The God I Knew: Reflections on Faith and Language

What’s God? A story.

Childhood Religious Experiences & Catholic Schooling

The God I knew growing up was an all-knowing man in a white robe with long, flowing white hair who sat on a throne in the sky, judging every move you made. Just like the wizard in the Wizard of Oz. "God is watching," I'd often hear while growing up in the Catholic church. “Even on the toilet?” I’d often wonder? Geez. How about some privacy?

Having spent 12 years in the Catholic school system, we would have mass once a month. Some of the other kids complained, but after mass, I felt inspired to be a better person. The priest would set up in the middle of the gymnasium (he came to us at the four different Catholic schools I attended from Kindergarten through twelfth grade), and it was a coveted honor to get to help. Carry the chalice, the crackers, maybe a flag with a cross on it. Whatever it was, I was interested in the whole process.

You could find God at church, or you could find him in the school gym. My mind tended to wander when in school mass, thinking about the volleyball or basketball games I’d be playing in the same room later that day.

👀 God is watching you

I had many clues that the church wasn't the place to find God. First was the Tim Horton's donut bribes my dad would promise my sister and me after sitting through Sunday mass. My mom, who is not Catholic, often stayed home, but we didn't go that often anyway. It wasn’t a big deal that she stayed home. It was just something that my dad had to do — and not her.

I wondered about my Boston cream donut. If church is such a great place to be, why do I need to be bribed to go there?

Sure, it was annoying that I had to dress for church. No bare arms. They weren’t allowed in school either on “civies days” – usually one Friday a month, where we didn’t have to don our uniforms. This weird no-shoulders rule left me feeling naked anytime I’d wear a tank top into my early twenties.

When we arrived at church, it was this lovely building, yes, with towering stained glass, but we had to be a different version of ourselves. We had to be perfect. 

The Rituals: Confession, Communion, Marriage

Where do I even begin about how messed up a First Confession this is? We're seven, and we need to go confess our sins to a man in a booth. I don't recall the booth having a screen like the ones you see in movies, though. I remember it was more casual and we just sat across from the priest in a chair.

After divulging what “sins” I could scrape together … probably being mean to my sister and lying to my parents, the priest had my sentence.

"Your penance is three Hail Marys and an Our Father."

The message — I can mess up all I want, be a shit to my family, and all I have to do is say some words — okay. But still, I’d try harder because I really want to be a good person.

I’m a good person, right?

… Right?

Then there's the First Communion. Another bizarre occasion. Again, at the time, I didn't really think it was weird. Besides, my whole class was doing it. But there were always one or two kids who weren't practicing with the class. I don't know if they weren't Catholic or if they were doing it with their own churches. All I knew was that they were different. Not part of the cool club.

For First Communion, girls dress like mini brides. I look back at my puffy white dress and throw up a little. Boys wear suits, and you practice some prayers, sing, and get to eat the communion cracker for the first time.

What if I don’t like it?

What if I throw up?

What if I choke?

We all had an array of questions for our teacher. We even practiced with some that the priest didn’t bless.

Religious rituals came from my dad's side of the family.

Roman Catholics who immigrated to Canada from Portugal in the 1950s — the church was an integral part of their life. My grandmother went daily.

And I'll never forget her disapproving looks later when the only times we'd actually go to church were for weddings and funerals. 

The ritual that every kid knows is messed up the first time they do it, but the adults reassure them that it's special —  oh, cool, I'm special — I get to eat the wafer. 

So there’s this rule that you're not supposed to receive communion if you haven't been to confession in a long time.

I don't know what constitutes a long time, but there's that guilt and fear. I don't know if my dad ever went to confession, but at every mass we’d attend with our larger family (usually weddings and funerals), when it was communion time, my grandmother would shoot my dad disapproving looks and wave her finger at him like he was a bad boy for not taking communion. Since not taking communion meant he hadn't confessed, it was as if he was holding in all the bad shit he did and had to hold onto the accompanying guilt and shame.

Baptism?

When my kids were born, my grandmother, who was still alive at the time, often asked about their baptisms. She spoke little English, so it was usually just a single word she'd use while gesturing toward the kids: "baptism?"

The kids would get older, and she'd ask every time. I didn't have the language to communicate honestly with her. And I had no plans to baptize them. I'd just say "later." With no intention of going through with it. Even though one family member urged me to do it, even though I didn't believe in it, "You'll get presents and money, Jacq!"

My husband, being raised by a Protestant mother and Jewish father, interestingly knew more about Catholicism than I did. At first, this gave me the impression that I was a "bad Catholic." Which I initially saw as a negative thing, but now you can call me that and I'll say, "thank you."

We chose not to get married in the catholic church after we met with a priest and he mentioned at least three times, all the various "donations" we'd need to make to get married there. Obviously, we’d pay any officiant for their time, but this bill was racking up. Oh, and the marriage classes we'd need to take from some old married couples. Fuck no.

I initially worried about what my grandmother would think about me not getting married in the catholic church. It wasn't something I wanted to do, and what I wanted wasn't that important. 

Our legal marriage took place in an upstate New York courtroom one Valentine's Day, and we had the "show" wedding for our friends and family in Canada seven months later — at a non-denominational church, St. John's. At least "Saint" was in the name.

I recall keeping the detail from my grandmother that we were married. Like she'd judge me. Don't show Vavo the pictures of our court wedding. 

We took the court route because my husband, a U.S. citizen, petitioned for me to move to the U.S. from Canada on a fiancé visa. We had to get married within 90 days of establishing residency, so we did it right away.

Maybe she knew after all, but really, we didn’t need to lie to her about it.

Writing about God

In the first draft of my first book, Unfussy Life, I went back and forth on whether to write "god" or "God" in a handful of spots. It wasn’t a book about God or a spiritual book, it’s part memoir, part self-development, and 100 percent about navigating change.

The word “God” appeared eight times. In instances like:

• “After God knows how long,”

• “And for the love of God,”

• “God forbid…”

• “God’s little way of kicking us in the balls to wake us up,” (this one might be my favorite)

Knowing that organized religions are not where you find God or Jesus, at the time, I ended up using lowercase “god” as a middle finger to organized religion. 

A couple of years later, I realized this was a mistake — not the middle finger to religion part, but the use of lowercase. So I updated all eight instances of “god” to “God.”

It was the revisiting of the material in my book that sparked this deeper writing on the topic, exploring the ideas and nuances of language.

Words matter. And the language used in religion can be triggering. Gary Eberle states in his book Dangerous Words,

“Much religious language ‘performs’ rather than ‘informs’ [rousing us] to act out the best or the worst of our human nature.”

And I aim to be intentional with every word (without overthinking) — in my blogs, on my websites, in social posts, and in my books.

I share this story with you as encouragement. Many people, perhaps the majority, won’t publish their writing out of fear that their opinions will change.

My opinions changed. Many of them. In some cases, I left the book material as it was written. This one, though, was deemed worthy of some tweaks to the published book. Since I self-publish, this was an easy change to make.

As an aside, if you change more than 25% of the book’s content, you need to republish. Changing a few words from lowercase to title case is a minor tweak.

So, writer, as you read this and wonder if your opinion about something might change in the future — it might. And it’s okay if it does. You can edit it later, or even leave it alone.

How many times have you liked an author’s new work but didn’t resonate with their old writing? Or how often do you appreciate what a writer has to say for a sliver of time in your life, and then you outgrow their messaging and decide to move on?

It’s okay. You’ll have some readers for a slice in time and some for life. They all appreciate your writing at times in their lives when they need your words most.