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Abstract

new school and didn’t want to go back to wearing uniforms and taking the same religious classes over and over. I didn’t want to go back to teachers telling me I’d go straight to hell if I did something that caused my parents to yell, “Damn you!” Going to confession creeped me out and my butt itched while sitting on the hard benches of the Church during daily mass.Also, and more importantly, at 14, I already understood that the Catholic Church was a man’s world. Back then, no girls could serve at the altar. In fact, females in general weren’t allowed in the altar area for anything other than marriage or baptism.The whole “women aren’t allowed” thing didn’t sit well with me even in kindergarten. It always seemed unfair. I was as capable as any boy and I hated being told I couldn’t do something.So, I listened to every word, hoping that my mother wouldn’t change her mind.Then came the day that a priest from our new parish unexpectedly knocked on our front door. My mother let him in, but just barely. My brother and I saw him in the foyer of our house, then crept to my bedroom with the door open so we could hear every word.As expected, he argued with her to return the family to the Church and adhere to its doctrines. He worried about our very souls and our salvation. I didn’t like the bossy tone in his voice.He said, “I’ve heard through some of your friends that you no longer want to accept children as they come. Is this true?”My mother explained that she had been pregnant for almost 10 years straight and she didn’t want anymore babies. She still grieved for the one she lost and could barely keep up with the ones still living. Having another one would take too much energy, she was older, a

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nd her existing children needed her whole.I heard no compassion in his voice when he reminded her that birth control was against the Church’s teachings and that she should set an example for her children instead of refusing them salvation.My anxiety exploded with the hush in the house. I had to wait two beats before I heard the words never before spoken in our home.My tiny, upstanding, formerly obedient mother firmly told that priest to FUCK OFF!I heard words after that from both of their mouths, but can’t remember them exactly. I remember that the priest left and never came back. We never went back to church unless we wanted to go with my father at Christmas. After a few years, we didn’t even do that.Later, my mother told me that she’d been sick of being told what to do for quite some time. She was tired of being second class. She felt that she could be Catholic in her heart and stick to her beliefs without having to attend church every Sunday. She knew she was equal, and a good person in the eyes of God. She didn’t need some male human being telling her otherwise.Now that I’m older and a mother myself, I see how my mom suffered in the Catholic Church. I think she knew that being in those schools hurt us, but felt helpless to fix things. She used the move to the new house to break free.After her death, as I sorted her things, I found a prayer book with notes in the margins in the drawer of her bedside table. Apparently, she had decided on her own form of religion.My mother taught me that you don’t need to go to church or follow a bunch of men’s rules to be a spiritual person, or to believe in God. I will be forever grateful to her for that gift.</article></body>

The Time My Mom Told A Priest To F*ck Off

You don’t need a church to have faith

My mom had been through enough. In nine years, she’d had five kids and already buried one. After a miscarriage in her thirties, she started taking birth control pills. No more kids. No more worry.

This didn’t sit very well with the parish priest, or some of my mom’s more devout friends. My parents had always been Catholic and raised us in the faith. We went to Catholic school and to church every Sunday. But when we moved to a new town and switched parishes, my mother snapped.

She ripped us out of the Catholic schools, and stopped attending mass on Sundays. She stopped volunteering for parish events and started playing bridge on Saturdays. She went back to school to get her Master’s Degree.

My father was bewildered. The Church was alarmed.

The phone calls started with pleas to re-enroll us in the parochial school. I could hear my mother defend her decision by saying the public schools offer a better education. She wanted us to learn foreign languages and more science, less religion.

Then they tried to get her back to church and volunteer. She always responded that she didn’t have the time and wasn’t interested. At this point, she was still polite, but firm.

I tried to eavesdrop on any conversation I could listen to. I was terrified. I loved my new school and didn’t want to go back to wearing uniforms and taking the same religious classes over and over. I didn’t want to go back to teachers telling me I’d go straight to hell if I did something that caused my parents to yell, “Damn you!” Going to confession creeped me out and my butt itched while sitting on the hard benches of the Church during daily mass.

Also, and more importantly, at 14, I already understood that the Catholic Church was a man’s world. Back then, no girls could serve at the altar. In fact, females in general weren’t allowed in the altar area for anything other than marriage or baptism.

The whole “women aren’t allowed” thing didn’t sit well with me even in kindergarten. It always seemed unfair. I was as capable as any boy and I hated being told I couldn’t do something.

So, I listened to every word, hoping that my mother wouldn’t change her mind.

Then came the day that a priest from our new parish unexpectedly knocked on our front door. My mother let him in, but just barely. My brother and I saw him in the foyer of our house, then crept to my bedroom with the door open so we could hear every word.

As expected, he argued with her to return the family to the Church and adhere to its doctrines. He worried about our very souls and our salvation. I didn’t like the bossy tone in his voice.

He said, “I’ve heard through some of your friends that you no longer want to accept children as they come. Is this true?”

My mother explained that she had been pregnant for almost 10 years straight and she didn’t want anymore babies. She still grieved for the one she lost and could barely keep up with the ones still living. Having another one would take too much energy, she was older, and her existing children needed her whole.

I heard no compassion in his voice when he reminded her that birth control was against the Church’s teachings and that she should set an example for her children instead of refusing them salvation.

My anxiety exploded with the hush in the house. I had to wait two beats before I heard the words never before spoken in our home.

My tiny, upstanding, formerly obedient mother firmly told that priest to FUCK OFF!

I heard words after that from both of their mouths, but can’t remember them exactly. I remember that the priest left and never came back. We never went back to church unless we wanted to go with my father at Christmas. After a few years, we didn’t even do that.

Later, my mother told me that she’d been sick of being told what to do for quite some time. She was tired of being second class. She felt that she could be Catholic in her heart and stick to her beliefs without having to attend church every Sunday. She knew she was equal, and a good person in the eyes of God. She didn’t need some male human being telling her otherwise.

Now that I’m older and a mother myself, I see how my mom suffered in the Catholic Church. I think she knew that being in those schools hurt us, but felt helpless to fix things. She used the move to the new house to break free.

After her death, as I sorted her things, I found a prayer book with notes in the margins in the drawer of her bedside table. Apparently, she had decided on her own form of religion.

My mother taught me that you don’t need to go to church or follow a bunch of men’s rules to be a spiritual person, or to believe in God. I will be forever grateful to her for that gift.