Religious Autobiography
My religious background is entirely dependent on which family member’s influence is in question. A Lutheran mother; an agnostic father; a devoutly Christian sister; an extended family that never spoke about religion except one evangelical uncle; and then me. My mother did her best to raise me with Lutheran beliefs — but I didn’t bite. I still accompany her to church on the most sacred of days (Christmas, Easter, and the occasional Good Friday — Sundays are out of the question) just to appease her good Christian soul. However, my time during the service is spent tracking the program the overly friendly church volunteer passed out upon entry and figuring out how many songs are left before I can make the ten-yard dash to the parking lot. My disinterest is not lost upon my mom, but my presence is appreciated.
I am baptized, but not entirely by choice. Again, my mom’s happiness precedes over any spirituality or belief I may have buried deep in the abyss of my cosmological center. I tend to forget about my baptism — it wasn’t necessarily a pivotal point in my pre-adolescent development. I don’t think I have even spoken of my baptism since it occurred in 2007. It is a dim memory only spotlighted when I come across a picture or my mom casually mentions it (“Stop saying you don’t believe in God — you are baptized,”) to which I reply with a subtle reminder of my own — I am agnostic. In my mom’s and my sister’s eyes, I may as well be a Satan-worshipping jezebel with an imperishable engrossment in the occult. Needless to say, religion isn’t a hot topic in my house.
My agnosticism did not arise out of ignorance or contempt for organized religion, and I do not doubt spirituality enough to affirmatively say I am Atheist. But I have been exceedingly doubtful of organized religion for as long as I can remember. When I was about 8 (before the elusive baptism), I went with my mom to one of the aforementioned Good Friday services I occasionally accompany her to. The message that day was concerned with questions of spirituality. The pastor invited the church-goers to write down a question they had for the church, for God, or for Christianity in and of itself and nail it to a cross in the center of the room (this foreboding imagery was lost on me at the time). Many of my pew partners had written things like, “Will God continue to bring me good health?” “Will God keep my marriage together?” and things of that nature. Upon reading the rest of the shreds of white paper nailed to that cross, I noted they all seemed to start with “Will God (enter favor here)?” I noted there was a collective, unwavering belief in God — except mine. There, in the center of the cross, in my unrefined eight-year-old scrawl were the words, “Is God real?” I did not realize the profundity of this question — my mind was still reeling from learning Santa isn’t real so, naturally, my faith was at an all-time low. My mom read the question I wrote, but she didn’t get offended. Instead, she said she was proud of me.
God isn’t anyone to me. My doubt has not faltered in the fourteen years that have transpired since nailing my note to that cross. I have not met Him; I have not experienced Him, nor have I experienced any other deity from one of the 4,200 religions in the world. My mom watched as I wrote “agnostic” as my religious preference on my application to Loyola Marymount University. “You’re Christian,” she prodded. But I’m not. Maybe one day, but not today.
