The Case of Not Liking Being Catholic

Read on before you judge based off of the title alone. Or go ahead and judge me, although you’ll just help sanctify me in the process.

Two posts in one week? I must be going crazy. Or I’m just itching to write something before I go crazy. Both are true, more or less. It’s like I get these pounding ideas from keywords, phrases, or inspirations from anywhere, and I’m uncomfortably antsy until I spit it out. Or until I lose interest, it always depends. It’s been fun and interesting figuring out how I work as my personality settles in, because so far not many have been able to handle it. I blame it on being choleric. Well, the blame doesn’t solely lie there, but it is a momentum of prominence since some temperaments mesh better than others. My sister is phlegmatic and we get along fabulously, until someone wants to borrow a blouse or misplaces makeup. That’s sister life, yo. 

Anywho, all of the above has little or nothing to do with the continuation of this post. 

Source: Tumblr

A few days ago I was finalizing the outline for a talk I gave, and I started wondering why I’m still Catholic. I can be pretty terrible about it. Confession isn’t a sacrament for nothing, let me tell you. Having a veil and carrying around a rosary don’t count for much, not all the time. But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving the Church or even questioning the faith, not at all. Quite the contrary.

 So I continued to think about it, with Milky Chance accompanying my thoughts and the click-clack of my bright red nails pushing down letters, tying together biblical typology between Jesus and Jeremiah. Secret’s out, that’s how I (always) work, even writing this. As I continued to (surprisingly) think, I had one whiny thought.

Being Catholic is hard. 

The raw truth is that I don’t always like being Catholic. Romanticism aside, being Catholic is one of the most difficult feats I’ve ever attempted to accomplish. Sometimes my only reasons are just fides et ratio… faith and reason. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m quitting or throwing in the towel. I know damn well that the Catholic Church is the fullness of truth, and to go anywhere else would be to cheat myself not only of salvation, but also of complete truth. I couldn’t comfortably live with that, and the thought of living without truth is a scary one. Because if you don’t possess complete and full truth, what do you have instead? 

Nothing. 

I like to think that even in my choleric state, I pick my battles very wisely and carefully. I somehow know when to stand my ground, and when it simply isn’t worth it. This isn’t one battle I’m going to cave on. By the grace of God alone, I’ll reach the finish line, even if that means crawling on my gravel-filled hands and blood soaked knees. Graphic, but triumphs have never been for the pansy-hearted.

So I don’t always like being Catholic. That’s precisely because of my fallen nature, my own vanity, my own pride, my own blindness, and above all, my own sinfulness. However, because being Catholic is hard and because I don’t always like it, that’s exactly why I have to be Catholic. In continuation of that premise, I need to be Catholic because I don’t always like being Catholic. I keep saying I don’t always like being Catholic, and God could smite me for that, or you’re probably thinking, “Then just leave, you crazy girl.” 

But I won’t leave. I also hope God doesn’t smite me, because my beloved St. Teresa of Avila didn’t pray for years and she came back with superhuman holiness. Checkmate. 

No one is forcing me to be Catholic, I’m a grown girl and it’s my decision to remain where I’m constantly challenged and pushed. I am painfully aware of my faults, shortcomings and imperfections. I won’t pull a Popeye and say, “I am what I am.”, because that’s not what I am. And guess what? The only thing that uproots it all from the inside out, is Catholicism. Through Catholicism, faith, reason and maybe even nights like this, I am most myself. How could I ever leave that? Sure it’s not always pretty and petite, but I don’t believe life is meant for that. Without struggles, there is no celebration, and without pain, there is no comfort. Without Catholicism to challenge me and make my life difficult, I can’t imagine what I’d be. I actually can, but I’d rather not be that. 

So that’s it. I don’t always like being Catholic, but I am precisely because I need to be. It’s a paradox of sorts, but I can safely say that that is a part of me, and I’m fine with it. 

I think I forget that people actually read what I toss out in the open, so thank you for putting up with my choleric schemes and ridiculousness, because half the time I take to the keyboard, my mind is half here and half there, wherever there is. I’ll tell you when I find it.