As I mentioned before, this spiritual journey makes me question my sanity sometimes. How on earth am I communicating with trees? How am I talking to my spirit guides, the divine feminine? And my biggest question: how is it that I am channeling some other entity entirely? Who the hell (or heaven? IDK) am I talking to? Is this schizophrenia?
I mean, Shirley MacLaine and Richard Bach and Neale Donald Walsch and Glennon Doyle all talk quite openly about their communing with the divine. But they’re famous. I’m just… a nobody. What makes me so special? I’m definitely not worthy - at least if I believe what I’ve been told.
My mom struggled with the idea of religion her entire life - from her teenage years. Never quite satisfied, never really finding the answers she was looking for, she bounced me and my sisters around from church to church. From Catholic to Nazarene and back to Catholic. My dad was born and raised Catholic - like, say-the-rosary Catholic - but he wasn’t practicing. He went to holiday masses, but otherwise he left our religious upbringing to our mom. As long as we were baptized and got all the sacraments up to confirmation, he didn’t care what we were doing. So my religious education was cobbled together, along with my beliefs in the divine, in God, in heaven and hell.
Nazarene church was fun, I liked the pastor’s daughter who taught Sunday school (her name was Brooke, which I thought was the most romantic name I’d ever heard, and she was blond and beautiful and sweet and kind and could sing… I thought she was an angel), and I liked the cookies after service. We didn’t go there for long, but I remember Brooke and cookies.
Catholic church, though, I had a lot of mixed feelings about. There were so many things I did not understand, and so many things that made me uneasy, doubtful, and downright suspicious. I went to catechism on Saturdays during our Catholic stints, and I had just so many questions.
I was fine with all of it up through first holy communion, second grade. I remember being so proud to be finally getting the body of Christ, so excited to be wearing a white dress and a veil (we will not talk about how creepy that whole idea is), so totally thrilled to have Jesus in my heart. Truly. I loved Jesus a lot. Of course I was disappointed that his body tasted weird and stuck to the roof of my mouth in a most unpleasant way, but still, I was growing in Jesus’s love, and he loved me. Of that I had no doubt. I loved the solemnity, the rituals - the candles and the organ and the unified murmur of the congregation as they droned all the words I couldn’t yet understand or follow along with, but I knew must hold great importance. And I felt so grown-up when someone offered me their hand and said “peace be with you”. I knew how to participate in that, my tender heart swelling with the joy of knowing we were all granting each other a sign of God’s peace.
I mean, I really got being a Christian. My soul was full of kindness and love and compassion for my fellow man. Being at church felt holy to me. I bought all of it. It terrified me when I heard my mom say “damn” one time: I went to her, tears streaming, worried that she was going to go to hell for saying it. Every time I heard anyone say “God!” in exasperation, I cringed, waiting for the lightning to strike.
And then came third grade.
In third grade, the sacrament is confession. Where you really, really get it drilled into your head that you are the worst fucking sinner in the world, and Jesus went through absolute hell and torture to make sure you were saved and could get to heaven, so you’d better behave. And it’s a good damn thing your parents got you baptized because otherwise your sorry sinning ass would be going straight to hell - and woe to those newborn babies who died before they were baptized! There was no hope for them - they were doomed.
So, so many questions started flooding my mind. The more I read the bible - especially the old testament - the more I began to suspect that Jesus had a mean, awful dad. Seriously. Some dude didn’t give ten percent of his income to the church and BAM! Struck by lightning! God wasn’t satisfied with one guy’s devotion to him, so he let the devil wreak havoc on his life - wholesale slaughter and ruin - boils covering his body that he had to scrape open with a broken piece of pottery (an image that haunted me then and now) - just to PROVE he was devoted. And the baby killings! Jesus! Constant baby deaths. Asking people to sacrifice their own children to prove their loyalty? What the fuck?
And then, of course, the fact that “God” (if that was, in fact, his real name) sacrificed HIS OWN CHILD. I just didn’t get it. Especially if he loved all of us, his children. Funny way of showing it. Threats and warnings. Killing people seemingly at random for their disobedience. I mean he sat back and watched when his own son begged him not to be tortured and murdered - and just let it happen. And Jesus was perfect! I knew I sure wasn’t! Was I next? Jesus may have died to save us all, but if he couldn’t save himself from his own heartless father - how did I, a sinning little girl, stand a chance?
Besides the fear, there was the suspicion and confusion: So, let me get this straight: someone could go out and be THE WORST person on the world - do all kinds of bad things - cuss and steal and kill and be mean - but all they had to do was ‘believe on the lord Jesus Christ’ and they got a free pass into heaven? I mean, they could wait until they were on their deathbed, having been an awful person their whole lives, and still go to heaven. But babies who weren’t baptized… went to hell? Or purgatory, which sounded even worse. It made no sense.
Speaking of heaven - my understanding of the kingdom of heaven was a banquet table (I mean, that’s nice, but I was a kid. Was I going to get stuck at the kids’ table if I died as a child?). Also there were angels, singing, flying around, playing harps. Honestly, it sounded boring AF. I didn’t want to go there. Life in heaven couldn’t be all about eating and sitting on clouds - surely it would be way more beautiful and interesting. Could I do art in heaven? Or did I have to play a harp?
They taught us in Catechism that the next step in our religious growth was confessing our sins to a priest (in a closet, through a weird fancy screen, no less), who then talked it over with God, and decided what your punishment would be. Usually it involved prayers. But wait, weren’t we supposed to enjoy praying? How could it be both a joyful lifting up of voices to the lord AND a punishment? But, okay, so your punishment was the spiritual equivalent of writing “I will not talk back to the teacher” a hundred times on the blackboard. Not exactly sure what purpose it would serve.
What really rubbed me the wrong way was the fact that I had to tell a priest what I had done wrong. All my life thus far I had talked to the Lord directly: kneeling beside the bed, now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep (which in and of itself terrified me - you mean I could DIE IN MY SLEEP!?!?!) and “bless mommy and daddy and grandpa and….”
I mean, I’d had direct access to this point. What had changed? Was it just a function of getting older? Or was it that God himself couldn’t be bothered with all my bad deeds? Supposedly he saw and heard everything - sparrows and hairs on my head and all that - so why do I need to tell him at all? He was in my heart, so couldn’t he just, you know, look around and see for himself what I was thinking and doing?
Apparently not. I actually had to go into a dark closet and genuflect and make the sign of the cross and tell the priest all the terrible things I’d done - which were not even that bad! I mean I took the bigger cookie because I knew my little sister wouldn’t care! Well, let me tell you, I was not having it. I remember angrily confronting my mom about this - WHY did I have to tell the priest? WHY couldn’t I talk to God myself anymore? I don’t recall her having a satisfactory answer. Another great mystery.
I also started becoming aware of what exactly we were droning in church, and it really rubbed me the wrong way. “We believe in one holy Catholic and Apostolic church… we believe in one baptism for the forgiveness of sins…” Wait a second. If only Catholics were gonna get forgiven, then what was going to happen to Brooke? Sweet angel Brooke? And what about all the other kinds of churches? What about (perish the thought) the people who didn’t go to church - the kids whose parents didn’t take them. Were they all to burn in eternal hell?
Again, God was proving himself to be a petulant, narcissistic, unfair guy.
Fast forward a few years. I was in fifth or sixth grade, and my mom started going to a bible study group with her bestie across the street. Mary was a bit of a hippie - long straight hair, colorful clothing - she was married to a man who had been married and divorced (gasp!) and had children who were there only sometimes and somehow that was okay? My world view was expanding, I was learning that there were so, so many ways of being. I had friends who were lovely, kind people but they were not Catholic. I refused to believe that they were going to roast in hell while the nasty, naughty boys in my Catechism class and the mean girls who never shared their candy were all gonna be just fine. I didn’t want to be in heaven if they were going to be there, anyway.
So, Mary. She had several siblings, a few of which had started a bible study group. My mom, ever searching for her own relationship to the divine, started going with her. I began to see a change in her - she softened. She started being loving and patient to me, and my dad (we’re not going to talk about that stuff - suffice it to say the change was noticeable). She laughed more. She spent more and more time with Mary. Our families grew closer. It was a peaceful time in my life, and it was only to get so much better.
The bible study group expanded and grew. It was started by a bunch of hippies, and it very quickly became quite large. They called it “His Community”. My memories are a bit foggy, but I do recall “worship service” on Sundays, sitting on the patchwork carpet floor with a lot of other hippies, swaying, singing, eyes closed, hands and hearts uplifted to the Lord. Upstairs in the loft, one or two mothers would watch over the younger children, nursing each other’s babies, so they could take turns listening to the charismatic, handsome David, the leader. He was married to the thin, gorgeous Joanne, sister of mom’s friend Mary. The other leader, a woman named Alice, was married to Mary’s brother Les. It was just a big happy, loving family - shining bright with the love of Jesus and each other.
They started a bible study group for us adolescents, and we would gather in Alice and Les’ house, on the floor in the living room, all of us at that shy and awkward and hormonal stage where you’re not even sure of who you are, much less how you fit into the big picture with Jesus.
I will not lie to you. It was the most miraculous, beautiful, meaningful, genuine, loving thing I had ever participated in. I could not have imagined being loved so deeply and openly by adults and kids my age. The acceptance was real. And so was Jesus. He was a living, breathing entity - he was with us all the time, we could talk to him whenever we wanted. We carried him in our hearts, and his love shone through us and onto the world and each other. It makes me want to cry even now, thinking about how incredibly moving and important that bible study group was to me. I made friends who liked what I liked and didn’t think I was ugly because I wore glasses or called me a ‘brain’ because I read all the time or a dork because I loved doing crafts. We did those things together. We laughed, we shared stories, we wept together as we learned to accept that yes, we were sinners, but we were truly forgiven. Not only by Jesus, but forgiven by each other, and most importantly ourselves.
I felt peaceful. Beautiful. Happy. Accepted. I finally knew what it felt like to be loved unconditionally. His Community brought back that awe and thrill I had had at age seven, when I was given the body of Christ. I belonged.
It was, overall, my favorite part of my childhood, if I’m being honest. My mom was at peace - it seemed she, too, had found her place and her religion. There was love in my household. Even my dad started to participate. In the fall there was a harvest festival, held in a local park. In the spring we celebrated Easter with a picnic and a passion play - Jesus was played by a wonderful man named Terry (who I was thrilled to have as a teacher in our breakout lessons! He was the embodiment of Jesus!), and other adults played the other roles. I remember one of my friends, Nessa, was so proud of her mom. Her mother was playing Mary Magdalene, and the play required her to be shoved to the ground. She was pregnant at the time, but her faith in the Lord was so strong that she knew no harm would come to her or the baby. I shared in Nessa’s pride. What a courageous woman. What an example of God’s love!
Everything was beautiful. Everything was miraculous. This was heaven. I was home, at Jesus’s house, with all these kind, beautiful people. Surrounded by love.
To be continued
(Image of a dense stand of redwoods, looking up to the canopy from the ground. Taken at Powell Butte, on the Dogwood Trail, after the storm in winter of 2023)