Ever since hearing my first biblical story as a child, I’ve been fascinated by the concept and existence of God. Pretty certain I’m not the only one. Even though with age my fascination has lessened to a degree, my longing for knowledge and belonging has remained strong. For a little theological background, my father was an African American Catholic, and my mother an Italian American Mormon. Over the years, I would come to know both religions well - although not feeling a genuine affinity to either.
I remember as a child asking my parents about God, especially my father. I also remember he and my mother hustling my sister and I off to the local church - usually on or nearby an Air Force Base since my father was in the military. I also remember asking my father why I had to attend ‘his’ church’ - and how come I couldn’t choose my own? His response remains embedded in my soul to this day. He casually and confidently replied, “you can go to any church you want to, but you will go to church - every Sunday”. That struck a special chord with me. If my father believed that what he was being taught was the truth, how could he let me veer away? Especially as a child with so many questions? I’d ask myself that question over and over again only to fleetingly answer it in my head as a maturing adult, and eventually as a father. I came to the conclusion that he wanted me to navigate my own journey. Maybe deep down he knew he didn’t have all the answers. Nevertheless, from that moment forward I did just that - navigate my own journey.
As a typical child, I loved ice cream. I also knew, based on what a few neighborhood shared with me while we were playing, that the Baptist church gave away free ice cream on the way home from church every Sundays on the bus. My conversion was quick and effortless. Shortly after I started attending Baptist services, however, my parents divorced. My mother, who wasn’t actively involved in the Mormon church during my early years, became active in church again. I would come to be raised in the Mormon church - holding positions, attending services regularly, attending seminary (basically, religious school before school), and even being a boy scout. To this day one of the highlights of my childhood was the boy scouts. Probably because we did a lot outdoors - camping, hiking, etc. - and also did a lot to help out the local community.
The one thing that I didn't do, a staple of the Mormon religion, was go on a mission. There were multiple reasons that I didn't go, but the most important one was that I simply didn’t believe. That, even though I attended services fairly consistently from about the 7th grade until I graduated high school. My beliefs would change forever though just before I finished high school following a discussion with one of my uncles.
It was during one of our family gatherings on my maternal side. I asked my mother’s only brother a question - one that had been on my mind for years - I just didn't necessarily know how to ask it. Especially since they were all white AND all Mormon. On that particular day, however, I’d mustered up the courage to ask him what had been on my mind for years. “Why aren't there any black people in positions of power in the Mormon church?” I questioned. The response he would come to give would change my views on religion forever - and it took almost a year to get it. Initially, his first response was that he simply didn’t know. He followed that by telling me that he’d look into it and get back to me. A little less than a year later he finally did. He shared with me that, from what he was told, that it was simply never prophesied. “Oh” was all I could muster up. My mind raced. If Jesus was a darker skinned man, from what we know, and originated in Africa, how’s that? I could see, in a weird way, if it were the other way around, but, yeah. I never returned to church after that. I did, however, become fascinated with religion and over the next few years would begin to explore countless philosophies.
By the time my uncle had gotten back to me, my faith had, for the most part, begun withering away. Not necessarily my faith in God, but my faith that any religion could define the concept.
I did, however, hang on to most of my church friends and the associated social activities for a while. Our conversations just changed a little. I’m sure they got sick of my questioning why black folks never held positions of power in the church - although those that I was closest to seemed to often ponder the same.
I would eventually have similar discussions with my father about the Catholic church. Why the priests were paid by the congregation? Why should someone be paid for their beliefs? Why the priests weren’t allowed to marry? On and on. My father would try and answer the questions the best he could while still clinging to his beliefs, but it would typically just lead to more confusion on my end - maybe even on his.
I found that both sides of my family, as well as friends that I’d made while attending various services, were quick to cast doubt on any other religion outside of their own during discussions. Nobody would openly bash another religion necessarily, but you might get the side eye, or an conversation ending, “Oh, that’s cool” or “Oh, reaaaallly?”
Over time I’d come to realize what really mattered - at least to me. It wasn’t about ties to writings, churches, pastors or gods. It was the belief that there is an infinite good, somewhere. That there is something beautiful and bigger than us waiting for us at the end of our journeys. I believe that with all of my heart. I also believe, and more importantly, it doesn’t really matter how you get there. As long as your moral compass is guided by your heart, you’re heading in the right direction.
If you really want to find the answers, ask God directly - we all have equal access.
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