Motion Masquerade

Daily writing prompt

Do you practice religion?

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The short, uncomplicated answer to this question is, “Not really, no.”

The more comprehensive answer is that my faith is very idiosyncratic. It’s been complicated by personal history and experience, becoming much more nuanced and ambiguous over time.

This is Man’s Law, Not God’s

I was raised in the Roman Catholic Church. I even attended a Catholic school for a short period of time before I was expelled for various “disturbing behaviors,” including demonstrating how a baby was born for show and tell to my elementary school classmates. (Nuns aren’t huge fans of science.)

I went to confession on Saturdays, mass and catechism on Sundays, and spent a lot of time in Father O’Malley’s office for asking practical questions (deemed “irrelevant and obstinate” by the nuns). The only answer to these inquiries I ever received was a ruler across the knuckles and yet another speech from the priest about how I was destined to end up a Magdalene if I didn’t straighten up my act.

I even screwed up the holy rite of receiving my first communion. In my excitement over becoming a “grown-up” member of the congregation I forgot that I wasn’t supposed to bite down on the eucharist. My grandmother — who had travelled from Montana to Nebraska to witness my transformation — gave me a good wallop to the head with her handbag for the transgression, hissing, “For God’s sake, you never chew Jesus!” (As an act of rebellion I secretly chewed the eucharist for the rest of my many years as a Roman Catholic.)

I was the only one of my siblings to become confirmed at the age of eighteen and to later go through all of the steps required to marry in the church.

But, my long-standing relationship with them ended shortly thereafter for three reasons:

1. My uncle was prevented from attending mass — despite the fact that he had been a devoted Catholic all his life — because a priest was aware of the fact that he was gay.
2. The church’s stance on contraception and abortion was in direct opposition to my beliefs that a woman’s body is her own to do with as she chooses.
3. They would not grant an annulment of my marriage, nor permit a divorce, when presented with evidence of abuse. (I got divorced anyway.)

I walked away from something — with a very heavy heart — that had been an integral part of my life; and though there have been times that I have missed it, I have never been back.

I just couldn’t reconcile the hypocrisy of man’s interpretation of God’s word. For me God equated to love, and I was seeing very little of that within the workings of the Catholic church (or any organized religion, for that matter).

Losing My Faith

My younger brother remained very religious all his life. He walked away from the Roman Catholic Church, but found his place with a New Life chapter.

Cole was active in his congregation. He was a youth minister and all of his friends were members of the church. He took his family to services every Sunday.

My brother was a devout Christian who could quote scripture by heart. He feared for the souls of his siblings, and often broke down in tears when we drank together — begging us to repent so that he might one day meet us in heaven.

I was divorced, living in sin (i.e. shacking up with a partner I wasn’t married to), and had had an abortion. Chase was — and remains — a staunch atheist. In Cole’s eyes we were doomed to an eternity in hell, and he really didn’t want that. He prayed for us constantly.

His body was covered with colorful, beautifully self-designed religious tattoos. Head to toe. Cole was a masterful artist.

In his late twenties, my brother started experiencing debilitating pain in his lower back. Having always been extremely active — he was a professional skater, a surfer, a cyclist, and an avid motorcyclist — it was even more excruciating, because it kept him from doing the things that he loved.

He underwent several painful procedures trying to correct the problem. He had a metal cage put in; and later, taken out. He had discs fused, to no avail. He tried external and internal nerve stimulators. He spent years on opioids and muscle relaxers. And all any of it did was change who he was.

Cole slowly started to fade from our lives. He became more and more isolated. He grew angrier and more resentful. Eventually, his marriage ended. He did gain full-custody of his son, but he wasn’t the father he wanted to be. He couldn’t do all of the things he wished to with his child, and you could see his heart and his spirit breaking.

My brother prayed constantly — and not for a miracle. He prayed for just enough relief to live a semi-normal life. The answer to his prayers never came.

In June of 2018 Cole took his life.

I lost more than my brother. I lost my faith in God.

What I Have Today is Idiosyncratic and Ambiguous

Six years later, I’ve started to let go of the anger surrounding the loss of my brother. I even occasionally talk to God now and again — but I don’t know that I believe anyone is listening. More often than not, when I do pray these days, I pray to the people I’ve lost.

I want to hold on to the beliefs I grew up with. There’s comfort in the thought that I will one day embrace Cole in my arms again. (As my husband says, “That boy gave the best damn bear hugs in the whole goddam world.”) I have trouble clinging to them though because I’ve witnessed too much pain and too many horrible things that I can’t explain.

I like the ideas that are presented in The Shack — the explanations that are given for the ugliness — but my faith is not as strong as the fictional people in that story. I wish I could say that it were. I long for that kind of surety.

I even toy with the idea of going back to church. A few months ago, I even gave it a try with a few friends of mine who are members of a Christian parish here in town — but the message felt flat and manipulative to me. The preacher claimed that God spoke directly to him and I just couldn’t buy into that.

I don’t know why we’re here. I don’t know what it is we’re supposed to do or learn from all of it. I do know that I make an effort to improve the lives of those around me. I love with all that I am and I keep an open heart — and mind — when I’m able. I believe that empathy and compassion are things we need more of. I think we should listen more than we talk. And I hope to someday see those enigmatic footprints in the sand…