How to Be a Bad Catholic

First, be a good Catholic, Even a super one. The signs are everywhere that you are on the fast track to becoming a priest. Your parents drop you off at the steps of the Manila all-boys parochial preparatory, praying that the Jesuits cast their seminarian spell on you. In short order you’re able to quote scripture like a Shakespearean soliloquy. You delve into the deviled details of the seven sacraments as well as seven deadly sins. Lest thou forget the fourteen Stations of the Cross. You can name hundreds of saints. And for the record there are 10,000 of them.

Your first Holy Communion? Glorious! A sunbeam crashes through the stained glass and you are awash in holy light. You can hear the squeals of delight from the pews as you receive the Eucharist host, the Sacramental bread, the altar bread, the communion bread, the Lamb, or for those still stuck in pre-Vatican II, the hostia, Latin for sacrificial victim. The wafer goes by many names but still has that same pasty texture of a cardboard full moon melting in your mouth.

You are a fiend when it comes to reciting rosaries, saying novenas and praying the angelus at 6:00 pm sharp.

Hell, you’re well on your way to ordination.

Because Dad’s a roving academic, you transfer schools, run by different orders. If there are no Jesuits to be found there are Redemptorists and the Brothers of Christian Instruction.

But a funny thing happens in eight grade on your way to full devotion. His name is Paul B. from British Columbia. Paul, the high jump junior varsity all-star. Paul who is tall, has a dark blonde Beatles haircut, and piercing hazel eyes. His angelic smile makes you tingle in sinful places. And when your team loses the Catechism Quiz Bowl because you misspell ‘transubstantiation’, you turn to Paul who says "it’s okay, Jesus forgives you."

But the furthest you’ll get with him is in your wet dreams. So you do the next best thing: make Paul your confirmation name. Whose to be the wiser when there is St. Paul the Apostle to serve as a screen. You soon realize it’s not just Paul you covet but Mark and John and Steve and David. And that’s just not going to fly with the priestly vow of chastity.

Fast-forward a few decades. You are still programmed to go to church every week and it’s Palm Sunday, the start of Holy Week. You’re running late to your go-to, St. John the Evangelist, and out of breath as you enter the vestibule. Thank goodness, the priest and his entourage are still milling about, organizing themselves ahead of their procession past the parishioners. It’s a full house so you sneak by and into the back pew but not before taking a palm stalk, which is part of the tradition, reminding all believers of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem before you know what happens on the following Friday which is not good.

You settle in, lay the palm by your side and bring down the hassock, the padded kneeler. You make the sign of cross, ready to transition your intent to one of worship and prayer, when over the loudspeaker comes this booming voice, reverberating from the heavens above as if from God himself.

“The palms have not been blessed. Return the palm NOW.”

Startled, you open your eyes to see the entire congregation, hundred of heads turned around like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Their accusatory stares as if you are Barabbas himself, freed by Pontius Pilate on Passover, leaving Jesus to be crucified.

And all you can hear is the chorus in your head. Bad Catholic. Bad Catholic.

You, the guilty one, stand up, throw the palm back from where you took it, and bolt out of the church, in tears, as you the realization hits you right where the ashes were administered on your forehead. You have worked so hard at being pious. You’ve played by the rules even as the Church maintains a jaundiced eye at who you choose to love. It’s never good enough.

You vow never to set foot in St. John’s the Evangelist or any other Catholic Church for that matter. The exception being your tourist excursions throughout Europe which are in and out affairs just to marvel at the frescos above.

For a good ten years you walk the wilderness without the tradition. Without the pageantry. Without the incense. You’re squarely in the category of lapsed or non-practicing.

Years on, you take it as a sign when on separate occasions, a trinity of bar buddies who learn of your trauma mention a little schoolhouse nearby turned St. Philip’s Episcopal, packed with ex-Catholics, even the priest. And that you should give it a try. You do and you like that it’s “Catholic Lite.’ You already know the words and are there on your own terms. No need to convert. No one to tell you that you’re doing it all wrong.

You also attend the Buddhist Center close by where the monk encourages you to pick and choose teachings that resonate and what might make you are more enlightened being. You are deep in meditation when struck with an epiphany. That what you relish and cherish most are religious traditions in all their forms. Like Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights when you, in Kathmandu, burned an oil lamp to symbolize light’s victory over darkness, good over evil. Like Loy Krathong, when you, in Bangkok, under the November full moon, released a candled banana leaf boat with offerings of marigold and a few baht coins to delight the river spirits.

Like breaking fast at Eid, the end of Ramadan. Or observing Passover when you, as the youngest person at Seder, get to ask the question mah nishtanah halialah hazeh mikol haleilot? Mikol haleilot? Why is this night different from all other nights?

You are more like that car bumper sticker you come across on the road. The one that reads ‘COEXIST’ with each letter representing a different icon of faith. And that however you or anyone else chooses to pray, or not, you wish for all to respect one another’s beliefs and that peace be with them.