The Seed of Belief

My family was concerned about my shift towards Catholicism. When my wife and I had our daughters baptized, they exchanged knowing glances. Three years later, they smiled again when we celebrated a sacramental marriage. After all, I was supposed to challenge Reason, Darwin, and our skeptical Grandfather.

In the days of yore, before the Great Pandemic, the inquisition of my faith began over dinner.

“Do you go to confession?”

“Oh, it’s called Conciliation now.”

“Do you attend church on Sundays?”

“Oh, I go every week.”

My stepfather chuckled. Did I own a suit for my first communion and confirmation? I merely smiled, pondering how they would react if they knew Father Tony regarded us as an ideal Christian family, despite my past entanglements with various beliefs.

God, as Father Tony mused, was vast enough to operate within and outside organized religion. Priests need not be overly intellectual, pushing away budding artists.

A Skeptic's Awakening

My journey began with my Catholic baptism. My father had good intentions, but the Holy Water didn’t quite take—blame my stubborn skin.

The Mass took place in a gymnasium, where the scoreboard read Visitors: 78, Home: 67. With God on their side, shouldn’t the home team have won? Yet, with no miracle for cancer, why bother?

Even though God was said to be omnipresent, He surely had no nose if spirits bore the scent of dirty socks.

My skepticism ran in the family. My grandfather had distanced himself from mainstream Christianity, often recounting tales of his departure from the Methodist Sunday School. He would send cards adorned with psalms or encouraging notes. He enjoyed debates, provided you didn’t disagree. His views lingered in my mind, leading me to think rather than feel religion. His favorite analogy was that of a great clock, with a single winding.

After his divorce, my mom briefly explored Presbyterianism, but that was a fleeting chapter. Yet, I still found myself humming, “Happiness is a New Creation, Jesus and Me in Close relation.”

At ten, my joys resided in my new Atari gaming system rather than divine revelations.

Those modern Calvinists didn’t appreciate my mother’s divorce until one neighbor’s tragedy sparked renewed interest in faith. But what did men in pastel pants know about style? Surely, the Middle Eastern Jesus had more flair.

At twelve, I experienced a “religious epiphany,” reminiscent of John Belushi's character in Blues Brothers. Over six weeks, I watched Jesus Christ Superstar nightly. My mother’s participation in the production meant I had to tag along to rehearsals. I cried every time.

No church could evoke such emotion in me; theater became my sanctuary. Aristotle’s idea of catharsis resonated deeply.

“Understand what power and glory mean,” Jesus seemed to say. I longed to shout, “I believe!” But post-performance, Jesus transformed, donning jeans and lighting a cigarette. Hypocritical art!

I amazed my peers with quotes from the “Gospel According to Andrew Lloyd Weber.” “Didn’t Jesus say, ‘To conquer death, you only have to die?’”

Oops! I Married a Catholic

Wasn't I marrying someone akin to my grandmother, a lovely Irish Catholic whom I aimed to enlighten? It was no longer 1932. Mary Jane sought to reconnect with her faith after our daughter Katherine’s birth.

I supported this endeavor, hoping it was a phase, armed with books on world religions for context. Ultimately, Mary Jane returned to the Roman Catholic Church.

I occasionally accompanied her, sometimes observed, and occasionally penned letters to the priest about my views—much to my chagrin. Thankfully, a progressive priest took over after the previous one retired.

Living Among American Catholics

I never feared Jesus—what a remarkable teacher! He fought against oppression and advocated for the marginalized, resisting materialism and environmental harm.

The skewed ideologies of some “Christians” terrified me. The “George W” stickers on vehicles made me uneasy. How many supporters did I know? I envisioned New Jersey’s red-state believers at Holy Name of Jesus, leaving their mark on me.

Would I display bumper stickers like “Thou Shall Bomb the Unbelievers” or “Blessed are the Rich Whose Wealth Flows to the Poor?”

The more I attended, the more I found common ground with them—angst, doubts, and their 1.7 children. The Knights of Columbus sought my membership, believing my presence at their events indicated shared beliefs. Tempted by their food and drink, I knew one had to be Christian to share in their festivities.

At Least My Daughters Are Saved

Katherine, then seven, wouldn’t eat her Cheerios unless I joined her for grace—even in fast-food spots. Public prayers felt awkward, as if the diners were from Utah. Did God bless a greasy burger? Wasn’t that the Devil’s delicacy?

“Thank you, Lord, for this cholesterol-laden delight that’s bound to shorten my life,” I thought.

Holding hands in a bustling restaurant, I was tempted to announce, “I’m an agnostic. My daughter’s a saint, grateful for her chemically altered nuggets.”

During a Sunday Mass, Father Tony asked the children to reflect on the new fountain. Responses ranged from “Tranquility” to “Serenity,” but Katherine chimed in with, “New life!”

Father Tony praised her insight. What child was this? I wondered, glancing at my wife and smiling. A better influence, indeed.

On another Sunday, when asked what they prayed for, Sarah—four years old—folded her hands and said, “Please God. Let there be checks in the mail for Dad.”

Laughter erupted from the congregation, but not from me; she had overheard my frequent prayers for unexpected financial windfalls.

Sarah was the only Catholic wishing to be a Baptist (or Druid), dancing in the aisle while revealing her pink underwear.

“Is there a lot of her father in her?” I chuckled. “Indeed, the seed of mischief.”

During Mass, Sarah insisted I hold hands for the Lord’s Prayer, nudging me to sing “Ha-lle-lu-iah!”

Katherine was surprised when I knelt during the Consecration. “Dad, I know you’re not Catholic—thanks for coming,” she remarked on our drive home.

“What do you believe in, Dad?” she asked.

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

“I believe in honoring various religious experiences and our quest for meaning in the universe, as Joseph Campbell suggested…”

“Can we play Barbies when we get home?”

The spirit of my grandfather chuckled. “Sure, sweetie.”

The Agnostic Catechist

While my wife worked, I took the girls to CCD—now labeled PREP, much too Protestant for my liking. I even assisted with their religious homework. When my wife taught Children’s Liturgy, I played the enforcer, ensuring the little ones paid attention.

“Listen to my wife, kids! And I’m not talking detention!”

When my wife was late, I filled in as a CCD teacher for third graders, impersonating a reincarnated St. Augustine with a British accent. “Write about human duality and defeating evil,” I instructed.

After two minutes of tears, I changed course: “Draw what God means to you.” He resembles an Xbox—an upgraded Atari. Some things never change.

A Lonely Agnostic in the Pew

Being an outsider in MSC can be isolating. Surrounded by the devoted, eyes closed in worship, I wondered if I envied their peace. Even now, years later, I watch Sarah, now 22, read beautifully as a lector and ponder, “Why doesn’t any of this stick?”

These individuals radiate love, while I find myself distracted, questioning the attraction some have to their partners. My heart belongs to Mary Jane, with whom I’ve spent twenty-eight wonderful years.

“Why am I imagining those couples in the communion line in intimate moments?” I muse. Is it merely writerly curiosity? A vivid imagination can be burdensome.

I find it off-putting how they merely wipe the communion cup after each sip, without any disinfectant.

Yet, it would be difficult to focus on judging fellow parishioners and reviewing fashion choices, not that anyone dresses up for church anymore. If I’m attending a religious service, like a wedding or a funeral, I want to look my best.

Before the Great Pandemic, I urged her to remind the congregation that “man does not survive on bread alone.” She couldn’t suppress her laughter—much like my first experience with Mass, when I sprinkled holy water on my pulse points as if it were cologne; I barely grasped the rituals.

I still blame my stubborn skin.

The Doubt Never Ceases, Amen!

Like Doubting Thomas, I often think, “Prove it!” Despite my wandering thoughts, I consistently glean insights from the readings due to their symbolism. Why do so many fight over symbols?

I particularly enjoy it when Sarah reads. For me, it’s not the way, but a way.

Am I a religious polygamist unable to commit? Accepting Jesus would mean denying the teachings of Buddha, Zoroaster, Krishna, Lao Tzu, Mohammed, and Baha’u’llah. I could never stay loyal to one faith.

As Jean Paul Sartre suggested, atheism also requires a leap of faith. I’m unwilling to leap further; I’ve already leaped into marriage and parenthood. That’s enough for me. I’m not a good jumper. I appreciate my current view, though it can feel lonely.

Rebirth Through Love

The inquisition resumed one Easter in the days of yore.

“What do you mean you’re not eating your chocolate bunny?”

“I’m observing Lent, Mom.”

“Really?”

“Yes! I’ve given up sweets! And Father Tony has invited me to speak at church as a model of the Christian family.”

My sister interjected, “Thanks for the Easter basket, Mom!”

I confess, I finally decided to attend church after my wife was diagnosed with melanoma eighteen years ago. I wanted to be there—for her, for my daughters, and for myself. Holding her hand during emotional moments when Father Tony spoke of suffering and love’s healing power felt right. How could I let her face challenges alone?

If I stayed home, I’d blast The Clash’s London Calling. Now, I prayed for patience, strength, and perseverance, trying to keep Sarah from turning Mass into a dance party, even if I was tempted to join.

Mary Jane quipped post-Mass, hoping God didn’t grant her cancer just to bring me to church. Like me, she wouldn’t want to worship a deity that would do such a thing. Thankfully, her scans showed no recurrence—until this year, when a mole was removed safely. Praise be to the medical professionals and the follow-ups!

Family and Love

As I held my grandfather’s hand during his final moments, tears streamed down my face. He was the finest man I knew.

“Be a good father. Be a good husband. Have no regrets,” he urged me.

An hour later, he passed away. True Christianity involves more than mere claims; he lived it.

And I know this because God visited me last night, anointing eternal truths upon my soul—a medicated balm. Go ahead, prove me wrong.