The Journey, Chapter 1

Some of my first memories—memories that are actually mine and not just stories that have been told to me—are actually related to my spiritual journey. We lived in St. Paul, MN in a small apartment a few blocks from the Mississippi River and the Ford Motor Company plant; we were also a few blocks from the local Catholic Church.

Among my first memories are a brisk winter's morning walk to church, swinging above the icy sidewalks by my parents' arms—and crying when they wouldn't carry me and I kept falling down.

Jump ahead a few years and I'm riding a blue Air Force school bus to CCD classes on Travis Air Force Base outside of Fairfield, CA. The memories aren't too clear here, just images of hallways and classrooms and feeling like I was just one of the crowd and that there was nothing too special about it all. Church was a regular part of life—something we did every Sunday. I remember bringing toys and books to church—and even falling asleep in the pews.

And such is the pattern for most of my early spiritual development: moving from place to place, attending Catholic schools when possible and going to Mass each week with my parents—Dallas, TX; Shreveport, LA; Springfield, IL. I made my First Communion at Mary Immaculate in Dallas. I was even an angel in the Christmas pageant there. I was an altar boy once I got to the fourth grade at St. Joseph's in Shreveport, LA. I made my Confirmation at St. Agnes in Springfield, IL.

Honestly, I can't recall any of it having a huge impact on my life. It was just something I did because that is what I was expected to do. Church was an hour every Sunday (1/2 hour to 45 minutes if you went on Saturday night or were drug along to a weekday morning Mass)—stand, sing, stand, sit, stand, sing, stand, sit, stand, sit, sing, stand, shake, kneel, sing, stand, walk, chew, sip, swallow, kneel, sing, stand, sing, leave—an hour that could have been spent playing or reading or something other than being forced to dress up and be inside with nothing to do. It was something that delayed playing with Christmas presents or eating Easter dinner and candy.

Prayers were all automatic—memorized by repetition with little or no explanation into what they meant. Most of them—even though I know them—I cannot recite to this day unless there is at least one or two other people reciting along with me. Most of the music could be classified as either dirge-like or amateur folk & chorus—it depended on the parish, but the variation was only slight.

It's pretty depressing now that I look back on it. Don't get me wrong—my life was not depressing, just my forced religious development. I learned my moral sense mostly from my parents. They were a little more practical than the religious guides that were ever-present in the form of teachers, priests and nuns. However, the guilt- and fear-driven behavior economy based upon the opinions and judgments of others that is instilled by this upbringing lingers on—there are things today that I know logically (in my head) are perfectly acceptable to me, but that I still have a hard time applying. The guilt of doing or being something that someone disapproves of and/or the fear of being thought poorly of or though of as a fool still have a tremendous grasp on me, much to my chagrin.

While I was aware of other religions, there was never really any drive or desire to find out more about them. We attended several Seders at my mother's obstetrician's house—entertaining because of the different foods and stories and language, but not particularly meaningful. There were several Lutheran families that were part of my parents' Marriage Encounter circle—but they were no different than I was, they just went to a different church. I knew vaguely that other people in other parts of the world had different religions, but they were over there somewhere and had no impact on me.

My first real exposure to other religions was probably in what would have been my seventh grade year (had I been in the U.S. at the time). We were living in London, U.K. and I was attending a British school, but due to the discrepancies in educational systems, I was placed back a year in a grade level with kids who were, for the most part, a year younger than me. While we didn't get to choose our own classes, the arrangement of the curriculum was much more like high school or college: a wide variety of classes on a varied schedule throughout the week. So at the sixth grade level (at least by age), my classes included Math, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, History, Latin, French, English, Art/Shop/Home Econ., P.E., and a rotation that included Geography and Religion. It was this religion class that gave me my first real glimpse into other religious traditions, covering the most of the basics of mainstream Christianity, Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism, and giving acknowledgement to some of the most significant denominations of each.

While this class in and of itself wasn't anything substantial, in the context of that year spent abroad, it certainly added to the awareness and openness that hadn't existed up until that point in my life. If I had to pick a single event that has had the greatest impact on my life, it would be that year in London. I returned to the U.S. a completely different person—both physically (puberty will do that to you) and mentally.

However, spiritually, my life was still fairly stagnant. Catholic high school brought still more religion classes—more dogma on what it meant to be Catholic and what the rules were and why we were sinful and bad. A brief respite came in the form of an AP religion class that focused on myths, religions and archetypes—very interesting, but still with minimal impact.

Church was still church, and still something that just took up time on Sunday. At some point in high school I began to realize that Catholicism—which I honestly, though naively, equated with religion as a whole—didn't work for me. I started having problems reconciling certain dichotomies: an all-loving and all-forgiving god that guided his people through an earthly institute of fear, guilt and denial? A god that was only accessible through an elite class of decidedly human men? An organization that was telling people how to live their lives based on a world-view that was decades, if not centuries, old? I may not have been able to articulate them quite as well at the time, but these were some of the key issues that kept bubbling up in the back of my mind; and, as my mind became more and more scientific and rational through my education, the importance and significance of the irrational world of religion diminished further and further.

In addition to the ongoing philosophical debate I was having with myself, there was definitely some resentment to the feelings of guilt and fear that I had, especially surrounding my social life—or more accurately the lack thereof. Not all of that was religion-based, but it was only fed by the strict tenets of Catholicism. Even though my parents were pretty open about sexuality and nudity and relationships, there was still the stigma of it being “dirty” and “bad.” My mother constantly suggested that I shouldn’t have sex before I was married because I was a prime target for some girl to come along and trap me by getting pregnant. And even though I felt I was smart enough to be wary of such a situation and to know that my mother was just expressing her fears around her baby growing up, I’m sure it played into my “inability” to form non-platonic relationships in high school. Consciously I wanted those relationships—I longed for them—but there was some part of me that wouldn’t allow them to happen. I felt outcast and alone and “less.” And even though I could rationalize it and compartmentalize it and not let it bother me on the surface, the resentment still poked around in the back of mind.

I got involved in Teens Encounter Christ (TEC) as a junior, more because I wanted to be a part of the vibrant community that I saw amongst those who were involved than for any particular set of beliefs or fundamental spiritual principles. That community was strong and alive with people who were very much like me socially and shared similar values and interests—I even met my first real girlfriend in that community at a Christmas/New Year's lock-in. I could put up with the religious bent to things because of the social interaction it afforded me.

That attitude of "tolerance" and the desire to be part of such a connected community continued well into college (a Catholic college), where I was actively involved with Campus Ministry—singing, cantering and reading at Mass, participating in TREC (Teen Residents Encounter Christ—TEC for inmates at juvenile detention centers) and volunteering for other outreach programs. When I met J, who became my first wife, she was a self-described “Jesus Freak” who listened to Christian rock and went to bible studies. She stopped short of evangelizing, but her faith was extremely important to her. And despite my misgivings about Catholicism, I respected that quality of faith in her and saw someone who was almost a carbon copy of me—we shared the same core values, wanted the same types of things in life and had, with only a few significant differences, nearly the same childhood experiences.

But all of that wasn’t enough to keep me on that path. My apathy towards religion, and Catholicism in particular, continued to grow. As I learned more about Church history and even current issues and events, I began to see the Catholic Church as just another organization out to gain power, prestige and money, all in the guise of religion and in God’s name. Frankly, it pissed me off. Sometime around my sophomore year of college I pretty much dropped out of any “religious” activity other than attending church when I was at home with my parents—I didn’t want to disappoint them, of course. I pretty much bundled up my spiritual self and set it on an out-of-the-way shelf in my mind, where it stayed for the better part of ten years.

Regardless of how it may sound, I had a very happy childhood. I had my share of friends, and was able to entertain myself when friends weren’t around or hadn’t been made yet. I found happiness in myself—in my imagination and play, in reading and exploring the world around me. I feel I was a very well-adjusted and mature kid for my age, if perhaps a bit sheltered and naïve in some ways. I was smart and witty and capable.

It is only really now, in hindsight, that I see those parts of my childhood that caused me the most angst and that were the most neglected—and those parts are centered squarely on religion and spiritual development.

I have a very blessed life. I have never truly lacked anything that I needed. I went with things as they came up and found that more often than not I was in the right place at the right time. School and technical skills came easily to me. I have a very loving and understanding family and have always had friends when I needed them. If I stop and examine things closely, in the grand scheme of things I have never had to really and truly work hard at things, with a few exceptions.

I don’t believe that I ever truly lost faith in God. I always knew that there was something beyond myself—some being or power or consciousness or however you want to describe it. I had no way of expressing that, other than just living my life the best I could and experiencing the wonder and amazement of the world around me—which I now have come to know is more valid an expression than I ever thought.

No, it wasn’t that I lost faith in God; it was more a loss of faith in religion—and at the point in time when I decided to turn off that aspect of my life, I didn’t know or didn’t understand and appreciate or even care to explore the difference between the two.

The chasm that separates spirituality from religion is now very clear to me; and while I still sometimes have a bad taste in my mouth when it comes to organized religion, I do have a much better appreciation for it and its role(s) in the bigger picture. It is that chasm—or perhaps more accurately, my awareness of it—that I use to demark the two chapters of my spiritual story.