A Catholic Education
I was raised Catholic, which is why I am no longer Catholic. That’s what I usually tell people. It’s not an original thought; I once heard a joke that went something like that on Premium Blend or some other standup showcase on Comedy Central. Whatever its source, it resonated with me. I went through most of the seven sacraments. I doubt I’ll get the anointing of the sick; it would feel cowardly and disingenuous to hedge my bet so close to the end. Matrimony is out of the question, as is Holy Orders, though I do think I’d make something of a hip priest.
I don’t even know if my Confirmation counted because I was delirious during it. My fever or the medicine I’d taken to combat it caused me to disassociate. The archbishop of Indianapolis said something about my Beatles tie, but I couldn’t make out what he said; my ability to hear had temporarily stopped. It was as if I was within my body but also viewing it from a distance. I just smiled and nodded.
I have never really had the religious fervor of other people I know; it felt like going to mass and going through the motions was more insulting to whatever higher power exists — if any— than just not going. Why espouse something you don’t believe? It seemed dishonest and cowardly.
In the time leading up to it, my mom asked me to make a decision about going through with it or not. When it came to matters of faith, she wasn’t pushy. She would take us to church and enrolled us in Sunday school. There were times when I think she questioned her own faith. We didn’t go to Mass as often, and we tried out a new church, a Baptist Church, and that was primarily because they had a program for adults and children who had been impacted by divorce. Really lovely and kind people, but it was a foreign experience for me at times.
I remember one conversation I had with my mother about whether I had faith or not. I’d watched Dogma and liked its approach to faith. It felt more realistic and honest about the experience.
For me, faith is like attending a concert. I might like the artist performing but I can’t always give myself over to the music the way others can. I think it’s a personal issue, I don’t like to give up control or perhaps a more accurate characterization is I don’t want to make myself too vulnerable.
When she asked me if I believed, I said I didn’t, but I had a good idea, paraphrasing from the film. That view appealed to me because it allowed for more flexibility. I realize the irony of that in a film where existence and the universe depend on God's infallibility.
I liked that conception of faith, where it didn’t have to be something rigid; you could update it based on new experiences and that there was more love and mercy than punishment for sins.
One Biblical parable my mother struggled with was that of the Prodigal Son. I can see why: on the surface, it doesn’t make sense that the son who behaves wrongly was rewarded for his behavior while the other son, who acted in an upright fashion, received no extra accolades. But that’s what Christianity is: the faithful are given a mercy they didn’t deserve. Owning up to your faults and amending your ways requires some sort of fortitude.
While you may be doing the right thing, someday you might need that exact kind of mercy. There but for fortune go you or I.
I take comfort in that parable, that even when you make a grievous error, there can still be love and redemption for you. No matter your misdeeds, while there is life, there is still an opportunity to begin making amends. I think that’s one reason A Christmas Carol appeals to me: no matter how wicked the deeds, there is always a chance at redemption.
In the five years since my mother died, I have felt humbled by the way people have shown up for me in my times of need. And I’ve tried to return the favor; there is something satisfying in being able to plant yourself between someone and their worst day.
I felt a lot of guilt for surviving while my mother did not. And I especially felt guilty getting money because she was murdered. I felt like Judas, that I had been splattered with innocent blood. At times, I contemplated taking my life because, like Judas, I couldn’t live with the guilt. Instead, I gave a lot of the money to needy people, making me feel less dead inside. I felt compelled because I had money, and I could keep people fed and housed, help pay for surgery, and otherwise look out for those living on the margins or close to them. It was clemency I did not earn and why I feel I now understand the parable of the Prodigal Son.
They say that to suffer is to grow closer to Christ. I can understand that sentiment; to know pain is to know the world, and you want to spare others the pain you have known. It’s not for me to say whether humanity is ultimately good or evil, but the fact that we can rise above our base impulses and put the needs of others above ourselves bodes well for our future.
My mother taught me many things that have stayed with me; at the top was her compassion. If we were stopped at a light and someone was standing on a traffic median asking for spare change, she would always give them some cash. Her attitude was that it was her duty to help them. If she did not, that was on her. And if they were being deceitful, that was on them.
Once, at our annual Christmas Eve meal at Red Lobster, she gave our waitress a nice tip and a ride home, all because she had learned the waitress was going through some tough times. You never know what ripple effects a kind word or deed can do.
Living in Los Angeles, I often see unhoused people. I do my best to treat them with compassion. I make time to speak with them, give them some cash if I hate it, or buy them some food or drink. My minor action won’t solve their problem, but maybe my kindness will make it easier for them to carry on.
Despite my lack of devotion, I have made it a point to listen to Jesus Christ Superstar during Holy Week, usually on Good Friday. It was a favorite of my mother’s. I remember how happy she was to get a working needle for the record player so she could listen to her album on vinyl. We once went to see a production of the musical at Beef & Boards, a dinner theatre on the north side of Indy. We had only been in Indy briefly; I think it was in the first year or two. My aunt was visiting from out of town. I remember on the drive back her talking about the pain Jesus suffered on the cross, how it was a type of pain most men could never know
I found it corny at a certain point and tried to distance myself from it as part of my more vocal atheist era as a teenager. I suspect the earnestness of religion is what made it anathema to me. Outside of religious services, I find expression of religious devotion a little suspect; perhaps it is because of cynicism in thinking their words won’t match their deeds. I wouldn’t say I like talking about my good works; it feels like it cheapens them to announce it to the world. Are you trying to do good, or is it just a means to glorify yourself? I will share a good deed if it comforts others or leads them to behave altruistically. Doing good is plenty of reward for me; it makes me feel less dead inside, less helpless.
My mother had her hip replaced in April of 2018. She and I watched Jesus Christ Superstar Live in Concert on April Fool's Day, Easter Sunday. Before she had surgery, she set her will in order, and we talked about contingencies if she didn’t make it through the surgery. That was how I got prepared to lose her. But it didn’t prepare me for what losing her would be like nine months later.
These days, I’m not sure what to believe, partly that’s due to something unexplained that happened the night my mother died. I heard my mother laughing after she was dead; it sounds ridiculous, I know. I’d risen from sleep but don’t recall what awoke me. I’d imagine it was the gunshot, but I don’t remember hearing any. I did hear a big crashing noise above me, though. At the time, I thought my mother had fallen, something related to her hip and knee replacements the previous year. As I was just about to head upstairs, I heard her laughing, and I figured it meant she was okay. I now know the crash I heard was a body hitting the floor. Hers or his, it didn’t matter. She was dead by then. It could easily be my traumatized brain scrambling the order of things or inserting something to comfort me.
But I heard it in a new way thanks to the championing of it by an acquaintance whose musical opinions I trust and respect more than any others.
I hear my mother’s voice again when I listen to the original album. Certain songs were her favorites, and when they come on, I can hear her voice again. Her singing along to “I Don’t Know How To Love Him,” or how she’d deliver certain lines of Pilate and Herrod’s with a sort of theatrical flair. And how she would weep through “Gethsemane (I Only Want To Say).”
After spending more time with it in the years since her death, I’m surprised it captivated her. Judas is a sympathetic character. There are times when Jesus behaves in flawed and very human ways, and the resurrection is not shown. It’s different from Godspell, which sticks pretty close to scripture.
My mom was pretty open to things generally, but her one line was anything that made fun of religion. We disagreed on that stance, but I can see where she was coming from.
I don’t particularly care for certain types of religious jokes. I don’t mind vulgarity or blasphemy, but you must stick the landing. Otherwise, it feels like the comedic equivalent of adventurism. Being provocative can be fun, as when you’re growing up and have reached the stage of life where you begin testing boundaries and asserting your personhood as separate from your family.
And with that comes things like rejecting the things your parents like, such as their music or their religion.
But at the same time, if your religion is incompatible with humor, that’s not a great sign. Being able to find humor in the world is an act of resistance, whistling past the graveyard, an act of control, a refusal to be beaten down by the world.
The day my mother was murdered, I was cracking jokes about the situation because I had no idea of how else to respond. There is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. “Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward,” as Kurt Vonnegut put it in his Palm Sunday sermon.
My world had crumbled, and by making jokes, I defied its destruction. I refused to let it be shattered by something that would have destroyed many other people. “So other than that, Andrew, how was New Year’s?” Badum-tish!
I also compared myself stepping over the body of my mother’s killer to Allen Iverson stepping over Tyronn Lue in Game 1 of the 2001 NBA Finals. Couching my life in basketball terms helped. I could tell plain as day what had gone wrong. Making that joke felt like the only rational response. I’d taken that great leap forward so I could touch her still form to confirm what the gun on the floor and the hole in the man’s skull.
A religion that allows for humor bodes well for those in a spiritual crisis who are in search of love and mercy. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Oh, Master grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console
To be understood as to understand
To be loved as to love with all my soulMake me a channel of your peace
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned
It is in giving to all men that we receive
And in dying that we are born to eternal life
I take a lot of comfort in the Prayer of Saint Francis, particularly its focus on giving more than receiving. I strive to be generous in my personal life, making time for others, looking after those in need, and generally offering compassion to those I encounter. One of my favorite Biblical verses is John 21:15-17 where Jesus tells Peter, “Feed my lambs.” I know it’s meant spiritually, but I also interpret it as a call to feed the hungry.
That’s what makes Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane so moving. His fate has been set into motion; nothing can be done to change his fate, though, through his prayers, he ultimately accepts his fate.
I find it puzzling that The Last Temptation of Christ was so controversial since the actions of Jesus aren’t so out of step with the biblical account of his time in the Garden. If anything, it makes his sacrifice more meaningful. He could have had a different life and, when given the choice, does the right thing: he dies to redeem mankind, the very same people who had beaten and tortured him and hung him on a tree to die. Courage is doing the right thing in spite of being afraid.
That’s why I find the crucifixion scene in that film so moving and Dafoe’s portrayal of Jesus so powerful.
I find Judas in that film fascinating. While he still betrays Jesus, it is so that he can fulfill his purpose. Judas asks him if there were roles that were switched if Jesus could do the same thing. “No, but that’s why God gave me the easier job, to be crucified,” Jesus replies.
Twenty years ago, as a high school freshman, The Passion of the Christ came out. I saw it at a local theater and found it moving. Hard not to find the story of the crucifixion moving, whether religious or not. It’s sad to see an innocent man put to death for the crime of preaching peace, love, understanding, and mercy. I did take issue with the Latin pronunciation in the film; the Vs were said like it was ecclesiastical Latin. In the Latin of that time, Vs sounded like Ws, which makes Julius Caesar’s pronouncement of “I came, I saw, I conquered” sound pretty funny in the original language, though the consonance of it remains cool.
The times I felt most connected to being Catholic were at CYO camp. Something about being close to nature made me feel close to the religious feelings of those around me. It felt more communal, more personal, and less formal than with the church. The account of the apostles' deeds after Jesus's resurrection feels close to what camp was like.
Each night, we’d gather for a campfire and sing songs. Some of those songs were “You Ain’t Going Nowhere,” “If I Had A Hammer,” and ”Spanish Pipedream,” It felt very 60s, a glimpse of a different, better world where we could live alongside one another and strive to love each other. A vision of a better world. Firsthand evidence otherwise of folk music, communal living, and signing together. Surrounded by nature, it felt easy to believe in God and the possibility of all mankind living in harmony. I felt a deep and abiding love for my fellow man.
I had a soft spot for the music of the Church growing up, “The Lord of The Dance” would make me cry because of the melody and the lyrics. That usually got sung around Easter. Other favorites included “Companions on the Journey,” “One Bread, One Body,” “Though The Mountains May Fall,” and “Here I Am Lord.” I liked the latter because the Jurassic Park theme sounded like it. At one church I attended, the Kyrie Eleison they sang sounded like the Donkey Kong Country theme.
When planning my mother’s funeral Mass, I made a point to have “On Eagle’s Wings” as part of the service, as it was a favorite of hers and my grandmother. I picked out readings from Ecclesiastes because of my love for “Turn! Turn! Turn! (There Is A Season).” As we were headed to the cemetery for my grandmother’s burial, I played Marvin Gaye’s version of “His Eye Is On The Sparrow.” I don’t know why; perhaps I thought it might bring us peace. There’s a sincerity to Gaye’s performance, which is so moving and comforting.
Pete Seeger’s spiritual practice aligns most closely with my values. My being raised Catholic is directly related to my political worldview. I am a socialist because I want to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, comfort the grieving, and otherwise love my fellow man. It’s one reason I like the Jesuits; they seem to have the right idea of how to approach the world, a more curious and thoughtful view of the world, though perhaps not completely free of the pitfalls of the Church.
“[I used to say] I was an atheist. Now I say, it’s all according to your definition of God. According to my definition of God, I’m not an atheist. Because I think God is everything. Whenever I open my eyes I’m looking at God. Whenever I’m listening to something I’m listening to God…I’ve had preachers of the gospel, Presbyterians and Methodists, saying, ‘Pete, I feel that you are a very spiritual person.’ And maybe I am. I feel strongly that I’m trying to raise people’s spirits to get together,” Seeger said in an interview with Beliefnet.
Kurt Vonnegut was a humanist and a fan of Jesus and once wrote this. “Some of you may know that I am neither Christian nor Jewish nor Buddhist, nor a conventionally religious person of any sort. I am a humanist, which means, in part, that I have tried to behave decently without any expectation of rewards or punishments after I’m dead. … But I myself have written, ‘If it weren’t for the message of mercy and pity in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, I wouldn’t want to be a human being. I would just as soon be a rattlesnake’.”
Vonnegut became interested in that through his friendship with Powers Hapgood, a trade unionist and socialist organizer. Through him, Vonnegut was introduced to Eugene V. Debs and saw an echo of The Sermon On The Mount in Debs’ statement to the court when he was being sentenced to prison for sedition for speaking out against WWI.
“Your Honor, years ago I recognized my kinship with all living beings, and I made up my mind that I was not one bit better than the meanest on earth. I said then, and I say now, that while there is a lower class, I am in it, and while there is a criminal element, I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free,” Debs said.
It is fitting that Vonnegut would later be honored by the Debs Foundation. In The Sermon On The Mount, Vonnegut saw a new way of living, one that envisions a better world where all are brothers.
I agree with Vonnegut about The Sermon On The Mount; one part that has brought me peace is, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Many times, I feel alone in my grief because it’s of a sort that few can understand. Everyone knows loss; some know the loss of a parent, but few know it in the way I have.
On a certain level, it makes sense that George is my favorite Beatle; he is the most spiritual of them. I see The Prayer of St. Francis echoed in “Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth).” And “My Sweet Lord” is good enough to get you to believe in God.
“In speeches, I say that a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit. I am then asked if I know of any artists who pulled that off. I reply, ‘The Beatles did.’” Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake.
Unitarian Universalism is the religious movement closest to how I view the world. I hate describing myself as a spiritual person; it feels like a copout due to its vagueness. But I think it works for me; I am still uncertain if there is a God, but I find comfort in that uncertainty. “Accept the mystery,” as Clive’s father tells Larry Gopnik in A Serious Man. “Well, maybe there’s a God above,” as Leonard Cohen put it in “Hallelujah.”
I find that uncertainty appealing; I’ll never know for sure if I heard my mother’s laugh the night she died or if it was a product of my traumatized brain trying to comfort me in some way. I’ll never know the truth about the world, but I am to keep an open heart and mind. I feel that there is something more to life than the base nature of reality, and I find comfort in knowing that animals display traits that are seen primarily as human ones, the same characteristics that separate man from beast.
I don’t know what happens after we die, but in the time I have left, I will strive to make that journey easier for others. Better to be an atheist who models himself on the actions of Christ than a devout Christian who turns his eyes away from the suffering of others or actively partakes in it, such as a certain ice cream loving former Delaware senator.
“Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.” Kurt Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater.