Editor: Maira Hammad
Looking back, it is clear how Catholicism failed me; fear was central—it was the root.
At the age of eight I was transferred to a Catholic school—this was my first proper introduction to Catholicism. I hadn’t received communion, didn’t know any of the prayers, and had no understanding of sin. Confused and eager to establish a sense of belonging, I quickly adopted the teachings, to the point that I lived life in fear of damnation. I became overly cautious, convinced God was always watching; you can’t lie to God. In sleep, in the shower, his presence followed me.
Over those years, I became painfully aware of how much wrongdoing I had done. So young and already so corrupt. I felt like the poster child for what to do if you want to go to hell. But I knew the loophole: you can sin—not encouraged—as long as you begged for forgiveness afterwards. I hadn’t realized that all those efforts would be in vain if you don’t actually mean it. How foolish to ask for forgiveness with the intention of committing the same sin again. I was scared only of the repercussions of the sin but not of the sin itself.
Catholicism preaches dignity, compassion, and justice, which are objectively moral teachings, but there is a contradiction: punishment. After death, all of us will rise again, either closer to God or separated from him. Ultimately, we are taught that our actions, sinful or not, will send us to one of three destinations: hell, heaven, or the secret third option… purgatory. And God would decide exactly where your soul would end up, judged on our relationship to him. Purgatory always stood out to me because there was this idea of suffering as a way to cleanse impurities, preparing you to enter heaven. Torture as a form of love.
I remember the first school mandated mass trip. I remember sitting next to classmates but also strangers. At the end, I turned to everyone around me, shaking their hand and saying “Peace be with you.” That was the kindness that was encouraged and highlighted by the church. I understand it now: in order to balance out my life of sin, I must complete indefinite acts of kindness.
But what validity will these actions hold if they’re done with ulterior motives? I am performing kindness so as to avoid the wrath of God, to secure my spot in heaven.
So, my creator—the Father of the universe who is meant to love me unconditionally—was more than willing to send me to a place like purgatory if I did not live according to his rules. I couldn’t claim him as my father; in my mind, God had become synonymous with the boogeyman. A figure meant to punish, not protect. I couldn’t trust God because I feared him.
As time passed, I learned to approach faith more rationally. I slowly disengaged from the shame that moulded much of my childhood. I no longer saw the point in sitting around feeling guilty about hell or purgatory; I am alive, and I want to live fully. Faith shouldn’t feel like a cage. It should be something liberating.
At twenty-one, it’s still challenging for me to move past religious guilt. The shame and fear still creep in at times. I don’t follow any religion now. Though sometimes I talk to God, not to have my prayers answered or my sins forgiven, just to remind myself there is nothing to fear.