Blind faith (part 2)

It wasn't until I was in high school that I began skipping church. Going to church every Sunday was something that was not only expected in my house, but enforced. Sick or not, you were going. You could have a fever and be vomiting, and you were still going. Not honoring the Lord's day was the pathway to Hell and a mortal sin to boot.

And every chance I got, I'd head toward church in case one of them was looking out the window, which they often did, and then just walk around the neighborhood, or go to the store or find another way to occupy that hour.

I always envied those people who found comfort in being in church, and in group worship. From as early as I can remember, I always felt like an observer when I was sitting the pew...an outsider who didn't belong there...a sinner who didn't deserve to be in God's house. A hypocrite.

When I met my future husband, my parents were mortified that he was protestant. In fact, when we became engaged, my mother told me she was actually afraid to call my grandfather in Ireland and tell him I was marrying someone who wasn't Catholic. That he would never understand such a thing. You would've thought I'd committed a felony.

I know that being Catholic is not an easy thing, but I was never given a choice. There was no choice. If you were born into Catholicism, that was it. End of story. You follow the rules, you do what you're told, there was no questioning anything. There was no tolerance for other religions, because Catholicism was the only true religion.

And being the person I am, I began to question everything, which did not go over well in my home. It wasn't until I was in my late 30s that I finally told my parents that I didn't go to church anymore. For years, I lied about it, because I knew well how they would react. And when I sat my mother down finally and broke the news to her, she responded exactly how I anticipated she would.

How can this be true? Didn't I fear for my soul? Didn't I care that it was a mortal sin? And what about my children? Didn't I care about their souls? The guilt was laid on as thick as ever. And I was so tired of feeling guilty over how I chose to live my life.

To be continued.

Blind faith

When I blog here or write my column at work, there are two things I normally try to stay away from - politics and religion. Like most people, I have opinions on both, but I choose to keep them to myself. These topics get people fired up, which isn't a bad thing in itself, but often the conversations can break down into personal attacks quickly, and that's never good.

But today, I'm going to break from my own rule and talk about religion. Faith is a very emotional subject for me for many reasons. I was raised by people who believed most things in life were sinful...that anything that gave us joy or pleasure was most likely sinful. They themselves were raised on the belief that fire and brimstone were what awaited us in the afterlife if we didn't lead pious lives. They took no joy at all in this great gift we've been given, and lived in constant fear of their souls and ours, burning in Hell for all eternity.

Let me tell you first what I believe. I believe in God. I believe in Heaven and Hell, and saints and angels and miracles. I'm not much of a churchgoer because I believe my relationship with God is a private one. But I pray all the time, every day, mostly to the blessed Mother. And I try to live a good life and to be kind to others.

As I've gotten older, I've lost faith not in God, but in Catholicism. That is to say...in the church itself. I take issue with a group of men deciding how I should live my life, and in the ways women have always been painted throughout the histories of organized religion. Not always, but in great part, we have consistently been the second-class citizens, the greatest sinners, the ones who lead good, God-fearing men to do evil deeds. Please.

I went to Catholic school for ten years. My teachers were primarily nuns. Some of them were funny, kind, remarkable women, and others were everything one thinks of when they think of old-school nuns...strict, rigid, and to be feared. One in particular used to beat us on a daily basis. And this wasn't in the olden days, mind you, when such a thing was tolerated. This was in the early 80s.

It was that nun, a bride of Jesus, a woman who had taken vows to live her life for the Lord, who first initiated my turn from Catholicism. She beat children. She humiliated us. And she did it without hesitation and with what seemed almost like joy. She left her mark both physically and mentally, year after year, on class after class, while the school turned a blind eye. I'll never forget the day the told my classmates and I that she hoped we all burned in purgatory for a hundred years. Very Christian of her.

To be continued at a later date.