Seasons of Faith

My roommate, Anna, asked me last week if religious affiliation was important while vetting potential suitors and the question has had me thinking since then. Aside from quarterly jaunts to Jersey for funerals, my relationship with church and religion more generally since leaving the parochial nest of my youth has been fairly nonexistent. Due in part to the movie Spotlight (the subject matter, although the movie was amazing), and mostly out of laziness, I feel very little allegiance to the church I grew up in. Though I’ve been consciously and unconsciously ruminating on the topic of religion for a week now, I answered Anna’s question with a quick “nope,” ever the PC grandstander it seemed like the right way to go. She probed further, though, upon hearing my answer, “what if he doesn’t believe in anything?”

Well, shit. These questions were a lot for my post Rumble brain to navigate on Friday, especially given last week was longer than my first year of college. Nonetheless, as the words hung in the air, I envisioned myself sitting in church as a kid. Growing up, I would say the Kernan’s were B+ members of the Catholic faith. At various points in time, one, if not all, of us attended a parochial Catholic school. We could boast a Sunday mass attendance record better than most. Until my junior or senior year, Sunday’s ritual of mass and brunch wasn’t optional, and my parents (mostly Dad) scoffed at the “C and E-ers” (the Christmas and Easter crowd), and we came to judge them silently as bandwagon fans.

Let me be perfectly clear here, my judgement of the C and E-ers was totally out of jealousy. As a kid, I loathed church. I remember on some exceptionally boring Sundays in the pew my siblings and I would get restless. One of us would find something funny or stupid, Jack would fart, Shea would drop her hymnal, and it was all over. One look from Dad would typically silence our looming mid-homily coup, and we’d settle, swallowing our laughter until our eyes watered and our cheeks burned.

Basically, church was boring and I would have rather been doing anything else. I did appreciate the pomp and circumstance of it all each week. Just thinking of the cold, refreshing darkness of Blessed Sacrament and the smell of incense makes me look skyward as I did on so many Sundays. The vaulted ceilings were stunning, and I couldn’t help but wonder how on earth they were able to wallpaper the cavernous cathedral walls that came together to form a cross above our heads. I can’t remember ever thinking about my relationship with god during mass as a child. Likely because I assumed he’d have my back no matter what, and possibly because all I cared about was post-church brunch, I clearly missed the memo that that hour at church was more than a speed bump on the way to the club for grilled cheese.

Even in high school and college when we – gasp! – drifted into the C and E-er category I wasn’t particularly concerned about my burgeoning relationship with the man upstairs, or lack there of – during mass or at all really. On one Christmas Eve during my junior year of college, we arrived late and were corralled to the back, standing room only. For those of you that have not attended a Catholic Christmas Eve Mass, the priest opens with a chant that sounds startling like Rent’s “Seasons of Love.” Kaely and I lost it. I started mimicking his chant to the tune of “Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes” and ultimately had to leave the church to recover in the parking lot. While I was outside waiting for my more pious, slightly less moronic (hey, they laughed too!) siblings to emerge from their worship I took off my shoes and walked in the garden adjacent to the church. There was a gospel passage carved into a stone plaque that made me roll my eyes. It was unusually warm that Christmas, so I took the opportunity to lie in the little plot of grass hidden by the shrubbery and stare at the technicolor sky. I remember feeling so happy in that moment, the smell of fresh cut grass so pungent you could taste it, and listened to the drama unfolding from the organ inside. “This is my church,” I thought as I hummed the Rent soundtrack. But then my stomach growled, and my phone buzzed, and the moment was over.

So going back to Anna’s question, I don’t really know the answer. I think what’s more important is figuring me out first. I know I believe in something. I’m not sure if my faith will ultimately manifest itself in devoutness to Jesus as our lord and savior – though I’m sure he was a great guy – but I’ve started thinking about it. Faith is a funny thing. Even during my post-adolescent idealistic phase (read: college) when I tried to say I didn’t believe in God, I knew I did, because I always had faith. These days, I find my faith reaffirmed by the universe. Whether it’s a good day or good moment, a walk in the park with Hudson, or a strange coincidence or sign – I take each bit I’m given and hold on tight. But you better believe when I lose my keys, that good ole Catholic girl jumps right out of retirement with prayers so earnest even Sister Smith would be proud.