on forgiveness and the church

I went to church last night.

As most of you know, I’m an atheist, having opted out of the Catholic church a lifetime ago. But this particular mass was intended for my cousin who passed away in December, and my whole family was attending, so I went.

I’m always a little uncomfortable when attending church for weddings or funerals, but at those occasions, there are usually other non-Catholics there and I don’t feel so alone. Not at a regular mass, though. A regular mass is filled with believers and I feel like a fish out of water. This is my own doing, and not the fault of anyone in the church.

Once you are part of the Catholic church, most of the doctrine and the ritual never leave you. If you are raised Catholic, that stuff stays with you. And I’m not just talking about the good old Catholic guilt. I mean, the whole ritualization of the church experience. I remembered all the prayers (though some of them have had words changed since I last attended, which threw me off). I remembered when you are supposed to cross yourself and respond with a “and also with you” and stand up and kneel down. I went through the motions of standings and sitting and kneeling because I felt like it would be more of an offense to the people around me to not participate than it would to join in. I didn’t recite any prayers out loud, though my brain automatically chimed in. I participated just enough so as not to be conspicuous.

The priest gave an interesting homily. It was about forgiveness, preceded by a reading from the gospel, the one in which “let he who is without sin cast the first stone” comes from. After the reading, the priest talked about sins and grudges and guilt. One thing that struck me was his repetition of the belief that any sin can be forgiven. Any sin. Any. “There is no sin that can’t be forgiven,” he repeated over and over. And I thought about murder. About the premeditated taking of a life. About callously killing someone. I thought about terrorists, murderers, drunk drivers, mass shooters. Then I thought about God forgiving the sins of those people and I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Even if those people lay themselves in front of the altar and begged forgiveness, how can God say, yes, I forgive you? Any sin can be forgiven. Any sin. Then what’s to stop a person who believes in that next life, in passing through to the pearly gates and living amongst saints and people who have led virtuous lives or at least sinned to lesser degrees — what’s to stop someone with murderous intentions follow through on them if they think they’ll ask for forgiveness, get it, and still get to heaven? And what is hell for? Is that for people who commit sins but don’t ask for forgiveness? What about people who don’t ask for forgiveness but are given it anyway by family members of their victims? Do they get a pass?

I’m not an unforgiving person. I understand the necessity of it, for both the guilty party and the victim. But I also think there are levels of sin, that there is such a thing as unforgivable sin. I can’t reconcile myself with a God that would take the victim of a murder into his home and embrace the murderer as well. And maybe that’s an inherent flaw of mine. But why have commandments to live by, why have a doctrine that dictates a sort of code of life, when breaking those commandment or that code does not carry with it the weight of punishment (i.e., going to hell)? My non-religious mine translates “there are no unforgivable sins” as “do what you will, just say you’re sorry when you’re done” and I know there is more to it than that, I understand it’s more complicated than a quick trip to the confessional, but it all gets lost on me when I lay it bare before me.

Perhaps I am envious of people who can be that forgiving. I envy people who can turn the other cheek so swiftly, who can drop their anger, or at least release it by saying the simple words “you are forgiven.” I don’t know that if someone murdered my child I would have it in me to utter those words to the guilty party. My grief would probably not allow it.

Yet there is God, forgiving. Opening his gates, welcoming in sinners and saints alike. Absolution at the ready.

I spent the rest of the mass thinking about this, thinking about forgiveness and mercy and it struck me that I am, perhaps, not a merciful person and that is something I need to work on. But that still doesn’t help me understand absolute forgiveness in terms of God and religion.

I get to thinking about religion a lot during the Easter season. And I always end up thinking that, while I don’t believe in all the church has to offer, there are still valuable lessons to be taken from its doctrine. I’ll be thinking about forgiveness for a while, about letting go of the stones we carry, about mercy.

I crossed myself when I left the church last night, a reflexive motion born out of old habits that die hard. And I wondered if I could ever go back, if I could ever believe again the way I used to. There was something comforting about the ritual of the mass. There was also comfort in the words of the priest, even though his words filled me with confusion. But that’s always the way it was for me. Religion, from the time I was a child, confused me. And here, as an adult, it confuses me still. As I sat alone in the pew as others went up to the altar to receive communion, I felt like I was missing something other people are able to grasp. More than something. Many things. Belief. Faith. Forgiveness.

I have more questions than there are answers that would satisfy me. But I’m looking for answers, nonetheless.