I was raised in a liberal household, with an atheist mother (she would sometimes veer seamlessly into agnosticism depending on who she was talking to), and a not-quite-fully lapsed Catholic father, still carrying the weight of his generation’s relationship with the church. He would bring us to Mass every other week, with the implicit understanding that there would be sweets afterwards. We’d buy into transubstantiation once it also turned small change into two packets of Munchies and a Pyramint.
It’s a funny thing religion; the incontrovertible belief in a higher power that defies all the logic clever humans have built up over millenniums. Science is great, but it doesn’t always leave room for the elements that make us human: imagination, fantasy, and the entertaining of mystery and magic. You may not find God on a geological timeline, but you won’t find Santa Claus there either, and whatever your beliefs, that’s a real shame.
Over the past 30 years, the most active consideration I’ve given to faith has been once a decade, when my pen hovers over the religion box on the census form. Yet, wherever I go, I gravitate towards churches, always struck by how they vary from leviathans of Gothic horror (hello Spain!) to tranquil sanctuaries. I’ve spent almost as much on lighting candles at votive stands as I have on shoes, yet I’ve also at times thought of God as a comforting fantasy at best, hugely problematic at worst, and I’ve been envious of those who had strong beliefs.
I’m a contradiction, but I don’t think I’m alone.
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In recent years, I’ve reflected on the place that religion has in my own foundations. I’ve wondered if it is possible (or even allowed) to invite back in some of the good bits, while still advocating for what I know must end. How do we replace what’s lost when we lose faith? Meditation, environmentalism and spending time in nature are ways in which many find meaning, but still nothing has succeeded the good parts of the church: the community and compassion, the rituals and the togetherness (yes, I know that sounds like the GAA).
At a remembrance Mass, the church was packed with people who’d also lost someone that year, and I’ve never felt a solidarity like it
I decided to let my son make his First Communion last May, which seemed to disappoint many of my peers. He asked me could he do it, and loved the preparation and ritual that came with it. We both enjoyed the process, he began to eschew Roblox in favour of Bible stories on YouTube, and I was reminded how remarkable many of them are. The greatest lessons in morality come to us via good storytelling, and some of the most enduring of those lessons stem from religion.
Religion has no place in politics, healthcare or education, but is a sort of existential approach to faith possible, in which we can make it work for us, and not the other way around?
I became great friends with a priest many years ago who made me think it could. He told me that if anyone found comfort in his church, whether they were squeezing into a packed pew just once a year on Christmas Day, or hearing the refrains weekly, then that was okay with him. He said once the intentions were good, all were welcome.
The term “a la carte Catholicism” has been bandied about a lot recently. Post-Covid, lapsed Catholics-turned-atheists segued casually back into Catholicism to sign their kids up for sacraments, unapologetically whispering to others that, yes, it was an excuse for a big party. Many hadn’t seen family or friends for two years, some had lost loved ones, grandparents had missed out on very precious time, and they wanted a reason to get together and celebrate – but isn’t that at the heart of religion anyway? And perhaps the newly Communion-ised young person might decide to forge their own path with the church; it’s a win-win when you think about it.
When my lovely mum died two years ago, we were bereft. She left no wishes, no instructions, and whether it was defiance or denial, she never spoke about dying, and we didn’t bring it up. It felt odd to plan her funeral in a church she barely set foot in, but death is about those left behind, and it turned out to be the best place for my family.
As I walked down the aisle, clinging to my father’s arm, it struck me how like my wedding day the mechanics of the ritual were, with all the smiling faces of people who care about you. Except these were the sad, muted smiles of kind people expressing empathy and concern (although truth be told, there may have been a few of those on my wedding day too). The following November, we attended a remembrance Mass. The church was packed with people who’d also lost someone that year, and I’ve never felt a solidarity like it.
There is much to celebrate about the church easing its iron grip, but there is much that has been lost too. Faith used to be a set menu with very limited choices, now for some, it’s a la carte. Perhaps to survive, and to give people what they need, it needs to become a buffet.
Brianna Parkins is away