A History of Religion: Part 4

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

I was happy. Or content, rather. There is a difference, you know. I busied myself with grad school and my work and my Church and my gym. Instead of sidling up to the local bar 2-3 times a week as I had once been wont to do, I opted for research papers and academic forums. After a while, I realized that I was becoming a bit of a hermit, so I made a pact with myself to try to get out and socialize more.

One Wednesday afternoon at work, an IM from a friend popped up on my computer. Some people were going to get together for dinner, and he thought I might like to join them. My first instinct was to bow out, citing a large project that was due that week, but then I remembered my resolution. "What time?" I typed.

There really wasn't anything extraordinary about that outing, except that I met a couple who introduced me to the Mr. a few days later.

I don't think I need to explain in detail that the Mr. and I hit it off famously. He's the Mr., after all. A couple of qualities that particularly attracted me were his intellect and his attention to current events and world issues. He had very precise opinions about most matters, and if I happened to disagree, his arguments were clear and thoughtful and sometimes maddening.

Religion was, of course, a point of discussion. The Mr. was raised Catholic, then became Born Again later in adolescence. We had traveled completely opposite religious paths. While I found the rules and rituals and smells and bells of Catholicism comforting and reverent, he considered them rote and borderline cultish. I thought it reckless and assuming for a minister to choose whichever scripture he wanted to preach about on any old Sunday with total disregard to the Liturgical calendar. He believed that it was the pastor's responsibility to deal with issues that were most urgent and important to the congregation, regardless of years and cycles and testaments. I embrace my blind faith. He looks at everything from an analytical standpoint and therefore struggles with the concept.

For many months, I continued attending Mass, but the level of my devotion waned. I stopped going to Confession because I didn't plan to cease doing the one thing that I would confess. The Mr. attended Mass with me a few times, but his opinion remained firm. For the time being, we continued on our own religious journeys, and that was fine by me. My relationship with God was between God and me.

Then, the Mr. proposed, and because I was (and am) deeply in love with him and certain that there would never be another person with whom I would connect with so completely, I accepted. And with that acceptance, I made a choice.

I knew that we could not be married in a traditional Catholic Mass because of a variety of circumstances. We spoke to my mother's Methodist minister and he agreed to marry us only if we would commit to weekly premarital counseling sessions with him. For a few months before our wedding, we attended church with my mom and stepdad and then stayed for counseling each Sunday. This arrangement felt right. The minister had known my family for years and I had gotten to know him earlier when my stepdad had surgery. My mom loved him and he was like part of our family. In the end, he performed a beautiful and prayerful ceremony at our small chapel wedding.

After we had been married for a while, I finally worked up the nerve to research my "status" as a Catholic. I had continued to attend Mass and receive the Eucharist like always, but I wondered exactly where the Church stood on my particular brand of marriage. What I learned was that by having been married outside the Church and without a dispensation, I was not in a "state of grace" and not allowed to receive the Eucharist. So I stopped going at all.

I stopped going because I was angry at myself for taking a vow--my Confirmation vow--without having fully studied the obligations that it carried. I was ashamed that I hadn't held up my part of my commitment to the Church. And I was disappointed that the Church that I loved so much would not accept me as my husband's wife.

It all boiled down to the fact that I love my husband more than I love the Church. Whether or not I was fully aware of the ramifications at that particular moment, I chose to fall out of grace instead of returning to my solitary existence. More devout Catholics would argue that the right thing would have been to either insist on a Catholic wedding or break up with the Mr. I would do neither of those things.

Sure, I could return to my Church. I could attend Mass as often as I liked. I could receive the blessing of Spiritual Communion instead of the Body and Blood. Or, I could rest assured that my personal tête-à-tête with God has guaranteed my forgiveness (if, in fact, I am committing a Mortal Sin by being happily married to my loving husband with whom I joined in Holy Matrimony in front of God and a minister and a hundred some-odd witnesses, but that's another post for another day, right?), and carry on with my Eucharist-eating.

I could. But I haven't.

It has been three years.