“I was raised Catholic.” It’s a common expression with a variety of meanings. For some they were full tilt wearing uniforms to school. For others, it meant church every Sunday and hitting the developmental milestones of holy communion and such. For me, it meant Catholic values were paramount. Jesus is watching, make good choices for more than just yourself (but God forgives), there are forces controlling the universe that are bigger than humans, and of course the patented Catholic guilt. The primary church experiences I had a as kid were when we would visit my Grammie and go see some dude speaking Latin, or when I’d be swept up in some vacation bible school by a neighbor.
Even though I wasn’t a church goer, I knew the practices and prayers and such. And it really did have an impact. It was like a touchstone responsible for a moral compass. A fucked up moral compass, but one nonetheless. It didn’t mean I didn’t do wrong things, it means I know they’re wrong. I make bad informed decisions. Catholocism also provided me with senses of security and safety. I metaphorically clung to my rosary beads like they provided me invincibility. They were a tangible connection to a spiritual existence.
The word Catholic means universal. It’s a pretty cool religion in that there are prescribed practices that are consistent whether you’re attending mass in Anderson, California or Cartagena, Columbia. You know what to expect, and there is comfort in consistency.
As an adult, I wanted to get more connected. I did however many months of classes to unlock the levels of confirmation and first holy communion. I got to have my first confession. I was pleased to see that I hadn’t caused Father to have a heart attack as I dumped over 20 years of chaos on his ears. It really was a great experience, aside from the time that one dude’s truck got stolen outside Sacred Heart while we were all inside learning about Jesus.
I got married at Sacred Heart. It’s the church where my Grammie’s funeral mass had been and where my in-laws had been married 25 years before. And then for a period of time I (please be seated for this) was part of the team teaching Children’s Liturgy of the Word. That’s right, this bitch was teaching Sunday school. I was not struck by lightning, and I trust that’s all the evidence you need that forgiveness is thing.
Over time and added involvements in other things, church stopped being as big a part of my life. I gave it a run again when the kids were little. It was a challenge for just the three of us when ever one of my babies started to get squirrely. However, when those moments happened right before collection was coming and I “had” to leave; I was okay with that.
Despite my bailouts from organized religion, I’d hoped to raise my kids with some of the values passed on to me. But one day as the three of us tried to sit quietly, my preschooler Daniel instantly proved that I was missing the mark.
In the Catholic church you will find a life sized statue of Jesus on the crucifix near the alter. It’s that center piece reminder of suffering for the benefit of others. It’s a tragically beautiful piece of art. The man in just his Galilean underwear, looking towards heaven with pain, compassion, and understanding prominent on his face. My Danny looked at that and blurted, “Who’s the naked guy?”
Though I have capitalized on Rona times to watch some mass from home, I’ve not been in years. Back in the classes, we’d heard the expression CEO “Christmas and Easter Only.” I haven’t even hit those. Since then it’s been more like “Hey boys, before you search for your baskets…you remember this day is about Jesus dying and coming back, right?” They nod in affirmation and know they’ll be subjected to the same question next year.
I don’t know what God and spirituality is to them. But I do know that when Dirty recently had thing that could’ve turned out badly but didn’t; I wanted to pray out loud. Dirty was on board, AND he knew to say “amen” at the end. And I guess I’ll call that a win.
Happy Easter, and thank you for reading!
Bifocals and Barbells 