Abandoning Belief
A retrospective of Rome and my departure from the Catholic church
Growing up in a catholic household for two decades was a suffocating experience. My movements were dictated by scripture adapted through toxic masculinity. Years of gaslighting and youth group brainwashing rendered my most intimate feelings and thoughts invalid if they didn’t align with explicit moral values. Opportunities to explore outside of Catholicism were rare and it was difficult to find any sort of personal spiritual identity. If I wasn’t constantly being scolded in bible passages, I was dragged to go to church, sitting silently for an hour while a higher social authority laid out the weekly action plan for righteousness.
I acknowledge the peace and calm provided by the church but rarely a powerful connection with self and spirit. The pews felt more like makeshift beds than portals to divinity. I usually scraped off the most recent coat of varnish till it lulled me to sleep for my mid-Sunday nap, dreaming of the day I could understand what catholicism is and how I really fit in to all of it.
My teenage years were primarily spent on Peyton
I visited Rome for leisure, a privileged taking every opportunity to explore the world and run away from the pressure of responsibility. Rome was everything but a spiritual catharsis. The travel group dragged me from tourist site after tourist site. A few people from the group dictated the agenda and I felt more like a tourist than a traveller. Our tour of the fabled Coliseum lasted for less than half an hour. The stop at the impeccable Fontana Di Trevi was less than twenty minutes. (NOTE THE POOR MAN AT THE FOUNTAINS) I don’t remember much about the ancient ruins but I can recall the exact amount of miles we walked because of the aches my feet from our furious pace. The whole trip began to blur together.
Then, a glimmer of clarity. A shimmering beacon rose above the gloom, a gargantuan structure of impeccable construction. Once I walked closer to the building, a mystical force almost seemed to magnetize me to the doors. Once I entered the Pantheon, I fell to my knees.
The Pantheon was the most extravagant building I had ever seen. Several of the world’s greatest art pieces and historical figures resided in a dome that extended into infinity. Multi-dimensional cubic patterns lined the spherical walls in a mesmerizing pattern. Everything was in perfect symmetry, a calming sense of balance in my personal world of frenzy. Paintings and murals created by the greatest renaissance painters depicted the triumphant lives of the Roman nobles and legendary figures who were laid to rest. Angels appeared to reach out to visitors while Mother Mary and Jesus blessed everyone in the room.
Raphael, one of the most revered painters in history, was entombed in a sarcophagus that was so brightly lit that it appeared to be a holy relic. In the center of it all, a divine beam emanating from the top of the dome, illuminated the interior of the sacred structure. I felt purity and holiness for the first time. I fell to my knees yet again but felt lighter than I had ever felt before.
The Pantheon opened my eyes to a different perspective of Rome. I found fluidity in reflection, peace from being in a holy place. The feeling of piety was a bit unclear but I still wanted to explore everything I could. Luckily for me, the holiest place in the Catholic Church resided in Rome: The Vatican.
I was aware the Vatican was in Rome before I began my travels but I didn’t want to visit it. I harbored a lot of resentment towards Catholicism because of my rough upbringing and I felt the Vatican was the ultimate symbol for the forces that oppressed me. Carrying a good amount of cautious optimism but still compelled by the feeling of holiness, I put my faith in faith.
(NOTE: THE BEGGERS ON THE STREET) The first part of the Vatican City was the Musei Vaticani, a complex of some of the most pristine works of art from the ancient world. The beginning of the exhibits began with a winding trek up hypnotic spiral stairs that was a nice blend of modern sensibility with primeval art littered along walkway. The labyrinth continued and narrowed till I came within brush strokes of tracing the greatest paintings of the world. I could alter the smudges on Da Vinci’s St. Jerome in the Wilderness or stroke the painted walls of Raphael’s Room with nothing more than a step stool. The colors of these illustrious scenes flashed off the walls in a vividness that I had never known. To recognize beauty was pleasant; to be surrounded by beauty everywhere I went was enthralling.
On the highest of climbs, I reach the highest of lights: the Sistine Chapel. Immediately the air was sucked out of the room. I forgot how to breathe. I stared at the ceiling from the entrance, all the way from my walk to the room’s center. The Creation of Adam. The Last Judgment. Biblical scenes played out in sequence as still pieces began to tell a moving, vibrant story of that could not be achieved by text interpretations of the holy word. My gaze was limitless. I stared as I got up. I stared leaving, walking backwards to make sure I didn’t have to break focus with majestic paintings. Once I exited the room, I collapsed to my knees for the second time in two days.
God bless Michelangelo and all the saints of the paint palette.
The next day, I didn’t sleep. All the emotions I had felt exhausted me but also stimulated me. There was a momentum to my experiences and I knew the apex of my holy tour: service at St. Petersburg Square. Frankly, I did not know exactly what was going to happen. Up until that point, I just knew about the mass pilgrimages from Catholics around the world. Even though there were thousands of people, I knew I just needed to be alone in my thoughts to hopefully unlock my spirituality.
I quietly sat down and closed my eyes, not talking or moving. Suddenly a burst of noise startled me to awareness. A choir of cherubic voices announced his entrance in perfect harmony. Thousands of people and not one set of eyes were straying from his presence.
Pope Francis was walking towards me. Never in my wildest pew dreams could I have imagined seeing the holiest human entity in the catholic religion in person. Desperately I tried to stir up the emotions I had felt the previous few days. I began to pray, squinting my eyes to further emphasize my thoughts to God.
Nothing. I felt empty.
Here I was, potentially having a life changing moment and all I could do was stare. I felt compelled to see a light, to feel an epiphany from seeing the Pope along with everyone else…
After looking around and remembering my experience at the other religious sites, I realized that I had been alone the entire time. Everything that I had felt during the weekend, my thoughts and sensations of spirituality, happened solely to me. I didn’t have to interpret anything, to relate my experiences to anything, to tell others about it. My spirituality was unique to me the whole time.
Here, at the heart of the Catholic world, I was surrounded by love from everybody. People of the faith from all every background imaginable, cheered in unison. At the Vatican, no one was judged. No one was forced to believe in a necessary virtue or to follow a complex religious ritual. It wasn’t the church or even the Pope that made us passionate followers. We worshipped in our own personal way and were united by our faith.
The lifetime search for acceptance in the church did not fulfill my original goals but my personal praise for what I believed was the real reward. Whether it just be peace in a holy place or curiosity in divinity, I could finally feel my spirituality.
Without saying a prayer or following a hymn, I bowed down on my knees, closed my eyes and continued to cry with a smile on my face. Instead of finding what I was looking for, I founded my own religion.
