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Like an uncertain lamb, newly born, I have wobbled my way through a rocky terrain of finding purpose again after a decade of secularism, atheism, and agnosticism. It's interesting how deep the roots are for religious belief as once I returned to the garden to inspect the roots I had left, they were still there.
I grew up as what my generation calls "culturally Catholic." I attended Catechism, attended mass for most holidays, funerals, and weddings, and understood the "gist" of the Bible.
In essence, I grew up with the general principles of Christianity without actually dedicating myself to learning about the faith. I knew the important figures, the prayers, the well known Bible verses.
After Charlie Kirk died, there seemed to be a resurgence of interest in Christianity and religion among my peers. My TikTok algorithm changed from tarot and crystals to prayers and adoration. I suddenly became much more interested in dedicating myself to something, assuming a vocation, and severing myself from my own selfish, mortal desires.
The winding road back to Christianity has been an interesting journey for myself this past year. I approach life with a healthy amount of skepticism, so faith has been my pesky friend through these uncertain roads.
I was baptized Catholic, and the old-world matriarchs of my family were fervent followers -- my standards of what I thought Christianity was, in some ways, was unrealistic.
My great-grandmother could only attend church once a month because of the time it took for horse and buggy to reach St. Mary's church from Maple Ridge. Yet, when she couldn’t make it to church, she would gather her children in our tiny farmhouse and lead them in prayer.
A famous tale passed through the women in my family is that Mary, my great-grandmother, had "talked back" to my great-grandfather, once. To atone for this "sin," she prayed and fasted for three days to avoid going to Hell.
We all laugh about this now and my mother jokingly says, "If talking back to your husband sends you to Hell, I'm already there!"
The mythology of my great-grandmother's devotion to her faith is both endearing and frightening. As a young girl, and now a young woman, holding my tongue to spare my husband was and is not my idea of a relationship with God.
My mother, objectively a less-Christian version of my father's grandmother, has given me bits of advice over the years that have sustained the roots of my faith, despite the deviating paths of spirituality that I've pursued.
One that sticks out to me is her notion that you can find God anywhere, even under an apple tree.
I think this is objectively true, and from my perspective, is rooted in spiritual teachings, as I understand them.
(As a caveat, I am not a person who can recite scripture on a whim. I am no expert on Christianity.)
I understand the purpose of the church and the physical, sacred spaces of worship. There is something special about the magnificence of churches that make you believe. Still, I find that physical worship spaces are a whisper of what God is and who He is.
Scrolling through TikTok one day, I stumbled upon Luke 5:16.
"He frequently withdrew to the wilderness to pray."
The context, as I understand it, is that Jesus withdrew to the wilderness to pray after preaching to crowds and performing miracles. Still, I find that the singular line holds a deeper meaning and subtext than just Jesus wanting to avoid the crowds for a little bit and to talk to dear ol' Dad.
In my mind, I imagine Jesus overwhelmed with the people, the pressure, and the expectations. I see him withdrawing to somewhere quiet -- into the woods he goes to pray.
I find myself doing this often.
The church, and other physical worship spaces, are manmade. I watched The Chosen this spring and finally understood the religious and political tensions Jesus had to navigate as he challenged certain interpretations of Jewish law and religious authority.
I found it moving, the scenes that depicted Jesus preaching to crowds of people in the streets, along the shores of a body of water -- I view him as a type of nomadic-preacher archetype, a teacher without a physical home or classroom.
Churches are manmade, though influenced by His teachings, wishes, et cetera. However, the woods, the Great Lakes, miles and miles of fields -- those were crafted by His hands.
Listening to other people talk about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit is fine and important, but sometimes I feel like only finding God in manmade spaces separates Him from what is truly magnificent.
Bricks and concrete will crumble after 100 years. Paint will peel. Followers wander in and out, family names die off.
But the soil will remain, and that is where you plant roots that will last generations.