A Collar and Eyeliner

"The Lord be with you," Father O'Leary mumbled from the pulpit. He knew the automatic response and only need wait for its monotone reply. He didn't want it to come. He wanted his sheep not to be led, but ritual breeds complacency, and Catholics love their ritual. He finally was questioning its purpose. Standing in front of his congregation wasn't the ideal place for chaos, doubt, or skepticism, so he wiggled his shoulders trying to shake it from his body hoping no one would notice as they blindly kept their faith. Notice they did, but they just thought it was Father O'Leary trying to keep himself awake. He had been known to fall asleep at mass on occasion.

Barry sat at the back of church. Black ringed his eyes, a left over from the night before, and cast shadows of hope. He wanted to believe. He wanted to be among the parishioners; he wanted communion. He wanted the warmth of nostalgia and childhood memories. He longed for the black and white simplicity of sin. His life, complicated by disease and an undying belief in compassion, waxed gray. He needed a little separation.

The mass continued its dull progression. Father O'Leary droned dispassionately. His homily was a meditation on boredom that bored the congregation to the verge of dreams and disillusionment. His lack of conviction almost produced his hope: there was a young man with black around his eyes that continually dropped the song book creating a reverberation of dissonance that echoed throughout the chapel; its loud thud caught on subconscious thoughts of conformity and habituation. It became like a metronome metering the monotony of Father's monologue. It sunk deep to the point of omnipresence: everywhere and nowhere at the same time. But then the weight of ritual and prayer overwhelmed, and everyone, including Father O'Leary and Barry moved on to the Apostle's Creed.

Professing devotion to a singular being wasn't something that Barry could do. He'd seen too much to believe in one truth above all else, yet that was precisely what brought him to church. He so wanted to believe in something other than his senses and reason. He liked the concept of blind faith, the ultimate release of one's self to something otherworldly. He just couldn't accept its reality or disconnect from true responsibility. If one could repent to be forgiven, why ever bother with doing the right thing at all? He placed the song book back in its wooden placeholder and stood to leave. This wan't what he really needed. It's what he thought he needed. As he began to leave, an itchiness grew.

Everyone rose in unison with Barry. His metered book dropping wove a web between him and the rest of the congregation. It spun deep into the nether regions of free will and critical thought. He held them captive beyond the grasp of Father O'Leary's doctrine and liturgy. Being sheep, they didn't notice it wasn't time to stand. Rather it was time to kneel, to press knees on hard planks of stained wood, to be uncomfortable, to remember suffering as a component of faith. It was modern self-flagellation.

Father O'Leary watched his parishioners stand. He was momentarily baffled and scared. Had they heard his dark thoughts of doubt? Did they know how bored he was of ritual? Were they rejecting their faith? And he had a moment of clarity made manifest by the man with the black eyeliner making his way towards the exit: he loved his power; he needed his parishioners. A crack in composure brought a point of panic and a scream let loose snapped the invisible strings connecting his congregation to Barry.

It sounded more like a whistle or a soprano's high note. It was more melodic than a scream, but underneath the melody was untethered emotion: a feeling of despair, disjointedness, disbelief. It was eerily intimate. It was that which Barry was searching for, and when it tickled the tiny hairs in his ears he abruptly stopped, turned, and stared at Father O'Leary.

The congregation stood between these two men locked in limbo. They buzzed like fireflies trapped in a jar aimlessly wandering, searching for an exit, unaware of what kept them trapped. Without their guide, their leader, their father they were left directionless and hopeless. They were waiting, like those trapped fireflies, for their last breath of air until their light was extinguished.

Father O'Leary stood motionless in front of the pulpit. He watched his fireflies like the child who trapped them: detached and slightly titillated at the decreasing oxygen and increasing lethargy. He now knew the true power he yielded, and he hoped it would respark his faith.

"My dear congregation," Father O'Leary lulled in his best imitation of his best Sunday voice. "You are my children. You are the reason I am here. You must not leave."

Barry turned again to leave. This wasn't his place any longer. He had left it behind when he put on his mascara at nineteen, and it still wasn't his place. It was a mistake coming back. He should have known this, but his body ached for relief and simplicity. His body wanted a final healing before its final release. The disease was growing. He could feel it multiplying underneath his skin causing incredible pain and discomfort and sensitivity to touch. Father O'Leary's message meant nothing to him. He wasn't a child and didn't want to be treated as one. At least not in these final moments. He wanted peace.

The congregation, conflicted, didn't know which way to face. Half stared blankly at Father O'Leary. Half faced Barry's back. They were still trapped somewhere between devotion and disbelief.

"Stop!" Father O'Leary demanded, and something broke inside of him. "Stop!" He yelled again as tears streamed down his face. "Sto..." and he couldn't even finish the word because he found himself falling to the wooden floor.

Barry heard the pain. It was more real than the aches in joints or burning red rash that covered his body. He wanted, no needed, to comfort that pain. Something told him this was his healing. He rushed to Father O'Leary's side.

"My dear child," Father O'Leary began.

"I am no child," replied Barry.

"Forgive me. Please forgive me. I have failed you."

"I can offer no forgiveness, Father. Only solace."

The disease quickened its deadly progression. The red itchy rash bubbled and blistered. Joints popped. A fever burned and boiled blood.

Father O'Leary just cried. Cried and cried.

The entire congregation witnessed Barry clutch Father O'Leary in his arms and kiss his forehead. They watched as Barry's body turned fire red and blood flowed from his eyes. They beheld Father O'Leary's body go limp. They bore witness to the passage of life and the relinquishment of power, doubt, and belief.

They were free.

Surviving Faith

  
She saved my life even though she doesn't know it. It was her depression that did it. I saw her hurting and sad, and it reminded me of something. I felt resonance deep within my bones, right near the marrow. We became friends, boyfriend/girlfriend, acquaintances, lovers, and dear, dear friends.

The fact that she survived meant I could too. Her resilience inspired and inspires me. Her faith seeps out into the places and relationships around and beyond her. And when I feel that feeling in my marrow, I remember her, and I am hopeful.

A Day of Rejuvenation and Self Care: Questions from Victoria

Youth Worker: Collective (then the YDPN) worked with Sangita Kumar, Margaret Schulze, and Victoria Welle to create a workshop called A Day of Rejuvenation and Self-Care for the Afterschool for All Technical Assistance Collaborative on April 2, 2009. In the planning process, we brought together these three fabulous people because they come from a diverse faith perspective and embrace pluralism in all of its forms. What resulted was a curriculum and workshop that used arts education and pluralism practices to empower participants to explore how they take care of themselves. To view the curriculum, click here.
Victoria Welle is currently studying issues of health, healing, and justice as a student at the Graduate Theologica Union's Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley. She wrote a paper about her experiences with the workshop. She asked facilitators to answer a couple of basic questions about their experiences with faith to inform the paper. (Link to come soon, hopefully!)

Below are my responses to her questions. They didn't make it in to the paper because I was tardy in getting her my answers. I am sharing them here because I believe they shed light into how I show up in this world and the reason faith, regardless of format or formalization, is important to me.
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Questions from Victoria (since this is for a theology class!):

• What is the religion of your family of origin/did you grow up practicing a particular faith?
• What, if any, faith or faiths do you practice now?
• If asked the question "what religion are you?" what would you say?
• (optional: how much did your current faith practices play a role in helping design the workshop)

My Responses:

I was raised Catholic and practiced Catholicism religiously until seminary. I was in seminary for one semester at which I came out as gay. After coming out and due to much harassment by seminarians and priests (including the church I grew up in), I decided I could no longer remain Catholic or support the church.

I currently describe myself as someone who believes in wonder, imagination, dreams, and creativity. I believe in living a values-grounded life. I am not an atheist because I still believe there is something cosmic. I don't perscribe to any one way of thinking.

The Tao Te Ching guides my way of being in the world. When in times of stress or feeling lost or overwhelmed, I read its passages and find hope and comfort. I read science and math books to keep me thinking larger and beyond the obviously observable. I create and view art of all kinds as a means to hear, perceive, and experience voice, passion, history, and possibilities. I go into churches and places of worship to physically be transported to another place and time - an experience that helps me become in awe of the artistry of faith and devotion.

My current value base, the ones that guide my life and keep me focused and connected, are deeply rooted in my catholic (notice small c) upbringing. I know I have a social justice view of the world as a direct result of all of the volunteering I did because of my church. I remember working with the homeless, the destitute, the ill, those rejected by society. And in those experiences I saw compassion, composure, and grace. Those formative experiences are an anchor that firmly plants me in creating a more just and compassionate world.

While I am no longer Catholic, I am catholic. I believe in the universality in all of us. I see the connections, hear the stories, and continually discover that there is more in common than not. I weave these beliefs and values and philosophies into all of my practices and actions. I do my best to live a values-grounded life. And I hope that that shows up in everything I do.