I don’t really ever talk publicly about my faith. For me, it’s always been a private part of my life. Recently, I’ve seen a lot of public discussion of keeping public and private life separate (especially for politicians in the secular West). This has always felt odd to me, though I know I’ve unconsciously been living my life that way for years. More recently, I’ve seen repeated calls from Pope Leo to unite our lives more fully to Christ. Today, in a message to French politicians on pilgrimage to Rome he said1:
I am well aware that the openly Christian commitment of a public official is not easy, particularly in certain Western societies where Christ and his Church are marginalized, often ignored, sometimes ridiculed.
This writing is mostly for me to explore my own thoughts and experiences with this aspect of my life. I’m not opposed to sharing my faith. I think it is generally Good to do and I actually enjoy discussing theological subjects (when done in good faith by all participants). But there’s something inherently scary about sharing it. For me, it was often forced onto me that I shouldn’t share. It’s a learned reaction and a defense mechanism to be private. I think there are a few main components.
Growing up, I participated in the Boy Scouts of America, eventually attaining the rank of eagle scout. It’s something I’m still proud of; a defining moment of achievement in my youth that taught me skills, especially around leadership, that I still value today. Scouting then was often associated with faith. A scout is reverent after all. Many troops were associated with various churches. Though, for reasons I’ve never really looked into, my memory is those churches were primarily protestant or LDS. My scouting days were filled with backpacking trips and summer camps. The camps always had “cowboy church” on Sundays that most everyone attended. If you’ve never been, it’s a “non-denominational” service that is a mix of washed out Protestantism and an almost pagan “find God in the beauty of the natural world”. I didn’t hate it by any means, but it was always shallow. Backpacking treks often had something a little more intimate in finding private meditative time as we’d hike out on Sundays. Though for our larger 50 or 100 mile treks, it was always surprising to me to see how many scouts found comfort in the Mass offered at basecamp by a local chaplain. Catholic or not, everyone needed a little grace before setting out on those adventures. Though nominally a welcoming place with many Christian attributes, scouting was never a place I could comfortably be Catholic, explore my own faith, or share it with others. The hardest part for me, was that Tuesdays often became “punch a Catholic day”2when our meetings moved from skills to games. It’s hard to want to wear your faith outwardly in the face of oppression, even if that oppression takes only the form of teenage rough housing. I enjoyed scouting. I made great friendships and gained valuable skills. But my time within it’s bounds also taught me to blend in, rather than stand out.
In my later years of high school and early college, I learned that my family had been through much worse oppression. My paternal grandmother, Splendora Lucille Keuhlen née Montini, suffered from dementia. In her suffering, Grandma moved back in time slowly as she deteriorated. While hard on everyone, it was also somewhat of a blessing. I got to hear stories (dozens of times per story in some cases) of her younger years that had never come up before. I cherish those memories, even though they are tainted with the hardness of disease. One particular memory stuck with her especially, and it’s one I got to hear enough to leave a haunting impression. You see, Grandma grew up in the Catholic ghettos3 of New Jersey. Her father, an Italian immigrant, had come through Ellis Island and settled there in the early part of the 20th century. In those days, the Klan controlled much more than they ever should have been allowed to. While most rightfully associate their oppression on racial lines, during their revival in the 1920s, they also reviled the numerous Catholic immigrants.
Grandma told me about the day the Klan marched past her home with burning crosses. Her father and Uncle guarded the family home from the front porch with shotguns displayed proudly. That day, the Klan let them live, but it left a terror in Grandma that lasted generations. My Dad, also inclined to writing in his own way, shared his own recollection of receiving this story from Grandma:
One of the men dressed in a white robe but no white hat, holding a huge flaming Cross, meandered out of the line abreast marchers and towards the front of the house. Grampa and Uncle Pete watched. He walked up, right in front of the house, stepped onto the slate curb, raised the flaming cross over his head as if to plant in that grassy strip between curb and side walk….. He looked defiantly up at Grampa on the porch. You heard the sound of Grampa pulling back the exposed hammers on his shotgun one at a time as he moved to the top step on the front of the porch….. You all ducked and were worried but ran back to the window….. not caring what Grampa said…..You saw the man in the white robes raise the cross even higher and prepared to plant on the front lawn of the house…. You saw Uncle Pete step forward right behind Grampa and pull back the hammers on his shotgun…… The man in the robes hesitated……. He stared down the 4 barrels of two heroic men….. He pulled the flaming cross back to his chest and slowly meandered back to the group of marchers….. Bypassing 36 Prospect Steet, and 4 barrels of shotgun shells that would have cut him in half. And it was over……. And I didn’t have to shoot anyone…..
My mom wrote a book when I was a kid. (She’s written several more since them, and I’ve had the honor of publishing four of them recently.) She wanted to learn more about the history of our family and where her side of the family came from. How did we get here to the new world? When did we come? So she started out finding answers. She tracked our genealogy to one Tomas Simpson. A Catholic scot who indentured himself to seek out something in the New World. We don’t know for sure why he left, but we know he found hardship here. Hardship in a long voyage to the new world. Hardship in indenturing himself not once but twice. Hardship to to earn his own land upon which Churches were built. Hardship when those Churches were burned.
Persecution feels almost in my veins; a shared history of both my brothers and sisters in Christ as well as my own family tree. Blessed are the persecuted. While others are able to bear that persecution and outwardly wear their faith, it has never been my strength. God, grant me the courage of the martyrs.
All of these elements of my childhood compounded through my formative years. Then, continuing the pattern, I went to college to study physics; a field then known for its following of New Atheist spokesmen like Hawking, Dawkins, and Hitchens – a trend continued by most of my peers. I went to live in a place more liberal than most of our country. Then, after graduation, I joined the ranks of tech workers; a place where any honest discussions of my faith or its political implications would have gotten me fired for hate speech for most of my career. All this, and more unwritten, has worn away at me over the years as I’ve wrestled with my faith, my work, and the divide between the two. I’m tired of keeping my life so split. Whenever asked, I’ve happily shared my faith. But often it’s only those closest to me who even begin to realize that my faith is a foundational part of who I am.
This year for Father’s Day I asked my wife to get me a crucifix I can wear every day. It’s small, but it’s a constant reminder to me to carry my faith with me more honestly than I have in the past. To unite myself to Christ Crucified. Again from Pope Leo today:
Here again, only union with Jesus—Jesus crucified!—will give you the courage to suffer for his name. He said to his disciples: “In the world you will suffer, but take courage! I have overcome the world” ( Jn 16:33).
My faith is simple. It’s written down at just over two hundred words. And yet, from that simplicity a vast richness flows.