On Religion

Post-Catholicism

Growing up Catholic was very special. Not only was it great to have an armoire full of appropriate Sunday attire, it was awesome to be awake at 6am on Sunday mornings for a quick breakfast and a long sermon at the Cathedral. I spent most of my formative years in catechism, preparing for 1st Communion and the subsequent Confirmation. Every Sunday afternoon, not very long after getting out of church, I was to return and learn of Jesus and his exclusive passage to the heavenly Kingdom.

I did not enjoy catechism. As a matter of fact, I never really enjoyed mass. Nonetheless, I was elated when I finally had my 1st Communion. I’m not sure how it went, the memory’s a bit hazed; I may have been eight or even seven. But I remember clear as day, the white little suit I wore to the ritual and the kick-ass party that followed church. By the time I had my Confirmation, I was nearly out of middle school and had already decided that ‘Church’ had some serious issues. I never went to confession because I simply couldn’t come to terms with speaking of my deepest secrets with a total stranger. I recalled my furry instructor whom called herself God’s wife, yelping: “God is omnipotent; he can hear your every thought and watch your every move…” or something like that, I’m paraphrasing, I never really paid attention. All I could conclude from such affirmation is that a priest could no better tell me how to repent, than a god who can watch and listen to every sin I have and will ever perpetrate.

As I got older I grew away from the church—very, very, very far from Catholicism. Actually, I sprinted in the opposite direction of organized religion; disparaging it as the devil that my family and the congregation so emphatically believed in, often more intensely than they did in God. I realized that the Bible was just a book, with some pretty words, and some not so pretty phrases, and a whole lot of silly jargon. By the time I was thirteen, I had read the Bible front-to-back thrice! Concluding that it simply wasn’t that serious and that to live my life by the words between its pages was a ludicrous design. And so I read other “holy” books, only to animate and rationalize the innate pretentiousness of Catholicism; I wanted to prove that organized religion was the enemy, not God. From my readings it was clear to see that most religions do not argue whether they are right. Rather, everyone who disagreed was wrong. It was self-deprecating and redundant, so I closed the books and quietly abandoned the pursuit like a hunter who abandons his gathering.

However far from religion I may have strayed, my belief in a god never faltered. Perhaps the same god the bible spoke of; maybe even the same god that would allegedly punish me if I did not attend catechism class, get baptized, or accept the tasteless piece of rye, cunningly coined “The Body of Christ,” each and every Sunday (at least the wine was something to look forward to). I am not sure exactly, but I do know that faith blazed inside of me: Faith in the unknown, in the unseen; belief in something far more remarkable and powerful than the meekness of a human being, and I passionately argued the existence of one providential lord to anyone who’d disagree and with any Christian who wanted me to acknowledge the Bible as “the word” of God and not transcribed allegory.

Eventually however, that burning beacon slowly ceased. Deplored by the trivialities of life, diffused by sex, drugs and culture. Split apart by logic and science. Mostly, destroyed by the malice and adversity of people. I built a moat around my faith and allowed the rain to damp whatever strands of blaze remained. Philosophy and logic became a mission, and I found myself pinning the two against each other, attempting to find purpose. As my conviction rested in the ashes, charred and broken, I confronted her, as I never had. Truly for the first time I required to know the truth. I wished for salvation; for the kind of spirituality I only witnessed on late-night religious infomercials; I wanted a benevolent god that would remove me from the penitentiary of brevity and deflect me from the flawed inkling and depravity of human virtue. The more I searched, the more that logic would strip me of the pixie tales I thought I hadn’t learnt. As I skimmed the pages of philosophy and brushed up on my physics, I found that God did not exist and He wasn’t going to save me. I was noticeably crushed. Even so, I shrugged my shoulders and moved on, proclaiming my independence as an Atheist.

Except soon I found I had come to nurture trust in incredulity. I cherished faith in the lack of an all-powerful god that fashioned this world and all that’s in it in his supposed image. Through diagrams and formulas, I saw the world without the solace of divine intervention. I saw a universe that emerged by insignificant chance, the result of nothing and devoid of any motive. Amid all the ridiculousness of probability, we were here alone, without purpose or meaning. The concept left me gravely distressed and for that dark moment I saw life, as it must be, empty and ridiculous—surreal even. There, at the end of existence, stood humanity: plain and baffled, tiny little creatures fighting to exist for a tiny fragment of a microsecond, atop this tiny floating sphere out in the vastness of an infinite universe—alone. I swam through the empty air that pulled at me from dissimilar directions as I floated aimlessly in the maddening darkness. Suspended, for what seemed to be eternity, in the deafening silence, without an identity or basis to subsist. As I opened my eyes back to an arguable reality, I felt the fibers in my chest swell and my vision blur as I sighed with gratitude.

I haven’t found the answer, nor do I think I can truly do so; yet all that I can do is question. Words do not mean anything, and the minute words fill air they’ve taken on far too much sense. Thus, I do not know what is or what could be truth. If I’ve learned anything throughout my short existence is that there is no truth. I cannot seek the divine within the confines of human misconceptions. The divine exists inside of me, far more engrained than I’d imagined, though it doesn’t live within me. I cannot reach it, I cannot see it, nor can I ever be or become it. Yet I can certainly feel it and understand it as a force that does affect me, beyond logic and control.

Science itself is a belief system that ultimately disproves nothing, and such understanding has led me to a comprehensive and intellectual, spiritual appreciation of the divine. God is everything that surrounds us, and everything that does not; he or she, or it—that immeasurable oblivion which jolts us beyond our most crimson nightmares—is all that we see and all of that which we never will; god represents that which we can never describe without negating it. There is no proof, because there needn’t be any. I will continue to question my faith and challenge my belief systems, despite what contradictions they may suggest. There could not be an answer, but perhaps I have not solicited the right questions. Whilst I am living I will continue to query my reality and hope that my search for an illogical truth will bring to my life a single, flowing curl of significance.