s “Siddhartha,” “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” by Robert Pirsig, and Shakti Gawain’s “Creative Visualization.” Much to my mother’s chagrin, I began learning the Tarot, attended the Tremont Tea Room for palm readings, and wrote poetry based on Surrealism. I started questioning everything about being Catholic, like why women couldn’t become priests or if the Pope really was better than everyone else. I suppose a lot of college students take this path of self-reflection and pushing the envelope with their own traditions and upbringing, but it didn’t sit well with my Mom or my extended family. I was kind of a black sheep in this regard to be honest. 

Once I got married and had children, I returned to the church. As often as I questioned it, my Catholic upbringing did have some great aspects. For one, I knew I could talk to God and Mary about anything and they wouldn’t judge me or love me any less. Secondly, I had a community - an entire congregation that would be there for me no matter what. And lastly, the values that had been ingrained in me stuck: be honest, be kind, treat others as you want to be treated. And as much as I hated being dragged to church every Sunday, it was a peaceful time to be with my family. For all of those reasons, I wanted to give my kids the religious foundation that I had grown up with. So, they were all baptized and we played the part of being an upstanding Catholic family. 

But down deep, I was still questioning, still trying to see if Catholosicm was right for me, wondering if I was an imposter. Could I be a good Catholic if I was pro-choice? If I thought gay marriage was okay? If I disagreed with the Papacy? Heavy stuff. I kept it to myself, though. I took my kids to mass and continued to make my mother happy. 

When my mother passed away, I was genuinely pissed off at God. I didn’t understand how He could take this saint of a woman away from us; how He made her suffer for seven years with progressive dementia that caused her to die way too young. I didn’t want to, but I continued going to mass. I’d talk to Mom there, pray that she was in Heaven, hold my kids’ hands in the pew and believe that Mom felt our presence. So when the one-year anniversary of Mom’s death approached, I thought it would be a nice thing for my Dad and sisters to attend mass in her honor, an anniversary mass for Mom. 

I called the parish and arranged for the 10:30 am Sunday service, on the 21st of December, 2014 (exactly one year to the day of her death,) to be said in memory of my mother. It was a somber day, but I picked up Dad and we drove to the church, meeting my sister’s there and looking forward to getting the hard part over and getting to brunch.

As I settled Dad and my sister’s into the pew, I heard my husband’s voice coming from the back of the church. We had gotten there early to get a good seat and Tony was coming in from parking the car after dropping the rest of us off at the front door. I heard Tony’s raised voice and then heard a woman yelling at him. I excused myself to go see what the situation was.

In the back portion of the church I found my husband, the priest, and a woman who I knew, Carrie. Carrie had been my Weight Watchers coach many years prior and was also a parishioner at St. John’s. She was one of the volunteers at the church, often doing readings or handing out communion. 

“She’ll have to choose another mass,” I heard Carrie say. “This is my FATHER’S anniversary mass.” Her voice was loud and angry. I walked closer and asked what the problem was.

“You had no right to book this mass,” Carrie said to me hatefully. “This is my father’s mass and I reserve this mass every year. My father died five years ago next week!” Her voice cracked as she pointed her finger right in my face to deliver her speech. I was stunned.

“Can’t they both be honored at the same mass?” I asked.

“You can choose another time,” Carrie said and then began to walk away, as if I would be okay with the last minute change of plan. 

“Um,” I stumbled after her, “my Mom died exactly one year ago today,” I said. “I wanted my Dad and family here so we could be together and pray for her on her one year anniversary. I called the priest last week and he said it was available.” 

“Well, it’s not!” Carrie said and walked away.

My husband and I looked at the priest quizzically. “So, are we good for this mass, Father?” Tony asked calmly, sensing I was getting ready to punch someone. . 

The priest, who had said nothing during the entire interaction, simply said, “yes, we will say your mother’s name today when we announce the mass intentions.” And then he walked away. No apology, no kindness, he just walked away. 

I was livid. 

Taking Tony’s advice, I shook off my feelings, walked back to my sisters, kids and Dad in the pew, and sat through the mass stoically. The rage burned inside me the entire time. I gave Carrie dagger-eyes as they said her Dad’s name before my Mom’s during the intentions of the mass. I purposefully went to receive communion on the other side of the church so I wouldn’t have to accept it from Carrie or the priest. I didn’t sing any of the hymns, I mumbled the words of the scripture, I shook hands with my family during the ‘sign of peace,’ and didn’t turn to shake those of the people behind me. I was consumed by what had transpired before mass began. The entire time I ruminated about how hypocritical Carrie and the priest were, sitting there in front of the entire congregation disguising themselves as pillars of excellence and love. 

After the service was over, I couldn’t wait to get out of church. I wanted to run from there screaming, but my Dad was slow, so we shuffled our way out along with the mob of the congregation. At the front door, Carrie stopped me.

“I apologize for my behavior earlier,” she said, “it’s just a really emotional time for me.” She grabbed my hand in both of hers and offered a smile. 

Now, normally I don’t engage. I run from conflict, and I often suppress how I feel. But this particular day was different. I pulled my hand away from Carrie’s and said, “You’re not forgiven. You sit up there on the altar pretending you’re closer to God than everyone else, but you’re not. You were mean and hateful before. You made what was a very difficult day for my family even worse, and I can’t let that go. You should be ashamed of yourself.” And then I turned and led my Dad down the church steps. 

I never returned to St. John’s. I unfriended Carrie on Facebook. 

I don’t know what I’m looking for regarding religion. I’m not sure if I’m being ‘too hard’ on the Catholic church, if I truly have had unfortunate experiences with the parishes I’ve joined, or if it’s all in my head and I’m subconsciously looking for an excuse to leave. The bouncing back and forth between churches tells me it’s most likely me and not them. 

I also feel, as a mother, that I’ve given my kids what I was supposed to. They had some form of organized religion growing up; they made the sacraments and studied the Bible. In some way, I feel it’s now up to them to decide whether or not to pursue it later in life. 

As for me, I still consider myself very religious. I talk to God quite often and believe in Heaven. I also subscribe to many of the philosophies of Buddhism and Hinduism and try to incorporate them into my life. I find peace and religion in nature, but am also fascinated by science and get transfixed when such things as black holes are discussed and how that translates into my idea of the afterlife. 

I’ve landed on the belief that I don’t need to be categorized; I can be spiritual without being necessarily religious. I can try to live in kindness and gratitude without being recognized for it in this life. I can accept that people’s religious beliefs are personal and there is no right or wrong faith. 

So I trudge on, still mystified and trying to find my way, but set in my conviction that it’s okay to be confused and to question everything. I pray, I suppress my Catholic guilt, I meditate, I consult with my tarot cards, and I  ask for my mother’s forgiveness and hope she’s not turning over in her grave! 

*This blog post includes affiliate links. This means I may earn a commission should you choose to make a purchase using my link. But don’t worry, I only promote products I have used and recommend!