How I Came to be Spiritually Independent

I've long appreciated various aspects of different religious traditions.  I guess what I wasn't able to articulate during my early years of intrigue was that I sensed something of the Divine, some spark of Truth, wherever I found people genuinely seeking God.

I grew up Polish Catholic.  We didn't discuss religion in my household, nor did we pray together as a family.  My parents did their religious "duty" by attending weekly Mass and sending me to Catechism class so that I received my Sacraments of Initiation (Baptism, First Communion, First Penance, Confirmation). We abstained from meat on the appropriate days, celebrated the various religious season, and... well, that was pretty much it as far as authentic Catholic experience.

My childhood faith was, however, peppered with various other spiritual tinkerings.  We all knew our astrological signs and attributed various character assets and flaws to our signs.  (I took pride in being a Scorpio, so much so that when choosing what to get a tattoo of, I chose a scorpion because "this will never change about me".) Likewise, we followed our horoscope regularly.  There were various folk superstitions that I suppose certain of my relatives didn't know weren't actually part of our Catholic faith.  For instance, to wear or display a cross or crucifix was considered bad luck.  We already each have our own cross to bear, the saying would go, so why voluntarily take on additional crosses?  Eventually, more occult practices such as the reading of palms and tarot cards trickled in.  Some more benign practices, such as reiki, feng shui, and yoga, were also all introduced to me at a relatively young age.

Although we never discussed God's plan for our lives, or other religious subjects, there was a strong certainty of eternal life, and the ability to communicate with loved ones who had gone before us.  Dream interpretation was a common topic of discussion when I was growing up.  It still is, actually.

As I entered pre-adolescence, we immigrated to the United States, and slowly my peers and more trivial concerns (ie. popularity) became more important to me.  However, towards the second half of my high school career, I again became interested in spiritual matters.  Since there was no one in my life who would insist on a specifically Catholic world-view, I was free to look to whatever tradition peaked my interest.

I remember reading a little book about Zen Buddhism, and upon finishing it, literally flinging it across the room.  I was so frustrated that I didn't understand what on earth they were talking about!  I once had a friend over and for some reason felt the need to "enlighten" her with my spiritual eureka:  I placed a doll on the table in front of us, and as we sat opposite each other, I asked her to describe what she saw.  When I described some different features of the doll, I then said the analogy represents the different religious views of God; each sees some aspect of God, but none see the whole.  I borrowed this concept from my readings on Buddhism. (The story of the blind men describing an elephant, to be precise.)  It was the first non-Christian religion I was very intrigued with.

Yet what bothered me about Buddhism was the lack of a personal God.  Recently I read that Gautama Sidhartha (the Buddha) didn't so much deny the existence of God as he diminished God's importance in one's spiritual life.  Rather than spending time on theological debates and worship, the Buddha encouraged his disciples to live a life of discipline in pursuit of enlightenment.  In other words, he wanted us to do the hard work ourselves, rather than depending on a priest to give us a pre-fabricated answer to life's greatest questions.  Now that I'm an adult, this aspect of Buddhism appeals to me.  However, as a primary goal of my spiritual life, I wish to experience the presence of God in my midst. I believe that God is worthy of worship, even if at the same time I know I must put in the time and effort myself to experience His presence.

Of course, this is not an idea unique to Buddhism.  Psalm 46:10 says, "Be still and know that I am God."  1 Kings 19:11-13 describes this very experience that Elijah had on Mount Horeb: "So He said, 'Go forth and stand on the mountain before the Lord.' And behold, the Lord was passing by! And a great and strong wind was rending the mountains and breaking in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of a gentle blowing. When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood in the entrance of the cave. And behold, a voice came to him."

There are entire contemplative religious orders devoted to a lifetime of being still in the presence of God, living away from the world even.  Countless saints have described this very experience. St. Therese the Little Flower comes to mind right off the bat.

Still, since it was through Buddhism that I was first exposed to the idea of simply being with God, it is in that light that I envision how I might go about doing that.  The silent waiting worship found among the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers) appeals to me for this reason.  So does meditation and yoga.

But I digress.  Returning to my spiritual journey... Also in high school, I felt a very strong desire to dedicate my life to spiritual pursuits, and the only way I knew how was through a vowed religious life.  Yet when I brought this up to my family, they were less than enthused.  To be fair, it must not have been a calling from God if I gave up that easily, but the fact that I even considered becoming a nun is relevant to my ongoing spiritual journey.  I should also point out that the fact that my Catholic relatives discouraged me from deepening my spirituality via consecrated  life ought to illustrate that my upbringing was merely culturally Catholic.

When serving in the Army, I came across a little book that my roommate had about Wicca.  Since I had already been exposed to horoscopes and the occult from my own family, I saw no reason not to inquire further about Neo-Pagan beliefs.  In the spring of 2005, Pope John Paul II passed away, and with him, my sense of loyalty to my heritage faith of Catholicism. And so, in time, I pursued a two-year Pagan solitary practice, complete with a home-made Book of Shadows, where I kept instructions for my Circles (occasions to commune with the Divine during Sabbats [two solstices and two equinoxes] and Esbats [monthly full moons]), a list of prayers I would write, and intentions I'd bring into the sacred space.  I also convened on a few occasions with fellow Pagans, celebrating seasonal festivals.  

What attracted me most to this spiritual path was the Divine Feminine and the integral part the environment played.  Again, we find both of these concepts in my heritage faith as well.  Sophia is the feminine embodiment of God's wisdom, alluded to in various places of the Old and New Testament.  The Madonna, of course, is another powerful female figure in Catholicism.  And St. Francis of Assisi in particular is known for his care and love of all of God's creatures.  Yet, I had to go through Paganism to find a place for both of these expressions in my spirituality.

When Alex and I started our struggle with infertility, I began to distance myself from my Pagan practice.  As much as various religions focus on the importance of family life, it was simply unbearable for me to continue to recharge spiritually in the context of a faith focused on fertility (since female fertility was seen as empowerment rather than a curse or duty, as some other religions view it).  

The next few years are a bit of a haze.  I remember a time, midnight in my kitchen, when I felt enveloped by God's presence, taking me to my knees in tears.  For a time, I thought this was my "born again" experience. Alex and I spent about a year or so church-hopping, spending five months at an Anglican church.  We were foster parents during this time, and I found the Anglican church to be most welcoming, bursting with fellowship and religious education opportunities, not to mention an incredible music ministry.  Worship was very enjoyable for me, yet after some time, I found that I missed the silence I had associated with Eucharistic adoration that Catholics would honor by being reverently quiet before and after Mass.  (To my disappointment, I found that to no longer be the case in Catholic churches in the US.)

Then Alex and I visited several Quaker meetinghouses where I found the silent waiting worship very refreshing.  Unfortunately, it was a bit too relaxing for Alex, who dozed and snored whenever we settled into the silence.  I wanted us to worship as a family, and since in spite of the way that Quaker testimonies of peace, simplicity, equality, integrity, and stewardship resonated with me, I missed hearing Jesus's teachings proclaimed, so I decided to return to the Catholic church.

However, this was not before a particularly sharp though short-lived curiosity into Islam.  Our foster daughter was removed from our home under less than ideal circumstances, which came as a huge shock to me.  By the grace of God, Alex had an opportunity to work abroad for several months, and I decided to take a sabbatical from teaching and join him.  The change in scenery was just what I needed to accept life without a child in my home, after 10 months of hoping we'd be able to adopt our foster daughter.

Initially, I had intended to work on my doctoral dissertation, and I did, but I quickly became disillusioned with what that would entail.  With a heavy heart, after five years of pursuing a PhD, I withdrew from the program.  This inevitably freed up the rest of my time, which I spent researching religion.  I was intrigued by Islam's critiques of Christianity, particularly the Trinity, which I had long struggled to comprehend.  I considered what life as a Muslim would entail.  To be honest, only one thing gave me pause at the time: circumcision.  (This was an immediate turn-off to Judaism as well.) Even though it didn't affect me personally, I was opposed to the practice on principle, and I knew I would never circumcise any sons entrusted to my care.  What helped me further keep from going down that road was Alex, who in no uncertain terms said he would not convert, even though he was likewise attracted to various aspects of the faith.

And so I tried to be a gung-ho Christian for a while longer, but eventually found every church and religion wanting in some way.  I missed the familiarity of Catholic ritual, prayers, and even though I disagreed with many things, at least I knew what the Church taught and why.  I became a revert.  I whole-heartedly embraced the faith of my upbringing with gusto, opening myself up to even the teachings that were long difficult for me to accept.  After reading several books, most notably Scott and Kimberly Hahn's "Rome Sweet Home", which outlined a defense of the typical opposition Protestants have with Catholicism, I was set.  I accepted that it may be difficult to stand up for my faith, even within my own family, but that I was tired of being on the fence, tired of searching.  Essentially, I gave up.  I settled for the religion of familiarity and hoped that belonging to religion, any religion, would feed my soul.

We spent two wonderful years at a Franciscan parish where God's Spirit was clearly moving people both to adult faith formation and social justice action and charity work.  Celebrating Mass became something we authentically looked forward to every week, and we spend most weeks visiting the church multiple times for various activities.  We became involved in numerous pursuits: Green Faith's Environmental Justice Committee, Respect Life Committee, VOICE, the Called and Gifted Workshop... we began to meet the same group of people who, like us, were getting involved outside of the typical "Sunday obligation".  We felt we were living our faith.  We tried multiple times to also provide a support group for fellow infertile/childless Catholics, but surprisingly, not a soul responded to our offers.  

Over the years, I also attended several silent Ignatian retreats through my alma mater, Georgetown University.  When on retreat, I never wanted to come home.  I was reminded of my early years of thinking about the consecrated life.  I felt God's presence everywhere I walked.  It was on these retreats that I delved deep into our childlessness and sought God's will for our lives.  And it was thanks to these retreats that I discerned that indeed, God was leading us to pursue embryo adoption.  Sadly, some of my online Catholic contacts did not sympathize with this leading in my heart.  While the issue remains controversial, opponents adamantly claim that the Church has indeed spoken about the subject and has condemned it.  Yet I couldn't accept that on one hand, we are to believe that human life begins at the moment of conception, yet on the other hand, these particular human pre-embryos are out of luck because of the way they were conceived.  

Thankfully, I found support on my retreats from the Jesuit priests and sister coordinator, which gave me the courage to pursue this leading and eventually welcome our daughter Maya into our family.  Yet what remained a stain on the impression the Church made on me was that there was no way I could please everyone, and that there are Catholics who condemn our decision, who judge us, and who may in turn not embrace our daughter fully.  

Immediately after Maya's birth, I went through a temporary intensification of my faith.  The pain of childbirth brought me closer to Christ's passion.  I felt united to him in meaningful suffering.  I had to face judgment and hurt feelings on the part of my own mother when choosing godparents for Maya, yet I had to stay true to my renewed faith.  I wanted to truly be Catholic, not in name only.  My family were perfectly satisfied calling themselves Catholic without actually taking all of the Church's teachings to heart, replacing them instead with peppering of the occult and personal interpretations.  It was very hard to go against that, but I felt justified in choosing Christ and his church, if that was indeed a choice I was being forced into.

However, our life circumstances changed soon after Maya's baptism at 2 months old.  We sold our house and moved closer to Alex's job, which was across state lines.  I was isolated from family and friends, in an unfamiliar area, with no Catholic church that so much as held a candle to our beloved St. Francis of Assisi parish, and I was going through postpartum anxiety and recovering from an ugly breast infection with complications.  Needless to say, I felt spiritually all alone.  

After several months of a spiritual dry spell, I began to emerge once again.  I realized that my previously held Catholic Christian faith was not really authentic.  It was being sustained by a loving church family, but once we were cut off from that lifeline, I had nothing to keep feeding my desire to believe that the Catholic church indeed held the fullness of truth, as it likes to say about itself.

I desperately tried to find a way I could still refer to myself as Catholic and keep my integrity intact, because truth be told, I disbelieved the very basis of Christian dogma.  I could no longer pretend that I could fake it till I make it, as we used to say in the Army.  When we stood up during Mass to profess our faith by reciting the Nicene Creed, I found myself stopping after asserting the belief in God the Father.  I didn't believe all the details of Jesus's life that purportedly made him God Incarnate. The more I thought about it, the more I agreed with the critics of Christianity who point to the Roman Empire and how there were politically powerful influences at play that turned Christianity from a persecuted minority sect into a world religion.  

And when is the last time we focused on the teachings of Jesus?  It seemed to me that mere lipservice was payed to Jesus's teachings, but there was always an excuse for why we couldn't be expected to truly live his way, his truth, his life.  Instead, we were to ride straight into heaven on the coattails of his sacrifice on the cross.  Ok, that was more the Protestant view.  The Catholic view focused on the sacraments as the mile markers of our progress to heaven.  The more I thought about it, the less of Jesus's teachings I saw in either approach.

I briefly thought I found just the label for me when I came across Deism.  Here are people who do not attend church, who don't have a creed, who don't follow rituals, yet who are fascinated by the beauty and order of nature, and see it as proof of the existence of God.  The reasonable religion, I thought.  Natural religion, they call it.  But as I learned more about Deism, I found that their idea of God doesn't align with my experience of God.  To them, God is distant.  He created the universe, and after that, vaya con Dios (if you will).  Interestingly, I believe my mother is a Deist who religiously attends a Catholic church. But that may be beside the point. The God I believe in speaks to me.  In dreams, in personal revelations, in the serendipitous circumstances of my life.  God interacts with us.  But even though I had to pull away from labeling myself a Deist, I couldn't just keep calling myself a Catholic.

Instead, I found myself returning to the simplicity of Zen Buddhism, which frustrated me so many years ago.  I just want to sit in silence and look out at nature and be surrounded by God's grandeur.  It has always been in silence that I have found inspiration, discernment, peace. The everyday mundane tasks can and ought to be sacred, as God can be found in each of them.  God doesn't live in a church, in a tabernacle, at the altar.  God lives in the human heart!

Likewise, I found myself remembering the Quaker testimonies: Of integrity (I can't keep pretending I believe something I don't), of simplicity (I need a lifestyle that will not distract me from the things of God, not yet another religious icon or devotion to occupy my time), of equality (What ever happened to the priesthood of all believers? What about so-called non-believers being children of God?), of peace (Why are Christians OK with going to war?  Opposed to sensible gun control laws? Unashamedly torturing, killing, and eating animals?), of stewardship (Did Jesus really say, "Forget this Earth, it's doomed anyway"? Then why do most Christians act like he did?), of community (I mean true community, the brotherhood and sisterhood of humanity, not the us-versus-them sectarianism between denominations and religions, believers and non-believers.)

At first, the idea of simply becoming a convinced Quaker appealed to me.  (I had to abandon the idea of formal Buddhist conversion because I in no way doubt the existence of an intelligent, loving creator God.) Liberal Quakers are not necessarily Christian-focused, and so I could bring my Buddhist leanings with me.  But as I discovered that the Religious Society of Friends has its own history and tradition and short-comings, would a formal conversion really accomplish what I am seeking?  Wouldn't it simply move my allegiance from one organized religion to another?  Wouldn't it merely substitute one set of challenges for another?  

Every one of the four Quaker meetinghouses I had attended (each multiple times) made me painfully aware of the lack of ethnic diversity there.  Perhaps this is a common problem in many churches/religious organizations.  But if I'm going to go through the whole process of conversion, shouldn't the destination be better all around instead of just in some areas? 

Finally, it occurred to me that I will never find a religion that fully resonates with me because religion should never be a matter of group-think.  Religion should always be about our relationship with our Creator, nothing less and nothing more.  If we are fulfilled with ritual, so be it.  If certain dogma resonates with our understanding of the Divine, wonderful.  But why would I surrender my God-given reason, my God-given intellect, my God-given set of emotional responses to someone else?  All organized religions are merely the manifestation of some human or another trying to articulate that which cannot be articulated.  Religion is indeed a personal experience.  On this front, my mother was right.  (She once gave this as the reason why she didn't like talking about religion.)  

So what was left for me to do?  What were my options?  I could remain where I am, self-identifying as a Catholic and citing the fact that most Catholics don't actually believe everything the Church teaches anyway.  But without any kind of qualifier (lapsed? Cafeteria? secular?), this would be disingenuous. So Ok, I'm a heritage Catholic in that my religious heritage does indeed come from Catholicism.  I am familiar with the teachings and practices, and I am comfortable attending a Catholic church.  But I am more Quaker at heart.  The way I describe my spiritual experiences is more in line with Quaker terminology.  If there weren't a Catholic church I could attend nearby, but there would be a Quaker meetinghouse, I'd attend there.  But dual-religious identity, rather than being freeing, is actually twice the burden that a single organized religious identity.  

Therefore, I am happy to report that I am Spiritually Independent.  If someone asks for my religious affiliation, I shall start with that.  If the circumstances call for an explanation, I am happy to elaborate: heritage Catholic, Quaker at heart, with some Buddhist tendencies.  But as it stands, the one label that is a true reflection of my spiritual life is neither Buddhist nor Catholic nor Quaker, but Spiritually Independent.  I answer to God alone.  

Critics will of course ask me how I can possibly know what God wants without a sacred text, ordained minister, or tradition and ritual telling me what God wants.  My response to them?  Where did the sacred text, ordained minister, or tradition/ritual become certain of the will of God?  God does not work merely by majority rule.  Just because a critical mass of people agree on something doesn't actually make it true or right or good.  A lot of people agreed to own slaves.  A  lot of people agreed to fight for Hitler's cause. A lot of people agree to waste natural resources.  A lot of people agree that indiscriminate extra-marital sex is normative.  A lot of people agree on a lot of things.  Putting God's name to a group's beliefs doesn't mean God agrees.

The only thing that we can be sure of is what we experience first hand.  I cannot take someone's word that my husband loves me.  I have to experience it firsthand.  I cannot believe others when they say motherhood is truly fulfilling.  I have to experience it for myself.  First-hand experience: It's the only way to know anything, and it's the only way to know God.  

Spiritually Independent

In my previous post, I discussed how I came to the conclusion of my nationality, and how I struggled for a time to find the correct label for that aspect of my identity.  Recently, I've been struggling with a similar dilemma over my religious convictions.

I was raised in the Catholic church, albeit not by particularly religious parents.  Ever since adolescence, I've researched the religions of the world because I found it fascinating how each seemed to highlight some different spiritual truth.  Convinced by the mainstream Christian culture in which I live that there is such a thing as religious Truth (capital "T"), I set off to decide which of the faiths was The One, so that I could associate myself with it.  (I discuss my journey elsewhere on this blog.)

Frustration led me to return to my Catholic roots. As I recall telling a good friend of mine, "No church is perfect because they are all run by imperfect human beings.  Therefore, I might as well stay with the church that I am most familiar with." And so I became a "revert" to Catholicism.  I became very gung-ho about the faith for a period of about 2 years.  I was going through a lot of personal challenges during that time, mainly our infertility-based childlessness, and I found refuge in becoming involved in a wonderful Catholic church with Alex.  It was at this church that I felt for the first time as a part of a religious community.  It made sense for me to be Catholic, and I drew strength in upholding the sometimes difficult Catholic convictions that go against the mainstream culture.

Then two things happened.  First, I became painfully aware that I couldn't please everyone within Catholicism. In spite of being convinced of the fact that God was leading us to pursue embryo adoption to build our family, and that in fact there was no official church teaching on the subject, I found myself being judged and berated by people who were supposed to extend a sympathetic hand in the way of Jesus. My conscience was perfectly clear on this subject, and I became quite a bit disturbed that no matter what, there would be some Catholics who would consider me a "bad Catholic" for following the leading in my heart.

The second step to my  (second) disillusionment with Catholicism came when we moved out of state when Maya was a couple of months old.  We were suddenly isolated from not only our family and friends and neighbors and everything I was familiar with, but also our beloved faith community.  No church we visited in our new area lived up to the old church.  I quickly fell into a spiritual dry spell, and began to question nearly every aspect of my supposed faith once again.

This dry spell lasted for about six months, and I have recently began to find my way out of it, by the grace of God.  Again, I am finding myself struggling with the correct terminology, because I want to correctly label where I fall on the religious identity spectrum.

I'm not quite a lapsed Catholic, as this implies a falling away from faith in general.  I'm just as spiritually-minded as ever; I merely don't think I can find the best route to God within the Catholic church anymore.

I used to consider myself a cafeteria Catholic, in spite of the negative connotations of that, because I did indeed pick and choose what I thought was relevant teaching.  But after my reversion experience, I knew that it wasn't going to be enough for me to just stay Catholic in name only, and have no particular boundaries within which to operate morally or ethically.

Besides, I see both of these terms as implying either an agnostic/atheist world-view on one hand, or a more general Christian world-view on the other.  Neither of these applies to me.

Probably the best term for me right now is a cultural Catholic, or better yet, a heritage Catholic.  My Polish heritage brings with it Catholic sensibilities.  I have over 30 years of "being in the Catholic church" that has shaped my religious identity.  I can't just shake it off and start from scratch.  It matters that I'm coming from a Catholic background. 

Which brings me to my current quest.  In the past, during my church-hopping days, I thought I found THE religion that truly spoke to my spiritual condition.  They didn't purport to know THE truth, but they definitely seemed to know how one would go about finding truth unique to each individual and situation.  (I am talking here about the Religious Society of Friends, or Quakers.) However, at the time, it was very important for me that Alex and I worship together.  And since silent waiting worship inevitably led to not so silent snoring on his part, I decided to continue attending a Catholic church with him for the sake of family unity.

Now that we have a daughter, family unity is even more important to me. I toyed with the idea of slowly transitioning to identifying as an aspiring Quaker, even if this was to supplement our family's official Catholic  identity.  However, as I read up more on not just the ideals of Quakerism, but also the more mundane issues of day to day community life as expressed by Quaker bloggers, I was disillusioned once again.  In spite of the fact that Quaker spirituality is music to my ears, it does not exist in a vacuum.

I thought I wanted the sense of community that would give me the belonging I felt I needed. But if I'm being perfectly honest with myself, is a community really what I'm looking for?  I'm an introvert, a melancholic, not a people's person.  I am seeking God, not other people who are also seeking God.

I joined a group of local Quakers for waiting worship a couple of times recently. What I found was indeed eye-opening.  First, I was surrounded by predominantly older Caucasians.  (I have had the same experience at three other Quaker meetinghouses over the years.) So any thoughts of integrating my daughter into this community got shot down before they even had a chance to arise.  It's important for me that Maya be regularly exposed to people of various ethnic and racial backgrounds.  Second, the lack of air conditioning at the last meeting forced me to finish my waiting worship outside, on a quiet bench under a beautiful tree, facing the brick exterior of the meeting house.  And you know what?  That's when I realized that what I felt missing in my spiritual walk with God has been accessible to me all along.  No community needed, no need to change church membership.

Yet I still desired an identifying label, simply because it's easier for me to go forward knowing what exactly is motivating my spirituality and ethics.  And that's when I came across the term "spiritually independent", coined by Rabbi Rami Shapiro to describe others like me (I'm not alone!) who simply don't find fulfillment being fenced in by a single religious tradition.

I'm not sure why I didn't think of this myself, since I already identify myself as politically independent (even at the cost of not being able to vote in primary elections).  It makes perfect sense.  As to what exactly being spiritually independent means to me, I shall delve into that in a future post.  For now, I'm just glad to have a label that doesn't carry with it undesirable baggage.

Global Citizen

I have been known to get stuck on choosing the best label for something that I see as defining some aspect of my identity.  I say "stuck" because rather than allowing me to fully immerse myself in whatever the given aspect is, I feel as though I must first establish an identity marker before I proceed, so that I can associate whatever activities, behaviors, or beliefs with said label. 

It's not all my doing, mind you.  I've had people tell me that I shouldn't call myself this or that, and so I'm hyper-vigilant about it now, because the last thing I want is to be accused of being disingenuous.  But why bother with labels at all?  Good question.  I know that everything is transitory, and that we are not who we think we are.

I've become aware of this after my recent trip "back home" to Poland.  I remember myself at the age of 7, preparing to emigrate with my mother.  I remember myself "back home" at the age of 11, on my first trip back for the summer.  I remember myself "back home" turning 18 in my hometown.  (I took great pride in knowing that I "became an adult" in the same town where I was born.  I even made sure I was "independent" - going to visit the recent grave of my great-grandmother on my own - at the precise time marking the anniversary of my birth.)  It gave me some joy to become engaged to Alex in "my home country" as well, at the age of 22.  A few additional trips "back home" and I grew to expect the feeling of "coming home" at every subsequent trip to Poland.

During my most recent trip back, Alex, Maya, and I (plus my parents) stayed in a hotel instead of with family, as was our usual set-up.  Perhaps that was the single biggest mistake, albeit unavoidable considering there were five of us showing up to surprise my grandmother on her 80th birthday.  But try as I might, in the two and a half weeks we spent in my hometown, with my closest extended relatives, I never felt "at home".  In my grandmother's house, where my mother and I lived for a couple of years leading up to our emigration, we were mere visitors.  We were waited on hand and foot, treated quite hospitably to be sure, but I did not want to feel like a guest.  I wanted to feel at home, among "my people", and I never did.

I digress this much to say that upon my return, I realized that I cannot go back to my childhood, that what I remember of my hometown is mere memories, accessible only through my own mind, with some assistance from old photographs, perhaps.  I realized that who I am today is no longer who I was when I left Poland, or even who I was at each of my subsequent visits.

I say all of this why?  Because "who I am" is transitory.  It makes little sense to assign a label to a moving target.  And yet, it is the nature of our ego to insist that it is "the real me".  Hence, my apparent need to label various aspects of my identity.

My nationality identity has been taken care of.  My recent trip solidified what I had already suspected.  I have a hyphenated national identity (Polish-American), and I no longer fight with the fact that most others who self-identify this way don't speak Polish and/or have never visited Poland, much less lived there or were born there.  I used to pride myself on being "more Polish" than Polish-Americans, though I wasn't quite as Polish as the Poles of Polonia (the Polish diaspora that my parents identified with for a time) or obviously the Poles still living in Poland. I have made my peace with this, and I'm happy to focus on the American identity over the Polish identity.  The former is who I am now, whereas the latter identifies where I come from.

If anything, I now see the Polish-American identity marker as a spectrum, with those who can awkwardly spit out the words "pierogis" (with the inaccurate English plural marker "s" at the end of the otherwise Polish word) on one end of the spectrum, and recent immigrants on the other end.  With time, I have slowly slid down the spectrum, away from the recent immigrant end and closer to the middle.  I still speak Polish and am literate in the language, and I have many fond memories of the country.  So I'll never be at the other end of the spectrum, but I no longer feel any need to lord this over those who, by circumstances of their birth and ancestral heritage, do find themselves at that end.

I may hold dual citizenship, but my dual identity is anything but equally weighty on both ends.  Polish is where I come from.  It has had an inescapable influence on my upbringing, values, thoughts.  For better or for worse, I did not have an American upbringing.  I cannot identify with my native-born Anglo-American peers, because we come from different cultural home bases.  But I am no longer immersed in the Polish culture.  I do not live in a Polish neighborhood, I do not worship regularly at a Polish church, I do not cook traditionally Polish food (generally speaking).  I do speak Polish to my daughter, Maya, but honestly, it's not so much to link her to her mother's heritage, but rather to give her an edge linguistically (since knowing a second language at an early age makes learning subsequent foreign languages later on that much easier, not to mention the broadened horizons of being able to learn about the world from the vantage point of a different language and culture).  I also speak Polish to Maya for the sake of the few Polish relatives that are still in my life, primarily my mom.

I don't expect Maya to identify as Polish-American, and I think this realization has helped me distance myself from the label as well.  After all, how can my daughter and I not share the same national identity?  Then again, that's precisely what happened between myself and my own parents.  They retained a lot more of our mutual Polish roots (How could they not?  They were fully adult by the time of our migration.) whereas I was also heavily influenced by my American peers growing up.  Perhaps this is another reason that, until I had my daughter, I tried desperately to emphasize the Polish in Polish-American so that I would have that generational link to my parents.  But now, I find myself emphasizing the American in Polish-American so that I can have that generational link to my daughter.

In the end, none of these labels ought to matter, because patriotism taken to an extreme breeds racism, hate, and international violence.  Deep down, I consider myself a citizen of the world, with no one country holding my loyalty without question.  Yet, to be fair, at least for me, I'm only able to see myself as a global citizen because I've had the advantage of being exposed to people and ideas from around the world, something truly uniquely American.

Spiritual Dry Spell

I seem to have finally gotten an inkling as to why I've been going through a spiritual dry spell these last several months.  For one thing, motherhood has been exhausting all of my energy, energy that I was previously able to devote to philosophical reflection and time with a faith community.  For another thing, as an introvert, I require solitude in order to recharge.  In spite of the daddy-and-me time Alex and Maya spend together at least once a week, those two or three hours just aren't enough for me to get into a frame of mind that would require true spiritual pondering.

For one thing, the first twenty minutes or so of such alone time is generally spent taking a shower without worrying about a crying baby.  Then there are "computer errands" as I like to think of them - things I need to get done that I just can't do while caring for my daughter because she insists on "typing" right along with me.  So balancing our budget, updating blogs, or organizing family photos, these are the sort of things that simply cannot be done when I'm "on" with Maya.  And they seem to essentially siphon most if not all of the alone time I'm given in any one sitting.

I long for a spiritual retreat, as was my habit, where I have time to slowly, at my own pace, purge the worries of daily life and ease into a quiet awareness of God's presence in my midst.  Yet at the same time, the thought of leaving my daughter for even a weekend makes me miss her right away.  I miss her the moment she and Alex step outside for my weekly alone time!  How could I concentrate on my spiritual interior life if I'd be distracted by thoughts of what my daughter was doing and how I want her near me.

Essentially, I think I'll just have to ride this out until Maya is old enough to play alone quietly by my side, so that we both get all that we need - physical closeness but also time to do something that doesn't require the other's direct involvement.

For now, I'm going to try to "fake it till I make it", as bad as that sounds.  I have to accept that I can't figure out such grand questions as the nature of God "in my spare time".  If I hadn't definitively figured that out in the 35 years I had to myself before giving birth to my daughter, what makes me think that I can figure it out now?  Besides, if I was content with the limited amount of understanding I had about my faith before, why is it all of a sudden not enough anymore?  

Perhaps I'm feeling the pressure to do right by my daughter, and I want to believe what I am teaching her on the faith/religion front.  I don't want to just let her figure it out on her own.  I'm not ignorant of the fact that we made a big stink over baptizing her into the Catholic church for a reason.  I did not think all of God's truth was found in the Catholic church when I chose to stick with the faith of my upbringing.  That was because I do not think truth can be captured in its entirety by any human institution.  And while I'm pretty confident that I know what I do believe, I find it disheartening to not have a community of like-minded believers where I can strengthen that belief and pass it on to my daughter.

Ok, so I'm thinking baby steps are in order while I wait until my daughter is old enough for me to get sufficient alone time to start to recapture my previous fervor for faith.  For starters, I need to increase my prayer time.  I generally reach out to God each night with a request to keep my baby safe, and to thank Him for her and the other blessings of my life, but that takes all of a minute or two.  The rest of the time, God is merely a constant fixture in the background of my mind.  I know He exists.  I believe that He has been there for me when I needed Him most.  Yet I find it incredibly difficult to relate to Him right now because I am getting such conflicting ideas of what He's like from the various belief systems that are out there.  They all seem to make a little bit of sense.

I've written off the idea of attending a Unitarian Universalist church because, having attended a few UU services, I find them to be mere social constructs of well-meaning people gathered for the sake of gathering in a community, but with no concrete unifying belief holding them together.

And I'm on the fence about Quakerism.  I've only ever met one Quaker I didn't particularly like, and that was because he made an off-hand remark about Catholicism.  Otherwise, I know what Quakers stand for, and I am 100% in agreement with them, yet there is still the fact of the various "types" of Quaker meetings.  There's those who are essentially evangelical Christian in nature, and there are those that are more generic spiritually, and presumably everything in between.  I find it funny that I was put off by the idea that atheists can attend and feel a sense of belonging in the more liberal Quaker meetings.  But why should I?  How is this any different from in-name-only Catholics sitting next to me in a pew at Mass? Or maybe I make traditional faithful Catholics uncomfortable, because they see my presence as watering down their tightly held beliefs?

I am going to attend another Quaker meeting.  I think it will be what I need to reconnect with God.  I don't feel God's presence at Mass anymore.  Perhaps because part of the time I'm distracted caring for my daughter.  Perhaps because I'm fixating on the literal words I hear at the pulpit, provided for ease of digestion for the masses, when a more metaphorical understanding may be in order (like I'd be exposed to at a retreat).

I'm going to revisit this idea with Alex.  We have talked about truly honoring the Lord's Day, and so I think we should go to Mass as a family, and then they should drop me off at a silent Quaker meeting while they have daddy-and-me time.  Perhaps that hour of silence, planned into my day with no other errands or priorities to distract me, may be just what I need to kick start my spiritual life once again.

My Understanding of Catholicism

The Eucharist is the celebration of Christ's eternal ongoing sacrifice made manifest in our midst. God is the great I AM, not the "I was in the historical past". What God did on Calvary, He does every day and everywhere, in anyone who succumbs to God's presence and will over their own ego. The self dies and the Christ within lives through us. The Eucharist is poetry personified.

The unbelievability of a given teaching ought to be seen as a koan (think, "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"). Certain truths of the faith, probably the most important ones, can only be experienced, never explained or described or understood literally with the mind.

Jesus desires for us to be one with him the way he is one with the father. The father revealed his name to be "I am". Jesus used the same name referencing himself. Likewise we are also "to be". If we allow our ego to die and invite Christ to live in us instead, then we shall say also that we/Christ-within "are", ie "I am". 

We must repent because otherwise our past interferes with our present, our being "I am". We must also forgive for the same reason. Without forgiveness or repentance, we remain slaves to the past.

The kingdom of God is here and now, at hand. In the eternal present. This is the only way a little child knows how to be, in the present moment. Thus Jesus said the kingdom of God belongs to "such as these".

When I cross myself, I point to the forehead, chest, and both shoulders.  Since the traditional definition of God-the-Trinity only serves to confuse and not inspire, I've taken to thinking of a different trinity when performing this ritual. For instance, when crossing myself at church, I point to my forehead to open my mind to what is being preached at the pulpit.  I point to my chest in order to activate my heart's response to the message of the day.  And I point to my shoulders to represent the concrete work that ought to be done in serving God, based on what I learn from the homily.

There's much more to be said of the various ins and outs of Catholic tradition, but these serve as a succinct summary of my changing religious viewpoint.

What Do I Believe?

Alex and I recently engaged in a dialogue with a couple of Mormon missionaries.  During our first visit, I felt uncomfortable that I was putting forth a Catholic front, thinking that if I were to tell them I was Catholic, I had to go with the official version and not my understanding of it.  After the girls left, I felt badly about misrepresenting Catholicism and being disingenuous to myself. This motivated me to put on (virtual) paper what I really do believe, so that I can be confident in letting them know, if need be, that/why I am not interested in converting, but I welcome continued religious dialogue.  Below is what I came up with.
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I believe that God is not bound by the dogmas or precepts of any organized religion.  All religions attempt to define and describe God within their own cultural and linguistic environment, and due to such human limitations, all fall short.

I believe that God can only be experienced and understood on a personal, individual level.  Truly knowing the real “I AM” transcends all religious rituals and beliefs.  It is not something that can be taught.

I believe that for someone who believes in a transcendental experience of God, converting from one religion to another would be like changing brands of shampoo; it’s beside the point.

I believe that the reason Christians claim the truth is the same reason Muslims claim the truth is the same reason Jews, or Buddhists, or Hindus claim the truth.  Their prophets or gurus have indeed experienced God as they say, and they did indeed grasp some aspect of the truth through the lens of their experience.  But to say that no one else knows what they’re talking about is arrogant at best, and downright intolerant at its worst, resulting in religion-motivated wars.

All religions worth any salt have ethics at their core. These ethics may be motivated by different theological mythologies*, but taken as a whole, the point is to give humans what we all seek deep down – happiness and peace.  For some, that comes with the promise of an eternal earth-like heaven; for others, a cessation to reincarnation.  Some see God as an authoritarian figure from whom all the world’s matter and goodness comes.  Others see God as containing all matter and goodness within Godself.  God is personified by some religions, while others see God in the abstract. None of these details matter when it comes to getting their faithful to live by basic ethics, ethics that even non-religious people are able to abide by.

And yet, throughout history, people and nations have waged war against each other in the name of their mythologies, forsaking their ethics in the process.  If every religion switched their focus, putting ethics in the foreground and mythology/theology in the background, everyone would see how similar we all are to each other in our belief systems, and there would be no excusable reason to go to war. 

But of course, it’s not to appease God that any religion wages war, but rather to maintain or coerce power, control.  The fact that such egotistical motivations are done in the name of God is downright blasphemous. And I don’t just mean war at large.  I mean also bigotry, the kind that causes people to judge others based on religious affiliation.

If everyone actually lived their lives according to the core ethics taught by their very own religions, we would bring about the Kingdom of God that Jesus spoke of in no time.  But alas, we are too busy getting hung up on interpretations and legalities and technicalities. 

There are several websites (see below) that I have read through that have been instrumental in forming my current views, and most recently, I finally felt a breakthrough when I realized that I was no longer bound by my self-imposed label of “Catholic”; I feel free.  Yes, I am still Catholic as far as the style in which I choose to worship God, but I no longer need to have that identity confirmed by other Catholics, nor do I need to be a slave to the label in order to have a fulfilling spiritual life.  I am at a cross-roads, and I’m excited about how my spiritual life will develop from here on out.

Sources of inspiration:

http://followingjesus.org/

http://justicebeforecharity.org/

http://tassos-oak.com/readbook.html

https://sites.google.com/site/livingwithoutmoney/

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* By "mythology", I am referring to a collection of  "traditional stories, especially concerning the early history of a people or explaining some natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events."  I am not using it in the sense of a "false belief or idea". (Definitions taken from googling "myth definition".)

Allegorical Faith

So far on my spiritual journey, I've come to realize and accept that there isn't one religion which will fit me perfectly, and that's OK.  Since one of the aspects of religion that I find life-giving is the emotional response I have when entrenched in it, I decided several years ago that I will stay within Catholicism, since this is the faith that I grew up with, it's the faith I'm most comfortable with, it's the faith I understand most (not to say that I understand it totally!  I don't think anyone does!), and it's the faith that brings me the most comfort emotionally and spiritually.

So when I came around the bend of my most recent crisis of faith, I knew that my resolution would not involve converting into any other religion, or even joining any other (non Catholic) church.  I still looked into different faiths, as I have in the past, but with a different motive in mind.  I long believed that at their core, all religions are one.  In high school, I presented my insights to a friend of mine by having her look at a doll and describe it to me, while I did the same while sitting on the opposite side of the doll.  Not surprisingly, we had different perspectives, and yet the doll was one and the same.  In various Eastern religions, the story of the blind men and the elephant accomplishes what I tried to accomplish with the doll.  (You can find the original story here.)

Several years ago, I came across a website that so enthralled me that I read its entirety with captivation, and then contacted the author to thank him.  Unfortunately, since there wasn't follow up in the form of an in-real-life community where I could continue this angle of the Christian faith, over time it lost its grip on me.  I never forgot it, but it has been hard to apply it in my daily life.

Maybe I'm going to have a second chance now to unearth a meaningful version of Christianity.  I recently have been reading through another website which reminded me of the first website encounter and built on it.

The nutshell version of what I've taken away from both of these websites:  What Jesus taught and what became orthodox Christian dogma are not one and the same.  What Jesus taught is simple: compassion.  In essence, it's the goal of every religion.

With this in mind, I realized why I've been having such a hard time settling comfortably for a longer stretch of time within any one religious expression.  If it's not the dogma, then it's the practice that just seems so busy, so chaotic, so messy and confusion.  Underneath it all, I know it's as simple as "I Am".  Perhaps it's my own fault for wanting to assign labels to experiences and to put words where only silence comes close enough to the truth.

On Justice Before Charity, I was stopped dead in my track when I read these words about the Trinity, the very concept that has been giving me the most trouble on my quest for "pure monotheism":

"Basil's teaching of the Trinity was not meant to explain and define God, but rather to emphasize that God could not be explained and defined. God is a mystery. How can there be one infinite God with three separate, infinite parts? This teaching was not created in order to limit God, but rather to liberate our conceptions of God from the Arians who wanted to constrain God to a distinct, describable being. The Trinity is not literally true--it cannot be--but is a beautiful reminder that any conception we have of God--however helpful--ultimately falls short of describing God."  (emphasis mine)

Believe it or not, this wasn't new information.  How many times have I heard that God is a mystery?  And yet I kept hearing the Trinity discussed so nonchalantly, as if it really were a literally true expression of God.  Seeing the above words, in context with all of the other information I was picking up on this and the other website, finally helped me distinguish between "what is" and "what is taught".

Organized religion developed with the masses in mind.  Some would say it was to help the common person relate to God.  Others would say it was to enable the powers that be to control the masses.  I'm convinced it was both.  Understanding religion as a historical and sociological phenomenon liberates me from the literalism that has plagued my spiritual faith development.

Therefore, I'm embarking on recontextualizing the tenets of my faith within an allegorical framework, where I no longer allow them to hinder me, but rather allow them to accomplish what they are there for in the first place - to point me in the direction of truth.

A Buddhist teaching about the purpose of religious practice (which can be found here) goes something like this:

"A person is with a small child who has never seen the moon before. The person points towards the moon, and says, "Look, the moon." The child could very well conclude that the person's finger is the moon. But the child should look to where the finger is pointing to see the moon for himself."  (emphasis mine)

The first obstacle that I had to overcome before finally coming face to face with this conclusion was that I have been brainswashed with the ultimate guilt-trip.  Even writing this here now stirs in me the words I heard so frequently that were meant to put me on "the right path".  What are these words?  "Jesus died for you and me."  Think about it.  If someone DIES so that you may LIVE, then you are forever indebted to them and eternally grateful, right?  Or at least that's the decent thing to do.  This concept is so emotionally charged, that it was difficult for me to dig through all of the implications and insinuations and finally ask myself: Is this even true?

I'm not questioning whether Jesus was a historical person or whether he was crucified for threatening the sociopolitical status quo with his teachings.  I think these are facts beyond contestation and don't require faith.  It's when his suffering and death are directly linked to me, when I am essentially blamed for this horrible death Jesus endured, that the guilt reflex is activated.  I think the guilt reflex is what keeps a lot of people from questioning or seeking beyond what they are told.

During my most recent research, I kept telling myself (as if to force myself to believe it) that I love Jesus, that I want to follow him, but that I just don't believe God has one unique incarnation.  Either we focus on God being supreme and hence above our human existence, or on God being universal and thus within us all. (Hence my issues with the Trinity, since I kept taking it literally.)  Finally, I took an honest look at my life and thought; how can I say that I love someone that I don't really know?

Now, I know plenty of Christians who would agree with this last point, and stress the importance of a personal relationship with Christ.  I know the drill - read the Bible, pray, and mingle with like-minded individuals in order to reiterate that this Christ I say I have a relationship with is indeed a real person, since my fellow Christians also know him and love him and follow him.  With all due respect, I'm not convinced that simply reading about a person I've never met, and then attuning myself to his spirit is the same as truly knowing someone.  I can know "of" him.  I can say that I like him based on what little I do know about him.  But can I really say that I "love" him in the same way that I love a relative or even a good friend? 

I'm getting side-tracked.  The point I was making is that I paid lip service to wanting to follow Jesus because I love him when in fact I don't know him.  I know of him, and I like what I do know about him.  And I do want to follow his teachings, because the teachings I'm aware of that have been attributed to him really resonate with my inner sense of morality.  But I can't say that I want to follow him "because I love him".  That's not being honest with myself.  I also can't say that he is more to me than a good teacher.  The argument I've heard is that Jesus EITHER is who he (supposedly) said he is, OR he was mentally unstable, OR purposefully deceitful.  Now I see that there is one other option: the information we have about what Jesus actually did say (about himself and everything else) is incomplete and/or has been skewed in the process of being written down.  This last option finally frees me from the guilt reflex and allows me to indeed claim Jesus as my teacher without necessarily buying into Christian orthodoxy.