Down With the Gospel

Story by Darcie Zudell

Backdropper Darcie Zudell gives a personal view of coming to terms with the religion she was raised on.

Stock Image Statue of the Archangel Michael

Every Sunday in 2017 was the same. I drove to 10:30 a.m. Mass with my mom and then spent the rest of the day begging her to let me skip Perish School of Religion (PSR) -- Catholic education classes for children in public school.

Although I no longer attended Catholic private school, I still had to discuss my fleeting faith with other uninterested teenagers on Sunday evenings. I know I sound pessimistic, but I wasn’t always this way. I used to get down with the gospel.

I don’t remember exactly when I stopped wanting to go to church. One time during confession, formally called the Sacrament of Reconciliation, I asked for forgiveness because I often prayed my parents would sleep through their alarms so I would miss Mass. The priest wasn’t amused.

In PSR we practiced the Catholic sacraments before doing them. First Holy Communion was a big ordeal. My mom bought me probably the most expensive dress I will ever own, and I had relatives travel hours to watch eight-year-old me drink wine for the first time. Reconciliation was a little different. I’ve always admired how Catholics believe in forgiveness, and I remember being excited for my sins to be forgiven.

The first time I cried in church was during a Reconciliation Mass. Reflecting on this is amusing, but this experience was traumatizing for me. I sat and waited for my turn to confess to the priest when I saw a woman beside me crying with her hands tightly squeezed together. She repeatedly said “I’m sorry” while looking at the altar. I looked around me and noticed a man staring blankly at the ground. I wondered about all the sins he might be recalling and how he was going to admit them aloud. At that moment, I thought I felt their shame. My heart was heavy, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I started crying and told my mom that I needed to go home. I explained to her the emotions I felt and how horrible these people seemed to feel living with so much sin. My mom reassured me that coming together and asking for forgiveness was beautiful. After a few deep breaths, I went back inside and got scolded by the priest for signing the cross with my left hand.

Catholicism, in theory, preaches forgiveness and love. The Catholicism I experienced for most of my childhood silently endorsed shame and exclusion. It was during Mass that I first heard homosexuality being called a sin. I was 8 and I didn’t understand, but it was discussed in Sunday school several times after that. When I was a little older, I discovered RuPaul’s Drag Race. I learned about sexuality and identity through this show. After that, I did not understand how the church could classify such a beautiful thing as a sin. My faith clashing with my personal beliefs was confusing, and I didn’t speak about it for a while. But my resentment for the church’s homophobia grew stronger.

The first time I stood up for myself at church was in a PSR class. This class was different because girls and boys were placed in separate rooms. Our normal teacher introduced a guest speaker and then left. The speaker looked to be at least 20 and began the discussion by asking who people’s celebrity crushes were. I initially felt glad to be in class that day. Soon the conversation shifted from Ryan Gosling to sex, which we had never talked about in PSR before.

The speaker talked about chastity and remaining “pure” for a future husband. She used the classic flower analogy and told us we had a beautiful flower in a hot barren desert. If we lost our flower, we would never be able to find another one. She encouraged us not to take birth control because it would be like “watering our flowers with lava.” At the end of the discussion, she asked us if we would take a vow of chastity. At this point in my Catholicism, I had observed the church’s sexism. As seventh grader, I was being asked to make a promise on a concept that I did not fully understand. My friend and I were the only ones who refused to sign. I was angry when everyone else was given plastic rings for signing, but I still felt good not vowing to do something I wasn’t sure of.

It was hard to go against the grain in church. Although I knew others in my PSR group disagreed with certain ideas being falsely spread as fact by teachers, no one wanted to speak up. I stood up for my beliefs again when I walked out of an abortion lecture. It was then that I realized I wanted to remove myself from the church. The teachers handed each student a model of a bloody fetus while a woman talked about how her mom almost terminated the pregnancy that resulted in her birth. I cried again because I was so disgusted at the discussion. I had no evidence at the time to defend my disgust, but I never thought access to safe and legal abortion should be persecuted.

After I finally made my Confirmation, ​​a sacrament where a young teenager reconfirms their place in the church, I told my mom that I never wanted to go to church again. She cried and wanted to challenge my position but instead silently agreed. My mom had noticed a shift in the church from what she remembered growing up. With time, people may believe an organization would evolve, but instead this church chose to remain unmoved and set on tradition more than ever.

The last time I went to Mass was the weekend before I left for college. My dad begged me to go and even though I would’ve rather done anything else; I went because I knew it meant a lot to him. At the end of the Mass, one of the speakers asked for the congregation to pray for the Supreme Court following their “brave decision.” I remember turning to my dad to get the “don’t say anything” look. I left that Mass crying and thought about the years following my PSR days and how little the church changed.

I don’t hold resentment toward my parents for raising me in the church. I made friends at camp, and I met adults that I viewed as family. Those relationships made my decision to leave very difficult. I recall the disappointment on my father’s face every Sunday when I refused to go. I saw my mother’s the sadness when I complained about PSR. I carry grief from leaving behind a key component of my life. I removed myself from the church but the Catholicism has not removed itself from me. I make decisions as an adult woman that I cannot help but think my younger self would be ashamed of because the church told her it was wrong.

It wasn’t easy leaving behind that chapter of my life. I’m slowly beginning to accept that I owe nothing to the church. I had to leave people behind that do not accept the person I am today. I should believe in Catholic forgiveness and forgive myself for the shame I carry.