Unlearned lessons
Let’s stick the metaphorical pin into the same vein as last night’s entry. I’ve been pondering this religious struggle and trying to analyze it to determine just where and how I shifted from “truth seeker” to “bitter log-sitter.” I mean, I certainly had a fair amount of pain when I decided, in 2003, that I couldn’t be Catholic and began my foray with the Episcopalians. But I was moving forward then. And I ended up at Holy Comforter and really felt over the next many months that I was making progress within myself. Then at Christmastime of 2004, I had the “Catholic relapse,” which by the summer had itself progressed into rejoining the Catholic Church, however tenuously.
Then came Katrina, which, in my biography, is the obvious scapegoat for a lot of things. I really don’t remember going to Mass or which parishes I was attending after I stopped going to Holy Comforter and before Katrina.
And I have absolutely no memory of going to church during my Katrina evacuation in Pensacola. Zero memories of any Mass, confession, or entrance into a Catholic church for the whole four months (plus) between coming to town before the storm and leaving town after my mom died. I know I went to church; I am sure I went every week. But I have no recollection of it. I remember going to swing night. I remember going to bingo. I remember drinking lots of alcohol. I do not remember any solace I found in my religious faith, nor any continuation of strife surrounding my religious issues.
What does that mean? It seems like it should be telling, but of what, I’m not sure. There’s the obvious pity that during the most difficult and redefining time of my life, the time when I could probably have used a solid religious foundation or community the most, I had none. I had already separated myself from the Holy Comforter crowd, and I didn’t have a parish in New Orleans, and I, apparently, did not bother to seek out any comfort in a church in Pensacola. Maybe it didn’t occur to me. It has only occurred to me now to consider this.
I don’t think I wrote in this blog about going to church during that time, though I am composing this offline and can’t double check that. I do remember that I did feel, in a certain way, shielded, or maybe guided, by God.
Actually, I just remembered one time. I went to confession once, not long after my mom’s brain mets were found, but before she went into the hospital. Something had happened; she had been crying, and I couldn’t bring myself to do whatever it was I felt I should be doing to provide comfort and support and love to her. I went to confession at St. Michael’s on a weekday, which is where you go for a quick and anonymous confession, and the priest encouraged me to open myself up to whatever it was I needed to do for my mother.
Hm.
The next time I remember going to church was in Connecticut, and by then, the bitterness had set in. It was January, so one of my first Masses had to focus on Roe vs. Wade. I had some okay Catholic experiences in Connecticut, and I visited some Connecticut Episcopalians some, too. But in the end, it was all a wash. I don’t think I even told anyone from my church that we were moving back to Pensacola.
During my Katrina evacuation, I felt like events were unfolding in a way that I had no control over, but somehow, things were working out in a precipitous way for me anyway. I attributed this to God. The timing, for example, was impeccable. Katrina happened just a short time after I finished graduate school. I had my degree, and I had just gotten a job. When I came home and found out my mom was dying, the aftermath of the storm allowed me to stay with her when I otherwise would have had to go back to work and would have missed out on the last four months of her life and on the small but important steps we took in strengthening the tenuous relationship we had. I was able to stay with her, but I was also able to passively earn money and so didn’t have to find another job. And the time or two I tried to go back to New Orleans, I got very clear signs that I needed to stay in Pensacola because the end was nearer than I imagined. I went back one day, and two days later, she was in the hospital again, and there was some kind of crisis with insurance that lasted only long enough for me to get back to town. Eventually, the university made everyone decide if they were in or out, and that happened just after my mom died, and just as we were coming to the decision to leave New Orleans for good.
Ever since then, I’ve always said that if my mom had to die, and if Katrina had to destroy New Orleans, then these events could not have converged in a better way for me. And while divine intervention doesn’t necessarily seem glaringly obvious in this rewriting, it really stood out to me at the time. There were other hints, strange coincidences, that made me feel like God hadn’t left me all alone, that He was, in fact, right there with me the whole time.
And yet, I don’t remember ever going to church.
That whole experience could have been the beginning of a more mature, healthy religious faith for me. And instead, I just found the bitterness that continues to plague me to this day.
Maybe God is angry with me now. He wasn’t all those years before, back when I was still searching, because He knew I was searching. He knew I had questions, and I tried more honestly to get the answers. But one thing Jesus and the Psalms tell us over and over is not to fear, to trust in God, to believe in his love for us and in his mercy and forgiveness. And I don’t. Even after all of that, all I went through in 2005, all the ways God revealed Himself to me, after all of that, I still act out of fear. I go to church and do what I think I’m supposed to do, not because I love God but because I fear God, and I fear hell.
Maybe to say “maybe God is angry with me” is to continue to perpetuate that. So maybe God isn’t angry, but maybe He is exasperated. “Oy, you pray for signs, you pray for guidance, and when I show you how much I love you, you continue to hide your face.”
Maybe God is saying, “Just come on. Just come to me.” But what does that mean? Which answer is that? Is it Catholics or Piskies-or is that even relevant?
Actually, I know that it’s not entirely relevant. I could love God where I am right now. I could love God anywhere. If I choose to act out of fear and not love, that’s all me. We can choose surrounding conducive to our goals of loving and serving, but in the end, no one can “make” us do anything or feel any way.
What do I do with this? When I wake up tomorrow, what do I do? What actions do I take?
Or more importantly, on Sunday morning, what do I do?
Maybe Sunday morning isn’t actually more important. Maybe the most import is right now.
Then came Katrina, which, in my biography, is the obvious scapegoat for a lot of things. I really don’t remember going to Mass or which parishes I was attending after I stopped going to Holy Comforter and before Katrina.
And I have absolutely no memory of going to church during my Katrina evacuation in Pensacola. Zero memories of any Mass, confession, or entrance into a Catholic church for the whole four months (plus) between coming to town before the storm and leaving town after my mom died. I know I went to church; I am sure I went every week. But I have no recollection of it. I remember going to swing night. I remember going to bingo. I remember drinking lots of alcohol. I do not remember any solace I found in my religious faith, nor any continuation of strife surrounding my religious issues.
What does that mean? It seems like it should be telling, but of what, I’m not sure. There’s the obvious pity that during the most difficult and redefining time of my life, the time when I could probably have used a solid religious foundation or community the most, I had none. I had already separated myself from the Holy Comforter crowd, and I didn’t have a parish in New Orleans, and I, apparently, did not bother to seek out any comfort in a church in Pensacola. Maybe it didn’t occur to me. It has only occurred to me now to consider this.
I don’t think I wrote in this blog about going to church during that time, though I am composing this offline and can’t double check that. I do remember that I did feel, in a certain way, shielded, or maybe guided, by God.
Actually, I just remembered one time. I went to confession once, not long after my mom’s brain mets were found, but before she went into the hospital. Something had happened; she had been crying, and I couldn’t bring myself to do whatever it was I felt I should be doing to provide comfort and support and love to her. I went to confession at St. Michael’s on a weekday, which is where you go for a quick and anonymous confession, and the priest encouraged me to open myself up to whatever it was I needed to do for my mother.
Hm.
The next time I remember going to church was in Connecticut, and by then, the bitterness had set in. It was January, so one of my first Masses had to focus on Roe vs. Wade. I had some okay Catholic experiences in Connecticut, and I visited some Connecticut Episcopalians some, too. But in the end, it was all a wash. I don’t think I even told anyone from my church that we were moving back to Pensacola.
During my Katrina evacuation, I felt like events were unfolding in a way that I had no control over, but somehow, things were working out in a precipitous way for me anyway. I attributed this to God. The timing, for example, was impeccable. Katrina happened just a short time after I finished graduate school. I had my degree, and I had just gotten a job. When I came home and found out my mom was dying, the aftermath of the storm allowed me to stay with her when I otherwise would have had to go back to work and would have missed out on the last four months of her life and on the small but important steps we took in strengthening the tenuous relationship we had. I was able to stay with her, but I was also able to passively earn money and so didn’t have to find another job. And the time or two I tried to go back to New Orleans, I got very clear signs that I needed to stay in Pensacola because the end was nearer than I imagined. I went back one day, and two days later, she was in the hospital again, and there was some kind of crisis with insurance that lasted only long enough for me to get back to town. Eventually, the university made everyone decide if they were in or out, and that happened just after my mom died, and just as we were coming to the decision to leave New Orleans for good.
Ever since then, I’ve always said that if my mom had to die, and if Katrina had to destroy New Orleans, then these events could not have converged in a better way for me. And while divine intervention doesn’t necessarily seem glaringly obvious in this rewriting, it really stood out to me at the time. There were other hints, strange coincidences, that made me feel like God hadn’t left me all alone, that He was, in fact, right there with me the whole time.
And yet, I don’t remember ever going to church.
That whole experience could have been the beginning of a more mature, healthy religious faith for me. And instead, I just found the bitterness that continues to plague me to this day.
Maybe God is angry with me now. He wasn’t all those years before, back when I was still searching, because He knew I was searching. He knew I had questions, and I tried more honestly to get the answers. But one thing Jesus and the Psalms tell us over and over is not to fear, to trust in God, to believe in his love for us and in his mercy and forgiveness. And I don’t. Even after all of that, all I went through in 2005, all the ways God revealed Himself to me, after all of that, I still act out of fear. I go to church and do what I think I’m supposed to do, not because I love God but because I fear God, and I fear hell.
Maybe to say “maybe God is angry with me” is to continue to perpetuate that. So maybe God isn’t angry, but maybe He is exasperated. “Oy, you pray for signs, you pray for guidance, and when I show you how much I love you, you continue to hide your face.”
Maybe God is saying, “Just come on. Just come to me.” But what does that mean? Which answer is that? Is it Catholics or Piskies-or is that even relevant?
Actually, I know that it’s not entirely relevant. I could love God where I am right now. I could love God anywhere. If I choose to act out of fear and not love, that’s all me. We can choose surrounding conducive to our goals of loving and serving, but in the end, no one can “make” us do anything or feel any way.
What do I do with this? When I wake up tomorrow, what do I do? What actions do I take?
Or more importantly, on Sunday morning, what do I do?
Maybe Sunday morning isn’t actually more important. Maybe the most import is right now.