By Julia Fierro
This post is part of Kveller's month-long
series featuring different ways that parents of various religions have talked to
their kids about God.
When
people ask what religion we are–me, my husband Justin, and our two small
children–I answer, “nothing.”
Then I realize how empty this sounds. I revise, explaining our parents’ religion. As if, to tell the whole truth, one has to start from the beginning.
My Catholic parents believe even dogs go to heaven, I say.
Justin’s parents, I add, are atheists who belong to a temple of socially conscious activists, presided over by a gay rabbi.
Justin and I do not believe in God, but he can still call himself Jewish. It is ingrained in his history, his perspective, his sense of humor, and even his curly hair, which he calls a Jewfro. I will only ever call myself an ex-Catholic, because once I stopped believing in God, in Jesus, in his mother Mary, in miracles and the afterlife, calling myself a Catholic felt like trespassing.
Despite our attachments to the religious identities of our parents, Justin freely admits that he is an atheist. But I often feel I have to elaborate after I confess my loss of faith. “I used to believe. If I could, I would.”
I need people to understand that it’s not my choice, and that I know life would be easier, and less lonely, if I did still believe. My people, for generations back on both sides, are believers. I am the first to not baptize his or her children. My nightly prayers as a child, my visits to the confessional box, the papery taste of the crumbling communion wafer on my tongue–all feel as if they happened to another person, not me.
Death is mentioned regularly in our house–but only in regards to the death of LEGO figurines and Power Rangers. Our 6-year-old son says, “The bad guy got dead!” or “Batman made the Joker dead!” but it has the weight of losing a life in a video game. Getting dead = Game Over. You can start over. Reboot. Try again. The few times that death, with a capital D, has come up have been (coincidentally?) at my parents’ house. Like when my son spotted the black-and-white photos of my deceased Italian ancestors crowding the mantel, flanked by holy candles, a chipped statuette of St. Francis standing guard.
Continue reading.
When
people ask what religion we are–me, my husband Justin, and our two small
children–I answer, “nothing.” Then I realize how empty this sounds. I revise, explaining our parents’ religion. As if, to tell the whole truth, one has to start from the beginning.
My Catholic parents believe even dogs go to heaven, I say.
Justin’s parents, I add, are atheists who belong to a temple of socially conscious activists, presided over by a gay rabbi.
Justin and I do not believe in God, but he can still call himself Jewish. It is ingrained in his history, his perspective, his sense of humor, and even his curly hair, which he calls a Jewfro. I will only ever call myself an ex-Catholic, because once I stopped believing in God, in Jesus, in his mother Mary, in miracles and the afterlife, calling myself a Catholic felt like trespassing.
Despite our attachments to the religious identities of our parents, Justin freely admits that he is an atheist. But I often feel I have to elaborate after I confess my loss of faith. “I used to believe. If I could, I would.”
I need people to understand that it’s not my choice, and that I know life would be easier, and less lonely, if I did still believe. My people, for generations back on both sides, are believers. I am the first to not baptize his or her children. My nightly prayers as a child, my visits to the confessional box, the papery taste of the crumbling communion wafer on my tongue–all feel as if they happened to another person, not me.
Death is mentioned regularly in our house–but only in regards to the death of LEGO figurines and Power Rangers. Our 6-year-old son says, “The bad guy got dead!” or “Batman made the Joker dead!” but it has the weight of losing a life in a video game. Getting dead = Game Over. You can start over. Reboot. Try again. The few times that death, with a capital D, has come up have been (coincidentally?) at my parents’ house. Like when my son spotted the black-and-white photos of my deceased Italian ancestors crowding the mantel, flanked by holy candles, a chipped statuette of St. Francis standing guard.
Continue reading.
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