Like countless others, I am a cradle Catholic. However, for most of
adolescence my family attended Mass only twice a year. Yes, you begrudgingly
know what those two days were. In the interim, we attended a local non-
denominational church. Actually, I made appearances at church while my
parents played hookey -- in other words, this was their coveted alone time
from the light of their life...me. when considering the alternatives, this
was a wholesome day care (read: baby-sitter) for the cost of a few quarters.
No, my forebears were not cheap. Frugal, yes. Not cheap. As was custom,
they would ordinarily send me away with a few dollars in hand. But, herein
lies the rub. Early on, us little ones (this encompassed a small contingent
of similarly ousted children from their nests) learned to swap the paper
currency for several coins before the offering plate came to our row. As long
as it made a clink, we thought nobody would be the wiser! As for the lack of
participation in Mass: we lived in a small, rural village in northern
Not counting those days where garland and flashy wrapping paper overflowed
(Christmas), or chocolate bunnies and strangely colored eggs were
indiscriminately scattered about (Easter), we did not pray. The concept did
not occur to us. Worse, on those notable two days a year we did manage to
utter grace before meals (dinner only), such petitions were mechanical.
Clumsily, we recited the words we had observed others deliver as grace. We
never learned to pray! Maybe, it was discipline we failed to learn?
Regardless, such is not germane. Whatever the cause, the end result was the
same. I would label us as dysfunctional but for the belief that I suspect
most other American families sadly fit into a similar category.
Those comments are a tad misleading. There were countless times that I
remember my mother praying that my father would get his butt home before her
pot roast would wither to the point of hockey puck status. Or, she would
plead that the traffic light turn green because she was in a rush. Or, that I
would be okay because she feared one thing or another. Of course, my father
prayed, too. His were a tad more humorous. Typically, his petitions were
combined with a sprinkling of profanity...a welcome delight to every young and
delicate ear. Please do not interpret this to mean that my father was a mean
man. To the contrary. Just the same, he could be colorful.
Oh, gee, almost forgot. I can vividly recall praying incessantly for a little
red workbench when I was a tot. Time and again, whether walking the fields
with my father or simply hanging out with my mother, I would stop in the most
inopportune times and pray for that workbench. Clasping my then little
fingers until the knuckles turned white, I prayed with all of my heart. with
complete conviction. I do not know where I acquired the notion, perhaps from
Sunday school. Nope, wait. If memory serves, my mother made the suggestion.
Barely cognizant of where the instruction radiated from, it worked. Come
Christmas morning, still donning my footy pajamas with teddy bear prints, I
raced down the stairs to our living room, and voila, there sat the most
beautiful workbench an aspiring handyboy could ever dream up. Little tools
and all. (Although diminutive, the tools were real and functional, not like
the plastic versions today.) To my dismay, the tag on this wonderful gift
revealed that God did not wrap it. Nor did my mother or father. My workbench
was from Santa Claus!
Like all petitions, once they came true we habitually forget to thank God. In
the rare chance we did show appreciation for our prayers being answered, such
ovations were soon forgotten and continued reverence faded away to
nonexistence.
Somewhere after that, innocence was lost. Other wishes I had fervently prayed
for did not bear fruit. In turn, I would petition with more zeal and
frequency. From time to time even making deals with God: If you grant me this .
wish, I will .... Nothing, Nadda. Zippo. Being in early adolescence,
patience was not my virtue. Heck, to this day I am not aware of any youth who
grasps the concept of patience. Many adults struggle with such. Thus,
becoming disillusioned with one-sided exchanges, I ultimately gave up. Uh,
nobody explained to me that God works at His own pace. Then again, I was
probably told this many times, but my tiny mind would not permit such a notion
to register. If by happenstance my petitions did come true, I either chalked
them up to coincidence, or the prayers were so long ago that they had been
forgotten.
As I was preparing to enter that all-so-auspicious rite of pubescence, a
colleague of my father hounded our family to become better Catholics. More
precisely, practicing Catholics! He suggested that my mother and I attend
Rite of Christian Initiation of Adult classes. (I suspect my father was to
have a role in this too, but somehow he wriggled out of any commitment.) The
decision was up to me. Kind of. I eagerly would have done...well, about
anything else. The title alone was too much to process. The words might just
as well have been Latin. Eyes becoming glazed over, there was an unspoken
nagging prod that there was no way to avoid these classes. (If it was God
whispering in my ear to move forward, it is suspected that I will have to
answer to Him for insinuating He was a pest. If it was instead my mother, I
am in no less peril!) Much to the portrayal of his character, that very
acquaintance of my father, a true friend let me add, set aside his time to be
our sponsor. Unfortunately, my mother and I did not grasp one single iota
which was shared with us. The material was dry and exhaustive. If you have
ever watched a Charlie Brown special on television, you would undoubtedly
remember the squawk of the school teacher's voice -- that was the equivalent
of my initiation discourse. Hmph, maybe it was Latin!
Upon being confirmed, our family attended Mass every Sunday. It was an
imposition, especially for my father (he was a workaholic), but we muddled
through. The distance was no longer a deterrent. I even became an altar boy.
Not necessarily to serve God, or the Church, but because it looked prestigious
and I could impress my family and our priest. Nevertheless, it must be
confessed that I had no clue as to what I was doing. As if about to unmask
something taboo, I really did not understand the Eucharist. The Liturgy. The
Penitential Rite. Or...well, I was not conscious of anything. The First
Despite this, when looking back on all the time spent at Mass, being
captivated by the light shining through the stained-glass windows, admiring
the beauty and intimate detail of the crucifix affixed behind the altar, or
the sereneness of the flickering candle flames, I recognized a presence every
time I crossed the threshold into that church. Or, any Catholic church.
Though, at the time I did not discern what "it" was.
After we had grown accustomed to being secular churchgoers, our priest was
presented with orders to establish a new house of worship amongst a starving
and lost flock. This was devastating. what made those people so special?
Afterall, we had the richly adorned new church, a seemingly strong
congregation, and a priest above all others. Who in their right mind would disrupt the parish in such an unthinkable manner? Heresy. From this outburst
it is recognizable that our central motivation for attending Mass was an
extension of our close relationship with the priest. God was, I am ashamed to
say, secondary. Our cherished priest was concerned with community. He knew
the names of nearly every parishioner...and their pets. Okay, that last bit
with the pets was in jest. He was a shaker and knew how to charm the
congregation. The replacement priest was the antithesis. He focused on God
and the Church, as opposed to us individuals. This change in approach was
discouraging. As with any family whose spiritual priorities are askew, our
interest in the Church waned soon after. This was not a gradual process where
we missed a Sunday here and there. No. Instead, we flat out quit God!
It was unknown at the time, but our family emphatically needed the Church's
guidance in our lives. For whatever reason, we did not know the Church
provided counseling to the extent which applied to everyday life, secular or
otherwise. I had always assumed that any response to a request for direction
would result in: "Um, wow, uh, we only handle spiritual and marriage
counseling. Good luck." Or, the alternative would conceivably be: "Sorry to
hear that...recite three Hail Marys, one Lord's Prayer, then petition God and
all your problems will wash away." Yes, I was juvenile in regards to faith.
Even had we known the Church possessed the infrastructure to advise us in a
practical manner, chances are likely that we would not have sought her
direction; it would have been too embarrassing to admit that we could not
navigate our own dilemmas, that we would have to divulge our dirty laundry.
This would have been much too humbling.
To provide a condense account, I was the problem. By comparison, our other
shortcomings were minor. Normal, everyday, American family hiccups. Being
special, as all children are taught they are, my issues were something
entirely different...or, so I thought. What is about to be revealed is now a
tired song played out in the fabric of our culture's history. I was
struggling with life and did not know how to cope: in my early teens I was
sexually assaulted by a schoolmate while his accomplice stood by and watched.
To add insult to injury, I thought both were my friends. As can be expected,
my psyche was rattled to the core. Confiding in my parents was not an option.
For starters, I was a boy; what was inflicted upon me only happened to girls!
What would my father say? What would my mother think? (These are huge
hurdles because I had credibility issues...I had a propensity to lie.) Kids
at school were already laughing at me. I could not bear the addition of any
disbelief from my family. Nor did I relish seeing the shame on their faces.
My priest was a hundred miles away, but I would not have shared that ugliness
with him, either (I did not know that he was trained to handle such
nastiness). To compound matters, I did not know that what happened was a
crime! Credit must be allotted to my parents. They knew something was
inherently wrong, but had no clue as to how to reach me. My mother and father
tried. They really did. I, however, would not trust their love. As you may
be able to imagine, my parents were at their wits' end.
Eventually, on a very dark day, when I was sixteen, I took my father's life. The man whom I loved
and looked up to. He did nothing wrong. I simply lost my way and fell into a
deep hole. I have been climbing out ever since. Note, I do not blame anybody
but myself. I was the one who did not seek help. I was the one who took
life. Period.
Resembling salt which has lost its flavor and is of no use, I was discarded.
Thrown in prison to serve out the rest of my youth; for that matter, the
remainder of my life. Like many people who have hit bottom, I dabbled here
and there with a hodgepodge of Christian groups. Catholicism was one of
several. However, I still did not understand the precepts of Catholocism. I
did not understand her depth and truth. Essentially, nothing had changed from
adolescence. Thus, neither side of the Reformation appealed to me as being
reverential or enlightening. Protestant services were simple and fun. They
sang upbeat songs and had a good time. Yet, the sermons always made me feel
like I could not measure up, that I was doomed. Catholicism, on the other
hand, was strict and the music was from a past period. (The Church really
needs to work on adding pep to the hymnals!) Pitting the two against one
another was simply too intimidating for the lay person who was already
struggling. Answers were being sought, not a social event. And, regardless
of what camp I was in, I felt anemic and out of place. I was an outsider.
Many seemed sincere, but I walked away longing for something which was
continually elusive.
For all intents and purposes, I quietly embraced marching to my own drum, as
opposed to subscribing to any particular religion. This nonchalant approach
worked. Especially when factoring in that I occasionally questioned the
parameters of God and Church. Were such a spun hoax to keep the weaker minded
in place like a herd of sheep chasing its shepherd? Despite these views, deep
down I knew God existed...I was just unable to declare this nugget of truth to
myself. To exasperate this confoundedness, what right did I have to knock on
God's door and ask to be included in something so unblemished. I did not
qualify. Countless people told me that the door was unlocked and available to
all, but such did not seem plausible -- the church leaders who led me to infer
that I was destined for hell planted a seed of lasting impression.
(Reflecting, they were teaching "fear of God," not love.) Plus, who was I to
ask a higher power for forgiveness when I was unable to let go of the bitter
contempt I held for myself?
Reading and studying writings by faith- and philosophical-based authors, I came
to find a yearning for peace. Fellowship. Compassion. Understanding.
Patience. That being said, my foundation lacked. Apparently, this
peculiarity did not escape several friends. They politely proposed that I
partake in an upcoming spiritual retreat. (Badgering is more indicative of
their behavior.) Reluctantly, if for nothing else but to shut them up, I
accepted their olive branch. Initially, I despised all of the hoopla and
seemingly fake worship. If anything, the retreat was confirming that my
abstinence of religion was intellectually grounded. Though after a couple of
days I realized what was missing in my life. Love. Not the love of family
and friends; I am fortunate to have many who love me. In contrast, I had
never felt the love of God. At least, I had in no way recognized such before
that weekend. Quite profound.
For a good while I continued to maintain my solemn walk, but was becoming ever
more aware of a sensation that I needed to do more. I had been reading the
Bible and found myself drawn to and studying passages which seemed to offer
more than what the eye initially took in. This, of course, was not by
coincidence. Some Catholic authors had opened me to the concept that
Scripture is not always black and white (or, red and white), that in many
instances the intent is beneath the words spoken. Thus, I began to develop
questions the deeper I delved into the Bible.
To find direction, I began attending a Catholic study group. This was not out
of preference, but instead, scheduling convenience. Right from the outset of
the initial class, I was able to ask questions without being judged or laughed
at (I have endured enough humiliation for several lifetimes). The facilitator
(deacon) and group members were compassionate and attentive when I fumbled my
thoughts, theories, doubts, and beliefs. To my dismay, they were patient and
shared their insights with me in such a way that was neither malicious nor
forced. And, to support their contentions, they provided texts to digest at
my leisure. My eyes burned and head ached (still do), but my soul is being
rejuvenated. Every day I have more questions. Some seem like insurmountable
hurdles. Yet, with each day answers are being revealed, of faith and myself.
I am finding peace. Happiness is possible. Could it be that I have opened
myself to God's love ....
My faith is not complete. Far from it. And, my foundation is not near firm.
But, I must concede that I am very much enjoying the journey. It is not an
easy road. On occasion I wonder what I have committed myself to...it would be
so much easier to walk away. With that comes the matured knowledge that I
would not be whole. I would rather press forward and enrich my soul,
strengthening my faith ....
(Written in February 2011)
(Written in February 2011)
