Up until my confirmation at age 13, I held out hope that the Holy Spirit would enter me, as promised, and I would be transformed. Going on little information, I expected rapture, an ecstatic possession of my body followed by deep knowing. I longed for this spiritual awakening to end my many doubts: why weren’t women allowed to step onto the altar, become priests, and enter the hierarchy of power within the Church?; why was the central image of Christ, the one depicted on rosaries and above the altar, one of torture?; how could one being be the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit?; if God was good and all-powerful, why did terrible things happen?; was there really a Devil? I had an endless list of questions for the priest, CCD teachers, and my parents. Their answers never satisfied.

My connection with the church suffered another blow when the priest routinely mistook me for a boy during confession. My low voice must have fooled him, but if he represented God and didn’t know I was a girl, how could he have the authority to forgive my sins, such as they were at ten years old? I offered him my guilt over thinking curse words, gossiping, and talking back to my parents. He offered me a raft of prayers to say and confusion about my gender identity.

From a very young age I was fascinated with mythology. I put together a presentation in elementary school about historical commonalities, like the Great Flood, represented in mythic traditions. On my poster, I included “Christian” along with Norse, Roman, and Greek mythologies, and labeled God a mythic being, akin to Zeus. My parents were not pleased. I was also quite drawn to books about magic. I called myself a witch, cast spells, and involved friends in ESP tests and Ouija board games. My mother took away the Ouija board and discouraged my interest in magic, but my seeking was unstoppable.

After confirmation, and still no sign of the Holy Spirit, I ceased trying to embrace what I didn’t believe, and began studying other world religions and philosophies. My curious mind found wisdom in different traditions, without attaching to any one. Today I would describe myself as an agnostic open to divine possibilities. This doesn’t change my appreciation for the Catholic Church and its open heart when I enter its doors. While I was going through marital separation, a friend told me about a support group for divorced and separated Catholics. No longer a practicing Catholic, I was hesitant to go but went anyway as it was free and I was struggling.

Dressing identically, a Barrett tradition, for Easter mass.

We met after the Saturday evening mass, upstairs in a small room. We agreed to anonymity, and represented men and women, mostly middle-aged. Meetings opened with prayer, then a video from “The Catholic Divorce Survival Guide” series. These videos were drenched in Christian iconography, inviting thoughts of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, and featured interviews with divorced Catholics and the priests who counseled them. I was amazed at the candor and vulnerability of the divorced speakers; they broke into tears describing their failing marriages and the grief that drove them to gamble, drink, or overeat. The priests, without judging, offered hope and guidance for each stage of the divorce process. After the videos, we shared our stories and concluded with a prayer. As weeks went by, our numbers dwindled until the last meeting, when I was the only one to show up. The facilitator said that the priest wanted to celebrate a healing mass just for me. I was moved and humbled, but politely declined because I felt like a Catholic imposter. Still, the offer represented such grace.

Church is complicated. My parents believed it was their duty and greatest gift to pass their Catholic faith on to their children. That they succeeded with just one of five children undoubtedly caused much pain. That I’ve disappointed them pains me as well. But it was not as if we kids didn’t try. We attended church until we left home, several of us went to Catholic school, and we were, at least outwardly, respectful of Catholic traditions and behavior.

I’ve heard the Jesuit motto “Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man,” emphasizing the power of indoctrination. I will forever bear the stamp of a Catholic upbringing: aversion to cursing and other “sinful” behavior, rule-following, commitment to community service and giving, attraction to mysticism, over-familiarity with guilt and shame, love of ritual, and a fondness for incense and candles.

I don’t want to lie to myself, or to God, if there is one, about faith. I cannot make vows and oaths I don’t believe. Yet I would welcome a beautiful vision of a divine being when I pass from this life. And I would hold that vision like an ember in my heart, waiting for the breath of God to spark flame.

Read Bless me father for I have sinned by Diane