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*A note: When people find out that I’m a convert to Catholicism they are often curious as to what led me to the Church- both Catholics and non-Catholics alike. The first question they usually ask is: What did you convert from? When I answer with “atheism,” I think it sparks a lot of curiosity. So they ask me my story. Almost every time this happens I get very nervous and fidgety, not knowing exactly what to say. I usually give some sort of brief response but rarely share my entire story. I’ve just always found it difficult to talk about something that is, by its very nature, so very intimate. But, I’ve been encouraged both by those who have heard my story and spiritual guides who have not that I ought to share and to share often; an opportunity of deepening my own faith and, if God wills it, enriching someone else’s. Therefore what I write here will capture the entirety of God’s gentle (and some times not so gentle) hand working in my life. Take it; read it, if you will, and glean from it whatever the Spirit desires.
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I dedicated you…” Jeremiah 1:5
As a young child I knew absolutely nothing about Jesus, about God, or about religion in general. I grew up in an atheistic/agnostic household where the name of God was never invoked, lest it were to precede a curse word. My very short exposure to anything having to do with God was when I would stay the night at my grandma’s apartment. She had a cabinet full of children’s books out of which I would often pick and read different books. My favorite story was “Daniel and the Lion’s Den” and my second favorite was about the baby Moses, followed by the Little Miss Piggy series.
Of course, at the time I had no idea that my two favorite stories were children versions of different Old Testament stories. In fact, I don’t think I realized the irony of it until long after my conversion. I think I had been reading through the Book of Daniel and came across a more mature version of the story which sparked the memory back to my childhood. I think I laughed for a good ten minutes upon that realization.
As I grew older I became a little bit more aware of the presence and importance of religion to other people. I also imbibed much of my parents’ views and feelings toward religion. I was taught, albeit not directly or even intentionally, that religion was a crutch that weak people used to get through life. That church was a place that people went to be social with one another and to boost their confidence. It was something we clearly didn’t need, because we were strong, we were family. And nothing is stronger than a family sealed by the bonds of love. We would survive the hard times depending on nothing but each other. That’s what it meant to be a “My Last Name.”
I have very few memories of ever thinking about God’s existence as a child. They are all from back in
By the time I reached the upper years of middle school, I was an adamant atheist. I had read the book (it’s still one of my favorites) The Sea Wolf by Jack London. There’s a character in the book, the antagonist, who is the perfect atheist. Intelligent, self-educated, and brutal. But he gave words to how I viewed the world in my head. I only now realize exactly Nietszchean he is. But, essentially, his world view consisted that the only meaning to life is to live. To survive. To be powerful, because only the powerful survive. The strong eat the weak and the weak die. There was no ultimate meaning to life. There was no value to life, except to your own. The weak grasp and hold onto anything they can to give their meager, weak lives some sort of meaning. The strong have no use for such things.
Bleak views for a 13-year old, but they were mine. I adopted them, developed them, and believed in them full-heartedly. Not that I enjoyed the fact they were true. Not at all. In fact, I deplored the fact that this was the state of reality. But, truth is truth and I wasn’t going to adopt some religious views just to satisfy my unsatisfaction with the way things were.
Despite these views, I was, for the most part, a good kid. I experimented with some not-so-good behaviors at one point or another. We, my friends and I, would steal wallets and other such smaller goods from stores. We messed around with smoking a little bit. I used to steal pot from my older brother and sell it to my friend’s brother, who was a drug dealer. But most of that didn’t last very long. I never felt guilty, per se, but I never really enjoyed doing that kind of stuff either.
Luckily my friend group shifted a bit when I entered high school. I was a part of the high school band (played the trumpet) and eventually my social life revolved around it. Most of the kids in the band were all those goodie-goodie types. Strangely enough, almost all were Christian, too. Of course, I didn’t believe what they did. But since they didn’t engage in “sinful” behavior, neither did I.
My world-view at this time did not change at the influence of my friends. On the contrary, I grew even more convicted that, essentially, “might was right.” My observances of my Christian friends did not lend to a positive light. What I mean by this is that their faith, it seemed to me at least, was only surface level. They didn’t know what they believed. To me, they were brainwashed. They hardly knew why they believed what they believed. They simply followed what they had been taught all their life. They hadn’t actually thought deeply at all about their faith.
So, I challenged them. I argued with them. I attempted to ruin what little faith that they had. And frankly, I won most of the arguments. Yet, for some reason, these friends of mine did not yield or give up on their faith. Each day they would come back and try again. Their perseverance astonished me. Their peace, especially, astonished me. Sure, they would get frustrated at times. But each day they would be back. United with one another (which was quite a feat itself, considering the three friends of whom I speak consisted of two Mormons and a Catholic).
About a year went by of this back and forth arguing. I did not yield. I couldn’t. But as time went by, I did begin to envy my friends. Not because I thought they were right, that they possessed the truth. On the contrary, I envied their ignorance. I envied their peace of mind that came with being so brainwashed that they could not see the truth of the state of the world. Frankly, my atheistic world-view depressed me. I mean really made me depressed. I think my freshman and sophomore year of high school were two of the most depressing of my life. I was not happy. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I ever contemplated suicide, but I certainly wasn’t in a good state to say the least.
Shortly thereafter a desire grew in me to believe in God. A sidewise desire wishing that I too had been born into a Christian household so that I could be free from the terrible truth I knew. This desire was killing me. I wished so badly for it to be true that God existed. But my intellect could not consent. There was nothing in any arguments that I read that could convince me. God was dead and I was left to face that bitter truth alone.
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