Kate Can Cook

Jazz and I put an offer on a house about a week+ ago, and it was accepted. The house is wonderful and fits what we wanted and is so much more than I thought I could ever, ever have or, really, ever, ever deserve. And I don’t “deserve” it. But anyway, I don’t want to tell you about the house-yet.

I want to tell you about the pact I made with God/god/gods/goddesses/flying spaghetti monster, etc. (paraphrased as “God” from here on out) last Saturday. I said to the great beyond that if Jazz and I got the house, I would go to church at least once.

I know that *technically* you’re “not supposed to” make pacts with God like this. It’s something about the Bible and the 40 days Jesus spent not eating or drinking and was tempted by the devil or something. Or at least that’s what Catholic school taught me.

Now here’s the problem.

I don’t know if I believe in God. Or, more specifically, I don’t know what “God” I believe in, or maybe more specifically, what church’s brand of God suits me best. Generally speaking, I prefer Diet Pepsi over Diet Coke, but overall I’d prefer Turkey Hill Diet Iced Tea. In the end, however, I’ll drink Diet Coke if the choice is between that and water. The irony, of course, is that if there is a God, he/she/it/them created water, and so technically I should just be drinking the water.

Is that how church is — a brand of drink that people use to quench a thirst, but is more delicious to them then the pure thing (whatever that is)? Is that what God wants church to be? Does God really care about church? And what constitutes as church? And what constitutes as God?

I’d say Catholicism is probably my Diet Coke. I was raised on Diet Coke, but really, I know it’s not for me, and I’ll always want something else. The problem is that it’s comfortable and classic. My dad was Presbyterian, so I’ve been enough to think that Presbyterian is really like the store brand diet soda: same formula, just more cost-effective.

I’m still trying to find my church version of Turkey Hill Diet Iced Tea, but like every grocery store in the Arlington, Virginia area, every church I’ve gone to is fresh out.

The funniest part of this entire thing is that I used to love (Catholic)church. From the time I was in 5th grade until about 8th grade, I used to do readings for the 7:00 mass every single morning before I headed to school, and then some Sundays, and also some holidays. I love reading at church. I read at my cousin’s (Catholic) wedding this Saturday, and I haven’t felt the fire that leapt from my heart in a long, long time. I used to sit every Sunday, my 13-year old heart wanting to be up there, reading at church every week.

And then I figured out that women couldn’t be priests, and that most likely we wouldn’t be allowed to be priests in my lifetime. Granted, I never wanted to be a priest. I was never “called” and even if I was, I probably would have hung up. But women don’t even have a phone in the Catholic church! Or maybe we have a phone, but God’s number is blocked. Just give us a phone and unblock the number! If God never calls, then fine, but at least give us the opportunity.

I know that to many that’s a small reason to walk away from a church, but it was huge for me. If the Catholic God didn’t want women, then I didn’t want him.

That was the beginning, the gateway drug to my loss of faith. Shortly after I stopped going to church, my mom was in the coma, and that sealed it. I was not so much upset that God did that to her (and to me), because bad things happen to good people and vice versa. I was mad because of a miscommunication of expectations.

You know that cheesy story, “Footprints?” The thing where God supposedly said there was only one set of footprints in the sand because “I was carrying you.” I believed it. I didn’t think he would come down in long beard and white robe, but I did think somebody would help me to, I don’t know, live again–or maybe just want to. Nobody did… well, except myself. Since then, my relationship with God has been amusing at best. Crap would happen, and after the crap subsides for awhile, I’d look up, laugh, and say, “You haven’t killed me yet, you sonovagun.” That was it. When asked, I’d say that I had a relationship with God, and God had a sense of humor. We were friends, but I probably would find an excuse to miss his birthday party. (Actually, this is true. Instead of going to church on Christmas Eve, my brother and I–and now Jazz–go to a 24-hour Walgreens and then Dunkin Donuts. It’s one of my favorite things about the holidays. Secretly, I think God approves.)

And here we are today, with me having made a pact with someone I’m not 100% convinced exists but I’m too afraid of him/her/it/them existing for me not to follow through on the pact. Plus, part of me does miss church, particularly Catholic church, but I think that ship has sailed.

So what do I do? Do I go to a church I feel comfortable in but am still angry at it because of its gender- (and other-) based discrimination? Do I go to a new church where I don’t know what they really believe and just wing it, hoping that it closes some open space in my heart? Does it matter, especially as the plan now is for me to only go once and never again? Am I really using this as an excuse to go back regularly without saying, “You know, maybe I do miss it”? And if I go to a church that I don’t like because it makes me feel at home, am I a hypocrite? Can I believe in the teachings at the basis of the religion, but not believe in the other things in the church–the management of it–and still be part of that church?

And can anyone really answer these questions but me?

No, I didn’t think so.