
Last spring, The Atlantic published a series of
articles under the headline of "Choosing
my Religion." The articles are diverse in scope, covering the
mass exodus of millennials from organized religion, personal
struggles under religion's expectations, and one compelling series
where readers responded to the question: "What was your biggest
religious choice?"
I have read countless articles on the religious practice of
millennials, but none has made me pause quite as much as the series
about their readers' biggest religious choice. The responses were
filled with the honest struggle of living a life of faith. The
series also included many tragic stories about faithful people
becoming disillusioned by the hypocritical actions of religion's
elite.
Ever since discovering this discussion a couple of months ago,
the question of my biggest religious choice has troubled me. Being
part of a generation that is largely skeptical of organized
religion, I feel having an answer to why I practice is important.
Unfortunately, I've had a lot of anxiety about this because I find
it really hard to come up with an answer.
Lately, every time I sit down next to my wife and son in the
church pew, I wonder if not having an answer to that question is
acceptable. Am I just wasting my time? Am I setting a bad example
for my son? Why don't I have a clear answer to why I am here?
I've always been an observant person, a by-product of my
introverted personality. When I was growing up, my favorite place
to people watch was church. In the pews ahead of me, I would watch
older ladies pray the rosary during Father's homily. Beside me, I
would watch harried mothers attempt to control their bored
children. And behind me, I would see men with polo shirts tucked
into their jeans not utter a single word throughout the entire
service.
It seemed obvious to me why the older ladies were at Mass. I
figured they must be praying for something very important to not
listen while Father gave his message. I certainly knew why the
harried mothers and their children were at Mass, a lesson I learned
quickly when I wouldn't get up for church on time.
My mother, never weary of telling us what to do, would march
into my room, pull the sheets off my bed, and tell me that I needed
to go to church because Jesus required it of me. I just imagined
all of those children were in the same position as me, at church
with their mothers because that is what Jesus required.
The cadre of men with their polos tucked into their jeans always
perplexed me. They never looked happy and they never said a word.
Yet, they were there out of obligation to God, their wives or their
children. When I think about not having an answer to my biggest
religious choice, I think about this group of seemingly unhappy
men. But luckily for me, there was another man I would often watch
in church: my father.
My dad distinguished himself from this group of men in a number
of ways. First and foremost, his standard church dress was, and
still is, a polo tucked into khaki pants with a pair of white
tennis shoes on his feet. That outfit is a product of many years in
a public school classroom.
Second, he always sang and said the responses. Third, he prayed
before church and always knelt down in prayer after communion.
Finally, he was anything but faceless around our parish community.
He was the director of religious education, the youth minister, a
member of the parish council, and the one person everyone went to
with a question about this or that.
On Sundays, my dad would wake up early and head to church to
roll out tables in the parish school basement, set out religion
books, prep the teachers, and then give a morning reflection before
religion classes started. After religion, he would put the books
away, clean up the tables and chairs, head over to the church to
write his name on the Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion
sign-up sheet, and then sit down next to his wife and three boys in
the pew.
He would lift me up and hold me on the church pew when I
couldn't see the priest, he would run his finger across the words
in the hymnal so I knew what words to sing, and he would always
actively participate in the liturgy.
In all of this, he never once spoke to me about the reasons he
worked so hard for the church or why he helped me pray the liturgy.
And honestly, I am not certain he has an answer for why he is so
obviously committed to his faith. I can say that because my dad has
never been a man of many words, but he has always been a man of
faith-filled action.
I take comfort in my dad's example when I am uncomfortable with
not knowing the exact reason I show up to church each Sunday. Each
time I open the hymnal to sing, kneel down to pray after communion
and lift up my son to see the priest, I think of when my dad did
that for me.
I am grateful for the faith handed down to me from my father,
even if I don't always understand it. In his example, when I don't
always have the words of faith, I can take comfort in the testimony
of my actions. Actions that I sincerely hope my son will pass down
one day to his family.
What is my biggest religious choice? Maybe it's not something
tied to a moment in time. Maybe it's every Sunday when I walk into
church next to my wife holding my baby boy and decide to follow the
faith-filled example of my dad.