He
remains, to this day, the most admirable human being I’ve ever had
the privilege of knowing. And he was my dad. I know how
unbelievably lucky that makes me.
I
always knew my dad was generous, but the sheer breadth of his
generosity didn’t become apparent until after he died. The man had
enough “free” charity calendars to wallpaper the Sistine Chapel
(and class up the joint a bit). He had obviously gotten on some
mailing list as a soft touch. He received a charity appeal, he sent a
check. He was never wealthy, so it may have only been a few bucks,
but it seems he was incapable of saying no to a good cause. Oh, and
if there was a picture of a cute kid? Game over. My dad had an
incurable soft spot for children, especially children in trouble.
It’s
not surprising really, given his own childhood. The details are
fuzzy, as he never spoke much about growing up, but the broad brush
strokes are enough to get the picture. Born to a big and poor Irish
Catholic family in the coal-mining regions of upstate Pennsylvania.
First cancer takes his mom. Then a fire takes his home – and his
father. One gruesome memory he did share was that of a fireman
holding him back from running to my grandfather’s smouldering body,
trying to protect my dad from that horror. All of this before he was
ten or eleven. And then bounced around, left at times with people who
didn’t really want him and let him know it. Eventually when he was
a teenager a beloved older sister got married and was able to take
him in. Things got better from there.
My
dad had plenty of reason to be bitter. To be angry. To be depressed.
But, he wasn’t. He was genial, friendly, kind and the kind of guy
that called everyone “buddy”. He was a devoted husband. And, most
importantly to me, an adoring father. He had his imperfections, of
course. He was incredibly impatient. He also used to eat raw onions
(like apples!) and then try to give me a cuddle. Bluergh.
He
was fond of folksy sayings (which, endearingly, were either not quite
right or just plain weird). One of his favorites was “You gotta
play the hand you’re dealt.” The traumas of his childhood did
help shape the man he became, but they didn’t constrain him. He
didn't even have a pair of deuces to start out, but still managed to
come up trumps.
These
days psychologists spend a lot of time looking at resilience – how
some people seem to bounce back from traumatic childhoods, while
others struggle, and often fail, to survive. How do people like my
dad manage to pull themselves up by their proverbial bootstraps and
build a good and decent life?
You
can debate psychological theories all day, but to truly
understand how my dad survived his extra share of bad luck, you have
to understand he was a devout Catholic.
His
faith, albeit amongst other factors, was one of the forces that fed
that reservoir of resilience that kept him sane. It was an anchor
that kept him rooted during the turbulent storms of his childhood, or
to unforgivably mix a metaphor, the life raft that kept him afloat.
It was a constant in a unstable life.
Through
his experiences or his faith (most likely both) my father acquired a
well-developed social conscience. He hated poverty, respected women,
abhorred racism and held the working man in high regard. But he was
born in the 1930s and he was of his time; he certainly couldn’t be
called progressive by today’s standards. He also believed strongly
(but quietly), for example, that men and women should get married
before having babies. However, unlike those who wrap up their
selfishness and narrow-mindedness in the excuse of religiosity, he
would never sentence that child – or his parents – to a life of
poverty and deprivation on account of any perceived sinfulness .
My
dad was not altogether comfortable with homosexuality, though he
never would have tossed a gay child out onto the streets.
Sadly he didn't live to see the 21st century and the
massive strides towards equality it has brought. It would probably
take a few heated debates around the kitchen table (one of our
favorite shared activities), but I think I could bring him around
slowly to the idea of equal marriage. Dad was not one to stand in the
way of other people’s happiness; he knew too well that it was a
precious commodity. He knew too, from his own adult life, the joy
that marriage and family can bring.
No
matter what his private opinions, my father was always far too moral
and kind to be hateful or judgemental towards any group. Another of
my father’s favourite phrases was “Never judge a man ‘till you
walk a mile in his moccasins.” If that meant reconciling his own
conscience with some disagreements with official Catholic dogma, than
so be it. Many Catholics do this – it does not make them less
devoted to their God.
When
I try to explain the role of dad's faith to my liberal friends, they
often reply with “but surely your dad would have been a good person
with or without his faith.” Yeah, probably. But to imagine my
father without his faith is a pointless exercise and does a
disservice to his memory. My father's faith was always quiet and
always kind, but it was always there. It was a fundamental part of
who he was, as much as his gender, his race, his sexuality – all of
those things that make us who we are.
He
never preached to outsiders about his faith – another man’s
conscience is his own business. He certainly didn’t buy into any of
the more mumbo-jumbo aspects of Catholicism – no holy water on the
dresser or scapulars under the work clothes. And, arguably, much of
his faith might have been rooted in cultural identity; it was a way
to stay connected to a family and a history that had been torn from
him.
But
his actions spoke volumes. He did not miss mass on a Sunday,
even on vacation. He made generous weekly donations to the Church.
Most notably, he took seriously the scripture that “whatever you
did for one of the
least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you
did for me.”
And
yes, he raised his children Catholic. And, no, I don’t
resent him for it. In fact, I admire him for it. He made a promise
when he married to raise his children in faith, and my dad kept his
promises. Besides, his faith meant so much to him, why wouldn't he
share it with the people he loved the most? It was a gift born of
love.
Even
when I was old enough to drive, he would get home from the 6am mass
and then wake me and boot me out of the house to “get my churchin’”
in time for the late mass. I often secretly went to Burger King
instead – I was a rebellious kid – but his actions sent an
important message. Promises. Commitment. Belief in something bigger
than yourself. These things matter. This is not to say that you need
faith to pass good values to your children. Some of the most ethical
people I know are atheists. But faith was the vehicle through which
my father taught me those values and, for that, that faith was
precious.
I’m
perplexed by the common assertion that no good can ever come from
faith, when my own relationship with Catholicism is so nuanced and
ambivalent, flushed with the good and the bad. And I deeply resent
the accusation that I have been brainwashed, or worse yet, abused,
by parents who chose to raise me in faith.
Yes,
I am acutely aware that the patriarchy of the Catholic Church has a
long and continuing history of complicity with misogyny, xenophobia,
homophobia and, tragically, child abuse. It was for these reasons and
more that I followed my conscience away from the faith of my father.
But the Catholic Church also hasa long history of promoting social
justice. St Francis. Dorothy Day. Sister Helen Prejean. And, in his
smaller way, Ed McKeown. Catholicism is, after all, a faith dedicated
to the worship of a man / god who taught us that “Blessed are the
meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” To focus only on the bad
while ignoring the good, is, in my mind, to do an injustice to the
world’s nearly 1.2 billion Catholics. And it is to do an injustice
to people like my father, people called by their faith to charity,
compassion and tolerance.
I
am flummoxed by those who claim to be on the side of reason and
justice, but say unreasonable and unjust things. So much of the
public discourse – from public academics to facebook walls – is
about how faith is nothing but a force for bad, how it “causes”
violence. I find this way of thinking dangerously reductionist,
ignoring as it does all the other human and geopolitical forces that
lead to conflict. Sure, religion plays a role in the dangerous game
of identity politics. But sectarian strife, as far as I can tell, is
rarely about legitimate theological disagreements. Your average
Northern Irish paramilitary probably doesn't care too much about the
literal transubstantiation
of Christ or the nature of the Trinity.
With
all due respect to John Lennon, if faith and religion disappeared
tomorrow, we suddenly wouldn’t find ourselves in a halcyon new
tomorrow where we all hold hands and get along. We’d find some
other cloak in which to wrap up our prejudices and hatreds. Because
people are people. We will always be fighting against greed and
anger and jealously and all the ugly parts of our nature. Sometimes
religion will be our ally in that fight, and sometimes it will be our
foe.
Amongst
the more strident public voices are sometimes the quieter voices of
those whom I love and respect. In their understandable passion to
push back against the small-mindedness that permeates the viewpoints
of many – though I believe not most – people of faith, they say
things in a way that is unnecessarily disrespectful. I try not to be
overly sensitive and humourless; after all, who doesn't love Father
Ted? But it can be a fine line between humorous and hurtful.
It's
just that whenever I hear a snarky, dismissive comment about the
“magical book of stories” or “imaginary sky friend”, it feels
like fighting intolerance with more intolerance. Those comments
usually reveal a lack of respect in the faith of others. That
attitude says, “I have nothing to learn from you and your silly
beliefs”. It shuts off the chance for dialogue and understanding,
which is, incidentally, often exactly what irritates the non-theists
about the more strident “Warriors for God” types. I guess I am an
idealist enough to believe that as long as you approach me with an
attitude of mutual respect, there’s a whole lot I can learn from
you, regardless of your faith.
And
I completely baffled by the oft made assumption that by raising me in
faith, my father was not also raising me in reason. As if believing
in God is prima facie proof of one’s ignorance and
backwardness. My dad loved science and math. As a road builder, he
talked to little girl me about pre-stressed concrete and the
structural integrity of bridges. Granted, I grew up to be a
humanities geek and don’t remember a lot of that stuff now. But he
also taught me to be a critical thinker and question what I was told.
And that lesson did stick.
The
truth is there are many good people of faith (and of many faiths)
like my dad. Though he will, of course, always be my favourite
teacher. I try to follow his example every day, with not nearly as
much success as I would like. But when I fail, that’s OK, because
one of the gifts my lapsed Catholicism has bequeathed me is a belief
the healing value of forgiveness, even, and perhaps especially,
forgiveness of one’s self. It is through forgiveness that I have
come back to equanimity with, if not adherence to, the Catholic
Church.
Has
the Church perpetuated some unspeakable wrongs in the world?
Yes. Should those wrongs be challenged? Absolutely.
But
has it also been a force for good? Yes. My dad was proof of that.
And
do I believe that people like my dad, people whose faith is so
integral to their selves, deserve better than to have that faith
ridiculed, patronised, dismissed and maligned in the ostensible
pursuit of “reason” and “tolerance”?
Yeah,
I do.
