Picture the typical devout religious family pressuring their kids to hold and practice a faith they are not old enough to question, and punishing them in subtle ways for asking questions or having their own experiences or talking to people with Dangerous Ideas. That was my family. Only they were atheists. Staunch, dogmatic atheists. Just saying the word "God" caused side-glances and uncomfortable shuffling. (And let me note now that whenever I say the word "God" in my contemplations, I mean it in the least specific way possible - literally any higher power.)
I was very curious about spiritual matters, though. I liked conversations about life, death, values, and mysteries. For me there was always room for ambiguity. But in my home you couldn't discuss things that weren't thoroughly researched and peer-reviewed without being teased.
I made friends with a lot of kids from different spiritual backgrounds. I loved the stories they could tell me, and they, like me, understood that every story is a lesson about life. Some kids thought it was weird that I was so interested, but others were happy to share, and their parents were so supportive. Part of me was envious of them. I remember responding to the question, "do you believe in God?" with "I'm not allowed."
I remember being at my stepsister's first communion, not really knowing what was going on but being awed by the tone of it all. At the end everyone was invited up to get a blessing, and my stepmom got up and gestured an invitation for me to follow. Excited and honoured to be invited to participate, I started to stand up and my little brother followed my lead, but my dad quickly stopped us. "No, not you guys," he said sheepishly. "What? Why not?" my stepmom looked genuinely baffled. Dad looked us guiltily, sighed, looked at the ground and shook his head, and said, "your mom would kill me."
Disappointed, I sat back down and watched the lines of people go up to get their blessings, one by one. I watched the peace with which they bowed their heads, the care and warmth the priest gave each and every person, the GRACE of all. I felt singled-out, uniquely undeserving. I desperately wanted to ask why - why would mom kill dad if I did this one little thing on his watch? Aren't "blessings" good things? So why can't I get one? What did I do? I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of showing too much interest and having my dad scoff the way mom's side did. As an older woman passed, she must have noticed my longing gaze because she stopped and asked me if I'd like to go up and get a blessing. Automatically, I told her, "I'm not allowed."
And I'm thinking about this now because that is still the phrase that rings in my head whenever I try to indulge my longing to take a leap of faith and allow myself to feel blessed, humble, held, and loved. It's the phrase I desperately need to overcome, but it's so deeply rooted. My family painted a very clear picture of the type of person who believes in God - and I did not want to be that person. And I STILL carry this feeling that allowing myself to believe will make me all the terrible things my family always told me religious people are. I KNOW that person is a strawman who doesn't exist. But they haunt me anyway.
Now, I know my family was mainly trying to protect me. Looking back, I was incredibly vulnerable and pretty ripe for brainwashing, just due to my nature. There is an alternate universe in which I made a friend who invited me to church with their family, my family allowed it, and I never made it back. I get why my family would want me to be skeptical of organized religion and I'm grateful that they protected me from being indoctrinated before I was able to question and choose where I place my faith. I'm understand and I'm not mad that they kept me from organized religions. But I don't know how to forgive them for denying me a personal spirituality and completely cutting me off from god. I'm frustrated and sad. I'm a grown-ass adult who can make my own choices and the Prime Minister himself can't tell me what I'm allowed to believe in.
But my grandfather still can, apparently, even though he doesn't anymore. He gave me an outlet by teaching me philosophy from the moment I was able to use language, but there are more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in his. When I asked about those things in heaven, he scoffed the hardest, and because I loved him the most, it cut deep. I still feel like to choose faith would be to betray the man I love most in the world. He's proud of me now, and he's running out of time. I hope desperately that when he goes to the grave, it will be without ever finding out that I'm not an atheist. I don't think I can face his rejection. I can't help but be certain that such an admission would hurt him - that despite all his best efforts and all my other achievements, I unfortunately "turned spiritual". What a disappointment.
I don't really know how to resolve this, other than reminding myself that I decide what I'm allowed and not allowed to do. I can think for myself and use my own discernment and allow faith into my life in whatever way feels best for me. AND... I decide what I do and don't disclose. I am starving for spiritual conversations and community, but ultimately it's a private matter and I can keep on keeping it that way if I have to, I guess.
Forgive me if I am using this phrase wrong, but I feel like my journey towards belief in anything has been a process of deprogramming. I learned that only one way of thinking is the "correct" way. To think any other way would make me weak, stupid, gullible, lost, foolish, a pawn, selfish, arrogant. That no one is special, especially not me, and wanting to feel special even for a moment is a moral failure. That the world is mechanical and indifferent, and wanting to feel loved simply for existing is also a moral failure. But I do want these things. I want a worldview that lets me feel seen and loved and special sometimes. I want to feel just as worthy of blessings anyone else. And now I want these things, and I can admit it... and yet, I don't feel weak, stupid or arrogant. I'm not running off to join a cult. I don't think I'm better than anyone. I just want to feel free to cultivate a personal relationship with whatever God is, without losing the love and respect of my family, or becoming the caricature they despise.
My grandfather ensured for me that God remained dead. Serious question - how shall I comfort myself? What water is there for me to clean myself? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games must I invent?
