Religion

I was raised Irish Catholic.

I now think it’s all a lie.

I was baptized at St. Patrick’s, the parish two minutes away from my childhood home.

There are pictures of my godparents, my mother’s brother and cousin, holding me in the traditional white gown. My parents are beaming in the photos as their youngest was finally being conducted into their belief system.

I remember the smell of those church pews. The dark wood smelled rich and waxy, and I remember poking people’s feet when I was supposed to be kneeling in prayer.

I remember going to CCD once a week, the modern day Sunday school. It was a social engagement during the primitive years, the only way outside of school to interact with the other local preteens.

I remember watching videos about Mother Teresa and Palm Sunday and making flashcards for the disciples: Peter, John, Matthew, Judas.

I remember being confused about Jesus. I didn’t understand how God and his “son” could also be the same entity.

I was told to trust “Him.” That “He” has all the answers. I never could fathom the overwhelmingly blind trust that comes with faith. There’s no proof, what am I even believing in?

I was told to pray. To pray for others, to pray for myself. But I struggled with praying, confused with how my inner monologue was also supposed to be a direct line to the big man.

My mom encouraged me to sing along to the hymns during church. She said that a nun once told her that singing in church is like praying twice.

My grandpa said the only reason he made it out of the Korean War alive is because he prayed to Mother Mary everyday with his rosary beads. He taught me how to pray using them.

My dad said the only reason he’s alive with all the drinking and driving he did as a young adult is because of God. The concept of God and prayer are heavily embedded in Alcoholics Anonymous. In the same church basement where I rehearsed for the Christmas Eve children’s choir since I was seven, was where I saw my father cry in front of a room of people when he received his 25 years sober chip.

During Lent, on every Friday meat was forbidden. I looked forward to eating pizza, but still ate my favorite meats if I knew I could get a away with it. On a visit home from college, I saw the freezer packed with frozen salmon and cod. “Freaking Catholics,” I muttered, to my mother’s horror.

My grandparents say grace before any food touches their mouths, even in restaurants.

I made my confirmation in 8th grade, choosing “Cecilia” as my confirmation name. I chose that name because she was the patron saint of music. My godmother was my sponsor, the person who was supposed to be in charge of leading me forward in my adult life as a practicing Catholic. I talk to her once or twice a year.

In high school, I started going to church less and less even though my mother diligently went every Sunday. My parents didn’t want to deal with dragging me there. I drifted further from Catholicism, no longer making the effort to pray. I never felt the connection to God anyways.

In college I was exposed to all kinds of people and ideologies that I previously had never experienced. I learned about people who lived differently as I did: who thought differently, came from backgrounds out of my comprehension.

I watched a documentary about sexually abusive priests, and the coverup of a nun’s murder.

I watched documentaries about Scientology, and other religious cults. I watched stories unfold of manipulative, powerful people taking advantage of the innate human need for guidance and belonging.

I learned about energy, chakras, meditation.

I learned about Buddhism and Judaism.

I learned about the Mother of Emanuel Church massacre in Charleston, the mass shooting at the hands of a white man in a black church.

I met people who had never gone to church before, and people who choose to remain abstinent until marriage, waiting for “the one”.

I am an adult now, and no longer tied to the childlike notion that my parents’ beliefs are mine as well. “You have to believe in something,” my mother said. Like hell I do.

I’ve concluded that religion is here on this Earth for a lot of reasons.

It’s a way to make good little boys and girls listen to their parents and behave. It’s even written out in the fucking rules: “Honour they father and mother.”

It’s a community, how neighbor meets neighbor. Having familiar faces around town creates a false sense of security, isn’t that nice.

It is a set of guidelines for the human race, an anchor of comfort in this chaotic world. Some clutch to the bible, reading its teachings as words from an omniscient being. I could never worship a fat book written by a bunch of white dudes.

It is a sense of tradition, something that tells us where we should be on certain days of the year. Like that one year on Easter, where I had to sit in my scratchy skirt even when tears welled up in my eyes.

It’s a ploy to get our money, to fund buildings and salaries. Salaries of clergymen: entitled by the mask of sacrality, protected by the most powerful institution in the world. “The Keepers” documentary series told the story of Father Maskell, a sexual pedophile and predator shuffled from parish to parish, completely protected by the Catholic church. They would do anything other than admit they are wrong.

I visit my grandparents in South Carolina, where their parish St. Michael’s is attended by thousands. Thousands of people pray, sing, kneel and worship. Thousands of people read from the bible and believe its words are instructions and guidance, their savior. Thousands of people chant the same phrase at the specific time, they clutch hands and go week after week. Their devotion never ceases to baffle me.

If my grandparents knew I didn’t consider myself Catholic anymore, they would be heartbroken. My grandpa still reminds me to pray when we speak on the phone, and I lie and say, “Of course, Grandpa.”

When my sister got engaged, my grandma made a flippant comment about her not getting married in a church. We celebrated their matrimony in a beautiful Brooklyn art gallery.

If my grandma knew I wouldn’t be caught dead ever getting married in a church, she would be shocked.

If my mom knew that I don’t believe in God and that I don’t want to believe in a God, she would be disappointed. She still reminds me everytime I go home: “Everything will be okay. I believe God has a plan for us.” If that’s what you need to hear, Mom….

Religion is how we deal with the irrevocable fact that we all die, everyone we love is going to die, and we die alone.

I am okay without it.