In the Beginning.... (part 1)

…I was born into a “good” Catholic home. I was baptized when I was about a month old, by Father Merrill at Our Lady of Guadalupe Church – the parish where I spent youth. I attended church every Sunday. My aunt used to sing, and I remember many a Sunday after church (while spending the day at my Gram’s, as we did every Sunday after church) listening to my Janie playing her guitar and singing. 

My Gram’s name was Mary: Mary being the traditional name given to a family’s first-born daughter in honor of the mother of Christ. My grandmother, I have said with only a minimum of exaggeration, would have been the first American pope had she been born a man. The woman lived, breathed, exuded and died her religion. She was separated from my grandfather for over 40 years but never divorced him, despite encouragement even from Catholic clergy, because that was not what was taught.

At the age of eight, my catechism peers received their First Holy Communion, but my mother decided that I wasn’t ready, so I had to wait an additional year. Because of this, when my mother decided I was ready, I had to have an interview with the priest. I remember how frightened I was, as I entered his apartment (which was in the church building) to be interviewed. It was during this meeting that I had my first stirrings of doubt about religion, because I was completely aware of the fact that I was giving him all the “right” answers. Now, some of the questions he asked where about what I felt in my heart, and I remember thinking that it didn’t matter what I felt, rather that this – like a test in school – most assuredly had “right” answers. I knew exactly what I was supposed to say, and I knew that I didn’t know what I felt in my heart.

Being raised in Salt Lake City meant being raised in the land where Mormon pioneers had escaped persecution in the 1800s. The population of Utah is predominately Mormon. For my entire life, I faced various degrees of exclusion from social activities, cliques at school, etc., due to not being a member of the LDS church. My mother moved us frequently during my childhood, and at every new school I faced the routine of feeling left out, and not having the opportunity to bond with my peers as the majority of the friendships between my peers were formed through the strong bonds that they formed at church. I had no means of getting to “fit in”. I looked different (at that time, the ethnic diversity that is prevalent in Utah was not present), acted differently, and believed differently. It was very difficult to never fully feel like it was possible for me to “fit in”.

 

By the age of 13, I was past the age of regular Saturday morning catechism, but not quite old enough for confirmation class. But since my mom taught catechism, I was usually present in the Hacienda (name of the building where they held religious classes). One Saturday, the kindergarten teacher didn’t show up and the priest (I can’t remember his name) recruited me to fill in as the teacher. I don’t remember what I talked about, but I remember that he didn’t give me a lesson plan and that I had no idea what I was doing. The following week I did not go to the Hacienda, for whatever reason. The next day in church, Father asked where I had been. I told him I just had stayed home, and he told me that I was the new teacher for the kindergarten class because the former teacher had just resigned. Surely he couldn’t be serious?!? I was only 13! However, far be it for me to tell a priest no. I showed up the following Saturday and was suddenly part of the catechism teachers, where I remained for a few years.

In addition to teaching, I was active in the church in several other ways. I followed family tradition through the use of a powerful voice to be a lector (one who reads readings from the Old Testament during mass), was cast as Our Lady of Guadalupe for several years in the church play. When I went to live with my Gram at the age of 16, I started attending her parish, St. Patrick’s. I started taking the class that my Gram taught to adults who wanted to convert to the Catholic faith. In this class, I was able to ask a lot of my questions and listen to perspectives from others about their different journeys. It was enlightening, but the more I heard, the more I questioned.

The following year, my best friend (and boss, who was about 18 years my senior) took the RCIA (Rite of Catholic Initiation for Adults – the aforementioned class my Gram taught) and decided to become Catholic. She asked me to be her sponsor for her confirmation. I agreed to the honor, although I knew that inside, my struggle with religion was growing, despite my continued activity in the parish.

I moved out of my grandmother’s house about 2 weeks before I turned 18. I moved into a mobile home with my best friend, Christopher. Christopher was a life-long member of the Mormon Church. He had served a mission for the LDS church (he had only been back from his mission a few months when I had met him two years prior). It was when I was living with Chris that I attended my first LDS church service, which happened to be a Fast and Testimony meeting. The experience left much to be desired, as it consisted ENTIRELY of a ton of children standing up to bear their testimony. At this age, that consisted of the young children’s older siblings whispering the words to be repeated into their tiny ears. It lacked sincerity and conviction, and only fueled my growing discomfort with organized religion.

 

I was roommates with Chris for only two short months. His parents, who thought I was very delightful, were most anxious to see their son settle down and start a family, as young Mormons (and especially return missionaries) are encouraged to do. Chris was, unbeknownst to me at the time, struggling to deal with his homosexuality, but knew that he could not in good conscience marry a woman (and our relationship had not been romantic in nature, anyway), but I could tell the emotional agony he felt because his parents treated him as if were living in sin because he lived with me but would not pursue a relationship with me. I couldn’t stand watching him hurt, so I found a new living situation and moved out.

By the time a year had passed, I had quit going to church entirely and had slowly allowed myself to accept the fact that I didn’t believe in God. I had engaged in countless conversations with my atheist uncle about science over the years. My brain could not comprehend the omnipotence of a God, and so I threw my eggs in the basket of the scientific process and the need for concrete proof to ascertain the existence of everything. I have always hated labels – any simple word that tried to categorize human based on commonalities with other humans. As such, I hated the term “atheist” and did not often use it, but that is what I believed I was. It was a strange dynamic, but it hurt my heart to “lose” my faith. It was a comforting feeling to believe that there was a supreme and divine Creator that had designed us in his own image and that He was looking out for us. But I just couldn’t get my head around it.

Christopher and I went through a period of distance and we didn’t even speak for about six months. When we started spending time together again, he was able to come out to me and our friendship once again became one of the most important relationships I had. I don’t remember how it began, but for a brief time we began attending the Universal Unitarian church together. We even attended a brunch that the pastor, Rev. Tom Goldstein had in his home for potential converts. I found solace in the Unitarian services because the sermons and readings barely even mentioned God, let alone have a particular doctrine that had to be accepted. It was a beautiful experience, but it confirmed that religion did not have a place in my world. I soon met a man that was first adult boyfriend. He was an atheist, and by the time we moved into an apartment together a few months later, religion was completely removed from my life. I didn't like to talk spirituality, and did not usually identify as an atheist, but that is basically what I was for most of my adult life to this point.

I will likely make edits to this post later, when I get a few of the things I really want to get posted as a framework for this blog, but this is the first part of my story out of and back into my connection with my spirit and with spirituality. The fact of the matter is that I never lost spirituality, I just paid it no mind for a very long time and when I first reconnected with it, I called it by another name. I will end this post here, as this really is the synopsis of my journey out of religion and out of touch with spirituality. For a great many years, I would never have claimed to be a “spiritual” person. The next segment of this post (which may not come until I post a couple of posts from my most recent experiences, while they are fresh in my mind) will discuss my reconnection with spirit and self.