Doubt to Devotion
Holy Convalidation, Batman! A Journey of Marital and Religious Acrobatics
Faith, Love, and Atari: An Agnostic’s Guide to Navigating Church and Life
The Planted Seed
My family worried I was becoming Catholic. When my wife and I had our daughters baptized, they nodded. Three years later they grinned when we were “married” again as a sacrament. It was my business, after all, to rebel against Reason, Darwin, and our Grandfather — our Holy Doubter.
In The Long Ago, The Time Before the Great Pestilence, the Inquisition began during dinner.
“Do you go to confession?”
“Oh, it’s called Conciliation now.”
Did I go to church on Sunday?
“Oh, I go every week.”
My step father laughed. Did I have a suit for my first communion and confirmation?
I just smiled. How would they have reacted if they knew Father Tony selected us as a model of the Christian family? This — knowing I had danced with various devils and gods.
God was big enough to work inside and outside of religion, he confessed. Priests didn’t have to be all James Joyce’d — driving a young artist away.
A Doubter is Born, or What Child is This?
It started with my Catholic baptism. My father meant well, but the Holy Water didn’t take. Blame my dense pores.
Mass — the Holy Rosary gymnasium. The basketball score — Visitors: 78 Home 67. Home should have won — with God on their court — but with no cure for cancer, why fix a game?
Even though God was “everywhere,” God didn’t have much olfactory sense if spirits smelled like dirty socks.
My agnosticism was genetic. My grandfather was out of Mainstream Christianity — or MSC. Why did he discuss religion so much? He would regale about the day he quit as a Methodist Sunday School teacher and “disassociated himself with organized religion.”
He would send cards with psalms or ones that read “God Bless You.” He read The Plain Truth. He appreciated a good debate — as long as you didn’t disagree. His indoctrination did last; it’s the reason I don’t feel religion, I only think religion. His favorite metaphor was “the great clock, the hands wound just once,” — as a Ben Franklin Deist.
After the divorce, Mom made an effort with the wonders of Presbyterianism. That pilot lasted the eternity of summer, but I still sing — “Happiness is a New Creation, Jesus and Me in Close relation. Taking a trip that leads to heaven. Happiness is the Lord!”
When I was ten, happiness was not the Lord, but my new Atari system.
Those modern-day Calvinists didn’t appreciate Mom was divorced until this one guy across the street lost his wife — and then got interested in more than stale wafer crackers. But what did men wearing pink pants and baby blue blazers know anyway? That dark, Middle Eastern Jesus had much better style, man! No pasty white dude! We would’ve had better luck with another church, but they were all more than two blocks away — just too much effort. It took time away from Donkey Kong.
That dude across the street never had a shot with my mom.
When twelve, I had a “religious epiphany” — like John Belushi as Jake in Blues Brothers. Every night for six weeks, I watched Jesus Christ Superstar. My mother sang in the production. “Take Him to Pilate! Crucify Him!” With no sitter, she dragged me to rehearsal. In the end, I cried every time.
A church could never get me that spiritually wrought. The theater became my church. Aristotle was right about catharsis — it cleansed me.
Jesus speaks: “Understand what power is. Understand what glory is.” I wanted to confess, “I believe! I believe!” But after the show, Jesus got down from his cross, put on jeans, lit a cigarette, and grabbed some leper’s ass. Hypocrite! Art lies!
I amazed everyone at school lunch with ‘citations’ from the “Gospel According to Andrew Lloyd Weber.”
“Didn’t Jesus say, ‘To conquer death you only have to die?’
I Married a Catholic After all, Oops!
Wasn’t I marrying someone like Mom-Mom, a beautiful Irish Catholic who I would “enlighten” as well? It wasn’t 1932 anymore. Mary Jane wanted to reconnect with her faith. The birth of our daughter, Katherine, prompted a desire to provide spiritual foundations.
I was supportive — hoping it would pass — knowing my tomes in my home library on world religions could provide an intellectual context. Alas, Mary Jane returned to the Roman fold. Amen, I say. Amen.
And I followed occasionally, observed sometimes, and sometimes wrote letters to the priest over ideology. This did not go over well. Fortunately, that regressive priest left, and a progressive priest arrived.
Life with American Catholics, God Bless Them (at least most of them)
I was not afraid of Jesus — as a teacher, what better example? He kicked ass, gave it to the man, stood up for the sick, the poor, and the oppressed, and lobbied against violence, materialism, and environmental destruction.
The warped theology of “Christians” scared the fawwwk out of me. Still does, brothers and sisters.
First of all, in the parking lot, back then, the “George W” stickers on the Ford Horsemen and the Dodge Armageddon’s petrified me.
How many “W” supporters did I know? Yet I imagined all the New Jersey “red-staters” at the Holy Name of Jesus — ink-staining me red!
Would I also put bumper stickers that read: “Thou Shall Drop Bombs on the Unbelievers” and “Blessed are the Rich whose Money Trickles Down to the Poor?”
The more I went, the more I realized they’re like me, really, with their 1.7 children, their angst, and doubts. The Knights of Columbus always tried to recruit me. Because I attended so many functions, like the kick-ass Mardi Gras dance and the summer barbeques, they assumed I broke the same bread. Even though tempted with the beef and beers, one needs to be Christian to be anointed with the Chalice of Budweiser.
At Least My Daughters are Saved
Katherine, who was seven then, and twenty-five now, wouldn’t eat her Cheerios at breakfast unless I was seated too. Then grace. Even at fast-food restaurants. Folks who said grace in public were freaks, right? Or from Utah. Does God claim ownership of a Triple pound cheeseburger and Biggie Fries? Isn’t that the Devil’s delicacy?
“Thank you, Oh Lord, for this deep-fried congealed mass of polyunsaturated fat and lard that will eventually kill me.”
Now there I was, holding hands, looking around the fast-food joint, eager to say, “I’m really an agnostic. My daughter is Mother Theresa. She’s incredibly thankful for her chemically altered Chicken Nuggets.”
During Mass on Sunday, in That Long Ago, Father Tony discussed the new fountain. Used as a metaphor, he inquired to the meaning of the running waters. One guy said, “Tranquility” and others said “Peace” and yet another uttered “Serenity” and Katherine raised her hand. “New life!”
Father Tony congratulated her deep wisdom. He turned the right key — something about the eye of the child through which a needle must pass. What child was this? I asked, singing the Christmas carol. Is she my kid? I looked over at my wife. Smiled. Sure, yes. A much better influence. Thank goodness there are two of us.
On another Sunday, Father Tony asked the children what they prayed for. Sarah, then four, squeezed her palms together and said, “Please God. Let there be checks in the mail for Dad.”
The congregation roared. Except me. She heard me too many times praying for medical reimbursements, rebates, or other types of “sudden free money” in the mail.
Sarah’s the only Catholic who wanted to be a Baptist (or a Druid) by dancing barefoot in the aisle while showing off her pink panties and belly button.
He laughed. A lot of her father in her? That’s right. The seed of Satan.
During Mass, in The Long Ago, Sarah made me hold hands during the Lord’s Prayer. Hold your hand out. She pointed to my mouth. Told me to sing, “Ha-lle-lu-iah!”
Katherine was shocked when I kneeled during the Consecration. She smiled. Was this the dude who joked about giving up Church for Lent? “Dad, I know you’re not Catholic — thanks for coming with us.”
On the way home, Katherine asked, “What do you believe in, Dad?”
“How old are you?”
“Seven.”
“I believe in respecting the various theories of religious experience and our overwhelming desire to make sense of our existence in the universe in order to give our lives meaning. As Joseph Campbell said . . .”
“Dad, can you play Barbie’s with me when we get home?”
The spirit of my grandfather laughed. Smiled. “Sure, sweetie.”
The Agnostic Catechist
When my wife worked, I would take the girls to CCD. No — it was called PREP — much too Protestant-esque for me. I even “went over” religious homework. When my wife taught Children’s Liturgy, I was the bouncer in the back who chilled the little sinners with Old Testament vengeance.
“You listen to my wife give the Word, little punks! And I’m not talking detention!”
When my wife was running late, I’ve even acted as a substitute CCD teacher for third graders. I faked a reincarnated St. Augustine with a British accent. “Write an essay about human duality and how to defeat the ‘ecstasy of evil,” I said.
There was two minutes of crying. Wait. No. Draw what God means to you. He looks like an Xbox — an updated version of my Atari. Some things never change.
A Lonely Agnostic Satirist in the Pew
Being on the outs of MSC is lonely. The devoted surround me — singing with closed eyes. Do I envy such peace? Why don’t I get it? Even now, all these years have passed, and Sarah, now 22, was a lector and read the readings so well, I’m like, “Damn you dense pores!” Why doesn’t any of it ever stick?
These people feel love, and I’m checking out the women in the communion line — and what they could possibly see in some of these duds — dudes. Sorry. I’ve been wonderfully married for twenty-eight years — so don’t get any ideas of unfaithfulness. Like Abraham, I would do anything for Mary Jane.
Why am I imagining the husbands and wives in the communion line having sex? What is wrong with me? Or is it just my writer’s curiosity and nosiness? Having a graphic imagination can be such a curse. Why was I created to think this way?
I also think how gross it is that they just “swipe” the communion cup after each swallow with a cloth. No alcohol or antiseptic at all.
But then you wouldn’t have time to judge the other parishioners and check out the latest fashions — not that anyone dresses for church anymore. I may not be Catholic, but if I’m going to God’s house, much like a wedding or a funeral, I’m looking damn dapper.
Back then, before The Great Pestilence Shadowed Over Our Land, and before COVID-19, I encouraged her to remind the good people that “man does not live by an entire bakery alone.” She tried not to laugh — but she couldn’t. It was like when I first went to Mass with her, and I dabbed holy water on my neck’s pulse spots like aftershave; I hardly knew anything about the rituals.
I still blame my dense pores.
The Doubting Never Stops, Amen!
I’m like that Doubting Thomas. “Oh yeah, prove it to me!” In spite of my wandering mind, I always wind up getting something out of the readings because of the symbolism. Why do so many kill over a symbol? I especially love when Sarah reads. But to me, it’s the difference between an article: not the way but a way.
Am I a religious polygamist who cannot commit? If I accept Jesus, I’m denying Buddha, Zoroaster, Krishna, Lao Tzu, Mohammed, and Baha’u’llah. I’ll never be able to stay faithful to one faith.
As Jean Paul Sartre said — An atheist takes a great leap of faith too. I don’t want to take any leaps. I took a leap when I married, had kids. That was enough. I’m not a good jumper. I like where I’m standing. The view is wonderful from down here — but it is lonely.
Rebirth Through Love
The inquisition restarted again, one Easter, in That Long Ago.
“What do you mean you’re not eating your chocolate bunny?”
“I’m on Lent, Mom.”
“Really?
“Yep! I gave up sweets! And Father Tony has asked me to speak at church as a model of the Christian Family.”
My sister ended the conversation. “Mom, thanks for the Easter basket!”
I should confess, though; I decided to finally attend church once my wife was diagnosed with melanoma. This was eighteen years ago. Give or take. It was just something I wanted to do — for her — for my daughters — and for myself. I felt better being with her — holding her hand, looking at her moist eyes when Father Tony mentioned suffering and courage, and when the gospel discussed the healing power of love. How could I allow her to struggle alone?
If I stayed home, I would’ve played The Clash’s London Calling loud. Now I prayed for patience, for strength, for perseverance — all the while trying to keep Sarah from making Mass a pagan dance rite — even though I was tempted to join.
Mary Jane joked once after Mass she hoped God didn’t give her cancer just to get me to church. She’s like me: She wouldn’t want to belong to any God that purposely did that. Fortunately, the CAT scans came back, and there was no recurrence. That was until this year, the Year of Very Bad Stuff Always Happening when a mole with melanoma was safely removed. Praise be, right? And praise be, doctors and scientists, and following up with appointments and skin checks!
Family and Love
With my grandfather dying, I was by his side, crying. He was the greatest man I knew, I confessed.
He smiled, grabbed my hand. “Be a good father. Be a good husband. Have no regrets.”
An hour later, he died. There was more to Christianity than claiming Christianhood — he proved it by example.
And I know this because God visited me last night and anointed sweet, eternal Truths onto my belly. It was a medicated balm. Just try and prove me wrong.
