As a kid, I never completely listened to a church sermon. A church, to me, was (still is) a sleeping avenue, what with the unfathomable words of the priest, the overall silence despite the worship songs, and the ever so slight breeze that the wall fans stirred. Going to church was never something I looked forward to in the week. The sole reason I went to church was my mother’s insistence. But I’d go without a word of complaint. I was, after all, a Catholic.
When I was in high school, the trend was to join the organization called Youth for Christ (YFC). It was the cool thing to do. So one day in 2009, I became an official member of the YFC through the “youth camp,” a three-day process of evangelization. I was supposed to feel the Holy Spirit, that I’ve been cleansed of my sins, and that I had people to whom I belonged. But that wasn’t what I felt. Never in my life did I feel like having completely wasted my time than at that time. Not that it was—excuse my language—bullsh-t. I just thought there was no way the group could help me, not with the people they let handle it at that time, anyway.
I remember having to sit through hours of sermons from people barely older than me, and struggling to stay awake. I remember their making me grateful and at the same time sorry, when I already was. It was quite close-minded of me, but I didn’t think they were credible, let alone mature, enough to be giving sermons. And believe it or not, I actually tried looking into myself (because that’s what they asked), only to see things I had already discovered.
I remember forcing myself to cry halfway through the sermons because it was the way we were supposed to react. I remember them singing to us, trying to comfort us, telling us to let it all out and let God come and be one with us. And all the while I was forcing myself to feel at least the slightest hint of grief of some sort. But there was nothing.
What was most disheartening was the idea that I came searching for something that I had already found, that I came believing that there was something to be corrected in me, only to find that there was nothing wrong in the first place. Or maybe there was, but I didn’t realize it. And how can you correct something you don’t see? I guess it was the absence of any spiritual or emotional breakthrough that caused my frustration. Not once, while I was in the process, did I feel the Holy Spirit. Or did I? How was it even supposed to feel?
And that was when I began to doubt my faith.
About a month or so later, I became an inactive member of the YFC. Of course, I still went to church. I was still a Catholic, after all; I still believed in God. What’s funny is that I had never felt my faith more intact than after I had left the YFC. I prayed every night before going to bed. It became my therapy, my release. God became an invisible friend lounging among the stars. Going to church on Sundays with my mother seemed to take away my burden; it was such a good thing that every time I stepped out of the church, I’d feel newly born. For some reason, I was the most religious I’d ever been at that time—until the night of May 24, 2011.
I was with my older sister and I was to leave for home. We were seated in a coffee shop at the airport, waiting for my flight. We had consumed four cups of hot chocolate and two sweet buns, all the while chattering about sundry matters. We were so comfortable and unusually open to each other. I can’t remember the longest tête à tête we’ve had, before or since.
We talked about friends, crushes, food, other stuff. It was smooth, careless banter, and I don’t know how we ended up talking about our religion, our faith. And then I heard my sister say she was an atheist. It was a shock, of course. We come from the same conservative town where everyone knows everyone else, where perspectives are in black and white—a town that is a champion of the status quo.
I had always thought of atheism as a bad thing. It was what I believed until that moment. But according to my sister, it is only love that we need to believe in. There are so many reasons to reject God, and the dispute over his existence will never end, but love, even without its physicality, is always present. And it is something we cannot run away from because it is felt in our hearts. Everyone feels love, but not everyone feels God.
For the first time, I considered what was good and bad in atheism. When my sister and I separated at dawn, I promised myself I wouldn’t, couldn’t, lose my faith.
Eventually, despite the promise I made to myself, I began to contemplate my faith. Of course, I had my doubts way before my sister confessed, but these didn’t weigh so much on me until that time. I kept on thinking that if she was able to do it, it can’t be that hard. To stop all tracks of religion in your life—it mustn’t be that hard. I hated the thought of being a nonbeliever, but at the same time, I started becoming critical of my religion. My mind was in turmoil. My faith was in a war, and I didn’t know which side to take.
But that war soon ended. As the saying goes, everything passes. It ended when I found Maria Doria Russell’s “The Sparrow,” a book with a science fiction theme, about a Jesuit who lost his faith because of a tragic event in his life. A character in the book, Anne—a middle-aged American doctor in a Brazilian slum doing work for the poor, an atheist—really got my attention. In one scene, she says in effect: Just because you don’t believe in a god doesn’t mean you can’t do good.
It was as if a light bulb switched on in my head. And suddenly I was thinking: Do good for the sake of doing good, and not because you’re afraid of ending up in some hell.
I still believe in God. And I pray to him still when there’s no one I can talk to. But I don’t think I’m a Catholic anymore. I did not stray away from my religion just because I think it is no good for me. You see, there are a thousand reasons to stay faithful to Catholicism, to any religion. Mine has taught me a lot. But just like finishing a book, you think about it a bit, close it and put it away, and move on with your life. To dwell on something you have outgrown is just stupid. Keeping the lessons you have learned is up to you.
There are decisions that people don’t dare make just because choices do not seem to be offered, but they’re there and worth trying, too. Life is much bigger than a religion. We can learn from a religion and we can let it teach us, but we can’t let it dictate what life must be. To miss out on something you know is out there, right for you and just waiting, is like settling for an apple when there’s an apple tree.
A professor of mine once said, “Religion has a way of closing people’s minds.” I believe it’s true. If only we treat religion the right way, and that is universally, and only as a chapter in life, I think it can be more of good use.
B. Sarmiento, 18, is a communication arts sophomore at the University of the Philippines Visayas (Tacloban College).