little c

It’s been a tough few weeks to be a Catholic.

Following the Pennsylvania grand jury report released a few weeks ago, my emotions have run the full gamut. Of course there is so much pain and sorrow when more stories like these are revealed. But I’ve also been feeling betrayal. Confusion. Doubt. And a sad sort of numbness because, can I really say I’m surprised at this point?

Last Sunday, I made a point to head to church a little early. I was having an emotional week already with some major highs and lows so I wanted some time to sit and reflect, but I also wanted to sit in that space in the aftermath of last Tuesday’s major release. I wanted to see what would come up for me. Would I feel like a stranger in my own home? Would I feel comforted in some small, strange way? I didn’t know what to expect.

The result was many, many tears. Two weeks later, I can’t say I’ve reached any real conclusion. And maybe that’s part of faith in general. It’s always changing and growing and shifting. Despite the rituals and doctrines and things that can make it feel so cut and dry, maybe at the end of the day there’s really nothing definitive about it at all.

But I knelt in the pew and I cried and I cried. I cried because the church was so quiet and so big and so beautiful. I cried over a personal loss I had just experienced. I cried happy tears over exciting upcoming opportunities. I cried because I felt the comfort of being able to share the full spectrum of these experiences with God. I cried hot, angry tears. How could this space that holds so much joy for me be such a source of pain for so many? How can it be both? How can an institution that’s supposed to be nothing but love do so much wrong by so many? I cried out of shame. How could I be associated with an organization that contains so much I abhor, and am vehemently against? Can I even call myself a Capital C Catholic?

In the same week, I attended this very crunchy Creative Flow workshop which included guided meditations and writing prompts. It was a beautiful evening attended by all sorts of millennial, New Yorker, artsy types. I was pleasantly surprised to see a pretty diverse room of both men and women all gathered to have this quiet, creative experience. And I thought — this, too, is religion. This is a spiritual space. I experienced God here tonight. And I think it makes sense that, when so many people in my generation are turning away from institutionalized religion, that a meditation studio like Inscape is doing so well. I think humans innately crave and perhaps even need a spiritual outlet. I think instinctively we know there’s a higher power worth reaching for, something greater in which to find solace. So if it isn’t church, can it be something like group meditation? Is that enough?

Later that week, I took a long run along the West Side Highway. I’ve always felt that I experience God in the wind, so as I ran in solitude taking in the gorgeous views of Fort Tryon to my right and the river to my left I felt at complete and total peace. It didn’t even feel like I was in New York City any longer. I listened to my own breath, I smelled something more like nature and less like melting garbage, and I felt the powerful yet comforting wind carrying me along on my journey. And I thought — this, too, is religion. This is a spiritual space. I experienced God here today. While I think so much about faith is wrapped up in community, there’s also something deeply personal about it. These quiet moments of solitude are when I hear and experience God most clearly. So if it isn’t church, can it be something like a long outdoor run? Is that enough?

I mostly hang around with very liberal types, but I’ll never forget those first conversations I had with the few people in my life who voted for Trump. “Of course I’m not a racist,” they’d say. “Of course I’m not a misogynist.” “Of course I have concerns about some of the things he says and does.” But because they were one-issue voters, or because their families had been voting Republican their whole lives, he got their vote. These statements infuriated me, and I refused to let them off the hook. From where I stood, if you voted for that man, you were all those things by proxy. You can’t pick and choose, I’d say. By affiliating in this way, you have to accept the responsibility of also being all of the things that come along with that vote.

I’ve been replaying those conversations in my mind the last few weeks as I struggle to associate as a Capital C Catholic. I’m lucky to be a part of an extremely liberal and forward-thinking parish here in New York. We’re very contemporary, our priests are unafraid to preach boldly, we have a thriving LGBTQ community, and mass can feel decidedly very un-Catholic, in the traditional sense. I feel a sense of relief in knowing that I’ve found a home that seems to have broken away from many of the Catholic doctrines that I struggle with so deeply. We’re “cool Catholics.” We’re “contemporary Catholics.” We’re “little c catholics.”

But at the end of the day, even in calling myself a catholic — little c — I’m ultimately still affiliated with Capital C Catholicism. I don’t know that I have the luxury of picking and choosing what the faith means to me. Which doctrines apply to me. In meeting someone new, it often takes me awhile to reveal that I’m a person of faith, and especially that I’m a Catholic, because I know the stigmas and judgements that come along with it. I have them too! I don’t want to be seen as a close-minded, unprogressive, exclusive, and in the light of these scandals, a frankly hateful, hurtful, and shameful person. I suddenly feel empathy for my Republican friends, as I so desperately want to exist in my own personal definition of “little c catholicism.”

On that same Sunday a few weeks ago, our choir director, Joey, shared a story with us before we began mass. His first choir director, Joan, the woman who inspired him to go on to do what he does now, had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for some time. He wanted to get in touch with her, to let her know how she had influenced him, and to share with her the arrangements we’ve been singing under his direction — some of which are songs he first learned from her. He was able to reach Joan’s daughter, and sent clips of our choir for her mother to enjoy. A few weeks later, the daughter reached out to Joey and shared with him that Joan was listening to the music he sent her as she peacefully passed on.

And I thought, Thank God. Literally. Thank you God for blessing us with this beautiful story and the purest reminder of who we are and what we’re here to do.

Two weeks later, my heart is still heavy and my mind swims with questions. But here are some things I know for sure. You can find God in a meditation studio. You can find God on a long run. Having doubts and uncertainties and a change of heart is all part of having faith. At the end of the day, organized religion is run by fallible, imperfect human beings, all of whom make mistakes — some of which are reprehensible. That is not God. Those are people trying their best and sometimes failing, and failing irrevocably. Part of my faith journey includes an incredible group of musicians who gather weekly to share a gift they feel called to give. We lift each other up, we sing from the bottom of our souls, we pray together, we laugh together, and we share stories like that of Joan’s, which remind us of who we are at our core. That, I think, is God. And what I feel most sure of is the fact that if I, a little c catholic, stop showing up; I’ll never see the change I so desperately believe is possible for the Capital C Catholic Church.

Pictured here with my beautiful choir at St. Paul the Apostle. Can you find me?