I was born and raised a devout Catholic. My parents never intended to raise me so devotedly, they just liked the community– I was the one who took it so seriously. I was severely stern with my young self about the rules of Catholicism. I observed Lent rigorously for the formative years of my life.
Ash Wednesday (today!) marks the beginning of Lent, with Easter as its conclusion. Lent spans 40 days and nights (never actually though, this year it’s 44). Lent is a time for Catholics to repent, strengthen their faith, and practice self-discipline. Or, as my 6th-grade Catholic school teacher put it, Lent is a reminder that "life can’t always be fun." During this period, you give up something that gives you pleasure. As a child, I often sacrificed dessert. One year, I tried giving up “saying no,” but quickly reverted to dessert.
I went to Catholic School until 7th grade, and amongst the other public school students, I was the only devout believer. I held hard onto my faith, but I grew angrier, and filled with anxiety as realities began to occur to me that didn’t coincide with what I knew about Catholicism. My hormones kicked in and my religion was self-hatred. My thoughts were filled with sins, I was curious about my body, and other bodies. I wanted to say “fuck.” I am and have been an atheist since high school.
I struggle with internalized Catholicism. Overcoming shame has been a constant battle. I only held resentment toward the religion I was raised in until I read Sue Monk Kidd’s The Book of Longing at the age of 21. Kidd’s novel imagines the life of Ana, the fictional wife of Jesus Christ, exploring her journey of faith and longing. Reading this utterly beautiful novel opened my eyes to a new way of looking at the Bible; as a story.
I love story. I am a librarian after all.
At the age of 21, I wasn’t doing well. I ghosted all my friends and moved to an off-season vacation town. I would go days, even a few weeks, without seeing another human being. I would wake up. Drink coffee, write for 20 minutes, smoke pot, go back to sleep, wake up, walk my dog, smoke pot, take a nap, wake up, smoke pot, bake a potato, smoke pot, eat potato, go to bed. In February of that year, a mouse peed in the oven so I couldn’t bake any more potatoes without the entire house filling with the stench of hot mouse piss. And my grandfather had just died, so I ended up spending a lot of time at my parents’ house.
My grandfather was the Chief of Religion in our family. Growing up he’d successfully bribed my younger cousin and me to go to church with him for many Sundays under the promise of donuts afterwards. My parents only wanted me to be confirmed so they didn’t have to explain why I wasn’t (he never asked though, in proper Irish Catholic fashion– don’t ask, don’t tell). When he died it felt like a piece of God had died, too. But wait, I thought I didn’t believe in God?
My grandfather and my ego were dead. I was trapped in a cycle of loneliness, back in my childhood bedroom. I practiced lent that year because I found comfort in the idea of punishing myself. Restricting pleasure just ‘cause. Reminding myself that life was suffering. I wasn’t kidding about that internalized Catholicism.
I went to mass on Ash Wednesday that year. I was living at home, and felt drawn to my childhood church. I wanted to hear the priest say those words to me (I needed someone to say it to me!), “you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”
During the homily (for my non-catholic readers, the homily is when the priest gets to do a topical riff), this priest, whom I had never seen before, explained Lent differently. He explained that we are all birds. That a bird tied down cannot fly. That it doesn’t matter if a bird is tied by barbed wire, or string, it still can’t fly. Lent is a time for us birds to look at what is tying us down, and figure out how to fly again by spring time.
Pot was my string. It wasn’t anything hard, like pills, even booze (barbed wire), so I excused it. Pot helped me get through days I didn’t want to wake up for. Pot made me laugh during a time no one else was. Pot made me eat. Sometimes I feel I owe it my life for that one. But pot had also allowed me to think that the way I was living was okay. I couldn’t handle hard feelings, I smoked them all away. So, that year, I gave up pot for Lent. I didn’t fly away the moment the string was cut, but I stretched my wings, and I was aware, at least, that I could fly.
I was sober, friendless and abstinent for 40 days and 40 nights that year. Looking back, I don’t know how I did. I am so proud of myself. Eventually, I flew.
Now, three years later, I am in a much better place. I am confident, again, in my atheism. I am not looking at Lent this year as salvation as I had back then. God damn, I want to fly higher. And when I look at my feet, I can see a string.
Lent, as an atheist, is untying the string for 40(ish) days to see the heights you can hit. You don’t have to stay there, probably you can’t fly that high forever, but you’ll learn what you’re capable of, you’ll remember the view.
Also, the priests no longer say “you are dust, and to dust you shall return” anymore. They say, "Repent and believe in the Gospel" which I will not and do not.
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