Unfortunately, I Think I Need Church

To Say Nothing of God After the Election

a photo of our parish and the urban farm it hosts on the property

This past August, I said to my husband, “I think my 20s might be my Catholic decade.”

I was talking about my writing career. I was growing weary of writing about issues within the Catholic Church. I had other things I wanted to write about, but I worried nobody was going to read them unless they were explicitly religious topics. That felt both discouraging and a bit disgusting: Like it or not, I had built a “brand” online that I was starting to buck against. I don’t like the idea of religion being a “brand” at all. I find it manipulative, particularly in social media spaces. I’ve only ever wanted to write about religion, to educate about ethics and theology. I never wanted to sell.

I was also growing weary of writing about disability and illness, particularly because my own body was exhibiting new symptoms that were frightening me. Sometimes, writing about bodies helps remind me to not treat myself with ableism, as I am wont to do. This time, I didn’t feel I could write with confidence about bodies when I was anything but about my own. That happens.

Then, in October, I followed the Catholic Church’s Synod on Synodality with spiritual ambivalence but social interest: I had many friends attending in Rome, and they were posting Instagram stories with fervor.

I have been a Synod skeptic since its inception. For lack of any alteration to the Church’s hierarchical decision-making structure, Synodality is a load of fluff: Faith-sharing circles with no actionable steps, navel-gazing with no rehabilitation or repentance. It’s suffering through a group project with no grade at the end. Unless the Catholic Church pursues a truly communal decision-making process, Synodality is just a sandbox for laypeople and religious women to play in while religious men watch and say “They’re so cute when they think they have power.”

My suspicions were confirmed this August when I read THIS ARTICLE from America magazine on the study group assigned to explore the theological possibility of ordaining women to the diaconate. Of all the groups created from the first year of the Synod, in response to topics of interest raised by the global Church, Study Group #5 is the only group whose membership is a secret. What could possibly motivate that, other than an absence of women in the group or another clear ideological bias? The leaders of the group have skirted all responsibility to transparency for those who have vested interest in female deacons, refusing to hold audience with lay listeners and sending non-group scapegoats in their place.

The day I read that article, it became exceptionally clear to me: the Church hierarchy is never going to ordain women.

There will always be someone who says complementarian theology – that women and men are intrinsically different and therefore cannot hope to fulfill the same social functions – is Gospel when in fact, it is simply one (archaic) theological opinion oft-refuted by both contemporary science and modern experience.

Three weeks later, Donald Trump was elected President of the United States for the second time.

Despite being a narcissistic, morally and fiscally bankrupt, self-proclaimed fascist and convicted rapist running against an exceptionally qualified woman whose platform centered equality, Trump was the obvious choice for over half of voting Americans.

Early exit polls showed 60% of Catholics voted for Trump.

On the morning of November 6^th, I – along with seemingly thousands of others – awoke with a start at 3 am and felt a pit in my stomach. I grabbed my phone and saw the results, then crept into the second bedroom where my husband had fallen asleep and woke him up saying, “I’ve got some bad news.”

We stayed awake for a couple of hours in crisis mode, contemplating what sorts of jobs Guy could get if he moved us back to Edmonton, Alberta. We looked up the prices of bicycles, the most preferrable mode of apocalyptic transportation. We expressed intense gratitude for the reproductive healthcare appointments we’d already scheduled before January 20^th. Then, we tried to go back to sleep.

I committed to the day around 7am. Lying with my eyes glued to the ceiling, I faced a new and terrible feeling: I wanted someone else to tell me what to do. I wanted anyone with real, adult authority to console me with platitudes that everything would be alright.

I immediately thought of Church.

Then, I felt even more sick. I’d revealed something deeply to myself in that desperation: I viewed the Church and its ordained men therein as a source of authority over my life.

But because I am a woman, they will never view me as capable of the same authority, even though I have received exactly the same (if not better) theological and ethical formation through schooling and work.

Later that day, I made the following meme.

The same ideology that says men are always and everywhere more qualified than a woman to lead the Church, even amidst rampant sexual and political abuse, is the same exact ideology that says Trump is more fit to be President.

I refused to go to Church the Sunday following the election. I couldn’t bring myself to participate in a system that breeds this ideology. I told many close friends that I didn’t know if I ever could again.

Even our delightful parish, which we spent five long grueling years searching for and which sits at the nexus of so many important values for my husband and me – lay leadership, racial diversity, age diversity, LGBTQ+ acceptance, social services – still houses intense sexism from the clergy, which I wrote about this past June:

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Letting Her Bleed

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“Oh, I don’t let her preach,” is the self-same ideology that rejected Kamala Harris.

During the two weeks that followed the election, as I shared with those close friends about my disenchantment, disappointment, and rage, I heard these sentiments echoed back to me, and I felt not so alone. That itself gave me comfort.

Then, I attended an event at Catholic Theological Union – my former employer, a current client of mine, and a space I continue to frequent since I still live right down the street. The event was designed to be a place for reflection on and reconstitution of my friends’ experience at the Synod, with a panel of speakers and round table Conversations in the Spirit as they had done the month prior. It would also necessarily include reflections on the election, as they arose. I attended because I was asked, and I thought perhaps it would turn into a couple hours of paid work.

Instead, I found myself sitting as a participant at a round table of all women, vowed religious and lay. Once again, I heard my unquenchable rage echoed back to me, from women I knew well and respected immensely.

Included in the group was the first woman I ever heard preach, whose preaching was itself on the refusal of the Church to recognize the presence of women throughout history, and whose words had opened my eyes to an issue I had, admittedly, long considered unimportant to me.

The woman who sat at my table are ministers, theologians, educators, chaplains, stewards of social services, examples of vocation to me. Together we bless the Catholic Church with our gifts in ways we all know will never be fully recognized. What on earth do we do now?

After we finished our formal Conversation in the Spirit, a dear friend – who also happens to attend the same parish as Guy and I – made the interesting point that, even if our pastor and others exhibit many of the same painful points of sexism that plague the global Church, our parish community itself would likely be an open and supportive place to conduct community organizing in the years to come. Outside of the liturgy, there are many other opportunities for grassroots activism available to us.

We immediately set to brainstorming and have continued to spout ideas into our text chain.

The following Sunday, I went back to Church. I knew the community there would be grieving with me. I knew these Catholics were not among the 60%. I knew the woman I'd sat with at the Synod event would be there, too.

Guy and I hadn’t attended Mass in almost two months.

Before our long absence, I had confronted the parish’s pastoral associate about a bias I had noticed: In the absence of the Deacon, he only ever asked ordained men to distribute the Bread during the Eucharist.

“You know, there’s no reason a woman couldn’t do it,” I asserted.

I braced myself to have to cite Sacrosanctum Concilium, the Church’s formal teaching on the liturgy, which I read cover to cover early in my college ministry days. There was no need.

“You know, you’re right! The Deacon is absent every third Sunday of the month. I’ll start asking you.”

That first Sunday back after our absence was the third Sunday of the month. The moment I entered the gathering space, the PA asked me to distribute the Body of Christ.

Guy sat with our friends in the pews on bated breath as I approached the altar during Communion. Would Father remember to give it to her? Would muscle memory pass her over and present the paten to the priest on her right?

I was visibly shaking with nerves. It felt like the whole of my fury about Church sexism was waiting to be proven right.

When Father set the paten in my hands, my entire cheering section exhaled with me.

Still, it was my first time giving the Bread and not the Wine in my two years of attending this parish. I quickly realized I didn’t know if lay ministers were in the habit of giving blessings to those who came forward but did not receive the Eucharist. More conservative parishes say no, that only priests may bless. More progressive parishes say yes, that laypeople invoke God’s blessing all the time.

Out of an abundance of caution, I did not give a blessing. It hurt to not do: I gave Communion at my wedding and blessed every single attendant.

To my horror, mid-communion, the priest at my right said something to me about “blessings” but I couldn’t hear him over our position beside the choir.

When Mass ended, I approached every religious man I’d ever seen give the Bread and asked what they usually do. I made a point to say “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a layperson do it. I’m not sure the parish even has a policy.”

Watching the realization cross their faces gave me a distinct pleasure.

Every single one of them said they do something different when it comes to those with arms crossed. One religious Brother – whose vocation doesn’t technically have the ordained power to bless - said, “I just shoo them along.”

I thanked the Pastoral Assistant profusely and said I couldn’t wait ‘til next time. I even approached Father, the same priest who said “I don’t let her preach,” and expressed my sincere gratitude and excitement at getting to fulfill a ministry that means so much to me. His response?

“If that’s all it takes to make you happy, then that’s easy.”

I beamed and ran to tell my friends.

“If that’s genuinely how he feels about the Eucharist, maybe there’s hope for women preaching yet...”

I am conscious that I did all these things to confirm my worthiness in the eyes of men, to ensure my continued involvement in something my qualifications should speak for themselves. I shouldn’t have to play grateful for the bare minimum and yet, here I am. Out of fear of rejection, I fawned.

The reason why seems to me to be the same reason I went back to Church at all: Community is important to me, now more than ever. Community that cares about justice, community that cares about the poor, community that doesn’t charge a penny for acceptance.

American capitalism has destroyed most third spaces, places where people can gather for rest, community, and pleasure without the expectation of a financial transaction. Libraries, parks, churches, community centers: All these are facing significant decline in use. Even spaces that expect minimal payment but otherwise foster community and joy – bowling alleys, roller rinks, arcades, shopping malls – have been abandoned in favor of the privatization of enjoyment. We play games at home, we play sports in expensive clubs, we shop on Amazon.

Churches are unique in their connection to larger ‘institution,’ which more and more people (particularly the young) are becoming disenchanted with and abandoning.

In many ways, I’m among them. I’m tired of calling myself Catholic, for everything it suggests about bigotry, wealth, and exclusion. I am tired of having to form my writing, and my self, around the explanation of “not THAT kind.” I am tired of the institution. I don’t want it anymore.

And yet, to my dismay, I need church.

I need a space of no judgment. I need a space where I hear folks express outrage at the violence of oppression. I need somewhere to go where I can leave my wallet at home; a place that does such good work in the community, some days I bring it anyway. I need to go into this next presidency with the security of a space where I can gather people to organize.

But what of God?

I was recently interviewed for THIS ARTICLE by Heidi Schlumpf for the National Catholic Reporter about Catholic women’s responses to Trump’s election. I told Heidi, “My beliefs about God, about the Spirit that is love and goodness, have not changed in the slightest.” I just don’t think the Catholic Church in its hierarchy reflects that God or goodness at all. And I know that Trump, his so-called Catholic VP Vance, and all those Catholics who voted for him don’t reflect God or goodness either.

I can’t remember who said it to me in those days following the election, but someone did: “Don’t let them take your faith.”

For a while, I felt like they just might. They have certainly taken my Church, if not my particular parish.

But in the aftermath of the election, I also saw my staunchly atheist friends rally their communities around organizing efforts. Where are they meeting? Churches.

I’ve received multiple messages from atheist loved ones and readers sending news stories and posts about fascist conservative Catholics entreating me, “You’ve got to keep countering this.”

Again, I can be put out by the latter sentiment. I am tired of being any sort of spokesperson for American Catholicism among my friends, family, and readers. I contain multitudes. I have other goals.

For most of 2023, I meditated on the fear that if I keep writing about Catholicism, I’ll never be able to escape it, but if I stop writing about Catholicism, the fascists will win and all I’ll gain is a smaller readership.

Last April, a different version of this essay started with the question: “Can’t I just go to Church? Could that be enough for my Catholic readers to know I’m still worth reading? Could that be enough for my secular readers to trust me despite?”

In many ways, I have been asking “How can I be most myself in the digital environment of a writer’s career?” This is a worthwhile question, a crucial question, and it’s also a self-centered one.

The other question is this: What do I owe my readers?

One thing has become abundantly clear, as I watch the collapse of the American experiment: We have completely forgotten that, as human beings in a society, we owe each other things. We have responsibilities to each other. What happened to the common good? I will write more about this in the future.

So, while I don’t have to be anyone’s spokesperson, I still have responsibilities.

Not to the Catholic Church: I don’t own them jack shit. So long as the hierarchy continues to support theologies that oppress women, every single thing I do to their benefit is a gift they don’t deserve. That includes my presence at Mass.

I have responsibilities to my loved ones, my readers, my community, my planet. I have the responsibility to use my knowledge, my power, my sense of ethics, my gifts, to combat fascism. I have the responsibility to treat others with dignity. I have the responsibility to collaborate with others who care about these things too. I find that going to church and engaging in a community who feels similarly fuels me in this noble pursuit.

I no longer believe what the Catholic Church teaches about compulsory attendance or tithing. I no longer believe in the productivity of the Synod. I no longer believe the Catholic Church, in its capitalized form (pun intended), will come around. Anything that functions to the benefit of power over others ought to be rejected. We must look with clear vision, in the years to come.

Most days now, I don’t consider myself a “Catholic writer” but that I “write about religion.” This distinction frees me from doctrinal responsibilities and allows me to be myself, as my Catholicity is mysteriously always/already a part of me due to my upbringing but not a requisite aspect of my craft.

But I believe deeply in the Catholic organizations I work with as a freelancer. I see the spaces they are making, the good they are doing, and I’m proud to help them reach new heights. In the new year, I’m committed to signing a couple more clients, and the leads I have are all justice-focused, minority-led Catholic organizations that balk at exclusion and put their money where their mouths are. I am not worried about my freelance work.

And I believe in my home parish. I believe in the people there. I see the future in the ways they have already shirked expectation.

In the future, when I and others start making good on our plans, maybe my parish will reject our requests. Maybe they won’t let us use the space. Maybe the voices of accountability will leave. Maybe Father will pass me over for the Body of Christ and hand me the Blood instead. Maybe they’ll take the rainbow flag down and refuse to let me put it back up. Maybe they’ll start preaching that fascism isn’t so bad. Maybe they really won’t ever let a woman preach.

When that happens, I will leave. I gave them ample warning. I told them what I needed. I will take my gifts with me. And all the old folks will meet in my living room. And we will make a new parish. And God will go with us. And that will be church.

Hierarchy is not needed. Theology is for every body. The revolution will not be televised. We will keep ourselves safe.