I have happily been a practicing Episcopalian for almost ten years. But I was raised Roman Catholic.
Growing up in a small town, our church was the church most of my classmates attended. We attended CCD, sang in the choir, made our sacraments like, First Holy Communion and Confirmation together, and took part in Youth Ministry.
I was very invested in being a good Catholic from an early age. I was fascinated by the stories of the saints, had my own prayer book that included a typical mass in it, and memorized all my prayers. I would play “holy communion” with my friends using potato chips as the host, and attended church with my mother, who was also raised in a devout Catholic family, each Saturday night.
If some of these religious terms seem foreign to you, that’s okay. The Roman Catholic church is full of “mysteries”. I was taught from an early age not to question anything, to just accept the teachings of the church, and to do as I was told.
Although, as I grew older, I did sometimes question the ways of the church, I was strong in my faith and proud to be a Catholic. When I was 15 years old, and approaching Confirmation, I swore to my friends that I was saving myself (read: virginity) for marriage.
After Confirmation, two things happened. I joined Youth Ministry (which is basically a high school youth group) and I fell in love for the first time.
My boyfriend was a handsome, dark haired, hockey player of Sicilian descent. He was smart, and that is why we were introduced. I struggled with math, and it came easily to him. We were in study hall together and the teacher suggested that I ask Mike for help with Algebra. We quickly realized we went to the same church, among other common values and interests.
One big difference, however, was Mike had already been sexually active. And he was surprised to learn that I didn’t intend to have sex before marriage.
Mike and I talked on the phone, hung out after school, and increasingly spent more and more time together. Eventually, his parents invited mine to dinner so they could get to know each other. It turned out they were all from the same city and got along famously. I started to worry that maybe this was more serious than I was prepared for. I was, after all, only sixteen years old, and a junior in high school.
Mike was a senior at our school, also active in Youth Ministry and one week he was hosting a meeting at his house. I had mixed feelings about Youth Ministry. I had attended a few times and got a bad vibe from the priest in charge of the youth. He really seemed to dislike me. I was sensitive to this. I considered my self a good person and a good Catholic. What could he possibly have against me? Mike thought I was misreading the priest. So, I decided to go to the meeting at Mike’s house.
The other kids were friendly and included me. Still, I felt a distinct negativity from the priest. He would ignore me in conversations, avoid me, and walk away when I tried to talk to him. Discouraged, after that night I decided Youth Ministry was not for me.
Admittedly, this was strange. It should have been a red flag. But I was sensitive, and I think my mom, and Mike figured I was overreacting. I continued to go to church but my mom did not push me to go to YM. My best friend Michelle didn’t feel particularly included either. I don’t remember if she continued much after I quit. I would occasionally attend an outing with Mike, but that was it for me.
My senior year was about to begin, and Mike moved about two hours away to college. I had begun to consider that since we were in a committed relationship for a year, that I might consider sharing my first time with him. We were young and in love, and he had stayed with me despite his frustration with my decision to wait for marriage. Well, let’s just say we managed to enjoy each other physically, very much while I clung to the technicality of remaining chaste. As I was the last virgin standing among my friends, and acquaintances, and most of my classmates (even the other Catholics) I began to lighten up on my decision to wait until my wedding night. I shared with Mike that I thought I was ready. He was excited, as you can imagine. But two proms and a night in a hot tub later, and all I managed to do was chicken out.
I was still attending church regularly but was a bit disappointed that Youth Ministry had not worked out. My senior year of high school was otherwise off to a good start. I was captain of the majorette squad (the baton twirlers in marching band), had good classes, some other clubs I was involved with and began applying to colleges. I was excited to be a senior and had the most wonderful friends.
Columbus day weekend came with our first marching band competition for the year. After practicing I had to go home and change into my uniform. I dropped off one of the girls and told her I would pick her up again in 30 minutes. As I rounded the corner to my house I realized I was going way too fast and laid on the brakes. As I neared my street, a pack of motorcycles was heading towards me. The man driving on my side of the road wasn’t even looking ahead, his head was turned and he was looking at his friends. I honked and pulled over as far as I could. But any further and I would hit a tree. If I pulled left, I would have hit 3 motorcycles. The biker never saw me. He hit me head on, he and his motorcycle flipped over my 1973 Plymouth Volare Duster and landed on the asphalt. I hit the steering wheel hard (I was not wearing my seat belt, a mistake I would never again make, but was okay and got out of the car. The motorcyclist ripped off his helmet and said, “what happened?” Neighbors came rushing out. Someone called the police. I was so upset when they arrived because my brother, who was on the town police force was on vacation with his wife in Costa Rica. My parents were 45 minutes away visiting my aunt. My friends were back at the high school getting on the bus for the marching band competition. I quickly remembered that Mike was home from college for the long weekend and called his house. He came over right away.
Later in the evening, my parents came home and gave Mike cash to take me to dinner. At dinner I felt like I could not breathe. He took me straight to the ER. We didn’t even tell my parents. It was getting late and they were already so worried and upset when they learned of my accident. The doctor determined that I was fine, just some inflammation and bruising on my chest from hitting the steering wheel.
At home, my parents were upstairs in bed, and Mike and I were watching tv. I changed into a nightshirt. It was late. The house was quiet. The accident had shaken me and Mike was by my side, comforting me all evening. We were making out and without a word I let him know I was ready. “Are you sure?” he asked. I was. I didn’t want to die a virgin. I was seventeen years old and I held on to my convictions as long as I could. But something had shifted in me that day. The reality of life’s fragility. And I let go.
The next day Mike and I attended a Youth Ministry outing together at the science museum. I felt different. Not in a bad way, not in a good way. Just more adult. More so from the accident than the sex, I think. Either way, that was a lot of life experience for one day.
Over the next few months our relationship floundered. I was having trouble adjusting to both the physical distance of Mike’s college life, and the physical demands of now having a sex life. I finally broke it off in February.
The next Saturday my mom and I attended 5:00 PM mass, as we always did. Sitting in the front row like we did every week, the priest, who happened to be the youth leader of our church, came down from the altar to deliver the homily, or sermon. This was not unheard of, but a bit unusual as he usually spoke from the pulpit.
What happened next is the reason I left the Roman Catholic church. Before the sex abuse scandal. Before the articles, and books, documentaries and films that exposed the many inappropriate acts of Catholic priests, I had my own falling out with a church I was devoted to, loved and respected for my entire childhood.
Standing right in front of me, looking directly at me, the priest, Father Picardi, delivered a very specific homily.
I do not remember all of his exact words. His tone was harsh. His message was anything but Christian.
Father Picardi, our youth minister, spoke about a young man from our parish who returned home from college for the weekend and paid him a visit. He spoke about how broken-hearted the young man was and how hurt, because his girlfriend of almost two years had broken up with him that week. He asked Father Picardi for advice. The gist of the advice given was that anyone who would hurt this young man, in any way, was a bad person. He went on and on about how bad this person was: cold, mean, ignorant to pass up on this relationship. He talked about not forgiving someone who could be so unkind. He talked about opportunities to meet someone better who would not treat him so badly. I quickly realized he was using his sermon to cut me down to my face. I was utterly paralyzed with shock. Not only did this sermon go against all of our learning as good Catholic’s, but it was about me personally and being delivered to me in a manner where I was trapped. Seated in the front row of a full church, if I got up, everyone in the church would know that I was the evil harlot who broke someone’s heart. My mother reached over and grabbed my hand. She too had realized Father Picardi was speaking about me. I glanced over at her. She stared straight ahead at him. My mother, raised in a large, Portuguese, Catholic family, who took church seriously and raised me to do the same. You didn’t question the priest. You did not challenge him. We sat there and took the abuse. He went on and on. I was devastated. I was angry. Here was my priest, putting my ex-boyfriend upon a pedastal, exaulting him to sainthood, while ripping me to shreds before our entire parish. Cannonizing someone who pressured me into sex for over a year, and vilifying me, hard on myself alreday for giving in and erasing a core value I held dear, a girl who was serious and true to this church my entire seventeen years.
When the service was over we rushed out of church. I turned around and faced the place that up until that evening was holy to me. “See that building?” I said to my mother. “I will never set foot in that building again,”
I don’t blame you” she replied.
In the months that followed my life went from good to bad in a rapid series of unrelated events. If I believed Catholic priests actually had any power at all, I would say I had been cursed. As a reaction, I turned my back on my church, and then turned my back on God.
A couple of years later, when I was in a new city at a university I had transferred to, I attended mass twice at beautiful church near my school. But the damage was done. This was no longer my home. I turned back towards God, but it would be about fifteen years before I found a new home in the Episcopal church. Which I love. The priests, church leaders, my church family are truly nourishment to my soul.
In the meantime, the secret of sexual violence against children among the priesthood came to light. “Mark my words,” I told my mother, “Father Picardi’s name will be on that list”. And it was.
I don’t know what the relationship was between my high school boyfriend and our youth minister. But I have reasons to believe there was something going on, at the very least Father Picardi had some sorg of feelings for Mike and complete disdain for me the whole while we were dating and then vengeance when I ended the relationship. Mike didn’t even react that poorly. Sadly, Father Picardi was not the only priest from my childhood parish whose name ended up on the list of priests accused.
Some of my friends were able to continue practicing Catholicism, rectifying their beliefs with the small number (overall) of bad priests. I was not. I am happy to be Godmother to two friends’ sons though. This is special to me and their boys, Nico and Adam, hold a special place in my heart and in my own prayers. I even set foot back in my childhood church for one of the baptisms and other friends’ religious celebrations.
I heard something on a television once, from a character in a drama. He said that everyone should be outraged, and if every Catholic was as angry and outraged as they should be, the Catholic church would shut down, and cease to exist. He said we would expect as much of any other institution that had committed these horrendous crimes. That soliloquy struck true for me. Without guilt, I agree.