How To Become A Heathen

A Deconstruction Story - Part I

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I’m fairly new to heathenry in the grand scheme of my life. I can’t say when I stopped calling myself a Christian. There wasn’t a date that I decided I was done with Christianity, but rather a slow slide. Christians would call it back sliding, I suppose.

I started to write about the deconstruction of my faith this morning, and after scribbling five handwritten pages, I realized this is a very big subject for me that I will need to break into pieces. A lot of stuff came up. Memories, emotions, old resentments, some trauma. I guess I’ll start at the beginning and see where it takes us. Buckle up!

I grew up Catholic. My dad was a Methodist, but he slept in on Sundays while my mom took my sister and me to church every single Sunday. I guess you could say we attended religiously. (See what I did there? At least I amuse myself.)

I knew God as an authority figure, a father. God was a nun or a priest. God was an old guy in the sky who could watch my every move. There were moments I was sure God was happy with me because I would try my best to be good, at least while I was sitting in that pew. I followed along with the Missalette, which is a book containing prayers, hymns and readings for the service, basically a script to follow. I kneeled and bowed my head at the right times, sang all the hymns, and felt piously certain God was smiling down on me with approval.

I was good, except for when I wasn’t.

Most of the rest of the time I was not good. Of this I was sure. That’s why I tried so hard to make God love me in church, but even in church I couldn’t help myself and was sometimes a little naughty.

One time my best friend, Kevin and I hatched a plan to steal a communion wafer because I wanted to know what the body of Christ tasted like. I hadn’t received my First Communion yet, a holy sacrament. Participating in the communion rite or Eucharist before receiving First Communion is forbidden because one must be properly prepared having made a sacramental confession with no mortal sins on their souls and stuff like that. Anyway, my friend was going to go through the line twice and bring an extra wafer back for me. Instead, he came back with the wafer still in his mouth and offered me a taste. No, thank you!

The following Sunday we came up with a new plan. I was going to get in line and get a wafer of my own. My mom sang in the choir at that time, so I was often on my own, sitting with Kevin. He schooled me on all the proper etiquette so I wouldn’t stand out. “When the priest says, ‘The body of Christ,’ you say, ‘Amen,’ and open your mouth. Then you do the sign of the cross, and go sit back down.”

When the usher came to our row to allow us to join the line, I was shaking in my big girl panty hose and sandals. (I wanted to look like a mature girl.) When I made it to the front of line, I saw my mom’s face. It should have scared me right out of line. Her chin did that thing where it gets all crinkled, and you can’t see her lips anymore because she has them closed so tight that they turn white. I was on a mission, though, and it was too late to turn back.

I received the body of Christ, and I gotta say, I was a little disappointed. It didn’t really have a taste and sorta melted in my mouth. Nothing miraculous happened. I didn’t suddenly know God better. I wasn’t struck by lightening either, which is a plus.

After church, I knew I would be in so much trouble. When my mom started yelling, you’d think I had abducted baby Jesus. I guess, in a way, I did. Catholics believe in transubstantiation, which means the bread and wine become the literal body and blood of Jesus Christ during the Eucharist. I never believed that, not even a little. I guess that means all the years I received communion every Sunday I was doing so illegally, another mark on my heathen soul. I didn’t get a spanking. My trouble ended with a lecture about why one has to be prepared to go to communion. You can’t just go eat Jesus willy nilly. Truth be told, I think my mom, who went to Catholic school her whole life and was gonna be a nun, admired me a little. The reason she didn’t become a nun was because she was a rebel, herself, and she struggled to get along with Mother Superior.

My relationship with God when I was growing up was pretty rocky. Sometimes it was up. Sometimes it was down. I went through super religious phases, evangelical phases where I preached at my friends during P.E. and ambivalent phases when I wasn’t sure he was really there. During those times I would get pissed off at him. How could he make us and then let us die? Why do we have to die? And if we have to die, why do we have to believe in a God that never shows himself but makes going to heaven conditional on believing he exists? I was tormented by the thought of death and not existing anymore. I don’t think I ever really believed in Hell. I thought, if I’m not going to heaven I’m not gonna be anywhere. If I’m being honest I’m still tormented by that thought sometimes. Being nowhere. Being no one

.As I got older I continued to go to church every Sunday, but only because I had to. Church on Sunday, confession every six months or so, no meat on Fridays during Lent and ashes on my forehead on Ash Wednesday. I went through the motions like a good Catholic does.

You know, it’s a good thing my mom didn’t become a nun. The world is a better place because of that chaotic decision. Here I am, existing. I am someone., and I may not believe in much for sure, but I do believe that’s a good thing.

Any other Catholics or former Catholics out there? I’ll bet you have stories too! Some of those stories can’t be told in a minute or two in the comment section, but I would love to hear the ones that can. For the other stories, I’m here to listen if you need to tell them. You can message me anytime.