Religion, spirituality. Spirituality, religion. For most of my childhood, I assumed that these words were interchangeable. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve started to understand that they can be very different.
My relationship with religion is complicated. I was raised Catholic, by a Catholic mother with somewhat strict Catholic ways. Like many Catholic families, we didn’t eat meat on Fridays, except fish or other seafood dishes. Like every good Catholic six-year-old, I donned my pretty (read: itchy) white dress and made my First Communion. At age eleven, I made my First Confession (which included making up a few sins on the fly, just to make my admissions a bit juicier for the long-suffering priest. That’s right: I’m a giver.) By thirteen, I was confirmed into the Catholic Church. And through it all, there were certain aspects of my religious upbringing that I loved: I always enjoyed the smell of the incense in the church, the taste of the Holy Communion wafer and feeling slightly naughty as I sipped the wine. The predictability of the Catholic rituals was familiar and comforting, and I continued to attend church well into my adulthood, more as a habitual exercise that was “good for me” — like jogging, say, or eating all my vegetables — than arising from any sort of spiritual need.
As is probably true of many people in their early twenties who have been raised with organized religion as a part of their lives, I began to wonder why I was going to church in the first place. I had developed questions and become uncomfortable with some of the tenets of the church — the fact that women were not permitted to be priests, for example — and while I never got to the point of questioning the existence of a god or the supernatural, I did begin questioning the need for organized religion. I can totally do this myself, I thought. I don’t need some old priest who has never been married or had sex to tell me how to live my life.
Do it myself: I certainly tried. I began to read everything I could get my hands on about all types of religions — Christianity, Buddhism, Taoism, Hinduism — and became intrigued by the various rites and liturgy offered and practiced by each one. The more that I learned about religions that, on their faces, seemed foreign to mine, the more I learned how much they are the same. And the more I became comfortable in my own beliefs.
Reading all of these texts, I began to think about the people in my life who I considered strong spiritual influences. I thought of the young nun in Trinidad whom I met while I was still attending my convent high school. She had such a gift for storytelling. She told parables taken straight from the Bible, but she would do so in Trinidadian vernacular, making them come alive for me for the very first time, even though I’d heard them on countless occasions during Mass over the years. I thought of the priest in Trinidad who was also fond of local slang (and local bars) and would talk about the spirit of the people he would meet in villages and rum shops, and how their encounters would enhance his own spiritual growth. They were members of the clergy, but over time, I’ve also encountered laypeople who weren’t to be spiritual leaders, possessing a gift of inspiration — from whom I also believe — the yogi who spoke of the creation and composition of music as an ultimate, universal form of meditation, to my sister-in-law’s husband, Nigel. Nigel is a devout Christian with a wicked sense of humor, an insatiable need to rib everyone around him, and who rarely speaks openly outside of his church about God or religion; and yet, during a quiet moment on my wedding day, took my hand, looked at me with great kindness and quietly said, “God bless you and Marcus.” I was so moved by this simple gesture, particularly because Nigel and I really didn’t know each other all that well at that time.
Only after meeting this broad array of teachers have I come to understand the distinction between religion and spirituality. While I respect organized religion and what its tenets and rites can teach, I’ve always been more drawn to people who exude a strong sense of spirituality, whether these individuals are members of the cloth or laypeople, or even people who choose not to practice any religion at all. Some are people who are mindful about every moment of their day, even as they good humoredly tease their children or fraternize with the local barflies. Others are individuals who, even if they do not believe in a god, are intimately familiar with the concept of loving-kindness and treat everyone accordingly. Or there are those who may intuitively believe that there’s something bigger out there and actively bring the supernatural into each moment of their days. But most importantly, all these people innately understand the humanity within themselves, while honoring the divinity within others.
As I said, my relationship with religion is complicated. Though I rarely go to church these days, I say a prayer of thankfulness every night and teach my daughter to do the same. I try to meditate, but I often forget.
I don’t eat meat or seafood on Fridays anymore, but that’s because I’m a vegetarian now. And in our home, we do honor some (but not all) of the holidays of my Catholic upbringing with both solemnity and celebration.
And when I do, very occasionally, wander into a church, I’m still comforted by the smell of the incense and the taste of the Holy Communion wafer.
“I’m different because I believe having fun is sacred stuff.”
“I’m different because I’m happiest when it’s raining. The sound of raindrops falling has the same physical effect on me as being still and taking a deep breath.”
“I’m different because once I begin to love someone, I never, ever, ever stop.”
“I’m different because while some people have to do all kinds of crazy things like drugs or bungee jumping to get a high, all I have to do is sing.”
