Making an Atheist (Part 2: The Project)

     Eight years old, and I was made to attend Roman Catholic indoctrination  every Saturday throughout the school year, to learn the dogma, rituals and traditions involved in what is known as the Sacrament of Holy Communion, in preparation to participate in the rite for the first time. The class focused on many concepts that were both thought provoking and disturbing, taught in a very authoritarian manner by an elderly, stern, habit-wearing Sister Mary Something-or-other. She didn't like questions, especially the most important "Why?" so, I went home with those questions and asked my mother, and my brother.
     Much of what we learnt at the start were prayers to memorize, but there were several lessons that I remember questioning, one of which was particularly upsetting. The one that caused the most damage was the doctrine of original sin, which teaches that we are born in sin. As an eight year-old, I translated that in my impressionable mind as a proclamation from the highest authority that "You are bad. You were made bad, and there is nothing you can do about it, so good luck figuring out how to fix it!"  Although a little part of my mind had a spark of that not making sense, the ironically "good" part of me, believed wholeheartedly what was told to me with such certainty. I remember feeling a sense of what I had no words for then, but could label now as defeat, or doom today. The nun taught that "lesson," as fact, with a sick joy, indicative of unconscionable malice. It was abusive and did everlasting damage to many. My mother was ill equipped to countermand the message. She simply told me that she didn't believe that. She also told me that she didn't believe in hell or heaven as post death destinations, rather they were experienced here on earth in our one and only life.
     After the prayer memorization, with little or no explanation, it on to the the Apostle's Creed which was a communally agreed upon declaration of what a Catholic is to believe. This was born at one of the early councils, though I am not sure if it was the Council of Nicaea or not. Of course we were never told that a bunch of theopolitical men who were trying to gain and maintain the control of the Roman Empire made this stuff up. No! We were taught that it all came from Jesus and was therefore factual and unquestionable. I recall being frustrated by the squelching of questions. Although I don't remember, I wonder if we were told that questions were sin. I do remember that my biggest question was, "Why aren't we allowed to ask questions?" Even then, I wasn't prone to just believe something because I was told; I wanted reasons and facts.
     We were told over and over again, that God was everywhere, saw everything we did, heard everything we said, and knew everything we thought. More than that, He was keeping score and planning to hold things against us. Yikes! This scared me. I didn't want anyone watching me go to the bathroom, or taking a bath, eavesdropping on my conversations, or policing my thoughts. Then we are told, that we have to evaluate ourselves and confess our "sins" and shortcomings to a priest in a closet where we could not see them. What a terrifying prospect for an 8 year-old. Not only was it terrifying, it was confusing: why do we have to tell a priest what this supposedly omniscient god was already supposed to know?  It makes no sense!
      Toward the end of the entire process, not long before our crucial day when we were to dress like little brides and grooms and cannibalize this Jesus character, we were planning a great illustrative craft project. The scope and purpose of this project was kept from us until the day we were to make it. The only thing we were told for weeks was that we had to bring one of those old plastic 3-tomato cartons. I'm not sure  if they still exist, but this is what they looked like:

     Now, we grew our own, and my mother was not happy that she had to spend money on what would surely be mealy-tasting, flavorless tomatoes, so that I could make some craft at catechism. In fact she tried to get out of it, but I was panicked over being the only person without the required supply, so she acquiesced.
     The day came when this mystery craft was to be created, and I carefully transported my little tomato crate to class. The first thing we were told to do was take out our crate and put it on our desk atop a piece of plain paper. We were given paint and brushes and instructed to color our crates blue. The nun then gave us portions of wadded cotton, and demonstrated how we were to affix it inside the crate using some Elmer's Glue, which would be passed around the classroom. We then set our crates aside and received a lesson about Mary, the mother of Jesus, a sinless virgin, which ended in us corporately reciting the "Hail Mary!" prayer we were taught many months prior.
     After the lesson about the "Holy Mother," the nun gleefully took a box from her desk and, with much excitement, announced that we would now be finishing our important craft project! I was hard pressed to figure out the connection between the craft and this lesson until she began walking around the room removing tiny plastic idols, I mean statues (Yikes! Idolatry is a sin!) of Mary for  us to glue into our cotton-lined crates. While she meandered around the room, she spoke about how nuns represent the "Holy Mother!" and what an honor it was to do so. Looking back, I wonder if this was a form of recruitment. I do know that I was gobsmacked, and did not remotely understand what the big deal was. More importantly, I experienced a gestalt, an "Aha" experience, which made it perfectly  clear that the entirety of Catholicism was, as my father would succinctly label for me later that day, HORSESHIT! My atheism was born.
     After that day, I never really believed anything I was previously or subsequently taught, and simply went along to get along. I made my communion later that spring, in a miniature wedding dress and brand new patent leather Mary Jane shoes. We had a party afterward. The best parts were the  shoes, and playing dress-up. Other than that, it meant nothing to me.

     In the next part, I'll follow my atheist path through childhood and my period of desire and effort to believe.









   

Making an Atheist (Part 1)

     Once upon a time a young man and woman fell in love and decided to get married. There was no impediment to their union, but they were from two different religions. He was Roman Catholic, and she was Presbyterian. Due to the traditions and dogmatic restriction of the Catholic Church, in order for them to wed "in the church," the woman had to sign a binding contract agreeing to raise any children born to the couple as Catholic. The bride did not hesitate because marrying the man she loved was the only consideration, and besides, his family were devout and regular churchgoers. Her religion was not central in her life anyway, though she did enjoy going, whether or not she knew what, or if she believed.
     The couple married and two  years later welcomed a bouncing baby boy. A year later, a little girl was born. As promised, the two were raised Catholic. They attended catechism and learnt the beliefs and dogma of the church. They made their first confessions and "first holy communion."  They did not however, attend church on a regular basis because their father, in order to avoid the wrath of his own mother had been lying about his attendance before his marriage. He wasn't really going to mass, and really didn't buy into the dogma or creeds of the church, but rather ditched on Sundays and went to work, or out with friends instead. This man saw the church as a scam, always looking to weasel him out of ever more of his hard-earned money. He did not hold these views back from his children.
     As the two children progressed through catechism, the boy, a highly intelligent and thoughtful lad, became skeptical about what he was being taught. He recognized inconsistencies and the many illogical leaps he would have to make in order to actually accept the teachings of the nuns and priests. He raised such questions, which were not only discouraged, but were met with scorn and criticism. Though he grew to despise the entire process, and broached the issue with his parents, he ultimately did as he was told and made his confirmation along with his sister, who more readily believed what she was taught without question.
     During the time of their indoctrination, another child was born into the family. The little girl was 7 1/2 years younger than her sister and 8 1/2 years younger than her brother. She was four when she watched her older siblings don robes and make their confirmations. They both happened to be ill on the day they were confirmed. but their parents made them attend the ceremony which, by all accounts was more to please their paternal grandmother, who was the "holy roller" of the family and expected all of her grandchildren to become good Catholics.
     After the duty of seeing the eldest children confirmed, church attendance became increasingly sporadic, so the youngest was mostly exposed to mass on holidays. The little one always looked forward to those Sundays, but not because of church. No! It was because after church they went to visit two of her father's friends: the florist, and the baker. At the florist, the girls were permitted to choose corsages for themselves and their mother who stayed home, making a grand breakfast.  The boy chose boutonnieres for himself and his father. They all smelled wonderful! Once the flowers were purchased, it was off to the bakery. They always entered through the back door directly into the production room. The aromas of baking breads, cakes, cookies and pies were intoxicating. It was wonderful to simply stand in the room and breathe. While there, the father bantered with his baker friend while he chose loaves of rye bread and some pies to bring home. The children were sent up to the retail counter, and each chose their favorite cookie to eat while their father enjoyed his friend. ... and so it was that the children were raised in the church of friendship, generosity and appreciation.
     Four years later the call to duty rang again when it was the little girl's turn to begin her formal religious education. She was in second grade when she started attending catechism every Saturday morning. In preparation for this, her mother taught her to memorize some of the ritualistic prayers that were said during the mass. The little girl didn't mind learning the prayers or going to the classes at first. She found the elderly nun who taught her to be quite intimidating, and she was very curious about why the woman dressed as she did, and why she was so stern. Then, one Saturday, an assignment was given that changed everything for that little girl. That little girl was me, and the next part will relay the story of how one assignment had opened the eyes of an eight year-old, and her atheism was  born.






   

A Philosophical Question: Where is my father?

     Today, September 24th, is the 91st anniversary of my father's birth. He died six years ago and I still miss him like crazy. As I approach days that were important to him such as today, or my parents' wedding anniversary or the date on which he died, I think of him more regularly and find myself telling stories about him, using some of his sayings and of course those memorable times surface more readily. I experience these thoughts and memories so vividly that my consciousness once again feels a reality of Dad's presence although in an elusive or shall I say, ethereal way. I know full well that experiencing Dad in this state is a fabrication of the human brain, one for which I am immeasurably grateful. If I put myself into an hypnotic trance, I can remarkably enhance this experience and fancifully create new interactions and memories of my father, all inside my head. This year, along with all of these usual phenomena and the palpable longing to have even just one more real conversation with my dad,  I am also contemplating the stark reality of his death, and death itself.
     It is no secret that much of the world, especially those who participate in religion, spirituality or believe in the supernatural tend to hold that as human beings we contain a soul that lives on eternally, even though there is absolutely no evidence that this is so. Those believe that after corporeal death we may be relegated to Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Limbo, Nirvana, Valhalla, etc. But alas these are mythologies. Some believers extend this notion to animals as well, mostly mammals for which affection is felt and not so much for creatures for which people have little or no affinity.  I see people take great comfort in a belief that dead loved ones watch over them in some way (I find this unhealthily creepy) or that when they join them in death, they will join them in another realm of existence. It is however most capricious; childish wishful thinking.
    So where is my father?  He is where he was before he was born: non existent. This is the same place I was before I was born and where you were before you were born. My unique combination of DNA had never been created before...  It is the same place I will be when I die and where you will be when you die.  There is a huge difference though on the "after you die" side and that is this:  In between birth and death there is existence: There is LIFE!  Something wonderful happens during the short span of time that is life. We interact with others and we leave evidence as a physical footprint and in the experiences shared with others that we did indeed exist... and if we are lucky a few people may have good things to say about us, and if we do it right, we may leave behind a legacy, good or bad that marks time and place for us to be remembered after we die, not just by those with whom we interacted but by groups, towns or more... with people we never even met. That doesn't mean we were famous necessarily, just that we did something that reached beyond who we could actually touch.  
    My Uncle Chet did that with his music. My cousin Jim is doing that with his art. The friends who write stories, songs or poetry, those who create photographs of special occasions for others, those who teach, preach, entertain or doctor, those who care for children, the elderly, the disadvantaged or infirm, etc., all leave their mark far beyond what they see or know. Perhaps the words I write today or those I have written in the past or will write in the future will be deemed meaningful to someone and passed along and I may never know. It is OK that I may never know.  But these words and my photographs and hopefully some kindnesses and the love that I have expressed over the decades of my life will be the evidence of my existence after I die. 
    So where is my father?  He no longer exists in any reality.  The body of his former unique DNA and consciousness lies in a vault in the ground of a military cemetery in southern New Jersey.  But all of us still living who knew him know he existed and we carry the memories of our time with him inside us. We who knew him and also love him hold the greatest portion of the evidence of his having lived. My brother, sister and I have his DNA and embody ongoing lives forever connected to the man that was my father. We carry too, living proof of our mother, grandparents, great-grandparents and so on  We are their legacies and we will be each others' legacies. By telling stories of my father, Charles Michael Sullivan, to others we expand the scope of those he touched and through us continues to touch others. The memory of him resides in the love that we still hold for him and in the longing we have for him to be with us.  This knowledge is what gives me comfort and strength. Knowing that I am responsible for keeping the evidence of my father alive for as long as I am living keeps me from feeling the same depth of sadness I did when he first died.  In fact, the only sadness I carry now is that which comes from my own selfish yearning that I could have held on to him longer when he had no desire left to hold on for himself.  
      Some of my greatest faults come from my dad and so does most of my strength. (My mom gives me other qualities and I am so happy and grateful that I get to talk with her all the time and to see her a couple of times per year!) I guess what I want to say is that I will love my beautifully flawed father and continue to miss him until the day I cease to exist. 
     This is how one minuscule atheist comprehends, reconciles and experiences the death of the male who gave 23 of his own chromosomes to bring my unique self into existence. In the beginning and in the end, it is all about love. I hope I spread enough...