Denouncement
Monday, March 9th, 2009I am ashamed that I have baptized my children in the Roman Catholic Church.
I stood on an ornately carved altar in the church I was raised in, with my family at my side, and I vowed as a mother to give my two children over to God.
Why did I do this?
I remember being in the 8th grade and going to meet with a nun before my confirmation. Shrouded in black habit, authoritarian and grizzled, Sister Katherine informed me that confirmation would make me a women in the eyes of the church. She then went on to tell me that my mother was most likely going to hell for having gotten her tubes tied.
I walked away from the church at 18 without a backward glance. I went to college where I found Eastern Philosophy and fell in love with a Jewish boy who liked to go on long walks and talk about the Tao Te Ching. God was not an organized construct then. He, she, the energy of creation was everywhere for me. I found God in the shake of a tree limb, and the roll of a wave against a shoreline I would barefoot and explore.
How did I get from that barefoot college girl to the high-heeled mother making a vow to raise her children in the church?
Miscarriage. My three miscarriages made me angry and vulnerable. I laid in bed and cursed at God. I stood at my Grandfather’s gravesite carrying in my pocket the St. Christopher’s medal he gave me as a gift for my confirmation. I dipped myself grief stricken against the cold marble of his headstone. I needed to believe that there was a force out there greater than myself, my broken body; something or someone that could bring me the thing I longed for the most. I sat in sturdy church pews at Christmas time and made a vow to give myself back to organized religion if only I would be granted forgiveness in the form of motherhood.
When my daughter was born, I went back.
We baptized the children on a Saturday afternoon. My Irish Catholic grandparents made the trip up from Virgina. I remember how proud my Grandmother was to pass on the heirloom baptismal dress the 17 grandchildren of our family had all worn. My daughter would be the first great-granddaughter bestowed with this honor.
I remember my former altar boy father expressing relief that his two grandchildren would not end up in the void of wingless purgatory. Carried on the back of nostalgia for the way I was raised, all those Sunday afternoons of sitting side by side with my parents signing church hymns with hands entertwined, I felt full and complete in the moment the priest blessed my babies with holy water. My children cried out in protest.
What about my own protest?
I kept trying to tell myself that I could be like my mother, who is pro-choice but goes faithfully to church and, as she tells it, prays in her own way. I held fast to the shaky belief that I could be a part of something even though I was adamantly opposed to the way priests walked clean after multiple counts of molestation, and the church still would not accept and love the parts of their congregation who are gay.
I kept force feeding myself the lie I was raised on, the lie that the church is about love, faith, and extended arms.
I can not continue on with that lie.
Recently, the Vatican has chosen to excommunicate a Brazilian woman and her nine year old daughter. The church has turned their back on this family because the mother allowed her daughter to abort her twin pregnancy. Actually, the church has not turned their back on the entire family. Just the daughter and the mother. The church still has those arms wide open for the step-father. That would be the same step-father who had been raping the little girl, who weighs in at only 80 pounds, since she was 6 years old. That bastard is still welcome to take communion.
My stomach turns as I type this post.
There is no amount of childhood nostalgia that will permit me to continue belief in an organization that grants forgiveness for a heinous rapist while shunning a victimized little girl.
I made the mistake of baptizing my children based on the nostalgia for the way I was raised in a loving family, and my overwhelming gratefulness that I was able to be a mother after many years of trying and three times loss. But as a mother, I owe it to my children to protect them from hate and lies. I owe it to my children to teach them the truth about a compassionate God, something I’m certain the Vatican knows nothing about.
